* * * * *

BOWLS.

(BY A BUFFER.)

    “Unfortunately (at bowls) one had to stoop to conquer:  it is
    that stooping which (except in politics) plays the deuce with
    us after fifty.”—­James Payn’s Plea for Bowls.

  Yes, PAYN, you are right—­as you commonly are—­
  The vertebrae creak and the ribs seem to jar,
      When a man bends his back—­after fifty—­
  If only to pull off his boots; he at length
  Finds that curve in his spine is a strain on the strength
      Of which middle-age must be thrifty.

  But Bowls!  Yes, my boy, it’s a jolly old game,
  Though athletic fanatics might vote it too tame,
      But sense is not baffled by bogies. 
  The Emerald Green and the “bowls” and the “jack,”
  Are beautiful—­but for that bend in the back—­
      To those the young furies call “fogies.”

  You have not to “sprint” o’er some acres of grass,
  To “slog” or to scamper, to “scrummage” or “pass,”
      At the risk of your ribs, or “rheumatics”;
  You have not to treat your opponents like foes,
  Or “go for” your rival’s shin-bone or his nose,
      As do the aforesaid fanatics.

  But how pleasant the “green” in the cool of the day,
  The tankard of stingo, the yard of white clay,
      And the play and the chaff of good fellows! 
  Although not a betting man howls out the odds,
  And no ring of mad backers—­like gallery “gods”—–­
      About us insensately bellows.

  Yes, PAYN, the “crank in,” and the “kiss of the Jack,”
  All—­save, as you say, that darned bend in the back—­
      About the old game is delightful. 
  We thank you for “trolling the bowl” once again,
  Ah! it were a pleasure to play it with PAYN—­
      (By Jove, though—­that loin-twinge was frightful!)

* * * * *

A THEATRICAL PLUNGE; OR, TAKING A HEDDA.

A plunge indeed! but fortunately the swimmers are strong, and able to save the suicidal Ibsenites.  For my part,—­that is, as one of the audience drawn by curiosity,—­I should say that were it not for the excellent acting of all concerned in the piece, and especially of Miss ELIZABETH ROBINS as the Hanwellian heroine, IBSEN’s Hedda Gabler would scarcely have been allowed a second night’s existence at the Vaudeville.  Miss ROBINS is so much in earnest—­as a true artist should be—­that she excites your curiosity to discover what on earth she is taking all this trouble about; and thus she compels your attention.  That the result is eminently unsatisfactory is no fault of hers.  The piece itself is stuff and nonsense; poor stuff and “pernicious nonsense.”  It is as if the author had studied the weakest of the Robertsonian Comedies, and had thought he could do something like it in a tragic vein.

[Illustration:  A Powerful Cast.]