NORTH LONDON PALACE OF AMUSEMENT AND ARISTOCRATIC LOUNGE.

IN ADDITION TO THE

GALAXY OF TALENT

Already engaged, the Manager has great pleasure in announcing that he has secured, for a short time only, the services of the

NEW AND GREAT ANGLO-ITALIAN TENOR,

SIGNOR CIPRIANO.

The Signor, who has never sung before in England, but who is well known to possess the finest Tenor Voice in the World, will Sing

TO-NIGHT,

AND UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE,

THREE BALLADS.

EVERY EVENING,

At Half-past Eight and Half-past Nine.

Across this announcement was a coloured strip, with "Tonight" upon it.

Frank read it with a mixed feeling of annoyance and amusement. After all it didn't matter. His new grand name was better, at any rate, than his own-if he must appear before a British audience.

"I suppose it's all right," he said, doubtfully, handing it back.

"Of course it is; but the thing is, what you're to sing. Now, I asked my man "-he meant a musical understrapper who composed songs for him, words and music, at a pound a-piece "I asked my man to knock me off a little thing in imitation of the Christy's songs of domestic pathos-you knowlike 'Slam the door loudly, for mother's asleep,' 'Touch the place softly, my pretty Louise,' Father, come home, for mother is tight';-charming songs, you know, with a chorus soft and whispered at the end, so as to bring the tears in the people's eyes. Now, what do you think he brought me this morning. Read that."

He looked at Frank curiously, while the latter read it and laughed,

It was a song based on one of the humblest and most ordinary topics of "domestic pathos," and ran thus :

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"He will catch it from his mother,
For the widow's heart is low,
And beneath the weeping willows
Still her wayward child will go,
O'er the river course the shadows-

He has spoiled his boots and hat-
While the sunset lights the meadows,
For his mother spank the brat."

Vulgar and coarse'? I knew you'd say so," said the Bighead. "It's a pity, too. My man told me it was written in direct imitation of the great original-with whispered chorus, and all. See what a capital effect it would have. You in the centre, head held down in attitude of listening-so; voices behind-unseen, you know-'for his mother' for his mother'-'for his mother'-dying away, with a harp obbligato to follow."

"I'll sing it, if you like," said Frank. "What does it matter, if the people like it ?"

'Ah, we must follow the loonatics, not lead 'em as I should wish," said Mr. Leweson, sighing. "Well, well, we'll have it; though it's a shame-it's a shame to ask a man with your voice to sing such a song. Now for the second-'The Bay of Biscay.' It will suit you well. They'll encore that; or you may sing 'The Death of Nelson.' And now to try the room."

He led the way to the stage, had a piano wheeled in, sat down, and directed Frank where to stand-giving him, at the same time, a few hints on the art of bowing to an assemblage of British loonatics.

The acoustic properties of the place were splendid, Frank felt as if he had never sung in his life before, as he heard his own voice filling the great building and echoing in the roof. "What do you think of that ?" whispered Mr. Leweson to the conductor.

"How long have you got him for ?"

"Two months' agreement first. I'm going to make him sign directly."

"How much ?"

"Three guineas.'

"Make it six months. You won't keep him a day beyond his time."

T

Frank finished.

"How was that, Mr. Leweson ?"

"Very good-very good. A little softer at the finish: don't be afraid they won't hear you. I'll have the chorus all right for you by the time you come this evening. Now for 'The Death of Nelson.' You may make the glasses ring, if you like. Come in Patty, my dear. Where's your father ?"

This was to a new comer a singularly pretty, modestlooking girl. He did not wait for an answer to his question, but began at once.

Frank finished the song, and Mr. Leweson clapped his hands in applause.

"That'll bring the house down, if anything will. Bravo, Mr.-I mean, Signor Cipriano, you know. Now, look here— I'm not going to have you encored, and spoiling your voice, to please a lot of loonatics, so they needn't think it. To-night you may do it. I shall go on myself, and make a speech after it. You'll hear me. Patty, this is our new singer-a very different sort to the rest, as you'll find. Signor, this is the Divine Giulia Silvani-only at home we call her Patty Silver; and she's worth her weight in gold, I can tell you. Here's her father."

Frank took off his hat, and shook hands with the girl. Her hands were rough and hard, her fingers thick-he noticed that as she stood gloveless on the stage. But her face was wonderfully soft and delicate in expression: one of those faces-the features not too good, and perhaps commonplace in character which one meets from time to time in the London streets;—not the face of a lady at all, but, at the same time, a lovable and good face. She was different to the ballet girls, somehow-had none of their restlessness, did not laugh, did not jump about before the glass; stood quietly beside the piano, and just listened and waited. She was the female trapezist, and with her father performed the Miraculous Flying Leap for Life every night. Her little brother completed the talented Silvani Family; and, though yet of tender years, was admitted to a trifling performance on a small trapeze of his own, from which he could not fall more than twenty or thirty feet or so-a mere trifle to a child of ten.

The family were special favourites of the manager, for some reason or other. His big head had a big heart connected with it, as more than one in the place had found out.

After singing his songs, and receiving the suggestions of his employer, Frank went with him to his private room. A paper was lying on the table.

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That's your agreement, Mr. Melliship. You pledge your self to sing for me, and only me, for two months, at a fixed salary of three guineas a week, at least three ballads or songs every night. I introduce you to the public, and have my profit out of the small salary you will get. You see, Mr. Melliship, I'm a plain man. I like your voice. I like your appearance. I am making terms advantageous to myself, but not bad for you. And if you were to go to anybody in London, you wouldn't get better for a first engagement. My conductor advised me to nail you down for six months, but I keep to my original terms. Treat me well, Mr. Melliship, and I'll treat you well. So there we are; and, if you'll sign, a pint of champagne and a dry biscuit will help us along." Frank drank the champagne, signed his name, and went away, free until eight.

He dined at Mrs. Skimp's where old Mr. Eddrup was, as usual, made the butt of "Captain" Hamilton's wit. After dinner he smoked a pipe in the garden of the square; and then, as the time was fast approaching, he dressed himself with considerable care, and walked to the Palace.

The place was crowded. Nearly every man had a glass before him, and a pipe or a cigar in his mouth. There were constant cries of "Waiter," constant popping of corks. The smell of tobacco was overpowering. The heat and the gas made the place almost intolerable. Frank stood at the sidewings while a ballet went on-not that which he had seen rehearsed, but a simpler one, intended to open the evening.

"After this, the Inexpressible Jones. After him, you," said Mr. Leweson. "That's to take him down a few pegs. He thinks he's got a tenor. With a voice like a cow."

The Inexpressible sang. He was encored. He sang again. They wanted to encore him a second time. It was a charming pastoral, relating how he, the I. J., had been walking one evening in the fields, with an umbrella, and had there met a young lady belonging to the same exalted rank among the aristocracy as himself; how he had held a conversation with her under his umbrella; how she had promised to meet him the next evening, provided he came with his umbrella; how he had kept his appointment, with his umbrella, and how she

had not. It was a comic song, acted with an umbrella, so true to life that the "loonatics" shrieked with laughter.

When the laughter had quite subsided, it was Frank's turn to go on.

Mr. Leweson was below among the audience, contemplating his patrons with an air of undisguised contempt. He was the first person Frank saw in the mass of heads beneath and in front of him.

For a moment, he trembled and lost his nerve. Only for a moment. As the piano struck up, he managed to see the words that were swimming before him, and plunged at once into his ballad of the domestic affections.

The chorus was more than admirable—it was superb: an invisible chorus, in soft voices, murmuring the refrain like an echo

"For his mother-for his mother-for his mother;"

till the people cried at the pathos.

"The loonatics," he heard the manager growling to himself. The applause was tremendous. He retired amid a general yell of core-'core!" and reappeared a moment after with flushed cheeks-for even the approbation of "loonatics" is something to sing "The Death of Nelson."

Frank went home that night satisfied, if not happy. He was a success at last-if only a success at three guineas a week. He prayed fervently that no old friends would come to detect him. If only he could preserve his incognito, all would be

well.

He reckoned only on old friends. He had forgotten new acquaintances.

The very next day, at dinner, after a general whispering at the upper end of the table, which Mr. Eddrup interpreted to mean an organized attack upon himself, Captain Hamilton turned to him, and openly congratulated him on his success the preceding evening at the North London Palace of Amusement.

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'Of course," said the gallant officer, "it was an unexpected pleasure to see, in the person of Signor Cipriano, a gentleman who does us the favour to dine at our humble table."

Frank reddened, and could find nothing to say.

Mr. Eddrup answered for him. It was the first time the old man had ever been known to speak.

"I congratulate you," he said to Frank, "on the possession