In the Street—­about 11:30 P.M.—­Back from Variety Theatre.  Hotel doors closed.  Have rung several times—­no result at present.  Curious impression that I shall be hauled up before a Dean or somebody for this to-morrow and fined or gated.  Wish they’d let me in—­chilly out here. Is there a night-porter?  If not—­awkward.  Carillon again from Cathedral tower.  Ghost has managed to recollect a whole tune at last, picking it out with one finger.  Seem to have heard it before—­what the Dickens is it?  Recognise it as the “Mandolinata in E.”  Remember the VOKES Family dancing to it long ago in the Drury Lane Pantomime.  Not exactly the tune one would expect to meet in a Cathedral....  Unbolting behind doors.  Nervous feeling.  Half inclined to assure Porter penitently that this shall not occur again.  Wish him good-night instead—­pleasantly.  Porter grunts—­unpleasantly.  Depressing to be grunted at the last thing at night.  To bed, chastened.

* * * * *

THE MOAN OF THE MUSIC-HALL MUSE.

    [It is hinted that the vogue of the tremendously successful
    but tyrannously ubiquitous “Ta-ra-ra-Boom-de-ay!” is
    beginning, at last, to wane.]

She museth upon “the Boom that waneth every day,” and wondering what she shall “star” with next, breaketh forth into familiar strains:—­

[Illustration]

AIR—­“What will you do, Love?”

  What shall I do now?  My song was going
    Like a tide flowing, all Booms beyond;
  What shall I do, though, when critics hide it,
    And cads deride it who’re now so fond? 
  “Ta-ra-ra” chiding, “Boom-de-ay” deriding!—­
    Nought is abiding—­that’s sadly true! 
  I’ll pray for another Sensation Notion. 
    With deep emotion—­that’s what I’ll do!

    (Gazes mournfully at her unstrung harp, and, smitten by
    another reminiscence, sings plaintively):—­

AIR—­“The harp that once through Tara(ra)’s Halls.”

  The harp that once through Music Halls
    Sheer maddening rapture shed,
  Now hangs as mute on willow-walls
    As though that Boom were dead. 
  So dims the pride of former days,
    So fame’s fine thrill is o’er,
  And throngs who once yelled high with praise,
    Now find the Boom a bore.

  No more to toffs and totties bright
    Thy tones, “Ta-ra-ra” swell. 
  The gloom that hailed my turn to-night
    Sad tales of “staleness” tell. 
  The Chorus now will seldom wake,
    The old mad cheers who gives? 
  And LOTTIE some new ground must break
    To prove that still she lives.

She harketh back to the old strain:—­