Chapter 2

Of the Young Guardsman's dress much might be said. It is spotless and careful and is evidently the result of deep thought. Yet, if a fault may be hinted, it errs like his cigar on the side of exaggeration. A frock-coat should fit well, but his is too tight. Fashion no doubt demands that in the daytime a cascade of silk or satin should pour itself into a lake of shirt-front, but the cascade need not be a Niagara nor the lake an Ontario. It is true of course that at night no young man who respects himself and values the opinion of his friends would dream of wearing a white tie of any but the butterfly pattern. Still there are butterflies and butterflies, and the Young Guardsman's model would seem to be rather one of the huge tropical varieties than any known to our northern climate. These, however, are but trifling defects which scarcely detract from the shining and ornamental completeness of his appearance.

It is remarkable how readily the Young Guardsman imagines himself to be an adept in the mysteries of the turf. With a light heart and a heavy betting-book he faces the hoary sinners who lay the odds. Nor is it until he has lost more money than his father can well afford that he discovers that the raw inexperience even of a Young Guardsman is unequally matched against the cool head, and the long purse, of the professional book-maker. In vain does he call in the aid of the venal tipster. The result is always the same, and he returns home from every race-meeting without ever, to use his own phrase, "getting home" at all. Indeed, if they may be believed, the subalterns of "the Brigade" never vary from a condition which they always describe as stony-broke.

A little later in his career the Young Guardsman will find himself temporarily on the staff of a General appointed to command a force of Volunteers during some Easter man[oe]uvres. He will wear a white belt, the frock-coat of his undress uniform and a cocked hat, and will believe himself to be a Staff officer. He will perform his duties not without efficiency, but will scarcely take enough trouble to remove from the minds of the Volunteers to whom he issues orders, that idea of patronage which is to a rightly constituted Volunteer what a red rag is said to be to a bull. Soon after this, a war having broken out in Africa, he will volunteer for active service and will be accepted. Being after all a young man of pluck and spirit, he will pass with distinction through the hardships and dangers of the campaign. Amid the stern realities of the bivouac and the battlefield his swagger and his affectations will vanish. Returning home in this altered condition it is as likely as not that he will marry, and having served his Queen with solid credit for many years, will eventually retire with the rank of General and the well-earned respect of all who know him.

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THE LAST OF THE BACILLI.

(_Feuilleton of the "Medical Record," April, 1900._)

In a gloomy and inaccessible cavity, situated in the diaphragm of the human body in which he had made his home, stood the last of the Bacilli. His friends and his brothers, the companions of his innocent childhood, the associates of his boyish days, his fellow-adventurers in manhood's prime--all, all had perished. Some had been ruthlessly hunted down by a skilled body of German assassins; others had died under the cruel attacks of the pestilent Frenchman. The Cholera Bacillus, the king of them all, was the first to fall; typhoid and typhus, small-pox and measles, fits of convulsions or of sneezing, coughs and catarrhs, had all been deprived of Bacilli and slain. The Wart Bacillus had fought hard and maintained himself for a long time on a precarious footing of fingers and thumbs; but he too had been extirpated. The Thirst Bacillus had given up the ghost yesterday, after keeping up for years a guerilla warfare disguised either as a green rat or a striped snake. And now the mighty Hunger Bacillus stood alone, gloomy and defiant. But he knew his hour had come. "Better death," he shouted, "than the microscope!" and with these words drew his sword and dashed forth into the darkness. There was a yell, followed by the sound of steel beaten against steel, then a blood-curdling gurgle, and all grew still.

"He was a gallant scoundrel, but my quick _riposte_ confused him," observed Signor SUCCI, who entered the apartment, wiping his blade on the advertisement of a new beef-essence, and taking copious draughts of his elixir.

Thus died, as he had lived, dismal, desperate, degraded, the Hunger Bacillus, the last of his race.

(_From another Column of the same Paper._)

We rejoice to hear that the Act for making Succination compulsory is to be energetically enforced. Public Succinators have now been appointed to every district, and every parent omitting to have the operation performed upon his infant within two months after birth is to be rigorously prosecuted. Henceforth, as we may remind our readers, anybody "complaining of hunger shall be liable on conviction to be imprisoned for not less than six calendar months, with or without hard labour." We quote the words of clause 3 of the Act.

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Mr. JAMES PAYN has the peculiar gift of writing a novel as if he were telling you a story _viva voce_ and interesting you in it, not only by reason of its plot, but also by his way of narrating it. There is a spontaneity about his style which to the Baron is most refreshing: it is like listening to two clever men, one of whom is telling the story, and the other is enlivening it with his sharp and appropriate comments, always dropped in parenthetically. Mr. PAYN is a good hand at keeping a secret, and it is not for the BARON DE B. W. to tell beforehand what the novelist keeps as a little bit up his sleeve till the last moment. Why call it _The Burnt Million_? To what tremendous conflagration involving such a fearful loss of life does the title point? The story will interest the Million and delight Thousands. Excellent as is the dialogue generally, the Baron ventures to doubt whether any ordinary person (and no one of these characters is a genius) ever begins a sentence with "Nay." Anent _The Burnt Million_, the Baron's advice to persons in search of a novel is, "_Tolle, lege!_" Also the Baron says, get _La Revue de Famille_ at HACHETTE's. _Un Foyer de Theatre_, by M. AUDEBRAND, for all interested in the history of the French Drama, is delightful reading. Don't miss _Causerie Litteraire_, by Mr. CHARLES BENOIST.

The Baroness says, read "Poor Mr. Carrington" in _Temple Bar_.

_Lippincott's Magazine_ this month is heartily welcome,--we should say, BRET HARTE-ily welcome. Capital story, by B. H., "A Sappho of Green Sprigs."

(_Signed_) BARON DE BOOK WORMS & CO.

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ODDS ON THE BEDMAKERS.

[A proposal for the abolition of Bedmakers is being discussed in Cambridge.]

_Chorus of Undergraduates:--_

There are things we could spare; we could watch without weeping A Tutor's extinction, a Dean's disappearance. And Professors who drone while their pupils are sleeping, Though they went at a loss, we should welcome the clearance.

And Proctors who blandly demand six-and-eightpence, And, while toiling themselves, send all petticoats spinning; And Porters who tick off our names for our gate-pence; And Bull-dogs who help to withhold us from sinning.

And the juvenile Don who thinks "Dons should be firmer," And the elderly Don who is painfully nervous-- We could see them depart without even a murmur, So our Bedmakers stay to amuse and to serve us.

We have watched, while we trembled, the pomps and the maces, Stern emblems of rule, with the Esquire Bedell come; We have heard of the Senate, its edicts and graces,-- Take the lot, if you like, you may have them and welcome.

But the "Bedder"? No, no. Come, we offer a wager: We will bet she survives who of beds is the maker! Any answer? Not one; for, in spite of her age, her Attractions are such that there isn't a taker.

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MEASURES AND MEN.--M. JACQUES BERTILLON has been lecturing before the Anthropological Society--(the only Society where _anthropoi_ are logical)--on his method of "identifying criminals by comparing their measures with those of convicted prisoners on the prison registers." Ahem! How about novel Home Rule Measures compared with those of past Kilmainhamites?

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L'ENFANT TERRIBLE!

_Chorus of Passengers, expostulating:--_

Stop, WILLIAM, stop! Your game is not a game _we_ can enjoy! Your father's son should not thus play the Little Vulgar Boy! This is not Margate, WILLIAM mine, and ours is not a crew Of ordinary trippers, packed aboard the _Lively Loo_ For a shillingsworth of suffering on a wild and wobbling sea. Stop, WILLIAM! You'll upset the boat! Why can't you let it be?

Our boat has braved a many storms. It's old and may be crank; But though it sometimes sprang a leak, it never wholly sank. We are not packed so close to-day as we have oft been packed. Against some stiffer gales than this we've weathered and we've tacked; But, WILLIAM, though our craft tossed wild, though loud the winds have roared, We've never, never had so bad a boy as _you_ on board!

Sit down, now do, you pickle, you! Don't dance upon that thwart, And see-saw in that sort of way. We want to get to port, Not Davy Jones's Locker, Sir. "These roarers" are wild things, As SHAKSPEARE in _The Tempest_ says, and do not care for Kings; To keep them down and bale them out has always been our aim; But you, you just play larks with them. What _is_ your little game? You, young, the latest chap on board, but of a sound old stock Of Royal navigators, do you think it right to mock All nautical traditions in this reckless kind of way, And greet these waves, as BYRON did, as though with them you'd _play_? They're dangerous playfellows, boy; tiger-cubs hardly in it For riskiness! I say, do stop! You'll swamp us in a minute. Look at your Crown! Such head-gear, boy, is seldom a tight fit, And oscillations sometimes act as Notices to Quit!

What would your grandfather have said to see you sway and prance? Sit still, lad, you alarm us all. Just look at Madame FRANCE! She's thought a fairish sailor, and has doffed her Crown, but see, She's clutching at the gunwale, too, as nervous as can be. Whilst, as for dear Senora SPAIN and her poor little charge, I guess she wishes this same tub were CLEOPATRA's barge, Or something broad and beamy that won't easily capsize. AUSTRIA's staring with a look of agonized surprise. And ITALY's dumfoundered. Sit down, boy! you're tempting fate. These days are trying ones, for _us_, 'tis worse than Forty-Eight. Then there were winds and whirlpools, but no Socialistic Sea Sweeping all shores, and threatening International anarchy. And with _its_ waves you're wantoning, and wobbling up and down, Indifferent to our stomachs,--as regardless of your Crown. Upon my honour it's too bad. _Noblesse oblige_, you know, 'Tis not a Hohenzollern we'd expect to serve us so. You've sacked our safest Pilot, who objected to your pranks, And now you are coquetting with mad mutiny in the ranks, Eh? You'll suppress it when you please, you'll smash up all your foes? 'Tis a new game, for Royalty, and risky, goodness knows. Meanwhile, _don't_ sway the boat like that, into the sea you'll fall; Or, what's more likely, just capsize the craft and drown us all!

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THE ROYAL ACADEMY BANQUET.

Exceptionally good in food for body and mind. "First person present in indicative mood" is Sir FREDERICK, the courteous President, pointing out to Royal Highnesses the beauties of Burlington House. Stars, ribands, and garters everywhere. Exceptionally distinguished personages come in with invitations only, and no orders. Pretty to see Cardinal MANNING's bright scarlet scull-cap, quite eclipsing RUSTEM PASHA's fez. Cardinal distinctly observed to smile during MARKISS's humorous observations. "MARKISS is ready," sounds like twin phrase to "Barkis is willin'." H.R.H.'s speech shorter than ever. Wonderful, too, how eloquent Sir FREDERICK contrives to spread fresh butter on dry old toasts, so that everyone relishes them as choice morsels. All speeches shorter, except Admiralty Lord's, who, being among portrait-painters, goes in for figures. But where is--"Mr. STANLEY, I presume?" Not here. Invited, but perhaps exploring neighbourhood, and unable to discover Burlington House. Altogether an exceptionally brilliant evening.

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TO THE NEW SCRIBE AND POET.

AIR--"_O Ruddier than the Cherry!_"

O RUDYARD, in this sherry, I drink your very, very Good health. I would That write I could Like KIPLING, sad or merry.

(_Signed)_ INVIDIUS NASO.

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THE NELL OF CHELSEA.

(_A Legend of the Opening of the Royal Military Exhibition._)

The Lady got out of her picture in the Morning Room, and glanced at herself in the Club glass. She had been painted by Sir PETER LELY, and consequently was scarcely in a costume suitable to a May Day at the close of the Nineteenth Century.

"I' faith," said the Lady, "but I must get me a cloak to cover me, otherwise I shall have a crowd a following me."

It will be seen from this observation that, although the Lady had flourished (very considerably) in the time of CHARLES THE SECOND, she had not kept up her Carolian English. It is possible that the chit-chat under her frame by the fire-place had corrupted the purity of her--to an antiquary--interesting lingo. Be this as it may, she glided down the large and handsome staircase, and selecting the furred and hooded coat of a member who had just returned from abroad, annexed it.

"This will do nicely," she murmured; "quite the mode," a remark which proved that she had seen no fashion-plates lying on the Club table, and, therefore, was entirely ignorant of the modern mysteries of ladies' dress. However, she passed in the crowd--partly because no one appeared to notice her. A Lady from a portrait by Sir PETER LELY without her frame and background, after all, is rather a shadowy creation.

When she had turned from Garrick Street into St. Martin's Lane, she looked about her in surprise. What had been fields when she was in the flesh were now sites of houses. She glided along, perplexed to a degree, until she got to Charing Cross; then she recognised the statue of CHARLES THE FIRST, and what was standing of White Hall.

"By my troth, this is not an improvement! Houses, houses, nothing but houses! I will e'en take the water to Chelsea, and see the hospital I persuaded ROWLEY to give to his poor soldiers. There should be some stairs hereabouts."

But if the Lady did not find stairs, she came across a landing-stage. She got on to the Westminster Pier, and was soon aboard one of the best vessels of the Victoria Steamboat Association, Limited. Within half an hour or so she was landed opposite the building it had been her privilege to secure for the benefit of the British Army. The place was brave with bunting. There were enormous sheds full of battle pictures and portraits, and in the grounds was an arena suitable for the holding of military sports. Then there was a huge band-stand, and the electric light was laid on with great liberality in the gardens.

"Gad'sooks!" exclaimed the Lady of the Picture; "and what are they doing in the precincts of Chelsea Hospital?"

She was immediately supplied with information. A Military Exhibition was being held in aid of the Church of England Institutes--establishments (so she was told) of a strictly unsectarian character. The entertainments would be of a most popular character,--weather permitting, _al fresco_. The commissariat would be excellent. In one place only temperance beverages would be served, but elsewhere there would be--well--there would be drinks. At that very moment the Exhibition was being opened by the Most Illustrious Gentleman in the Land accompanied by H.R.H.'s most charming and most beautiful partner. Would the Lady like to see the place?

"Another time," she replied. "Stay, I would like to see myself. Have you a picture of me? I am Mistress NELLIE GWYNNE."

Her courteous informant bowed, and shook his head. He had heard it suggested at the inaugural lunch that she should be represented, but there were so many things to do--the Military Sports, the eating and drinking, the Royal Patronage, and the Church of England Institutes,--that, in point of fact, the matter had been overlooked.

"Well, never mind," said good-natured NELLIE, "I daresay you will get on very well without me. But look to this, my master. Here we are very near the site of old Cremorne, and a part of the grounds over yonder is called Ranelagh. You have lights and bands, and subtle beverages, some of which will cheer but not inebriate,--and others that may possibly reverse the operation. Well, well, my portrait is not in your collection,--the best I can wish you is that you may keep your night _fetes_ as select as your picture-gallery."

And with this the Lady returned to her frame beside the fire-place in the Club Morning Room.

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"NUTS" FOR THE COAL TRADE.

[Under the 29th Section of the Weights and Measures Act "the person in charge of the vehicle," when coal-frauds are perpetrated, seems to be alone punishable.]

Not a sack was full, not a weight was true, As the coals to their cellar we hurried; Not an eye could see were they many or few In the crypt where our cobbles we buried.

We buried them gaily, at luncheon time, All Acts of Parliament spurning; There were "Kitchens," composed of slate and slime, And Wallsend, "dimly burning."

No fussing servants surveyed our cart-- (If they had, we'd have kept them shivering) --They were busy serving the family tart At our chosen hour for delivering!

Few and brief the remarks we made; Not of coals, but of beer, we chattered; And we thought of the tricks of an opulent trade As the coal-dust we liberally scattered.

We thought of our "dealer," our wealthy boss, How he's spared by the law just created; How we carmen are made to suffer the loss When for fraud by a Court we are "slated."

Lightly they'll talk of his "ha'porth of sack," On his weights make unhandsome reflection; But little he'll reck, as fines fall on our back, And _he's_ "doubly-screened" from detection!

But half of our "heavy task" was done When a spy of the Council--drat it!-- Came pushing his nose in our sacks, every one, Tried our weights, and our bill--looked at it!

Slowly and sadly we slunk out of sight, Objecting to get into hobbles; We breathed no farewell, and we said no good-night, But we left him alone with the cobbles!

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LAST REPORT.--The Dean and Chapter of Westminster have discharged a Canon. No one was seriously injured.

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THE PICK OF THE PICTURES.--No. 1. ROYAL ACADEMY.

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No. 5. The First Storey in the Royal Academy Annual is entitled, _The Hungry Messenger_. Good STOREY.

No. 44. Never put off till to MORO PHILLIPS what you can put on to-day. Illustration of an elderly Blue-coat Boy unable to leave off an old habit.

No. 53, with No. 98 and No. 91. Ought to have been hung together, portraits "_en soot_."

No. 202. _Ethereal Football._

No. 224. _Boy and Dog._ BRITON RIVIERE, R.A. Dog unmuzzled, boy hears policeman's footstep.

No. 235. "_Every dog has his Washing-day._" Pet just been cleaned and brought into drawing-room. Doubtful reception by Papa and other sisters. Hardly up to the usual form of W. Q. ORCHARDSON, R.A.

No. 292. Mr. PHIL. A. MORRIS, A. calls this "_La Belle Americaine_." Is she? The tone of this belle is rather loud.

No. 303. A wonderful picture and portrait, by LUKE FILDES, R.A. "LUKE on this picture and on----" any other portrait, and you'll find this hard to beat. Wealth of colour, colour of wealth, _affaire de Luke's_.

No. 318. _Major E. R. Burke._ Admirable portrait, by HUBERT HERKOMER, A. See how the Master of Bushey has dealt with the Hair! As might be expected from a Hair-comber with a brush in his hand. Will be remembered as "_Burke and Hair_."

No. 411. _Mrs. Arthur Sassoon._ Charming. Sweet simplicity.

You'll say this _as soon_ as you see it. HUBERT HERKOMER, A(ngcore).

No. 463. _Sir Oscar Clayton, C.M.E._ Bravo Mr. F. GOODALL, R.A. Good entirely. Artist was thinking of adapting refrain of popular comic song, "_Ask a P'liceman_," and writing under portrait legend--

If you want to know who's this,-- "OSCAR CLAYTON."

But it was unnecessary, as the portrait speaks for itself.

No. 473. _D-T-erioration;_ or, Sir EDWIN ARNOLD, K.C.S.I., commencing as a book-maker, and laying "two to one bar one." "ARNOLD'S first exercise" in this character is depicted by JAMES ARCHER.

No. 600. _Tum-Tum The Melancholy_, By JOSEPH MORDECAI. Is HAMAN hung too?

No. 703. "_Nobody looking, Mother, You can prig something out of the Money-box._" But the vigilant Verger has his eye on them. Such is the story told by BLANDFORD FLETCHER.

No. 744. Coming home late in the Olden Time. By RALPH HEDLEY. No latch-key. Rousing the neighbourhood with pantomime door-knocker. Situation graphically depicted.

No. 759. _By the Linn Pool._ By NOBLE. Charming. Must be of course; _Noblesse oblige_.

No. 794. "_Out shooting._" Very much out, shooting. Nothing to CROWE about.

No. 886. _A Smile._ Delightful. This Miss is as good as her smile. JAN VAN BEERS.

No. 1028. "_Please to remember the Ninth of November._" Lord Mayor's Procession stopped by photographer. "Now, then--wait--where you are--when I say three!" And as they were taken, so they are cleverly represented by WILLIAM LOGSDAIL.

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ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons, Monday, April 28._--Irish Land Purchase Bill again. CHAMBERLAIN lifts debate out of somewhat tedious trough into which it had fallen. Remarkable speech; bold in conception; adroit in arrangement; forcible in argument; lucid in exposition. Spoke for over an hour, and though his discourse, full of intricate points, the marshalling of which was frequently interrupted by angry or scornful cries from below Gangway, JOSEPH had not a scrap of paper in his hand, did not once refer to a note.