VOLUME I.

This was a school. Small wonder if the boys, doubly sensitive under a supercilious head-master of laughter-moving invention, poised for a moment on the to and fro of a needless knockabout jig-face with chin and mouth all a-pucker for the inquisitive contest. The stout are candid puff-balls blowing in an open sea of purposeless panting, hard to stir into an elephantine surging from arm-chairs; and these are for frock-coats, and they can wear watch-chains. So these boys understood it. MURAT here, MURAT there, MURAT everywhere, with SHALDERS a-burst at the small end of a trumpet, cheeks rounded to the full note of an usher's eulogy, like a roar and no mistake, arduous in the moment, throbbing beneath a schoolmaster's threadbare waistcoat, a heart all dandelions to the plucker, yellow on top with white shifts for feather-fringe; or a daisy, transferring petulance on a bath-chair wheezing and groaning--on the swing for the capture of a fare--or shall it be a fair, that too a wheeze permitted to propriety hoist on a flaxy, grinning chub. This was SHALDERS.

Lady CHARLOTTE EGLETT appeared. Hers was the brother, the Lord ORMONT we know, a general of cavalry not a doubt, all sabretache, spurs and plumes, dashing away into a Hindoo desert like the soldier he is, a born man sword in fist. She wrote, "Come to me. He is said to be married."

He spoke to her. "My father was a soldier."

"He too?" she interposed.

Their eyes clashed.

"You are the tutor for me," she added.

"For your grandson," corrected he.

It was a bargain. They struck it. She glanced right and left, showing the town-bred tutor her hedges at the canter along the main road of her scheme.

His admiration of the cavalry-brother rose to a fever-point. Not good with the pen, Lady CHARLOTTE opined; hard to beat at a sword-thrust, thought MATEY. "Be his pen-holder," put in the lady. "I _would_," said he, smiling again. She split sides, convulsed in a take-offish murmur, a roll here, a roll there, rib-tickling with eyes goggling on the forefront of a sentence all rags, tags, and splutters like a jerry-builder gaping at a waste land pegged out in plots, foundations on the dig, and auctioneer prowling hither thither, hammer ready for the "gone" which shall spin a nobody's land into a somebody's money passing over counter or otherwise pocket to pocket, full to empty or almost empty, with a mowling choke-spark of a batter-foot all quills for the bean-feast. So they understood it.

MATEY then was Lord ORMONT'S secretary. A sad dog his Lordship; all the women on bended knees to his glory. Who shall own him? What cares he so it be a petticoat? For women go the helter-skelter pace; head-first they plunge or kick like barking cuckoos. You can tether them with a dab for Sir FRANCIS JEUNE. He will charge a jury to the right-about of a crapulous fallow-ball, stiff as Rhadamanthus eyeing the tremblers. But MATEY had met this one before. Memories came pouring. He gazed. Was she, in truth, Lord ORMONT'S? The thought spanked him in the face. A wife? Possibly. And with an aunt--AMINTA'S aunt. She has a nose like a trout skimming a river for flies, then rises a minute and you not there, always too late with rod and line for sport. But there was danger to these two, and Lord ORMONT was writing his Memoirs. A mad splashing of unnecessary ink on the foolscap made for his head, never more to wear the plumed cocked hat in a clash of thunder-bearing squadrons.

END OF VOL. I.

* * * * *

A VADE MECUM FOR THE NAVAL MANOEUVRES.

(_Compiled by a Pessimist._)

_Question._ Will the Naval Manoeuvres of 1894 have any novel features?

_Answer._ Only in the imagination of the special correspondents.

_Q._ Will there be the customary coloured fleets?

_A._ Yes, with the usual commanders, officers and men.

_Q._ Will the lesson that a fleet having speed equal to a pursuing fleet, if given a start, will escape, be taught to all concerned?

_A._ Yes, to the great admiration of the authorities at Somerset House and Whitehall.

_Q._ Will it be demonstrated that if a town on the coast is left undefended, a hostile ironclad will be able to bombard it at pleasure?

_A._ Yes, to the satisfaction of every scientist in the United Kingdom.

_Q._ Will it also be made clear to the meanest comprehension that if the night is sufficiently dark, and search-lights insufficient, a fleet will get out of a harbour in spite of considerable opposition?

_A._ Yes, to the great appreciation of the world at large, and the British public in particular.

_Q._ Will there be the customary secrecy about self-evident facts and trivial details?

_A._ Yes, to the annoyance of the newspaper correspondents, and the indignation of editors thirsting for copy.

_Q._ And, lastly, how may the Naval Manoeuvres be appropriately defined?

_A._ As the means of obtaining the minimum of information at the maximum of expense.

* * * * *

A PAINFUL POSITION.

It is my base biographer I've haunted all day long. He's writing out my character, And every word is wrong.

With the wrong vices I'm indued, And the wrong virtues too; My motives he has misconstrued As only he could do.

I read the copy sheet by sheet As it issues from his pen, And this, this travesty complete Will be my doom from men!

I've wrestled hard with psychic force-- It is in vain, in vain! His nerves were ever tough and coarse, Impervious his brain.

Ah, could a merely psychic spell Ignite an earthly match! Or could a hand impalpable Material "copy" snatch!

I'm as incompetent as mist The enemy to rack. Ah, if a spiritual fist An earthly eye could black!

A paper-weight it lies below, It cannot be dispersed! The publisher will never know _Who_ read that copy first!

His gliding pen, for all my hate, Has never gone awry; "All rights reserved," they'll calmly state, O'er me. And here am I!

* * * * *

GUESSES AT GOODWOOD.

(_By a Transatlantic Cousin, according to English ideas._)

That I shall get puppar to take me and mother down in real style.

That we will wake up sleepy old Europe, and show these insolent insulars that we are above small potatos.

That I shall cut out the Britisher Misses, and make their mummars sit up.

That I shall take care that luncheon is not neglected, and see that all my party, like the omnibuses, are full inside.

That I shall think very small of the races, so long as I get my boxes of gloves.

That I shall do credit to the best society of Boston and the seminaries of New York by speaking through my nose a mixture of slang and nonsense.

That I shall call his Grace of Canterbury "Archbishop," and any owner of strawberry leaves "Duke."

That I shall wear a gown trimmed with diamonds, and have my parasols made of net and precious stones. That I shall conceal the fact that puppar made his money out of the sale of wooden nutmegs and mother's aunt was a laundress.

That I shall flirt with a Duke at the Races, marry him at St. George's, and give up for ever the stars and stripes.

P.S. (_by a Transatlantic Cousin, according to American ideas_).--I shall continue to wonder at an English girl's notions of her kinswomen when there are so many charming specimens of refined Columbian gentlewomen resettled in the old home of the Anglo-Saxon race.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE APPLE OF DISCORD.

(_Modern Parliamentary Version._)

[Replying to questions concerning the delay in filling up the post of Poet Laureate, Sir W. HARCOURT said, "This is a delicate question, and, amidst conflicting claims, I must shelter myself in the decency of the learned language, and I would reply, '_Poeta nascitur, non fit._' ... My hon. friend must remember what happened to the shepherd Paris when he had to award the apple, and the misfortunes which befel him and his partners--_spretæque injuria formæ_."]

_Unpoetical Statesman sings:_--

I'm Paris the Shepherd, _pro tem._, And here are the three pseudo-goddesses!-- Different, truly, from them Who appeared, without veils, skirts, or bodices, Unto oenone's false swain. Well, I've no oenone to wig me; _But_--at the first glance it's so plain, Paris can't give the fruit to--a pigmy.

HERÉ? Ah! this must be she! A classico-Cambrian Juno! Propriety's pink _all_ must see; But what other claims has she? Few know! Dull decency's all very fine; She has a fine smack of the chapel; But, dash it, I still must decline To give Goddess Grundy the apple!

I'm sure she's domestic and chaste, A virtuous, worthy old body; But--that's scarce a goddess's waist, Her tone, too, is--well, Eisteddfoddy. I fear, if I gave the award To this _ex_cellentest of old ladies, Apollo might send me--'twere hard!-- To read one of her Epics--in Hades!

Then Pallas! Well, Pallas looks proud, And I have no doubt might deserve a Big crown from a true Primrose crowd: But--she runs rather small for Minerva! Men _might_ mistake her for her owl. "Her rhymes," say swell Tories, "are rippin'!" But still, though the _Standard_ may scowl, I _can't_ award Pallas the pippin!

And then Aphrodite! Oh my! In that dress she must feel rather freezy. There's confidence, though, in her eye, She is taking it quite Japanesy. That _musumé_ smile's quite a fetch, And yet--I acknowledge--between us-- (They'll call me a cold-blooded wretch) I _can't_ stand a Japanese Venus!

And so "the Hesperian fruit" I must really reserve--for the present. Yes. Heré will call me a brute, And Pallas say things most unpleasant, Aphrodite--won't _she_ give me beans! They all want the pippin--you bet it! To grab it each "goddess" quite means, And oh! don't they wish they may get it?

* * * * *

"The New Woman" (according to the type suggested by the 'Revolt of the Daughters') should be known as "The Revolting Woman."

* * * * *

A BALLADE OF THREE VOLUMES.

O awful sentence that we read, O news that really seems to stun, For Messrs. MUDIE have decreed, And also Messrs. SMITH AND SON, Henceforth consistently to shun The trilogies we value so, And that, for thus the tidings run, Three-volume novels are to go!

Reflect to what it soon must lead, This rash reform which you've begun; How can the novelist succeed In packing tragedy and fun Within the space of Volume One? Already his returns are low, Soon he'll be utterly undone-- Three-volume novels are to go!

And then for us, who humbly plead For long romances deftly spun, Will not these stern barbarians heed Our concentrated malison? Alas, your literary Hun Nor sorrow nor remorse can know; He cries in anger, "Simpleton, Three-volume novels are to go!"

_Envoi._

Prince, writers' rights--forgive the pun-- And readers' too, forbid the blow; Of triple pleasure there'll be none, Three-volume novels are to go!

* * * * *

Mrs. R. says she "quite understands the truth of the ancient proverb which says that 'the man who has a family has given sausages to fortune.'"

* * * * *

LYRE AND LANCET.

(_A Story in Scenes._)