SCENE XXIX.--_The Chinese Drawing Room.

_A few minutes later._

_Sir Rup._ (_to_ UNDERSHELL, _after the introductions have been gone through_). And so you missed the 4.55 and had to come on by the 7.30, which stops everywhere, eh?

_Und._ It--it certainly does stop at most stations.

_Sir Rup._ And how did you get on to Wyvern--been here long?

_Und._ N-not _particularly_ long.

_Sir Rup._ Fact is, you see, we made a mistake. Very ridiculous, but we've been taking that young fellow, Mr. SPURRELL, for _you_, all this time; so we never thought of inquiring whether you'd come or not. It was only just now he told us how he'd met you in the Verney Chamber, and the very handsome way, if you will allow me to say so, in which you had tried to efface yourself.

_Und._ (_to himself_). I didn't expect him to take _that_ view of it! (_Aloud._) I--I felt I had no alternative.

[Lady MAISIE _regards him with admiration_.

_Sir Rup._ You did an uncommon fine thing, Sir, and I'm afraid you received treatment on your arrival which you had every right to resent.

_Und._ (_to himself_). I hoped he didn't know about the Housekeeper's Room! (_Aloud._) Please say no more about it, Sir RUPERT. I know now that you were entirely innocent of any----

_Sir Rup._ (_horrified_). Good Gad! you didn't suppose I had any hand in fixing up that booby trap, or whatever it was, did you? Young fellows will get bear-fighting and playing idiotic tricks on one another, and you seem to have been the victim--that's how it was. Have you had anything to eat since you came? If not----

_Und._ (_hastily_). Thank you, I--I _have_ dined. (_To himself._) So he _doesn't_ know where, after all! I will spare him _that_.

_Sir Rup._ Got some food at Shuntingbridge, eh? Afraid they gave you a wretched dinner?

_Und._ Quite the reverse, I assure you. (_To himself._) Considering that it came from his own table!

_Lady Maisie_ (_in an undertone, to_ Captain THICKNESSE). GERALD, you remember what I said some time ago--about poetry and poets?

_Capt. Thick._ Perfectly. And I thought you were quite right.

_Lady Maisie._ I was quite _wrong_. I didn't know what I was talking about. I do now. Good night. (_She crosses to_ UNDERSHELL.) Good night, Mr. BLAIR, I'm so very glad we have met--at last!

[_She goes._

_Und._ (_to himself, rapturously_). She's _not_ freckled; she's not even sandy. She's lovely! And, by some unhoped for good fortune, all this has only raised me in her eyes. I am more than compensated!

_Capt. Thick._ (_to himself_). I may just as well get back to Aldershot to-morrow--_now_. I'll go and prepare Lady C.'s mind, in case. It's hard luck; just when everything seemed goin' right! I'd give somethin' to have the other bard back, I know. It's no earthly use my tryin' to stand against _this_ one!

* * * * *

FEMINA DUX FACTI.

_The Tumulus, Parliament Hill, Nov. 5._

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Do not confuse me with a boa-constrictor story. Cursed be he that disturbs my _bona fides_; and the above is my real address.

True, the ancient Romans knew me as the Old Pretendress, but let that pass. What I want to know is this. Will _nothing_ check the energy of the L. C. C.?--nothing allay their fever for expurgation? I am not a Promenader. I only ask to lie still. Nor a Living Picture either, and have not been for more than eighteen centuries. Talk of Roman noses! Why their eagle was a chicken compared with the London Carrion Crows! Such a power of scent!

It is Guy Fawkes day, and I hear talk of blowing up the Lords. But surely one must draw the line somewhere this side of an insidious exhumation of the Monarchy!

After all, if they do get at my bones, the real marrow of me has transmigrated into the New Woman. Sir, there _were_ New Women in my day. We invented everything. I see the _Daily Telegraph_ says they have found a pellet. That reminds me that after the death of my late husband, PRASUTAGUS, King of the Iceni (not to be confused with the PLIOCENI of about the same period), I was subjected to the most revolting barbarity at the hands of the Veterans (their name was legionary), and I was obliged to invent a pellet-proof corset.

Then, again, we held all the commissions in the army. How does TACITUS report my famous speech to the Queen Consort's Own Regiment of Pioneers (new style)? "_Vincendum illa acie vel cadendum esse. Id mulieri destinatum. Viverent viri et servirent._" Let the men live on in slavery! What a prophetic utterance!

By the way, not many Emancipated Women of the present day could speak better Latin than that. Indeed, we took all the University degrees. I myself was an honorary _felo de se_.

Don't tell me that I am prehistoric, and that TACITUS was a forger of the fourteenth century. No testimony is sacred now-a-days, not even the most profane!

I conclude with a passage from Madame SARAH GRAY, which I think comes in rather well.

Beneath this storied hump there lies concealed A heart once pregnant with a Righteous Plan, Hands that the rod of Empire used to wield, And whacked to ecstasy the human Man.

Dear _Mr. Punch_, may you live for ever; or, failing that, may no rude spoiler mar your "animated bust." Excuse these disjointed remarks, but I am writing in a barrow.

Yours, in the spirit,

BOADICEA.

P.S.--I have thought of a proverb. New Women should be put into new _tumuli_.

* * * * *

A GAY WIDOW COURTED.

Nothing could be better than the acting all round in the new three-act play at the Court. It is distinctly first-rate, and those who want a hearty laugh should proceed to the Court to enjoy it. And yet there is also serious relief, as there should be--light and shade. First there is Miss LOTTIE VENNE, who shows us that she can mingle pathos with comedy, temper smiles with tears. She is as bright as sunshine in the comic scenes, and when she has to say good-bye to her newly-married daughter, she glides from peals of merriment into sobs of sorrow that are intensely touching because they are intensely natural. Then Mr. HAWTREY, in a part that fits him down to the ground (in the Stalls) and up to the ceiling (in the Gallery), is greatly amusing. And he, too, has his more mournful moments. People accustomed to seeing this accomplished actor in butterfly touch-and-go parts would scarcely credit him with the power of becoming pathetically unmanned. And yet so it is. Mr. HAWTREY, indignant at a false accusation emanating from his wife, commences a letter full of angry reproaches, addressed to her solicitors, and gradually forgets everything in his despairing appeal for the love he craves but which he fears he has lost. Nothing better than this has been seen for a long time in a London theatre. Then Mr. GILBERT HARE (inheritor of his father's cleverness) causes roars of laughter by his comical sketch of a man with a cold. But here, again, the mirth is tempered with sympathy. The echo of the "ha, ha, ha," in spite of its inappropriateness, is "Poor fellow!" Mr. THORNE, too, is good, and so is Mr. RIGHTON, and so is everyone concerned.

* * * * *

FINISHING TOUCHES.

["Canon FURSE said he believed no man's education was complete who did not attend public meetings."--_Daily News._]

My classics were not shaky, nor my mathematics weak, My great linguistic fluency enabled me to speak In half-a-dozen languages with quite surprising skill, And yet--I always felt it--there was something lacking still.

But, though profoundly conscious of a lingering defect, The cause of imperfection I was puzzled to detect, But Canon FURSE explains it; for I sorrow to relate, I shunned all public meetings, which accounted for my state.

Well, over chances past and gone, 'twere idle to shed tears, I'm striving now to rectify the fault of former years, And every afternoon and night I rush from street to street, Endeavouring to make my education more "complete."

Where Anti-Vivisectionists their armaments encamp, Where Democrats democratise, and stage-reformers ramp, Where fervent Ulstermen point out that MORLEY is a fool, Where Parnellites insist upon the beauty of Home Rule;

Where lecturers with lanterns make the vice of drinking clear, Where publicans prove amply that our only hope is beer,-- To each and all of these I come, a champion of the cause, And sit imbibing wisdom, and I join in the applause;

I join in the applause, and--yes! The Anti-Smoking cranks Invited me, not long ago, to move a vote of thanks! Ah, happy, happy moment, when I stood, composed but proud, And looked at Mr. Chairman, and the hushed, expectant crowd!

Yes, Canon FURSE, I thank you for your warning so discreet; Indeed, our education now is wholly incomplete Unless we meet and "sympathise," "insist on," and "deplore," And listen to the prattling Prig, the Faddist, and the Bore!

* * * * *

HOME FOR ADVERTISERS.--"Puffin Island." Of course this is only for those who find themselves in "many straits."

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE CHIEF MOURNER.

"----Past To where beyond these voices there is Peace."

TENNYSON'S "_Guinevere_."

Peace! Lo! her hand is on thine heart at last. No boding echoes of the battle-blast, Whose hated sound thy earthly slumbers broke, Shall break the rest whereunto thou hast past.

Earth's mightest autocrat, and yet a man Unwitched by War's wrath-stirring rataplan! A phantom haunted thee from the red snows Where with the blood of legions Plevna ran.

Where War took on its deadliest, dreadfullest guise, The love of Peace possessed thee. Those closed eyes Frowned back Bellona's long solicitings. Peace smiles on them, though lid on lid now lies.

Peace smiles in love, and weeps in true lament, Mourner for one who, worn and trouble-bent, Yet with firm hand held fast the Janus gates, A despot's aid to the dove-carrier lent.

Therefore the hearts of freemen to thee warmed Great Autocrat, because the strong man armed, And irresponsible, kept sheathed the sword,-- By Glory's glittering lure unmoved, uncharmed.

In uncheered isolation, fear-beset, Who shall divine what longing, what regret, Ached in the heart within that Titan frame, How oft with anguish those stern eyes were wet?

Pinnacled in thy peril-compassed post, With Terror like a grey and boding ghost Haunted continually, of what avail The boundless realm, the huge embattled host?--

Of what avail to solace, gladden, bless? From wife's endearment or from child's caress Starting dread shaken, Power sees danger lurk, In Peace more menacing than in War's fierce press.

But this man spurned not Peace in fear, nor shook In his allegiance to her; but would brook The fierce revilings of her angry foes Rather than face her with unfriendly look.

"Otus and Ephialtes held the chain"[1] That bound the mighty Mars. So through his reign He helped to hold the god in "fetters bound," The fierce false god who raged and roared in vain.

So Peace beside his bed chief mourner stands, The Great White TSAR late lord of limitless lands,-- And on that broad brave breast, now still in death, Lays her own olive-branch with reverent hands.

[1] Iliad, B. V., 478.

* * * * *

WHAT HIS LORDSHIP MUST HAVE SAID.--A juryman in a recent case objected to a private soldier, who is a public servant, being described as "one of the lower classes." The LORD CHIEF JUSTICE explained that the witness had said "rough classes," not "lower," adding his dictum that "patent leather boots do not make a man first class." This remark was _à propos de bottes_; and what the Chief meant to say was evidently that "patent leather boots were not to be considered as a patent of nobility." When FRANK LOCKWOOD, Q.C., M.P., Attorney-General, heard of it, he wept as for another good chance gone for ever.

* * * * *

CAUGHT PUNNING.--In some of the theatrical items for the week we see it announced that a certain playwright is at work on a comic opera which has for its subject _Manon Lescaut_. "If it is to be a travestie," observed "W. A.," the World's Archer, who makes a shot at a pun whenever the chance is given him, "then its title should of course be '_Manon Bur-Lescaut_.'"

* * * * *

"REFORM IN CONVEYANCING."--Certainly, a reform much needed. Let us have some new Hansoms which are not "bone-shakers" and whose windows will not act as so many guillotines. Some improved growlers (they have been a bit better recently), drawn by less dilapidated horses, would be a welcome addition.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE DECADENT GUYS.

(_A Colour-Study in Green Carnations._)

They were sitting close together in their characteristic attitudes; the knees slightly limp, and the arms hanging loosely by their sides; Lord RAGGIE TATTERSALL in the peculiar kind of portable chair he most affected; FUSTIAN FLITTERS in a luxurious sort of handbarrow. The lemon-tinted November light of a back street in a London slum floated lovingly on their collapsed forms, and on the great mass of weary cabbage-stalks that lay dreaming themselves daintily to death in the gutter at their feet.

They were both dressed very much alike, in loosely-fitting, fantastically patched coats. Lord RAGGIE was wearing a straw hat, with the crown reticently suggested rather than expressed, which suited his complexion very well, emphasising, as it did, the white weariness of his smooth face, with the bright spot of red that had appeared on each cheek, and the vacant fretfulness of his hollow eyes; he held his head slightly on one side, and seemed very tired. FUSTIAN FLITTERS had adopted the regulation chimney-pot hat, beautiful with the iridescent sheen of decay; he was taller, bulgier, and bulkier than his friend, and allowed his heavy chin to droop languidly forward. Both wore white cotton gloves, broken boots, and rather small magenta cauliflowers in their button-holes.

"My dear RAGGIE," said Mr. FLITTERS, in a gently elaborate voice, and with a gracious wave of his plump straw-distended white fingers towards his companion's chair; "you are looking very well this afternoon. You would be perfectly charming in a red wig and a cocked-hat, and a checked ulster with purple and green shadows in the folds. You would wear it beautifully, floating negligently over your shoulders. But you are wonderfully complete as you are!"

"That is so true!" acquiesced RAGGIE, with perfect complacency. "I am very beautiful. And you, FUSTIAN, you are so energetically inert. Are you going to blow up to-night? You are so brilliant when you blow up."

"I have not decided either way. I never do. It will depend upon how I feel in the bonfire. I let it come if it will. The true _impromptu_ is invariably premeditated."

"Isn't that rather self-contradictory?" said RAGGIE, with his pretty quick smile.

"Of course it is. Does not consistency solely consist in contradicting oneself? But I suppose I _am a trifle décousu_."

"You are. Indeed, we are both what those absurd clothes-dealing Philistines would call 'threadbare'--you and I."

"I hope so, most sincerely. There is something so hopelessly middle-class about wearing perfectly new clothes. It always reminds me of that ridiculous Nature, who will persist in putting all her poor little trees into brand-new suits of hideous non-arsenical green every spring. As if withered leaves, or even nudity itself, would not really be infinitely more decent! I detest a coat that is what the world calls a 'fit!'"

"Clothes that fit," observed Lord RAGGIE, gravely, "are the natural penalty for possessing that dreadful deformity, a good figure. Only exploded mediocrities like TUPPER and BUNN and SHAKSPEARE ought to have figures."

"_Had_ SHAKSPEARE a figure? I thought it was only a bust."

"We shall have _our_ little bust by and by, I suppose," said RAGGIE, pensively. "I wonder _when_. I feel in the mood to sally forth and paint the night with strange scarlet, slashed with silver and gold, while our young votaries--beautiful pink boys in paper hats--let off marvellous pale epigrammatic crackers and purple paradoxical squibs in our honour."

"See, RAGGIE, here come our youthful disciples! Do they not look deliciously innocent and enthusiastic? I wish, though, we could contrive to imbue them with something of our own lovely limpness--they are so atrociously lively and active."

"That will come, FUSTIAN," said Lord RAGGIE, indulgently. "We must give them time. Already they have copied our distinctive costume, caught our very features and colouring. Some day, FUSTIAN, some day they will adopt our mystic emblem--the symbol that is such a true symbol in possessing no meaning whatever--the Magenta Cauliflower! And then--and then----."

"----It will be time for Us to drop it," continued Mr. FUSTIAN FLITTERS, with his peculiar smile of inscrutable obviousness.

"Beautiful rose-coloured children!" murmured Lord RAGGIE, dreamily; "how sad to think that they will all grow up and degenerate into pork-butchers, and generals, and bishops, and absurdly futile persons of that sort! But listen; it is so sweet of them--they are going to sing an exquisite little catch I composed expressly for them, a sort of mellifluously raucous chant with no tune in particular. That is where it is so wonderful. True melody is always quite tuneless!"

One by one the shrill, passionate young voices chimed in, until the very lamp-posts throbbed and rang with the words, and they seemed to wander away, away among the sleeping pageant of the chimney-pots, away to the burnished golden globes of the struggling pawnbroker.

"Please ter remember. The Fifth o' November. For Gun Powder Plot. Ter blow up the King and 'is Porliment. Shall never. Be. Forgot! 'Oller, Boys, 'Oller!"

Lord RAGGIE, with his head bent, listened with a smile parting the scarlet thread of his lips, a smile in his pretty hollow eyes. "I wonder why people should be exhorted to remember such a prosaic and commonplace crime as that," he meditated aloud: "a crime, too, that had not even the vulgar merit of being a success!"

"Only failures ever _do_ succeed, really," said FUSTIAN, leaning largely over his barrow. "How deliciously they are joggling us! Don't you like having your innermost shavings stimulated, RAGGIE?"

"There is only one stimulating thing in the world," was the languid answer; "and that is a soporific. But see, FUSTIAN, here comes one of those unconsciously absurd persons they call policemen. How stiffly he holds himself. Why is there something so irresistibly ludicrous about every creature that possesses a spine? Perhaps because to be vertebrate is to be normal, and the normal is necessarily such a hideous monstrosity. I love what are called warped distorted figures. The only real Adonis nowadays is a Guy." And the shrill voices of the young choristers, detaching themselves one by one from the melodic fabric in which they were enmeshed, grew fainter and fainter still--until they slipped at last into silence. "FUSTIAN, did you notice? Our rose-white adherents have abandoned us. They have run away--'done a guy,' as vulgarians express it."

"They have done _two_," said Mr. FLITTERS correctively; "which only proves the absolute sincerity of their devotion. Is not the whole art of fidelity comprised in knowing exactly when to betray?"

"How original you are to-day, FUSTIAN! But what is this crude blue copper going to do with you and me? Can we be going to become notorious--_really_ notorious--at last?"

"I devoutly trust not. Notoriety is now merely a synonym for respectable obscurity. But he certainly appears to be engaged in what a serious humourist would call 'running us in.'"

"How pedantic of him! Then shan't we be allowed to explode at all this evening?"

"It seems not. They think we are dangerous. How can one tell? Perhaps we are. Give me a light, RAGGIE, and I will be brilliant for you alone. Come, the young Shoeblack bends to his brush, and the pale-faced Coster watches him in his pearly kicksies; the shadows on the mussels in the fish-stall are violet, and the vendor of halfpenny ices is washing the spaces of his tumblers with primrose and with crimson. Let me be brilliant, dear boy, or I feel that I shall burst for sheer vacuity, and pass away, as so many of us have passed, with all my combustibles still in me!"

And with gentle resignation, as martyrs whose apotheosis is merely postponed, Lord RAGGIE and FUSTIAN FLITTERS allowed themselves to be slowly moved on by the rude hand of an unsympathetic Peeler.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE POLITE GUIDE TO THE CIVIL SERVICE.

(_By an Affable Philosopher and Courteous Friend._)

THE CHOICE OF A PRIVATE SECRETARY.

Having explained the mode of entering the service of the Crown by becoming the Secretary of the Public Squander Department, I now proceed to consider the best manner in which you should comport yourself in that position. The moment it is known that you have accepted the appointment you will receive a deluge of letters recommending various aspiring young gentlemen for the post of Private Secretary. Of course the notes must be civilly answered, but on no account pledge yourself to any one of the writers. And here I may give what may be termed the golden rule of the service, "always be polite to the individual in particular, and contemptuous to the public in general." The tradition of many generations of officials has been to regard outsiders as enemies. There may be small jealousies in a Government Department, but every man in the place will stand shoulder to shoulder with his fellow to repel the attacks of non-civilians. And the word "attack" has many meanings. Practically, everything is an attack. If an outsider asks a question, the query is an attack. If an outsider complains, the grievance is an attack. If an outsider begs a favour, the petition is an attack. If you bear this well in mind, you cannot go wrong. Adopt it as your creed, and you may be sure that you will became immediately an ideal head of a Government Department.

Say that you have accepted your appointment, and are prepared to take up at once the duties appertaining to your new position. No doubt during your "attacks" upon the Milestones you will have come across several of the officials of the Public Squander Department. So when you arrive in the hall of your new bureau you will be recognised at once by most of the messengers. You will be conducted with deference to your new quarters. You will find them very comfortable. Any number of easy-chairs. Large writing-desk. Several handsome tables. Rich carpet, rugs to match, and a coal-scuttle with the departmental cypher. On the walls, maps and some armour. The latter, no doubt, has come from the Tower, or Holyrood, or Dublin Castle. Most probably one of your predecessors has given an official dinner in your room, and the armour is the result of the importunity of his Private Secretary.

"I say, TENTERFORE," your predecessor has observed, "don't you think these walls are a bit bare? Don't you think you could get them done up a bit?"

"Certainly, Sir," TENTERFORE has replied, and the result of his energy has been the trophies you see around you. TENTERFORE has applied to the people at the Tower, or Holyrood, or Dublin Castle, and got up quite a collection of quaint old arms. They have been duly received by the Public Squander Department, and retained. It is a rule of the _bureau_ that anything that has been once accepted shall be kept for ever. That is to say, if it can be clearly proved that the things retained can be useful somewhere else. You look round with satisfaction, and then greet with effusion the chief clerk. He has been waiting to receive you. As you do not know the ropes, it is advisable to be civil to every one. Later on, when you have a talented assistant to prompt you, you can allow your cordiality to cool. However, at this moment it is better to be extremely polite to all the world, and (if you know her) his wife. The chief clerk is delighted to exchange expressions of mutual respect and common good-will. He will put in something neat about the Milestones as a concession to your labours in that direction.

"My dear Sir," you will reply with a smile, "don't bother yourself about _them_. I can keep _them_ quite safe. We have nothing to fear from them."

The face of the chief clerk will beam. He will see that you are one of them. Milestones for the future are to be defended, not attacked. He will accept you as an illustrious bureaucratic recruit. He will see that you are ready to stand shoulder to shoulder in defence of the office. Could anything be better?

Then for about the thirtieth time you will be asked if you have selected a private secretary, and the chief clerk will suggest his own particular nominee. With much cordiality you will receive the proposal, but keep the matter open. You must remember that upon the appointment your future success depends. Moreover, it is a nice little piece of patronage which you may as well retain for yourself.

When you have selected your private secretary it will be time to get into harness, and of this operation I hope to treat on some future occasion.

* * * * *

"NO FEES!"--The new seats in the Drury Lane pit "by an ingenious arrangement," says Mr. CLEMENT SCOTT, in the _Daily Telegraph_, "'tip up' of their own accord the instant they are vacated." Then, evidently, the system of "fees to attendants" is not abolished at T.R. Drury Lane. In theatres where it is abolished no "tipping up" could possibly be permitted.

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

_Gleams of Memory; with Some Reflections_, is the happy title of Mr. JAMES PAYN'S last book, published by SMITH AND ELDER. The wit of the title flashes through every page of the single volume. Within its modest limits of space will be found not only some of the best stories of the day, but stories the best told. Not a superfluous word spoils the gems, which have been ruthlessly taken out of their setting and spread widecast through the circulation of many newspapers reviewing the work. My Baronite, fortunately, has not space at his disposal to join in this act of flat, though seductive, burglary. He advises everyone to go to the book itself. The reader will find himself enjoying the rare privilege of intimacy with a cultured mind, and a heart so kindly that temptation to say smart things at the expense of others, which underlies the possession of overflowing humour, is resisted, apparently without effort. Like the German Emperor or Mr. JUSTIN MCCARTHY, Mr. PAYN probably "could be very nasty if he liked." He doesn't like, and is therefore himself liked all the better.

That little tale entitled _The Black Patch_, by GERTRUDE CLAY KER-SEYMER, introduces to the public a rather novel character in the person of a _Miss Clara Beauchamp_ an amateur female detective, to whom SHERLOCK HOLMES, when he chooses to "come out of his ambush," (for no one believes he fell over that precipice and was killed about a year ago,) ought at once to propose. It would be an excellent firm. CLARA would make our HOLMES happy, and a certain advertising medicine provider bearing the same name as the heroine of this sporting story would have another big chance of increasing his "hoardings." The Baron, skilled as he is in plots, owns to having been now and again puzzled over this one which clever CLARA the Clearer soon makes apparent to everybody. The story is a working out of the description of twins, how "each is so like both that you can't tell t'other from which." But mind you, not ordinary biped twins--oh dear no--they are.... No ... the Baron respects a lady's secret, and recommends the inquisitive to get the book and penetrate the mystery.

To all those who like a mystery, and who gratefully remember FLORENCE WARDEN'S _House on the Marsh_, let the Baron recommend _A Perfect Fool_, by the same authoress. Dickensian students will be struck by the fact of a "_Mr. Dick_" being kept on the premises. He is a caged Dickie, poor chap; but, like his ancestor the original _Mr. Dick_, he sets everybody right at last. The Baron dare not say more, lest he should let the Dickie out of the cage. The only disappointment, to old-fashioned novel-readers, at least, who love justice to be done, and the villain to receive worse than he has given, is in the moral of the tale; yet in these decadent Yellow Asterical and Green Carnational days it is as good as can be wished. FLORENCE WARDEN is neither priggish nor Church-Wardenish; and so, when the scoundrel----But here, again, the Baron must put his finger to his lips, and ask you to read the story; when, and not till then, he may imagine whether you do not agree with him, "_Mystère!_"

Curiosity has ever been a weakness of human nature, and that seems to be the only reason why so many make themselves uncomfortable by taking journeys to the Pole. Imitating NANSEN, GORDON STABLES, M.D., R.N., sends his hero _To Greenland and the Pole_, which he reaches after much "skilöbning" (the book must be read to grasp its meaning), and receiving a chilly but polite welcome, with the arrogance of an Englishman breaks the cold silence by singing the "_National Anthem_," when of course the Pole is thawed at once!

Writes a Baronitess Junior, "Those little boys and girls who delight in fairy lore will find a charming story of magical adventures in _Maurice; or, the Red Jar_, by the Countess of JERSEY, or more appropriately Countess of J_A_RSEY. It is fantastically illustrated by ROSIE M. M. PITMAN, and published by MACMILLAN & CO., and shows how unpleasant a jar can be in a family. And yet has not the poet finely said, 'A thing of beauty is a Jar for ever!'"

The Baron is anxiously expecting the appearance from The Leadenhall Press of Mr. TUER'S _Chap-book_. Of course, all "the Chappies" from "Chap 1" to "Last Chap" are on the look out for it. The Baron fancies it will be a perfect fac-simile, and if not perfect, the merciful critic who is merciful to his author will say with the poet POPE

"_Tu er_ is human,"

which is a most pope-ular quotation; while as to the latter half of the line "to forgive, divine"--that, in a measure, is one of the unstrained prerogatives of the

BENEFICENT BARON DE B.-W.

* * * * *

A SLIGHT ADAPTATION.

(_Suggested by the recent Debate (Ladies only) at the Pioneers Club on the Shortcomings of the Male Sex._)

Come my modern women, Follow me this evening, get your numbers ready, Have you got your latchkeys? have you your members' axes? Pioneers! O Pioneers!

To the club in Bruton Street We must march my darlings, one and all a great ensemble, We the strenuous lady champions, all extremely up to date, Pioneers! O Pioneers!

O you girls, West-End girls, O you young revolting daughters, full of manly pride and manners, Plain I see you West-End girls (no reflection on your features!). Pioneers! O Pioneers!

Have our lords and masters halted? Do they humbly take a back-seat, wearied out with Madame SARAH GRAND? We take up the dual garments, and the eyeglass and the cycle. Pioneers! O Pioneers!

From North Hampstead, from South Tooting, From far Peckham, from the suburbs and the shires we come, All the dress of comrades noting, bonnets, fashions criticising, Pioneers! O Pioneers!

We primeval fetters loosing, We our husbands taming, vexing we and worrying Mrs. GRUNDY, We our own lives freely living, we as bachelor-girls residing, Pioneers! O Pioneers!

Literary dames are we, Singers, speakers, temperance readers, artists we and journalists, Here and there a festive actress (generally to be found in our smoking-room), Pioneers! O Pioneers!

Raise the mighty mistress President, Waving high the delicate President, over all the Lady President (bend your heads all), Raise the warlike Mrs. M-SS-NGB-D, stern impassive Mrs. M-SS-NGB-D, Pioneers! O Pioneers!

* * * * *

This sort of thing goes on for about twenty more verses, for which readers are kindly referred to the original in _Leaves of Grass_. It really applies without any further adaptation.

* * * * *

A "MAN IN ARMOUR" TO THE MULTITUDE.

_On Lord Mayor's Day._

Remember, remember, the Ninth of November! A civic procession you've got! I know no reason why L. C. C. treason Should send the old custom to pot. There is a great glamour about men in armour, Will London turn out all a-pant At sound of the bugle to stare at MCDOUGALL, Or hear Mrs. ORMISTON CHANT? Though city crowds hurtle to welcome the turtle, And shout at the Mayor and the mace; What Council Committee will choke up the City With mobs and a smile on each face? The old "panorama"'s a popular drama. An alderman _may_ be a glutton; But multitudes jog after MAGOG and GOG Who don't care a button for HUTTON. So remember, remember, the Ninth of November! A holiday glorious you've got; But "unification" will rob the whole nation Of one good old spree--which is rot!

[Transcriber's Note:

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.]