Vanity Fair (illustrated)

The Captain (Colonel Crawley, C.B.), with a cocked hat and a telescope, comes in, holding his hat on his head, and looks out; his coat tails fly about as if in the wind. When he leaves go of his hat to use his telescope, his hat flies off, with immense applause. It is blowing fresh. The music rises and whistles louder and louder; the mariners go across the stage staggering, as if the ship was in severe motion. The Steward (the Honourable G. Ringwood) passes reeling by, holding six basins. He puts one rapidly by Lord Squeams - Lady Squeams, giving a pinch to her dog, which begins to howl piteously, puts her pocket-handkerchief to her face, and rushes away as for the cabin. The music rises up to the wildest pitch of stormy excitement, and the third syllable is concluded.

There was a little ballet, “Le Rossignol,” in which Montessu and Noblet used to be famous in those days, and which Mr. Wagg transferred to the English stage as an opera, putting his verse, of which he was a skilful writer, to the pretty airs of the ballet. It was dressed in old French costume, and little Lord Southdown now appeared admirably attired in the disguise of an old woman hobbling about the stage with a faultless crooked stick.

Trills of melody were heard behind the scenes, and gurgling from a sweet pasteboard cottage covered with roses and trellis work. “Philomele, Philomele,” cries the old woman, and Philomele comes out.

More applause - it is Mrs. Rawdon Crawley in powder and patches, the most ravissante little Marquise in the world.

She comes in laughing, humming, and frisks about the stage with all the innocence of theatrical youth - she makes a curtsey. Mamma says “Why, child, you are always laughing and singing,” and away she goes, with -

THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY

The rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming

Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the spring;

You ask me why her breath is sweet and why her cheek is blooming,

It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing.

The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood ringing,

Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were blowing keen:

And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing,

It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green.

Thus each performs his part, Mamma, the birds have found their voices,

The blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek to dye;

And there’s sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which wakens and rejoices,

And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that’s the reason why.