During that summer every Lightning Impersonator ended his show by
shouting, while the band played the National Anthem, "Queen
Victoria!" He was not a bit like Queen Victoria. He did not even,
to my thinking, look a lady; but at once I had to stand up in my
place and sing "God save the Queen." It was a time of enthusiastic
loyalty; if you did not spring up quickly some patriotic old fool
from the back would reach across and hit you over the head with the
first thing he could lay his hands upon.

Other music-hall performers caught at the idea. By ending up with
"God save the Queen" any performer, however poor, could retire in a
whirlwind of applause. Niggers, having bored us with tiresome songs
about coons and honeys and Swanee Rivers, would, as a last resource,
strike up "God save the Queen" on the banjo. The whole house would
have to rise and cheer. Elderly Sisters Trippet, having failed to
arouse our enthusiasm by allowing us a brief glimpse of an ankle,
would put aside all frivolity, and tell us of a hero lover named
George, who had fought somebody somewhere for his Queen and country.
"He fell!"--bang from the big drum and blue limelight. In a
recumbent position he appears to have immediately started singing
"God save the Queen."

[How Anarchists are made.]

Sleepy members of the audience would be hastily awakened by their
friends. We would stagger to our feet. The Sisters Trippet, with
eyes fixed on the chandelier, would lead us: to the best of our
ability we would sing "God save the Queen."

There have been evenings when I have sung "God save the Queen" six