Part 2

Messrs. BLACKWOOD have got as far as _Felix Holt_ in the re-publication in popular form of the works of GEORGE ELIOT. It would be interesting to know how the venture has fared with the popular fancy for which it was designed. It is said young men and maidens of the present date cannot read the CHARLES DICKENS whose books enthralled their fathers and mothers. How does GEORGE ELIOT, who in her day held a position with the novel-reading public second only to CHARLES DICKENS, withstand the changes of fancy and fashion? My Baronite has been trying the experiment on himself by reading again, after the lapse of many years, _The Mill on the Floss_. He reports that he finds the first volume flag a little, by reason of the minute record of childhood's troubles and schoolday tasks. But in the second volume, where the tragedy of love is worked out with surpassing power and infinite skill, the old spell is woven again. _The Mill on the Floss_ is certainly one of the best of GEORGE ELIOT'S novels, being completed before the malign influence of schoolmaster GEORGE HENRY LEWES made itself felt. To this extent, it is not a fair test of the problem suggested. But the collection as a whole is rich in value. In "the Standard edition" Messrs. BLACKWOOD present it in daintiest form, and at a marvellously cheap price.

_The Shoulder of Shasta_ is not a new joint from an entirely new animal, as those who are tired of "the Shoulder of Mutton" may be sorry to hear; but, it is a charming romance, in one volume, written by BRAM STOKER at his best. The heroine's name is "_Esse_"; and the whole interest of the story lies in the question, "_Esse_ or _non Esse_"--"to be or not to be" the wife of "_Mr. Dick_." For there is a "_Mr. Dick_"--not in any way related to DICKENS'S "_Mr. Dick_,"--who is a kind of Buffalo Bill among the Indians. There is a _Miss Gimp_, a governess, whose peculiarities certainly do recall those of _Mrs. Nickleby_. Mr. BRAM STOKER'S plot is a _boîte à surprise_, and yet a most simple and natural story. Go to your butcher's and order _The Shoulder of Shasta_, to be served up "_à la_ STOKER." N.B.--For "butcher's" read "bookseller's"; 'tis published by "A Constable" who "knows what subjects to take up," says the thoughtful

BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

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Cursory Rhyme.

(_By an Elderly Victim of Cyclomania._)

Rush-a-by, rush-a-by, biking man! Kick up a shindy as loud as you can. Frighten me, floor me, then chortle with glee, And fly away fast from the gutter and me.

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RACING NOTE.--"_Fiorizel II._" seems to be an unfortunate name for a horse expected and intended to be "_Fiorizel the First_."

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FOUND WANTING.

Appoint a Poet Laureate, some prate, But that's impossible, and wise men know it, Because, 'midst many a would-be Laureate, We cannot find a--Poet! Well, there is _one_; but him both Whig and Tory hate; Whence he, although a Poet, is not Laureate! And, after all, JOHN BULL is little loth To wait, until he finds one who is both. For, after TENNYSON, the choice, we see, Doth lie 'twixt--Tweedledum and Tweedledee! Because they are not good enough who crave it, Whilst one or two more worthy will not have it.

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ADDITION TO MAGISTRATE'S DECISION.--Professor to be henceforth entitled "_Il Ré Galantuomo_." Who? RAY! Hooray!

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SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.--A SPIRIT LICENCE.--At the Limerick Quarter Sessions, a landlord at Loughgur sought a new licence for his inn.

The applicant stated that he intended to keep a boat there for the convenience of tourists.

_His Honour_--What are the features of antiquity there?

_The Applicant_--there are old castles and ruins.

_Mr. Lowndes_--And the White Knight of Desmond crosses the lake once every five or ten years.

_His Honour_--And he is only seen by your patrols. (_Laughter._) If this licence were granted, I suppose the White Knight would cross the lake every night! (_Laughter._)

Of course he would! A phantom in a boat, if properly advertised, would probably "draw" the Saxon tourist in his hundreds. Here is a chance for the Psychical Research Society.

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WOODMAN, SPARE _NOT_ THAT TREE!

(_Song of the Suburban tree-slaughtering savage, whose axe and saw and cord are rapidly making umbrageous neighbourhoods hideous._)

Woodman, spare not that tree! Leave not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, So I'll destroy it now. Tall trees infest the land, Rurality is rot! Nought but a stump shall stand On this once shady spot.

An old umbrageous tree Makes suburb less like town; It spreads too far for me, Up, axe, and hew it down! Woodman, ply stroke on stroke, Till prone on earth it lies; (Oh! isn't it a joke?) Once towering to the skies!

Woodman, and woodman's boy, Bring axe, and saw, and spade, Hack, lop and top, with joy; Destruction is your trade! It grew for many a year; It's growth, fools say, is grand. Eh? Spare its charms? No fear! No bough of it shall stand!

When comes again the spring No leafage forth 'twill send; No bird thereon shall sing, No breeze its branches bend. Old tree, no more thou'lt wave O'er this suburban spot! If _I_ my will might have, The axe should fell the lot!

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"HOI ADELPHOI" (the Messrs. GATTI), the Adelphians, or, as friend WAGG would necessarily call them, the "Fill-adelphi-uns," have a stirring Life-boat Scene in Messrs. SCOTT and THOMAS'S drama _The Swordsman's Daughter_. Where there are so many rapiers flashing--not one of them pointless--the piece might have suffered from cutting. As it is, the display of fence is most exciting. Mr. TERRISS the swordsman, Miss MILLWARD his daughter, are excellent; and this is true of the entire performance. As for Mr. ABINGDON, he is becoming a greater villain in every play of his life. He'll end by being hung in the Royal Academy. Of course, first of all, he will have to be "taken from life" by the hand of some distinguished painter.

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POT-LUCK.--A sportsman named Mr. ALLAN GILMOUR, junior, has been credited with recently shooting "the first specimen of the solitary snipe" that had been seen in England. Writing to a Scotch paper, he says, "As snipe-shooting has been my favourite sport for the last twenty-eight years, during which time I have killed over 4,000 snipe without ever getting a shot at a 'solitary,' I am naturally very pleased."

For years he'd hunted all in vain, But when the time was ripe, His fortune changed--he really bagged A solitary snipe.

There are who find their chiefest joy A friend, a feast, a pipe; But Mr. GILMOUR'S heaven is here-- A solitary snipe.

O PETER MAGNUS[A] GILMOUR, we Must tears of envy wipe That you can count it bliss to pot A solitary snipe!

[A: "'It is calculated to cause them the highest gratification,' said Mr. Pickwick, rather enjoying the ease with which Mr. Peter Magnus's friends were amused."]

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CABBY; OR, REMINISCENCES OF THE RANK AND THE ROAD.

(_By "Hansom Jack."_)

No. VIII.--MORE HARMONY--BUSTER'S LATEST--"HI! FOUR-WHEELER!"--A CAB'S A CAB FOR ALL THAT.

"Harmony Hall," or the "Hullaboo Brothers," as chippers will call us when chaffy or teasy, Was O. K. last night. Missis CHUFFING 'ad given a tittivate-up to our own Free-and-Easy. CHUFFING'S the Bung, and 'is wife is a wonder; a sort of a woman as straight as they make 'em, Yet jolly as June. _They_'re the helpmeets for men; and my tip is whenever you find 'em _you take 'em!_

Bless 'er blue ribbings! She beams like a sunflower in a back yard to a chap lyin' seedy, Women like 'er _is_ the sunshine of life, and make up for the swarms as are grubby and greedy. Touched up our room for Benevolence Night till the sandy-floored back parlour warmed our old noses. Wonderful wot female fingers can do with a green branch or two and a few paper roses.

"BARNEY THE BARD" 'ad been "Wooing the Mooses" agen--so 'e put it--and faked up some patter For our "Extry-Speshul," and, set to a tune free and fetchin', it went with a good clitter-clatter. _I_'ad to pipe it this time, and I tell you I'd stood lots o' chipping from chums, and lost fares, too, Whilst mugging the words on my box at odd moments, to be "letter-puffeck" as all our chaps cares to.

"You _do_ break down," says B. B., "and I'll bash you!" The smart "little mush," five foot nix in 'is 'igh-lows, Emagines 'isself quite a small pocket-Samson, and swears 'e 'as got knotty muscles, "like MILO'S." "MILO?" sez I; "no, nor yet a arf-MILO!" "Oh, cheese it," sez BUSTER. "Don't show you've _no_ knowledge." BUSTER'S a bit of a scholard, no doubt, and 'e swears--when well on--that 'e once went to College.

Anyhow, _'e_'s a good sort, and _can_ patter. 'E gave the poor Growler a look-in this journey, Seein' as how our whip-round was for one, and B. B. is as wide-oh as WICKS, our attorney. Old BUNGO, our chairman, called on me. I rose, and got such a reception, a regular squealer. And soon as the loud sisserary was over, I tipped 'em, _kon bryo_, the BUSTER'S "_Four-wheeler!_"

HI! FOUR-WHEELER!!

"Hansom up!" may be the cry when the day is fine and dry, But wait till it comes night, and a fair drencher. Then they lead me a rare dance, and don't give me arf a chance, Of a doss, a peck, a pipe, or modest quencher. Then through dark, and frost, and wet, there's another cry, you bet, From the mouth of shiverin' swell, or shoutin' Peeler. Toffy dames drag cloak and skirt round damp hankles from the dirt, As they shrink from the chill wind, and the shower's sputtery squirt, And the cry is then--_Four-wheeler! Hi!! Four-wheeler!!!_

Ah, it's all pertikler well for smart beauty and 'er swell, When a-toolin' to the concert or theayter, Up the Forder's step to trip, and into the 'Ansom skip, Like a fawn or other nimble, slim-shank'd craytur. But returnin' through thick fog, or a roadway like a bog, When the 'Ansoms turn deaf hears to the swell squealah; When a friend or two turns hup, and they arsk 'em 'ome to sup, Then a very 'umble phiz wears the supersillyass pup As 'e bellers hout--_Four-wheelah! Hi!! Four-wheelah!!!_

Yus! I'm only "Grumpy GAPES," with my arf-a-dozen capes, And my sticking-plarster 'at and mulberry boko (_That_'s pine-happle rum, they blether, 'lowing nothink for the weather), And I 'ave to give my poor old crock hot toko, Just to myke 'er break 'er trot, when the toffs put on the pot (Then they bully me and say they'll call the Peeler). But so 'elp me JIMMY JONES, tho' I'm stiff in my old bones, There _are_ times when swells appeal to me in most perthetick tones, And bleat out a sad--_Four-wheeler! Hi!! Four-wheeler!!!_

Then there's 'orty Mistress BROWNE,-when she's goin' out o' town, With five kiddies, and a arf-a-ton o' boxes; Wot's the use, I arsk you, Sir, of a "Shrewsbury" to _'er?_ These yer middle-clarss mammas are sly as foxes. Know the distance to a hinch, and will 'aggle, bate, and pinch, With the sharpness of a 'Ebrew ole clo-dealer. They are wuss than mean old codgers, some old female Artful Dodgers, And I'd sooner 'ear the ghost of Missis JACKERMETTY PRODGERS Callin' hout to me--_Four-wheeler! Hi!! Four-wheeler!!!_

Then a little lot of gents, wot 'as met with "hac-ci-dents" (In the matter of a trifle too much "tiddley"), Who tune up like hanything, though whene'er they try to sing They will mix up "_Tarblow Vivong_" with "_Bob Ridley_." Hah! "There's a picture for yer!" 'Ow they waste yer time and bore yer, Then mix theirselves up, reglar 'ead-and-'eeler! 'Ansom cab for them? Oh, no! _They_ want room to _sprawl_, and so, Though, when sober, they'd cock snook at me as fusty and too slow, When bosky, 'tis--_Four-wheeler! Hi!! Four-wheeler!!!_

Yah! Though every cad and 'owler sniffs at me and calls me Growler, I'm the old original, useful 'ackney carriage. I'm a "Clarence." That's _my_ style, though the ignerant my smile, And at outing, sick case, funeral or marriage, I lick the 'Ansom wholly, and knock out the cabrioley. Yus! I feel the touch of Time, that pleasure-stealer. But old Grumpy GAPES, you bet, braves the frost, and fog, and wet, And whilst luggage and bad weather lasts, for many a long day yet, London's cry will be--_Four-wheeler! Hi!! Four-wheeler!!!_

"_Four-wheeler!_" went down well as "_Hansom Up!_" Yessir! When Harmony's on and Benevolence guides it, A Growler's a _cab_, just the same as a Forder, and 'e aint no "Cabby," true grit, as derides it. Cape Clubs and Rug Clubs is all very proper, and so is your Sick Fund and Friendly Society, But a friendly whip-round, with a sing-song worked in, and no swagger or fuss, is _my_ favrit variety.

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"A BIG, BIG 'D.'"--The _Times_ of last Thursday reports that a scheme was submitted to the Chester Town Council "_for damming the river Dee_." The scheme was approved of, and the Council cried, as in chorus, "Dee-cidedly! Dam the Dee!" _Minute._--That the Dee be damm'd accordingly.

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DR. PARKER'S RESPECTFUL FEW WORDS TO THE POPE.--"_Parker Verba._"

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ROUNDABOUT READINGS.

I am at Davos. Be careful about the pronunciation: put the accent broadly on the second syllable, and you have it. With me, if I may say so, it is a case of _Davos non vobis_, for I have come here not for my own health, but to act as travelling-companion to one of the best fellows in the world, who seeks health and strength in this quiet and beautiful valley. God be with him, and with all his fellow-sufferers here. Here are some notes taken on the way.

_Hall of the Grosvenor Hotel, 10.30 A.M._--A mixed crowd of anxious French and English people: a sprinkling of Americans. Desperate inquiries from an elderly French lady for her box. A moment ago the box was visible, a monumental box peacefully reposing near the door. Now it has vanished. Is the box to be added to the questions pending between France and England? No; it is found--on a truck. The French Ambassador may rest in peace. On a sofa reclines a magnificent Arab, tall, stately, bronzed, aquiline, robed in a waving burnous and a turban of dazzling white. How he casts our puny, ditto-suited, cloth-capped civilisation into the shade. An almost irresistible impulse comes over me to change my ticket, break every tie and make a dash with him for his native desert, to live a free and untrammelled life, to head a successful insurrection against the French oppressor, to be laid after death in a splendid tomb with a cupola amidst the lamentations of thousands of lithe and dusky warriors.

_11 A.M._--We are off; handshakings, wavings of handkerchiefs. Still dreaming of Algeria, I am recalled to actuality by a stoppage at Herne Hill.

_Calais._--The home of the _demi-poulet_, not forgetting the _flageolet_. Perpetual entrances of imperturbable officials with chorus "_Les voyageurs pour...._" Consequent series of shocks inimical to quiet eating. At last our turn comes. Each of us has bagged a _demi-poulet_ in record time. Why all this hurry? At any rate we are off.

_Laon, 7 P.M._--Dinner. English traveller wants whisky. "_Avez vous doo visky?_" Lady of restaurant shakes her head. "_Visky Ecossais. Eau de vie Ecossais._" A brilliant inspiration, but the landlady, protesting she can supply _eau de vie_, denies all knowledge of the Scotch variety. "Perhaps," says a helpful old lady, an English fellow-traveller, looking at the tariff-board on which the word "_rhum_" figures, "perhaps they call it 'room.'" Suggestion received with enthusiasm: "_Avez vous doo room?_" Enter guard: "_Les voyageurs pour Bâle._" Only just time to pay. Off we go again.

_Bâle, 5.30 A.M._--Train stops: consultation of watches. Can't be Bâle: not due till 6.30. Another hour for sleep; turn over, when door opens suddenly and an alarmed Swiss porter ejaculates "_Mais deshendez donc, Monsieur, le drain fa bartir_." Out we go: the sky becomes dark with hats, sticks, wraps, handbags. Have we got everything? Yes--no--where is my waistcoat? Quite forgot I had discarded it at night: it contains watch, money, everything. Approach of beaming porter carrying waistcoat like a banner. Transference of silver from self to porter. He beams more and more. Unduly early arrival explained by fact that we are now under Central European time. Breakfast.

At Bâle I purchase the Paris _Temps_ of to-day's date. An article on the Swiss Referendum. At last I am at close quarters with the Referendum. Question for decision was, is the sale of matches to be a State monopoly? The Swiss voter has said no by an overwhelming majority. The _Temps_, analysing results, sees in this "a victory of the individualist spirit, and of French tradition over the German spirit instilled in the universities of Zurich, Berne, and Bâle, or brought home by Swiss writers and politicians who have studied in Germany itself." Sédan is avenged. It appears, too, that the Swiss voter is getting bored with Referendums. He has had too many of them, and on this occasion barely half of him recorded his vote. Merry Swiss voter, awaking on a Sunday morning, inquires of his merry Swiss wife, "Any voting to-day, my dear?" "Only those silly matches," replies M. S. W. "Oh, drat they matches," says merry Swiss voter (or words to that effect). "I'm not going to trouble about _that_," and turns over to sleep again. Anyhow, matches are not to be a State monopoly. Long live the Referendum!

_On the way to Landquart._--Sudden alarm of my companion. He clutches my arm, and points to the roof of railway carriage, saying, in an awe-struck voice, "What does that mean; why do they put that word there?" Following with my eyes the direction of his finger, I notice white dial, with moveable hand, let into roof. Plainly painted in bold letters on one side of the dial is the word "hell." On the other side, however, I see the German word "dunkel," which, of course, makes things clear. Quite natural, though, that apparatus for turning light up and down should, at first sight, be mistaken for a Salvation Army warning.

_Landquart, 1.16 P.M._--Lunch. Here the toy railway to Davos begins. We have still more than 3000 feet to climb before reaching our destination. Obtain beautifully-coloured little pamphlet with map. Learn that we are about to travel on "highest adhesion railway in Europe." Prepare ourselves to be as adhesive as possible by taking in immense amount of ballast in the shape of lunch. On consulting map, presumably drawn to scale, find that Davos is at least five times the size of London, which figures minutely in upper left-hand corner. This is delightful. Delight, however, dashed by observing that the distance from Landquart to Davos is nearly three times as great as from London to Bâle. Still, after the shock of finding ourselves under Central European time, we are prepared for most things. At last the little toy engine puffs violently, metaphorically takes off its coat, and, like _Mr. Snodgrass_, announces in a very loud tone that it is going to begin. We start! Hurrah, we adhere!!

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Up, up, and still up we climb, hanging on here and there by our eyebrows to mountain precipices, and peering down into chasms on the other side. Still we adhere and the gallant little engine puffs away like mad. Amiable Swiss guard takes a paternal pride in it, in the train, in the scenery, and (after usual transference of silver) in us. Have we ever been at Davos before? No? In that case, it appears, we must prepare for pleasures before which the overrated amusements of Paris and Vienna pale and dwindle. Davos at last.

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_Davos._--Wonderfully hearty reception at the Hôtel d'Angleterre. Mr. DEMMER smiles, Mrs. DEMMER smiles, the boots, the waitress, the housemaid all smile. We smile, too, and find everything prepared in rooms of the most brilliant cleanness: dinner, and so to bed.

Conversation in Davos is of great simplicity. We are all either invalids or the friends of invalids. At first hearing it would appear as if a gigantic ball, at which nobody danced, was perpetually taking place. "Have you been sitting out much to-day?" "Yes, I sat out nine hours." "Ah, I only managed to get in seven," &c., &c. For the pure and perfect air is the main element of the cure at Davos, and in nearly all weathers the invalids are on the verandahs drawing in these draughts of new life and vigour.

On the following morning I stroll. Remember that, curiously enough, I haven't seen a single soldier since I arrived in Switzerland. Here, however, is a photographic group of non-commissioned officers of the Davos section of some infantry regiment. All their implements of warfare are drawn, a martial defiance gleams from every eye. In the centre of the group two of the most warlike cross their protecting swords in front of a tall lady, allegorically attired in cloak and scale-armour to represent Helvetia. I immediately abandon contemplated invasion and annexation of Switzerland.