Part 2

["'We were caught in a snowdrift' was Mr. GLADSTONE'S explanation. 'In Scotland they would have cleared it away in no time, but here they are not accustomed to deal with snow;' and, with upright bearing, and carrying a travelling rug which he refused to give up to a servant, he marched out of the station with a springy gait."--_Central News Telegram from Cannes._]

AIR--"_Bonnie Dundee._"

To our own G. O. M. 'twas the doctor who spoke; "You'd better get out of our frost, fog, and smoke. You are now eighty-five, though a wonder you be; So follow the sun, bonnie W. G.! Come flit from cold Hawarden, and fly off to Cannes, The sunny South calls you, our own Grand Old Man! Take the first _train de luxe_, and be off, fair and free, To RENDEL and roses, dear W. G.!"

The G. O. M.'s off to the southward--to meet Not sunshine, but train-stopping snow-drift and sleet. Yet he "pops up" at Cannes as alert as can be, After five hours long snow-block, our W. G. Then fill up the cup to our CRICHTON at Cannes. NESTOR wasn't a patch on our own Grand Old Man; May he come back as bonnie as bonnie can be, For we've not seen the last of our W. G.!

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

It is noteworthy how in recent years, in the matter of fiction, the star of Empire shineth in the North. After WALTER SCOTT established the sovereignty of Scotland in the world of British fiction, there was a long pause. In our generation WILLIAM BLACK came to the front. Later, we have had STEVENSON, BARRIE, and CROCKETT. Now here is IAN MACLAREN with his cluster of gem-like stories gathered _Beside the Bonnie Briar Bush_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON). My Baronite tells me that of the collection Mr. GLADSTONE likes best "A Doctor of the Old School." Where all is good it is difficult to establish supremacy. But for simple pathos and for the skill of drawing with a few touches living figures of flesh and blood, this sketch is certainly hard to beat. Yet "A Lad of Pairts" runs it close. A very beautiful book, full of human nature in its simplest form and most pathetic circumstances.

Says the Baron, "What I who have read Mr. BRAM STOKER'S latest romance could tell you about _The Watter's Mou'_ would make your mou' watter with longing desire to devour it. It is excellent: first because it is short; secondly, because the excitement is kept up from first page to last; and thirdly, because it is admirably written throughout; the scenic descriptive portion being as entrancing as the dramatic. It is brought out in the Acme Series in charge of A CONSTABLE, and its full price is only one shilling."

A good short story is to be found in _A Clear Case of the Supernatural_, by REGINALD LUCAS, only as it is by no means "a clear case," it might have been appropriately entitled, _Fluke or Spook_.

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

* * * * *

MOST APPROPRIATE.--"Gunner J. C. ROCKETT promoted to rank of Chief Gunner in the Queen's Navy." Of course, quite right to send up a Rockett. Only got to present him with a house at Gunnersbury and the thing is complete.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"A DIVIDED DUTY."

["What we fail to perceive, at least to any adequate extent, in the pleadings of the spokesman of the Lancashire Cotton Trade, is a recognition of the paramount importance, even from a commercial point of view, of the Imperial interests that depend on the just and liberal government of India."--_The Times._]

AIR--"_Green Grow the Rushes, O!_"

Mr. JOHN BULL _sings:_--

Ding-dong the lasses go! My patience it quite passes, O! My brain it turns, though with ROB BURNS, I dearly love the lasses, O!

There's right and wrong on either hand; that's clear to all but asses, O! So hold your whist, drop each your fist, and to me list, fair lasses, O!

Lancashire lass, I like you well. You're buxom, brave, and bonny, O! But do not slight your sense of right in hasty greed of money, O!

When North _v._ South "clemmed" many a mouth, what patient, patriot spirit, O! Lancashire showed! All England glowed. That spirit you inherit, O!

But in your wrath you've missed the path of fair and patriot dealing, O! Nay, do not pout. You'll wake, no doubt, to right Imperial feeling, O!

The Empire's wide and can't be tied by shackles greed-begotten, O! My _only_ duty now, my beauty, 's _not_--to sell your cotton, O!

Of bulk and bale your sale won't fail--if you keep up the quality, O! And do not trust to "devil's-dust"--which mars our merchant-polity, O!

Some rascal-muffs, with loaded stuffs, have spoiled the Eastern market, O! Miss INDIA there will tell you where, and when she whispers, hark it, O!

But with good goods you'll hold your own, despite that import duty, O! But you can't have _all_ your own way, my bold--but angry--beauty, O!

Miss INDIA, there needs constant care; she has not _your_ resources, O! You raise your voice against my choice 'twixt two unwelcome courses, O!

But I--though loth--considering _both_ on my responsibility, O! Have done my best, and for my pains from both meet incivility, O!

I've tried to bear the balance fair, 'twixt countries, trades, and classes, O! And lo! my lot is anger hot from _both_ you bickering lasses, O!

Miss INDIA'S eyes, at the Excise, excitedly are flashing, O! My dusky dear, 'tis hard to steer 'twixt interests wildly clashing, O!

I love ye both, and I were loth to make--or see--ye quarrel, O! But--a divided duty's mine, and that's my homily's moral, O!

And so, my dears, abate your fears, and likewise stint your shindy, O! The Lass of Lancashire should shake hands with the Lass from "Indy," O!

I'll do my best for East and West. Brim high three bumper glasses, O! And let's drink health, and love, and wealth to both my bonny lasses, O!

* * * * *

A Colourable Correction.

"Bored to blues by a Blue-Book"? I fear you are not Up to date in your choice of a tint, my dear fellow. The type of sheer boredom, and dulness, and rot, Is not now the Blue of old days, but the Yellow. As Blue-Stockings now half the sex might be mustered, The New Woman doubtless wears hose hued like custard.

* * * * *

NEXT BEST THING TO THE PERSIAN LOCOMOTIVE CARPET OF EASTERN FABLE.--The "Travelling Rug" of Western fact.

* * * * *

MR. BULL. "NOW, GIRLS, STOP THIS! REMEMBER I AM RESPONSIBLE FOR YOU BOTH."]

* * * * *

* * * * *

THAT WEDDING PRESENT.

_London._--JONES is going to be married. Of course, I must give him something. But what? A biscuit box? Commonplace. Good idea to look for something more interesting and unusual during my holiday. Just off to North Italy. Will keep my eyes open along the way.

_Paris._--Walk in the Rue de la Paix and Boulevards. Everything labelled "_Article Anglais_." Must really get him something made abroad. Give up looking in Paris. Shall find something farther on.

_Lucerne._--No good to take Swiss wood carving. Can't carry home a huge sideboard. All the smaller things can be bought in London.

_Milan._--The very place. There is an exhibition here. Shall probably see something beautiful. Italy, cradle of the arts, and all that sort of thing. Besides, so nice to say to JONES, "My dear fellow, here's a little trifle; got it in Milan, you know. It's modern, but then the Italians are always so artistic." To exhibition. Why, there are pictures here! Of course, just suit me. Hurry to picture gallery. Several rooms. Enter eagerly. After a short time, totter feebly out and ask the official at the door where I can obtain a little brandy. He, evidently alarmed by my horror-stricken face and staggering movements, asks civilly if I am ill. Would I like a chair? Should he fetch a doctor? Thank him, and say it is nothing serious. I have only been looking at a few modern Italian pictures. Crawl to the refreshment bar, and am revived with cognac. Then inspect the rest of the exhibition. Am the only visitor, which is not surprising, for there is nothing to see but bottles! An exhibition of bottles! They are said to be full of wine, but I do not see how that makes them more beautiful. Absurd to buy JONES some bottles. And equally absurd to buy him some Italian wine when he can get good French wine in England. Besides, can't carry bottles in my Gladstone bag. Therefore, give up Milan.

_Venice._--The chief manufactures here are lace and glass. Now JONES never wears any lace, except in his boots, and never wears any glass, not even in his eye. So what good would these be to him? See one or two palaces to be sold. But can't take them home. So give up Venice.

_Bologna._--More useless local productions! Here they make sausages and soap. JONES is not a starving scarecrow for want of sausages, nor a SIMEON STYLITES for want of soap. Must therefore give up Bologna. This wedding present begins to weigh me down. At each new place it obtrudes itself between me an all the beautiful things I look at. Must really get something in Florence.

_Florence._--Great Scott! It's worse here. A life-size marble statue, or a mosaic table weighing nearly a ton. Have serious thoughts of buying, at a great reduction, an extra large statue, hitherto unsaleable on account of its size, and then telling JONES that his wedding present is waiting for him here, if he will come and fetch it. The dealer asks 2,000 lire. I understand shopping in Italy. Early one morning offer him 50. He at once comes down to 1,000. I go up to 100. Discuss for one hour, haggle for another hour, dispute angrily for a third. Then go off to _déjeuner_. Closing prices--dealer 725, myself 250. Back again after interval for refreshment. Begin quietly. Opening prices--dealer 720, myself 251. Discussion, haggling, dispute as before. Indignant marchings out by me, frantic pursuits by the dealer. Final prices--dealer 403, myself 396. Each of us, hoarse and exhausted, refuses to yield another centesimo. So do not buy statue for JONES, and give up Florence. Genoa is the last chance.

_Genoa._--Velvet? What's the good of velvet to JONES? Besides it is fabulously dear, something like attar of roses at so much a drop. Must give up even Genoa.

_London._--Back again. Have bought a biscuit box and sent it to JONES. Since then have met JONES'S cousin, and SMITH, and JONES'S brother-in-law, and Mrs. ROBINSON, and a few other mutual friends. We disagree in many things, but in one we seem to be unanimous. We have all given him biscuit boxes!

* * * * *

* * * * *

A PSALM OF (HOLIDAY) LIFE.

_What the heart of the Small Boy said to the Dyspeptic Pessimist._

Tell me not, in Christmas Numbers, Yule is a dyspeptic dream, A tradition that but cumbers What smugs call "the social scheme."

Yule is jolly, Yule is earnest! A sick-bed is _not_ its goal; Prig who rich plum-pudding spurnest, Thou art destitute of soul.

Not mere "sapping," which means sorrow, Is youth's destined end or way: But--to think that each to-morrow Brings us nearer Christmas Day!

Terms are long, and Vacs. are fleeting, And our "tums," though big and brave, Know that there's an end to eating When at lessons we must slave.

Oh, the railway's welcome rattle! Oh, the feeling of fresh life! Oh, the Christmas Show of Cattle! Oh, the fun of fork and knife!

Blow the Future! it's unpleasant; Put the Past clean out of head. What _I_ like's the (Christmas) Present, No mere ghost, as DICKENS said.

All _his_ jolly books remind us Christmas is a glorious time. _Don't_ let bilious bogies blind us To its larks, which are sublime.

Only wish there was another Coming--in a month--again! Stodge is bad for boys? Oh, bother! _I_ can stand it, right as rain!

Let us, then, be up and doing, (With a knife and fork and plate,) All our tips at tuck-shops blueing, Learn to stodge, ere 'tis too late!

* * * * *

THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH.

X.--THE CHAIR.

As soon as we had agreed to allow the Parish Meeting Chairman to preside, BLACK BOB jumped up and proposed that Mrs. LETHAM HAVITT should be elected to the chair. She was a lady whose excellences he need not dilate on. She had excellent business habits, and, with all respect to Mrs. MARCH, she had as much right to a seat on the Council as that lady. Then a miracle happened. Mrs. MARCH not only did not resent this reference, but actually seconded Mrs. HAVITT. It was essential, she said, that women should be represented as fully as possible, and she should, without hesitation, embrace this opportunity of securing a woman colleague. This made the situation serious, not to say hopeless. After she had sat down, there was an ominous pause. At length I rose and proposed myself. In impressive tones I pointed put that the hand of the electors had pointed in no uncertain way to myself, and that since no one else had proposed my election, at the risk of being misunderstood _once more_, I had, on public grounds, to do it myself. After another painful pause the Parson seconded my nomination. Then the voting. Mrs. HAVITT'S name was put first. She got 4 votes--Mrs. MARCH, BLACK BOB, and his two comrades. I got 3--the Squire, the Parson, and my self. And so I was foiled again--by the Eternal Feminine.

And so our Parish Council is at last complete, and ready for action, a corporate body in the eyes of the law. Possibly, in these pages I may from time to time be permitted to relate how Mudford progresses under our rule. Possibly, I may not. But in any case I ought to add that, being beaten by Mrs. HAVITT has not--well, improved the domestic atmosphere. Wifely devotion seems to be out of fashion in these _fin de siècle_ days.

* * * * *

DUTCH ENTERPRISE.

The question of alien immigration as affecting the British Labour Market is one that occasionally occupies the attention of the Legislature. The subjoined advertisement cut from the _Daily News_ suggests something even worse:--

HOLLAND.--THE FIRST NETHERLAND STEAM MUSTARD and SPICE MILLS, visiting the whole country, wishes to represent a first English house in articles of daily consumption.

It is bad enough to have foreign labourers competing with our people. But if they are going to send over, bodily, their mills and other labour shops, JOHN BULL will be obliged to put his foot down and kick somebody.

* * * * *

SEASONABLE(?) GREETING FOR A CHINAMAN.--A Jappy New Year to you!

* * * * *

VIVE LE TAILLEUR DU ROI.

["Le duc d'Orléans a voulu donner une leçon aux mauvais patriotes; il habite Londres, il charge un tailleur parisien du soin de garnir sa garde-robe."--_French Press._]

Along the boulevard's busy curb That bristles bravely with _étrennes_, A thing has threatened to disturb The careless _vie parisienne;_ It isn't spies or journalist blackmailers, It is the question of monarchic tailors.

For lo! from _perfide Albion_ Has lately come a ducal note With patterns for a _pantalon_ And therewithal a _redingote;_ (Observe, in passing, that the royal _billet_ Says nothing of the corresponding _gilet_).

Now while in matters of the gown The _monde_ of Paris sets the _mode_, Their gay _flâneurs_ that paint the town Long since affect a foreign code, Developing in fact a steady passion For dressing in the latest London fashion.

With any perfect patriot How bitterly it stirs the bile, This craze for being clothed in what Is thought to be the English style; It makes the language of his heated brain Occasionally verge on the profane.

And now the Exile, armed with red Hot coals of living anthracite, Projects them on his country's head, And more in pity than in spite Bids France that hunted him and his like rabbits Henceforth to execute his daily habits.

Some fancy, romping at results, The constitution's overthrow, A view unworthy of adults, According to the _Figaro;_ It makes a democrat extremely nettled. To hear the thing is practically settled.

Of course there may be something in That strange omission of the vest, Yet were it little short of sin To lay this unction to the breast; A person isn't worth a paltry _filet_ Who stakes the Third Republic on a _gilet_.

There lacks, you see, a final law To guide in France the statesman's game The casual ignited straw Will set the camel's hump aflame; A _redingote_ may raise enough _éclat_ To bring about a pretty _coup d'état_.

* * * * *

* * * * *

A GENTLE HINT TO THE JUBILANT JAP.

There is a Jappy land Far, far away, Where Art they understand; None more than they. Now in fair battle's ring They've pummelled poor PING-WING, All men their praises sing Who've won the day.

Bright in that Jappy land Beams every eye. But, though their pluck be grand, Bar-bar-i-ty Their choicest gifts will mar, Blood stains their rising star, Foul slaughter is not war. Fie, Jappy, fie!

* * * * *

A CABINET SECRET.

(_Fragment for the Historian of the Future._)

[After the Cabinet several of the Ministers present took luncheon with the CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER.--_Daily Paper._]

There had been an exciting meeting of the Members of the Ministry. The gathering had taken place at noon, and after several angry altercations it had been adjourned. But the objector-in-chief had admirably kept his temper. He came of a gallant and illustrious race, and blood is thicker than water.

"I must not forget the teachings of my Uncle DICK," he had murmured, as it was suggested that two of his favourite projects should be slaughtered, like the infant Princes in the Tower.

Then, when there was an inclination on the part of his colleagues to quarrel amongst themselves, he cleverly fanned the fire, and increased the incipient strife.

"It was the mode adopted by my maiden Aunt, QUEEN ELIZABETH, and it succeeded in her time. Why should the passing of three or four centuries make any difference? After all, human nature is--in fact--human nature!"

And so the dull minutes passed away. The time came for luncheon. Then he smiled a smile full of mystic hospitality.

"It will put the bloodhounds of the Press off the scent if I ask them to luncheon with me. It is sure to be reported in the papers, and who will imagine that I would willingly entertain a possible opponent to the coming Budget? Moreover, revenge is sweet; not that I would take it! not that I would take it!"

And then he entreated several of his colleagues to "crush a cup with him," using a phraseology that had found favour in the mouths of the Crusaders.

"And ROSEY, will not you come?" The question was asked with much cordiality. The PREMIER did not reply. He merely smiled, and the smile seemed to be a sufficient answer.

* * *

Shortly afterwards (as subsequently reported in the newspapers) the noble Earl took luncheon at his own home.

"I wonder what wine he has given _them?_" And he smiled again.

* * * * *

"BOYS AND GIRLS COME OUT TO----PANTOMIME!"

_Santa Claus_, the afternoon pantomime at the Lyceum, is even better than Mr. OSCAR BARRETT'S _Cinderella_ of last year. There is plenty of splendour in the fairy piece, considered merely as a "spectacle," enough, indeed, to make a "pair of spectacles," and to cause much speculation as to how they manage to stow away all the scenery, properties, and costumes at five o'clock every afternoon, in order to make room for _King Arthur_, who, on the temporary abdication of _Santa Claus_ (a part admirably acted and declaimed by Mr. WILLIAM RIGNOLD), reigns at the Lyceum from eight till eleven. But besides the dazzling brilliancy of fairy pantomime, there is in it not only real fun which delights the youngsters, for whom the entertainment is primarily intended, but also a touch of dramatic pathos, as shown in the death of the devoted dog _Tatters_, a dog who has his day and dies, whose cruel fate excites the compassion of old and young alike. All are rejoiced when they find out that clever Mr. CHARLES LAURI, of whom it can be complimentarily said that "he is a perfect beast," is restored to life, and that the Heavenly Twins are happily revived.

As the two toy soldiers Messrs. HARRY and FRED KITCHEN--the front and back kitchen--are first-rate. But where all are so good it is impossible, within the limits of a paragraph, to particularise. Messrs BARRETT and LENNARD are to be congratulated, and, as _Hamlet_ says, "The Pantomime's the thing," and, as Shakspearian readers will remember, _Hamlet's_ father went to _matinées_,--wasn't it "his custom always of an afternoon"?--only there's no sleeping here, but everyone very wide awake, and all "going home to tea" thoroughly satisfied with _Santa Claus_. Who says _Le Roi Pantomime est mort_, when the Lyceum is crowded for _matinées_, and, outside the doors of Old Drury, daily and nightly appear the placards, "House Full"?

* * * * *

A "TIT BIT."--When they speak of some one of the Baby Baronets, _i.e._ the recently created Baronets, they don't say he is among the Old'uns; but "He is among the New'nes."

* * * * *

"A PENNY PLAIN--BUT OSCAR COLOURED."

(_An Entertainment Antagonistic to Amusement._)

SCENE--_Anywhere. Characters distributed about the Stage in more or less admired confusion._

_Anybody._ So we are living in a penny romance. And this is Society.

_Charles his Friend._ Society is everything but sociable.

_Somebody._ But why should the PRIME MINISTER be threatened by a professional blackmailer?

_Charles his Friend._ In matters of this kind the PREMIER is the _dernier_.

_Someone Else._ But surely the same sort of thing has been done by SARDOU in _Dora?_

_Charles his Friend._ Why not? A dramatist has only one virtue, he never invents a drama.

_A Casual Visitor._ Then we have only to regard the Adelphi as a model, and take the Wyldest license with the dialogue.

_Charles his Friend._ Quite so. After all, a paradox is merely a platitude.

_A Caller._ But do great men do these things?

_Charles his Friend._ The great do all things because they are little.