Part 2

Prophetic Swan! To picture in advance The future's pageantry of personage And scene was thine unique prerogative; So easily thy creations take the mould Of aftertimes and characters unborn. Paris to-day seems Padua, thy fair shrew, The tricksy termagant, "curst _Katharine_," The Paduan _Xantippe_, prickly, perverse, Yet fascinating vixen, dons to-day A Gallic guise, and fumes in French, and flounces In skirts _à la République_. What said _Gremio?_ "_Your gifts are so good, here's none will hold you!_" And who may hold the fair Lutetian shrew? No man, "I wis," is "_half-way to her heart_ _But if he were, doubt not her care should be_ _To comb his noddle with a three-legg'd stool_, _And paint his face_, _and use him like a fool_." Here's _Katharine_--but where's _Petruchio?_

"_What! shall I be appointed hours_, _as though_, _belike_ _I knew not what to take_, _and what to leave_, _ha!_" There speaks the sweet-faced shrew, and takes to-day What she will leave to-morrow. Yet she shines In the description of _Hortensio_. "_With wealth enough_, _and young_, _and beauteous;_ _Brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman;_ _Her only fault (and that is faults enough)_ _Is_, _that she is intolerably curst_, _And shrewd_, _and froward: so beyond all measure_, _That_, _were my state far worser than it is_, _I would not wed her for a mine of gold_." And yet there be good fellows in the world, 'An a man could but haply light on them, Would take the veriest vixen "_with all faults_." And many a one hath said, or seemed to say, "_For I will board her_, _though she chide as loud_ _As thunder_, _when the clouds in autumn crack_." But with what issue? Like _Hortensio_, His head is broken by the vixen's lute, Ere he hath time to teach her government Of frets or stops, or skilful fingering. How many, with _Hortensio_, might say, When asked if he could break her to the lute,-- "_Why_, _no; for she hath broke the lute to me_. _I did but tell her_, _she mistook her frets_, _And bow'd her hand to teach her fingering;_ _When with a most impatient devilish spirit_, 'Frets, call you these?' _quoth she:_ 'I'll fume with them:' _And with that word_, _she struck me on the head_, _And through the instrument my pate made way;_ _And there I stood amazed for a while_, _As on a pillory_, _looking through the lute:_ _While she did call me_, _rascal fiddler_, _And twangling Jack; with twenty such vile terms_, _As she had studied to misuse me so_.

Her masters have not learned true mastery, And he, her latest would-be teacher, turns Too prompt and pusillanimous a back Upon his wilful pupil, beaten off Quicker than buffeted _Hortensio_ In poor, poltroonish, post-deserting flight; Leaving the lute whose harmonies his hand Should have bowed hers to, broken and unstrung, In the shrew's angry and outrageous grasp: See how the Gallic _Katharine_ in her fume, Flouting all mastery, flouncing uncontrolled In furious anger, flings the shattered lute, Unstrung, aside, as did the Paduan shrew, Spurning all government--till _Petruchio_ came!

"_Come_, _come you wasp; i' faith you are too angry!_" So, in _Petruchio's_ words, say France's friends. Whilst foes and half-allies look doubtful on, From the chill Eastward or more genial North, Wondering what stable faith, in love or hate, May rest upon such shifting shrewishness. Where waits _Petruchio_, and will he come In purple velvet, or in soldier steel, Or simple, civic, hero-covering cloth, To tame this _Katharine_ of the Phrygian cap, And smiling, in the mocking calm of power, Say of the shrew, like him of Padua:-- "_Think you a little din can daunt mine ears?_ _Have I not in my time heard lion's roar?_ _Have I not heard the sea_, _puff'd up with winds_, _Rage like an angry boar chafèd with sweat?_ _Have I not heard great ordnance in the field_, _And heaven's artillery thunder in the skies?_ _Have I not in a pitched battle heard_ _Loud 'larums_, _neighing steeds_, _and trumpets' clang?_ _And do you tell me of a woman's tongue;_ _That gives not half so great a blow to th' ear_ _As will a chestnut in a farmer's fire?_ _Tush! tush! fear boys with bugbears_.-- _I fear none!_"

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THE UNVEILING OF ISIS.

There was a Vice-President, JUDGE, Who proved a big fraud _à la Sludge:_ But good Mrs. BESANT Sighed "Let's keep things pleasant!" And _Punch, à la Burchell_, cried "Fudge!" "My dear ANNIE BESANT--or is it BES_ANT_?-- Theosophy's trick, superstition and cant." To lift Isis's veil was a difficult task, But BLAVATSKY'S fox-nose Is not hard to expose, For that vulgar Isis wore only--a mask!

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SHAKSPEARE FOR THE CURTAIN-LECTURED.

--"The _rest_ is silence!"

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TALL TALES OF SPORT AND ADVENTURE.

I.--THE PINK HIPPOPOTAMUS. (CONTINUED.)

Shortly after the great victory of the Dead Marshes, the British Army, under the command of Sir BONAMY BATTLEHORN, took possession of Balmuggur, the capital of the country, known far and wide as the Diamond City of the Ranee. There was a faint show of resistance, but after I had defeated in single combat six picked mollahs of the Royal Guard, the disheartened garrison laid down its arms, and the place surrendered at discretion. We had brought HADJU THÂR MEEBHOY with us, although, in his perforated condition, it was a matter of some difficulty to transport him. Still it would have been barbarous to leave him behind to the tender mercies of the neighbouring peasantry, and we resolved to attempt his conveyance to Balmuggur. Fortunately we succeeded beyond our most sanguine hopes. I was able to render him some slight services on the march, and, after the city had fallen, I paid him daily visits, during which I conceived a sincere and lasting friendship for the gallant fellow whose only fault, after all, had been the notion that he could defeat one who has never yet given way an inch before the hottest attack even of overwhelming numbers. It was quite touching to see his swarthy face brighten into a smile when I entered the room. He looked forward eagerly to my daily visit, and often told me that the simple tales of my courage and daring with which I entertained him were of more use to him than all the ointments and bandages and medicines with which dear old TOBY O'GRADY used to treat his wound. On his side the MEEBHOY, too, was confidential. Many an hour have I spent with him listening to his stories of court plot and palace intrigue in Balmuggur, dark episodes of passion and crime and sudden death.

One morning I was sitting as usual by the MEEBHOY'S bedside. I had just related to him my adventure with the Lord Mayor of Dublin, whom, as readers of contemporary journals will remember, I had been compelled to chastise for the unpardonable affront of calling me by my Christian name at a public meeting, by kicking him bodily from end to end of the Rotunda, breaking three chandeliers as he spun through the air, and imprinting the shape of his back on the opposite wall, where it may still be observed by the curious. This adventure, and the story of my subsequent escape from the dungeons of the Dublin Mansion House, have rarely failed to extort applause from those to whom I have narrated them. But on this occasion the MEEBHOY was silent and _distrait_. He lay for some time drumming in an absent-minded way with his fingers on the front aluminium door of his wound (the famous operation had by this time been successfully performed), and made no comment whatever on the tale I had related to him. Then suddenly he turned, looked me full in the face, and addressed me. "Harkye, Sirrah," he observed, "your story has interested me strangely; but there is that in my mind which demands an exit. Methinks that they who hold governance here mistake me strangely. Because I am all but corpsed, they think they can neglect this JOHNNY. The Ranee has but once sent a stable-helper to inquire after me. Grammercy, but such treatment is scurvy, and I mean to show the old witch that HADJU THÂR knows what's what, and, by Jingo, he's going to have it all the time. That's so." I have forgotten, I think, to mention that my friend had learnt his English in Seringapatam from such examples as he could lay his hands on in that remote island, and the result was a certain patchiness of style, which did not, however, by any means, interfere with the vigour and fluency of his diction.

"Do you suppose," I said, "that this slight is intentional? Really, I cannot believe that the Ranee would willingly neglect so gallant and devoted a servant."

"That shows me you little know the Queen of the Diamond City. Why, blow me tight, she's as artful as a cartload of monkeys, and in profundity of design and daring of execution, she'd give a man-eating tiger two stone and a handsome beating over any course you care to name. But I am resolved to be avenged. Never shall it be said that the descendant of a thousand kings had the comether put on him by a cinder-faced old omadhaun like that. See here now," he continued, drawing me closer to him, while he glanced furtively round and sank his voice to a whisper, "it's yourself I'm talking to. Hast heard of the Pink Hippopotamus?"

"What!" I replied; "the sacred animal of the Seringapatamese, the dweller in the inaccessible mountain fastness of Jam Tirnova, the deathless guardian of the royal race of this island?"

"The same," he answered calmly; "no mortal foot, save those of his priests, has ever yet approached him. The perils are manifold, the attempt is well nigh desperate, but you're not the game chicken I take you for if you don't accomplish his capture and discomfit the haughty Ranee. Crikey, but I'd like to hear the old gal squeal when they tell her her bloomin' hippo's got took. Blime if I wouldn't."

"But how shall I set about it, what steps ought I to take?"

"Is it steps you mane? What in thunder is the man wanting? Here, boy, take these papers. I have set down in them clearly how the matter may best be undertaken. Peruse them and learn them well. If you have resource, courage and prudence, within a week the prize shall be yours, and the insult offered to me shall be expiated."

With that he pressed a bundle of papers into my hand, and bade me leave him.

As I left the tent I heard a scuffling of feet. I darted in the direction in which I thought they had gone, and there sure enough, running as if he wanted to break a hundred yards record, I perceived the Ranee's Chamberlain. I set off after him, nothing loth to give an example of my speed. Besides, if the old fellow had overheard us our doom was sealed; it was necessary to capture and silence him. In ten strides I was close up to him. In another moment I was near enough to seize him. I stretched out my hand to do so, when suddenly he gave two short yells, turned round in a swift pirouette, and, before I had realised what had happened, landed me a tremendous kick full on the chest. The force of the blow was terrible, and only my iron bones could have withstood it. Seeing that I still advanced he made at me again. This time, however, I was too quick for him. I seized him by his uplifted ankle, and, regardless of his appeal for mercy, whirled him three times round my head and flung him from me. His shoe remained in my hand, but beyond that no trace of the miserable Chamberlain has ever been discovered. He simply vanished from human knowledge as completely as though his body had been resolved into its elements. It is true that Professor SPOOKS of the University of Caffraria declared that a new meteor had on that very day appeared in South Africa travelling eastwards. His discovery was scoffed at by the scientific, but for my own part I have sometimes thought that, with a telescope of sufficient power, the learned Professor might have been able to establish an identity between his supposed comet and the lost Chamberlain of the Ranee.

Having thus dispatched my foe, I returned to my own quarters to study the papers of the MEEBHOY.

As I entered my room a terrible sight met my eyes.

(_To be continued._)

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The Great Trott-ing Match.

[ALBERT TROTT, in the latest representative cricket match between Mr. STODDART'S Eleven and All Australia, scored two "not out" innings of 38 and 72, and took eight wickets for 43 runs.]

GIFFEN'S boys were this time, we may say without banter, Eleven too many for stout "STODDART'S Lot"; We oft read of matches as "won in a canter," But this one was won, it would seem, by A. TROTT.

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LETTER TO A DÉBUTANTE.

DEAREST GLADYS,--I have been compiling a sort of dictionary for you, with a view to your second season. I send you a few selections from it--with notes of advice.

_Art._ A subject of discussion; mild at tea-time, often heated after dinner. [_Note._--Do not take sides. Mention that WHISTLER has a picture in the Luxembourg, or say--with a smile or not, as the occasion may suggest--that Sir FREDERIC is the President of the Academy.]

_Altruism._ Boring some people about other people. [_Note._--Never encourage VIEWS. They take up too much valuable time.]

_Beauty._ An expensive luxury.

_Boy._ If "dear," any effective man under forty. If "horrid," about twelve, and to be propitiated with nuts, knives and ships. [_Note._--Do not offend him.]

_Blasphemy._ Any discussion on religion. [_Note._--Look shocked, but not bored.]

_Coquetry._ A manner sometimes assumed by elderly ladies and very young gentlemen.

_Cynicism._ Truthfulness.

_Duty._ Referred to by relations who wish to be disagreeable. [_Note._--Change the subject.]

_Divorce._ The occasional result of friendship. [_Note._--But you must not know anything about it. Read only the leading articles.]

_Eccentricity._ Talent.

_Etiquette._ Provincialism.

_Flirtation._ Once a favourite amusement, now dying out; but still surviving at Clapham tennis-parties and Kensington subscription balls.

_Foreigners._ Often decorative; generally dangerous.

_Friendship._ The mutual dislike of people on intimate terms. Or, a euphuism for love.

_Failure._ An entertainment to which one has not been invited.

_Goodness._ The conduct of one's mother.

_Hygiene._ Never bothering about one's health.

_Idiocy._ The opinions of those who differ from one.

_Justice._ Enthusiastic praise of oneself.

_Kleptomania._ Stealing things one doesn't want.

_Love._ A subject not without interest.

_Moonlight._ Depends on the other person.

_Marriage._ The avowed and justifiable object in life of young girls. The avowed and justifiable terror of bachelors.

_Nature._ It has gone out of fashion, except in novels you must not say you have read.

_Obviousness._ To be guarded against.

_Philosophy._ An innocent amusement.

_Palmistry._ Only if he is really very nice.

_Quarrel._ A proof of love, or of detestation.

_Quixotism._ Defending the absent-minded.

_Romance._ Friendship in London. [_Note._--Do not be so absurdly credulous as to believe there is no such thing as Platonic affection. It is extremely prevalent; in fact, there is hardly anything else.]

_Sincerity._ Rudeness.

_Toleration._ Culture. [_Note._--You may as well begin to be tolerant at once, and save trouble. It is sure to come in time.]

_Ugliness._ Rather fashionable.

_Untidiness._ The picturesque way in which the other girl does her hair.

_Vanity._ Self-knowledge.

_Wilfulness._ A desire to give pleasure to others.

_Youth._ Appreciated in middle-age.

_Zoological Gardens._ Of course not. Nobody goes there now. Besides, you never know whom you may meet.

There, GLADYS, dear! Write soon, and let me know when you are coming back to London. Sleeves are larger than ever, and chinchilla---- But I daresay you have heard.

Ever your affectionate friend,

MARJORIE.

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"MY OLD DUTCH!"--See Exhibition of Old Masters' Works, Burlington House.

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A RENCONTRE.

(_For investigation by the Psychical Society._)

The way was long, the train was slow, As local trains are wont to go, A feeble ray of glimmering light Strove vainly with the darkling night, And scarce enabled me to see The features of my _vis-à-vis_. Pale was his brow: no paler grow The snowdrops lurking in the snow; Hollow his cheeks, and sunk his eyes That gazed on me in mournful wise. So strange a man I ne'er had seen, So wan a look, so weird a mien, And, as I eyed him, I confess A feeling of uncanniness Crept slowly over me and stole Into the marrow of my soul. Awhile we sped, nor spake a word; Nought but the droning wheels was heard; But as we journeyed on together, By tentative degrees we fell From observations on the weather To talk of other things as well. "I had a few hours off," said he; "So I just ran across to see The last inventions----I refer To Kensington Museum, Sir. You know it? What a grand display! A splendid exhibition, eh? I never saw so fine a show Of coffins anywhere, you know! And there is one that's simply sweet, With handles, knobs, and plate complete!" "A coffin!"--Cold a shudder ran Adown me as I eyed the man. "Aye, to be sure. What else?" he said. "The one that's just been patented. Why, my good Sir, I will engage It is the marvel of the age; For, mark you, they no longer use Your clumsy, antiquated screws, But just a simple catch and pin That may be managed _from within!_" He ceased, for we had reached a station That chanced to be his destination. "My home!" he murmured, with a sigh. "Home--home! Sweet home!--Good-night!--Good-bye!" "Good-night!" I answered; and my heart Leaped when I saw his form depart. But as we slowly glided past The spot where I had seen him last, Upon the station lamps, methought, The letters of a name I caught. I looked again.--My hair uprose, The very soul within me froze, For lo! upon the lamps was seen The curdling legend--KENSAL GREEN!

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SUGGESTIONS TO THE NIAGARA REAL ICE SKATING HALL MANAGER.--The floor is perfect for skating, but, as there are many who do not skate, why not have a "sliding roof"? and visitors to the latter not to be charged full price, but admitted on a sliding scale. Nice to see Mr. EDWARD SOLOMON, who, as conductor of the band, cuts a very pretty figure. Dangerous, though, to the real ice, to have "Sol" so close to it; that is, if there could be "melting moments."

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THE LAUREATE SOCIETY.

The annual general meeting of the Amalgamated British Society for the Supply of Laureates to the public was held yesterday. There was a numerous attendance of authors and reviewers with a sprinkling of publishers. Mr. GRANT ALLEN was moved to the chair. The Chairman in presenting the report of the Directors regretted that he was unable to congratulate the Society on having accomplished the primary object of its existence, the filling up of the vacant laureateship. He himself, he said, had done his best. He had discovered a new sun in the firmament of poetry at least once a month, and had never hesitated to publish the name of his selection in one of the reviews. He was still willing to take seven to four about Mr. JOHN DAVIDSON and Mr. FRANCIS THOMPSON, Mr. WILLIAM WATSON barred. The balance-sheet of the Society did not show a very flourishing state of affairs. As assets they could enter fifteen sonnets, twelve irregularly rhymed odes (one by Mr. RICHARD LE GALLIENNE), twenty-four volumes of a strictly limited edition issued from the Bodley Head, four tons of the Yellow Book, and an unpublished selection of manuscript poems written by a victim to _delirium tremens_ whose name he was not at liberty to mention. On the other side, however, they had to face the fact that their expenses had been heavy. It was becoming more and more costly and difficult to feed the public on geniuses, and he was inclined to advise the discontinuance of this branch of the Society's operations.

At this point some commotion was caused by Mr. LE GALLIENNE and Mr. ARTHUR WAUGH, who rose simultaneously to protest against the Chairman's remarks. Mr. LE GALLIENNE was so far carried away by his agitation as to hurl a pamphlet at Mr. GRANT ALLEN'S head. In the uproar which ensued, Mr. LE GALLIENNE could be heard ejaculating "beautiful phrases," "richly-coloured musical sentences," "ideal and transcendental," "nothing finer since LAMB," "all for eighteenpence," and "a genius who sleeps below the wood-pigeons." The pamphlet thus discharged proved to be by a Mr. JOHN EGLINTON, and Mr. LE GALLIENNE was removed in the custody of a police-inspector, who was described by Mr. WAUGH as a Philistine.

When calm had been restored, Mr. ALFRED AUSTIN asked where he came in. He had never allowed a birth, a wedding, or a death in the upper circles of Royalty to pass unsung; and though he had been a constant subscriber to the Society it didn't seem to have done him any good. Besides, he had discovered Ireland last year. Mr. LEWIS MORRIS and Mr. ERIC MACKAY made similar complaints. The latter offered to write patriotic poems with plenty of rhymes in them against any other living man. Would the meeting allow him to recite----?

At this point the Chairman interposed, and said that the Directors had decided against recitations--a statement which provoked loud murmurs of dissatisfaction. Eventually, Mr. LE GALLIENNE (who had returned, disguised in proof-sheets), proposed a vote of thanks to Mr. JOHN DAVIDSON, who proposed a vote of thanks to Mr. GRANT ALLEN, who proposed a vote of thanks to Mr. FRANCIS THOMPSON, who proposed a vote of thanks to Mr. ARTHUR WAUGH, who proposed a vote of thanks to Mr. JOHN LANE, who proposed a vote of thanks to Mr. LE GALLIENNE. All these having been unanimously passed, the meeting broke up.

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QUEER QUERIES.--WAR OF WORDS.--_À propos_ of Mr. PLOWDEN'S decision in the "Flannelette case," can that worthy magistrate have foreseen some of its effects? For instance, wanting to buy a sideboard, I went to a furniture-dealer's, and saw one, apparently made of the best mahogany, which took my fancy greatly. I casually asked of what wood it was composed and was astonished to have the answer given me, "Mahoganette," by the shop-walker. So I walked out of the shop. When I _want_ painted deal I can inquire for that article. Again, I have noticed during the last few days a great falling-off in my butter (though not in its price). On my remonstrating, the seller frankly admitted that the article was "butterette," not butter. "What does 'ette' mean?" I asked him. He said it meant "little," adding, with a wink, that I should find "precious little butter, too." And this was the case. What _are_ we coming to?--INDIGNANT.

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