SCENE XXI.--_The Housekeeper's Room at Wyvern_; Mrs. POMFRET, _the

Housekeeper, in a black silk gown and her smartest cap, is seated in a winged arm-chair by the fire, discussing domestic politics with_ Lady CULVERIN'S _maid_, Miss STICKLER. _The Chef_, M. RIDEVOS, _is resting on the sofa, in languid converse with_ Mlle. CHIFFON, Miss SPELWANE'S _maid_; PILLINER'S _man_, LOUCH, _watches_ STEPTOE, Sir RUPERT'S _valet, with admiring envy, as he makes himself agreeable to_ Miss PHILLIPSON, _who is in demi-toilette, as are all the other ladies' maids present_.

_Miss Stickler (in an impressive undertone)._ All I _do_ say, Mrs. POMFRET, ma'am, is this: if that girl LOUISA marches into the pew to-morrow, as she did _last_ Sunday, before the second laundry maid--and her only under-scullery maid--such presumptuousness should be put a stop to in future!

_Mrs. Pomfret (wheezily)._ Depend upon it, my dear, it's her ignorance; but I shall most certainly speak about it. Girls must be taught that ranks was made to be respected, and the precedency into that pew has come down from time immemoriable, and is not to be set aside by such as her while _I_'m 'ousekeeper here.

_Mlle. Chiffon_ (_in French, to_ M. RIDEVOS). You have the air fatigued, my poor friend! Oh, there--but fatigued!

_M. Ridevos._ Broken, Mademoiselle, absolutely broken. But what will you? This night I surpass myself. I achieve a masterpiece--a sublime pyramid of quails with a sauce that will become classic. I pay now the penalty of a veritable crisis of nerves. It is of my temperament as artist.

_Mlle. Chiffon._ And me, my poor friend, how I have suffered from the cookery of these others--I who have the stomach so feeble, so fastidious! Figure to yourself an existence upon the villainous curry, the abominable "Iahristue," beloved by these barbarians, but which succeed with me not at all--oh, but not at all! Since I am here--ah, the difference! I digest as of old--I am gay. But next week to return with Mademoiselle to the curry, my poor friend, what regrets!

_M. Rid._ For me, dear Mademoiselle, for me the regrets--to hear no more the conversation, so spiritual, so sympathetic, of a fellow-countrywoman. For remark that here they are stupid--they comprehend not. And the old ones they roll at me the eyes to make terror. Behold this Gorgon who approaches. She adores me, my word of honour, this ruin!

[Miss STICKLER _comes up to the sofa smiling in happy unconsciousness_.

_Miss Stick, (graciously)._ So you've felt equal to joining us for once, Mossoo! We feel it a very 'igh compliment, I can assure you. We've really been feeling quite 'urt at the way you keep to yourself--you might be a regular 'ermit for all _we_ see of you!

_M. Rid._ For invent, dear Mees, for create, ze arteeste must live ze solitaire as of rule. To-night--no! I emairge, as you see, to res-tore myself viz your smile.

_Miss Stick, (flattered)._ Well, I've always said, Mossoo, and I always _will_ say, that for polite 'abits and pretty speeches, give _me_ a Frenchman!

_M. Rid. (alarmed)._ For me it is too moch 'appiness. For anozzer, ah!

[_He kisses his fingers with ineffable grace._

_Phillipson_ (_advancing to meet_ Miss DOLMAN, _who has just entered_). Why, I'd no idea I should meet _you_ here, SARAH! And how have you been getting on, dear? Still with----?

_Miss Dolman (checking her with a look)._ Her grace? No, we parted some time ago. I'm with Lady RHODA COKAYNE at present. (_In an undertone, as she takes her aside._) You needn't say anything here of your having known me at Mrs. DICKENSON'S. I couldn't afford to have it get about in the circle I'm in that I'd ever lived with any but the nobility. I'm sure you see what I mean. Of course I don't mind your saying we've _met_.

_Phill._ Oh, I _quite_ understand. I'll say nothing. I'm obliged to be careful myself, being maid to Lady MAISIE MULL.

_Miss Dolm._ My _dear_ EMMA! It _is_ nice seeing you again--such _friends_ as we used to be!

_Phill._ At her Grace's? I'm afraid you're thinking of somebody else. (_She crosses to_ Mrs. POMFRET.) Mrs. POMFRET, what's become of the gentleman I travelled down with--the horse doctor? I do hope he means to come in; he would amuse _you_, Mr. STEPTOE. I never heard anybody go on like him; he _did_ make me laugh so!

_Mrs. Pomfr._ I really can't say _where_ he is, my dear. I sent up word to let him know he was welcome here whenever he pleased; but perhaps he's feeling a little shy about coming down.

_Phill._ Oh, I don't think he suffers much from _that_. (_As the door opens._) Ah, _there_ he is!

_Mrs. Pomfr._ (_rising, with dignity, to receive_ UNDERSHELL, _who enters in obvious embarrassment_). Come in, Sir. I'm glad to see you've found your way down at last. Let me see, I haven't the advantage of knowing your--Mr. UNDERSHELL, _to_ be sure! Well, Mr. UNDERSHELL, we're very pleased to see you. I hope you'll make yourself quite at home. Her ladyship gave particular directions that we was to look after you--_most_ particular she was!

_Undershell._ You are very good, Ma'am. I am obliged to Lady CULVERIN for her (_with a gulp_) condescension. But I shall not trespass more than a short time upon your hospitality.

_Mrs. Pomfr._ Don't speak of it as trespassing, Sir. It's not often we have a gentleman of your profession as a visitor, but you are none the less welcome. Now I'd better introduce you all round, and then you won't feel yourself a stranger. Miss PHILLIPSON you _have_ met, I know.

[_She introduces him to the others in turn_; UNDERSHELL _bows helplessly_.

_Steptoe (with urbanity)._ Your fame, Sir, has preceded you. And you'll find us a very friendly and congenial little circle on a better acquaintance--if this is your first experience of this particular form of society?

_Und. (to himself)._ I mustn't be stiff, I'll put them at their ease. (_Aloud._) Why, I must admit, Mr. STEPTOE, that I have never before had the privilege of entering the--(_with an ingratiating smile all round him_) the "Pugs' Parlour," as I understand you call this very charming room.

[_The company draw themselves up and cough in disapprobation._

_Stept. (very stiffly)._ Pardon _me_, Sir, you have been totally misinformed. Such an expression is not current _here_.

_Mrs. Pomfr. (more stiffly still)._ It is never alluded to in _my_ presence except as the 'Ousekeeper's Room, which is the right and proper name for it. There may be some other term for it in the Servants' 'All for anything _I_ know to the contrary--but if you'll excuse me for saying so, Mr. UNDERSHELL, we'd prefer for it not to be repeated in _our_ presence.

_Und. (confusedly)._ I--I beg ten thousand pardons. (_To himself._) To be pulled up like this for trying to be genial--it's really _too humiliating_!

_Stept. (relaxing)._ Well, well, Sir; we must make some allowances for a neophyte. You'll know better another time, _I_ daresay. Miss PHILLIPSON here has been giving you a very favourable character as a highly agreeable rattle, Mr. UNDERSHELL. I hope we may be favoured with a specimen of your social talents later on. We're always grateful here for anything in that way--such as a recitation now, or a comic song, or a yumorous imitation--anything, in short, calculated to promote the general harmony and festivity will be appreciated.

_Miss (Stick acidly)._ Provided it is free from any helement of coarseness, which we do _not_ encourage--far from it!

_Und. (suppressing his irritation)._ You need be under no alarm, Madam. I do not propose to attempt a performance of _any_ kind.

_Phill._ Don't be so solemn, Mr. UNDERSHELL! I'm sure you can be as comical as any playactor when you choose!

_Und._ I really don't know how I can have given you that impression. If you expect me to treat my lyre like a _horse-collar_, and grin through it, I'm afraid I am unable to gratify you.

_Stept. (at sea)._ Capital, Sir, the professional allusion very neat. You'll come out presently, _I_ can see, when supper's on the table. Can't expect you to rattle till you've something _inside_ of you, can we?

_Miss Stick._ Reelly, Mr. STEPTOE, I _am_ surprised at such commonness from _you_!

_Stept._ Now you're too severe, Miss STICKLER, you are indeed. An innocent little Judy Mow like that!

_Tredwell (outside)._ Don't answer _me_, Sir. Ham I butler 'ere, or ham I _not_? I've a precious good mind to report you for such a hignorant blunder.... I don't want to hear another word about the gentleman's cloes--you'd no hearthly business for to do such a thing at all! (_He enters and flings himself down on a chair._) That THOMAS is beyond everything--stoopid _hass_ as he is!

_Mrs. Pomfr. (concerned)._ La, Mr. TREDWELL, you _do_ seem put out! Whatever have THOMAS been doing _now_?

_Und. (to himself)._ It's really very good of him to take it to heart like this! (_Aloud._) Pray don't let it distress you; it's of no consequence, none at all!

_Tred. (glaring)._ I'm the best judge of that, Mr. UNDERSHELL, Sir--if you'll allow _me_; _I_ don't call my porogatives of no consequence, whatever _you_ may! And that feller THOMAS, Mrs. POMFRET, actially 'ad the hordacity, without consulting me previous, to go and 'and a note to one of our gentlemen at the hupstairs table, all about some hassinine mistake he'd made with his cloes! What call had he to take it upon himself? I feel puffecly disgraced that such a thing should have occurred under my authority!

[_The_ Steward's Room Boy _has entered with a dish, and listens with secret anxiety on his own account_.

_Und._ I assure you there is no harm done. The gentleman is wearing my evening clothes--but he's going to return them----

[_The conclusion of the sentence is drowned in a roar of laughter from the majority._

_Tred. (gasping)._ Hevenin' cloes! _Your_ hevenin'---- P'raps you'll 'ave the goodness to explain yourself, Sir!

_Stept._ No, no, TREDWELL, my dear fellah, you don't understand our friend here--he's a bit of a wag, don't you see? He's only trying to pull your leg, that's all: and, Gad, he did it too! But you mustn't take liberties with _this_ gentleman, Mr. UNDERSHELL, he's an important personage _here_, I can tell you!

_Und. (earnestly)._ But I never meant--if you'll only let me explain----

[_The_ Boy _has come behind him, and administers a surreptitious kick, which_ UNDERSHELL _rightly construes as a hint to hold his tongue._

_Tred. (in solemn offence)._ I'm accustomed, Mr. HUNDERSHELL, to be treated in this room with respect and deference--especially by them as come here in the capacity of Guests. _From_ such I regard any attempt to pull my leg as in hindifferent taste--to say the least of it. I wish to 'ave no more words on the subjick, which is a painful one, and had better be dropped, for the sake of all parties. Mrs. POMFRET, I see supper is on the table, so, by your leave, we had better set down to it.

_Phill._ (_to_ UNDERSHELL). Never mind _him_, pompous old thing! It _was_ awfully cheeky of you, though. You can sit next _me_ if you like.

_Und. (to himself, as he avails himself of this permission)._ I shall only make things worse if I explain now. But, oh, great Heavens, _what_ a position for a Poet.

* * * * *

NEW LAMPS FOR OLD.

Art was once defined as "the creation of new forms of beauty." Our juvenile geniuses have altered all that. "The New Art" is better defined as "the creation of novel forms of ugliness." Its inspiration is Corruption, its auxiliaries are the two hideous imps, Scratch and Smudge. Old Art, with its bosh about beauty, its rot about romance, its fudge about finish, its twaddle about taste, will be good enough to take a back seat. Apollo the Inspirer must give way to the sooty imp and incubus, New Scratch!--

RAPHAEL? Ideal Beauty spoiled his Art! REMBRANDT? Of light and shade he was no judge The Hideous now must play the leading part, Chiaroscuro yield to Shapeless Smudge

* * * * *

QUOTATION FROM BYRON FOR THE EMPEROR OF JAPAN.

"AGAIN he urges on his wild Korea."--_Mazeppa._

* * * * *

TO HANWELLIA FROM EARLSWOOD.

["In my time at Eton it was the custom with one's tutor to supply us with what was disrespectfully called 'nonsense' material for some suggested theme."--JAMES PAYN, _in "Our Note-Book" in "The Illustrated London News_."]

Will you follow where the Bandicoots inevitably stray, As they amorously hurtle through the stubble and the hay; Where the Jebusites and Amorites are gathered in a bunch, While they watch the duck-billed Platypus preparing for his lunch?

Where the toothsome Trichinopli keeps turning on the spit-- Oh my dove-like Trichinopoli, how hard you are to hit! There is something so elusive and desserting in your shape, That I had to shoot you sitting and to load my gun with grape.

Though the Mandrake give you goose-skin by its inharmonious shriek, And a tug of war come thenning after Greek has met with Greek; I will stay at home and see the giddy milkman fill his pail For an orchestra of Clepsydras conducted by a Snail.

And it's oh to be a Manatee--I think I shall be soon-- Riding coffee-coloured Dolphins on the snaffle (or bridoon). With his Barnacles and Biffin-boys belaying in the sea, He has always eggs at breakfast, has the merry Manatee.

Can you see me then subsiding very stately very sly, Like a soluble quadratic which has lost its x and y. Getting out my rusty rapier and dissecting with a lunge All the daffodils and daisies that I grow upon my sponge?

Can you see me on a tram-car, while I stand upon my head, Shredding out the scarlet runners which no publisher has read, In a horse-case predetermined by a puisne-judge alone, Who is tired of seeing juries with a rider of their own?

If the dactyls and the spondees should eventually pall, You can call on Miss CAESURA and conduct her to a ball. You can feed the girl on trochees, and of course you can propose, If hexameters delight you when recited through the nose.

Happy days, how soon ye falter; can a Bachelor have bliss? Can a contrapuntal Bulbul woo her lover with a kiss? Can a Scotsman get protection for his philibeg and trews By dictating half a column to the _Illustrated News_?

Can a Bumble-bee be cheerful if related to a Mouse Which has left its cheesy larder and been captured by a Grouse? Can a man-of-war be manly, can a gum-boil stick like glue? Can accounts be cooked with "stumers," and converted into stew?

Nay, I fly from all these problems; I am fortunately deaf To the fascinating music of the careful Q. E. F., Nor can theorems allure me, never, never will I be Mathematically married to a vulgar Q. E. D.

But at home I'll sit and linger by the soft September fire, While I toast my feet and rack them by particular desire. And I'll illustrate my meaning (penny coloured, twopence plain) Drawing gaily on the "Note Book" of my old friend JIMMY PAYN.

* * * * *

MAD AS A HATTER.--The _Drapery World_ says that "the New Woman's hat" is much like the Ordinary Man's "topper," only a little smaller, and a little more cheeky. The phrase might fitly be transferred to the "New Woman" herself. She looks _so_ much like an ordinary man, only a little smaller and a little more cheeky. By the way, is there _much_ difference between "the New Woman's hat" and the woman's new hat? The query would make a good one for a French Exercise Book.

* * * * *

Wheel and Whoa!

The popular wheel, so the French doctors say, Is the worst enemy of the popular _weal_. Academies of science scarce will stay The devastations of the steed of steel. The scorcher will deride as a bad joke Attempts in his wild wheel to put a spoke

* * * * *

INSTRUMENT FOR AN ANTI-BIRMINGHAM BAND.--The Ban-Joe.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE YOUNG PRETENDER.

["Immediately after the death of his father, the Duke of ORLEANS addressed the following telegram to all the Sovereign Princes of Europe:--

'A SA MAJESTÉ, &c.--J'ai la douleur de faire part à Votre Majesté de la mort de mon père PHILIPPE, Comte de Paris, pieusement décédé à Stowe House le huit Septembre. PHILIPPE.'

Great significance is attached to the fact that the Duke signs himself with regal simplicity 'PHILIPPE.' His father under similar circumstances, on the occasion of the death of the Comte de CHAMBORD, signed 'PHILLIPE, Comte de Paris,' thus ignoring his Sovereign rank."--_The Daily Graphic._]

_Madame la République museth_:--

Ah! "_Vive la France!_" If words were only deeds, I might perchance secure a new defender. As AMURATH to AMURATH succeeds, E'en so succeeds Pretender to Pretender. Aye. "_plus ça change plus c'est la même chose_!" All Fancy their words "the writing on the wall."

Street-corner scrawls are not the script of fate. PLON-PLON and _le brav' Général_, CHAMBORD, PARIS, All chalked my walls; "devotion to the State" Inspired their schemes predestined to miscarry, But BOURBON, Bonapartist or what not, Self ever seemed the centre of the plot.

As "_Roi des Français_" or as "Monsieur X.," BOULANGER'S backer, or the White Flagwaver, What has availed their valour save to vex? Frenchmen and soldiers? Doubtless, Sirs; few braver. But plots and manifestoes wild and windy Contribute little to the State--save shindy!

Eh? Right Divine? That old, old weapon still Pretenders fain would furbish up to fright me. Would I bear weary strife, or bow my will To human wrong if "Right Divine" could right me? No; right divine to rule must prove affinity, To the divine ere _I_ trust its divinity.

"PHILIPPE!" Ah! boldly written! You admire Its flowing form, the freedom of its flourish. And "_Vive la France!_" To what may you aspire? What is the scope, Sir, of the hopes _you_ nourish? Your sire "ignored his Sovereign rank"--in writing, But _Philippe_--_Roi_--_de_----humph!--that _might_ mean fighting.

Chalk, youngster! Purpose scribbled on the wall, Not graven in the rock with pen of iron, Affrights not the Republic. It _may_ fall Amidst the perils that its path environ, But scarce to summons of the bravest boys, Or, like old Jericho, to the power of noise.

Yes; "the Pretender's dead," and who will now Cry "Long live the--Pretender"? Courtly throngs, Crafty intriguers, may parade and bow, But for the People? Will they deem their wrongs Like to be cured by the old royal line, Or righted by the rule of Right Divine?

What will you do--save scribble and orate? Were you indeed--ah, me!--that strong man armed For whom so long I've waited, and still wait; Then, then, perchance. I might--who knows?--be charmed To lily-girt Legitimist ways of yore. At present 'tis but--one Pretender more!

* * * * *

* * * * *

ODE ON A DISTANT PARTRIDGE.

(_By an Absent-minded Sportsman._)

Well, I'm blest, I'm pretty nearly Speechless, as I watch that bird, Saving that I mutter merely One concise, emphatic word-- What that is, may be inferred!

English prose is, to my sorrow, Insufficient for the task. Would that I could freely borrow Expletives from Welsh or Basque-- One or two is all I ask!

Failing that, let so-called verses Serve to mitigate my grief Doggerel now and then disperses Agonies that need relief. (Missing birds of these is chief!)

Blankly tramping o'er the stubbles Is a bore, to put it mild; But, in short, to crown my troubles, _One_ mishap has made me riled, Driv'n me, like the coveys, wild

For at last I flush a partridge. Ten yards rise, an easy pot! Click! Why, bless me, where's the cartridge? Hang it! there, I clean forgot Putting _them_ in ere I shot!

* * * * *

QUERY.--Would an ideal barrister be a counsel of perfection?

* * * * *

THE MOBILISED MANDARIN

_Or, the March of Civilisation._

About the merry Mandarin His fatal gift for humour, I find it passing hard to pin My faith to every rumour.

This war, for instance. Fancy shuts Both eyes and vainly labours To grasp the news that he is nuts On blowing up his neighbours.

If so, he threatens to deface, Beyond all recognition, His right of kinship with a race Whose excellent tradition,

Oldest of old traditions, has Time out of mind begun by This rule:--_Do not to others as You'd rather not be done by._

Ignoring now the ancient bards, He must have emulated The doctrine which _Ah Sin_ at cards So darkly demonstrated,

When, flush of duplicate supplies, Well up his sleeves he slid 'em-- _Do those whom you will otherwise Be done by_:--and he did 'em.

Observe this sad example of Imported Western culture! Symbol of peace, the sucking-dove Knocks under to the vulture;

And prophets of a prior age Might fairly be astounded To find the system of the sage CONFUCIUS worse confounded!

* * * * *

LADAS!

(_By a Disgusted Backer._)

_Ladas, Ladas,_ Go along with you, do. I'm now stone-broke, All on account of you. It wasn't a lucky Leger, And I wish I'd been a hedger, Though you _did_ look sweet, Before defeat---- But I've thoroughly done with you!

* * * * *

SCIENTIFIC GOSSIP.--In spite of the great number of bathers at all our most frequented sea-side resorts there has been no appreciable diminution in either the quality or quantity of the sea-water.

* * * * *

* * * * *

IN THE MUSEUM.

'Twas almost dusk; the galleries Lay silent and deserted Where happy knots of twos and threes Had wondered, talked, and flirted; Where, armed with buns and catalogues, The country-bred relations Had criticised, appraised, despised The art of many nations.

No more the rigid censor viewed With hearty disapproval Athenian statues in the nude, Demanding their removal; No more the cultured connoisseur, Whom nothing new amazes, The very old designs extolled In very modern phrases.

Yet two remained; a youth and maid Still lingered in the section Where Egypt's treasures lie displayed For popular inspection; They talked in whispers, and although The subject dear to some is, They did not seem to take as theme The obelisks and mummies.

An Art more ancient far, one thinks, Was that they talked of lightly, Compared with which the hoary Sphinx Seems juvenile and sprightly; Young as the very latest tale, Old as the oldest stories, It kept them there, this happy pair, That Art--the _ars amoris_!

The mummies round them seemed to smile, Ah, long ago, one fancies, Those withered faces by the Nile Had known their own romances. The old-world gods have passed away, Osiris lies forsaken, But Love alone retains his throne Unquestioned and unshaken!

* * * * *

LEX TALIONIS.--Mr. LANG, turned speculative law-giver, suggests that we should tax literature. Well, that's only _quid_ (or so much in the "quid") _pro quo_; seeing how literature (lots of it) taxes us. A high rate on literary rubbish would yield "pretty pickings," especially if the producers thereof were allowed to "rate" each other! In this age of sloppiness, sniff and snippets there is a lot of "literature" which should be tariffed off the face of the earth.

* * * * *

HELMHOLTZ.

What matter titles? HELMHOLTZ is a name That challenges, alone, the award of Fame! When Emperors, Kings, Pretenders, shadows all, Leave not a dust-trace on our whirling ball, Thy work, oh grave-eyed searcher, shall endure, Unmarred by faction, from low passion pure. To bridge the gulf 'twixt matter-veil and mind Perchance to mortals, dull-sensed, slow, purblind, Is not permitted--yet; but patient, keen, Thou on the shadowy track beyond the Seen, Didst dog the elusive truth, and seek in sound The secret of soul-mysteries profound. Essential Order, Beauty's hidden law! Marvels to strike more sluggish souls with awe, Great seekers, lonely-souled, explore that track, We welcome the wild wonders they bring back From ventures stranger than an earthly Pole Can furnish. Distant still that mental goal To which great spirits strain; but when calm Fame Sums its bold seekers, HELMHOLTZ, thy great name Among the foremost shall eternal stand, Science's pride, and glory of thy land.

* * * * *

"My dear," said Mrs. R., "I had to discharge my gardener, for when I questioned him about the sale of the vegetables his answers were far too amphibious."

* * * * *

UNHAPPY THOUGHT BY AN INVALID.--What a dreadful thing to become the Permanent Head of a Department with a Permanent Headache!

* * * * *

EJACULATIONS

_On being asked to play Croquet, A.D. 1894._

["It is impossible to visit any part of the country without realising the fact that the long-discredited game of Croquet is fast coming into vogue again.... This is partly owing to the abolition of 'tight croqueting.'"--_Pall Mall Gazette._]

Eh? What? Why? How? Are we back in the Sixties again? I am rubbing my eyes--is it _then_, or now? I'm a _Rip van Winkle_, it's plain!

Hoop, Ball, Stick, Cage? Eh, fetch them all out once more? Why, look, they're begrimed and cracked with age, And their playing days are o'er!

Well--yes--here goes For a primitive chaste delight! Let us soberly, solemnly beat our foes, For Croquet's no longer "tight"!

* * * * *

ODE FOR THE MARRIAGE SEASON.

II.

"If any of you know Cause or impediment."-- Cause! I should think I do, That girl to wed I meant! She made me drink the cup Of woe, well-shaken up With bitter sediment.

If I forbid the banns With visage pallid, Ere she's another man's, And I have rallied, Because in bygone days With me she dallied, Would my forbidding phrase Be counted valid?

Because her eyes would shine Once when I praised her, Because her heart to mine, When I upraised her From the low garden chair, Beat for a moment's space With sudden, yielding grace While I just kiss'd her hair, Which nought amazed her; Soothed her with loving touch, Loving, but not too much, When on her little hand The buckle of her band Had lightly grazed her?

Slowly our souls between Mists of reserve crept in-- I reck'd not, blindly-- A sister she became, O chill and veal-like name! A great deal less than kin, Much less than kindly.

Then on the old sweet ways Of thoughtless, chummy days, Turning severely, Pride, hooded in dislike, Struck as a snake might strike, And, in the public gaze, Froze me austerely.

Well, all is vanity; She'll disillusion'd be, And I--well, as for me, When these confusions Clear from my brain away, Back in my thoughts I'll stray Where sunbeams ever play On lost illusions.

* * * * *

* * * * *

TO A SCORCHER.

'ARRY, 'ARRY SMITH DE SMITH, As wheelman you would win renown! You are the country districts' pest, You are the nuisance of the town: You're wan and wild and dust-defiled; You think you're awfully admired. Though winner of a hundred "pots," Your fame is not to be desired.

'ARRY, 'ARRY SMITH DE SMITH, You whirl and whisk about the lands. With shoulders bowed, with lowered pate, And dull eyes fixed upon your hands. Oh! take some interest in the scene, Love birds that sing and flowers that blow; Try not to be a mere machine, And let the record-squelcher go!

* * * * *

A LITTLE LESS THAN M'KINLEY, BUT MORE THAN UNKIND.--President CLEVELAND has had to allow the Gorman Act to become law without formally assenting to it. He has had, in fact, to swallow what he would fain reject, an act of involuntary political Gormandising which must be unpleasant.

* * * * *

THAT ADVANCED WOMAN!

(_A Symposium à la Mode._)

[Sidenote: The Author of "A Saddis Aster" confesses.]

I am much flattered by your kind invitation to discuss the Advanced Woman, but an initial difficulty suggests itself to me. Can one discuss the Advanced Woman if this Advanced Woman herself is non-existent? I am aware, of course, that she has stridden large of late in the pages of feminine fiction, but is she not as extinct (before she has ever existed) as her DODO title? Let me make my own confession. I have used, if I did not invent, the A. W. I have secured a remunerative public. Once on a time I wrote of life as I found it. I used my eyes and ears, and endeavoured to let the world have the result in the old-fashioned, wholesome story. It was a dreary failure. The critics commended my style, and the public let me severely alone. _Nous avons changé tout cela._ A theatrical manager who finds his musical piece begin to drag, saves the situation by a New Edition--in other words, by two new songs and some fresh dances. In a similar way I secured a reputation by dragging in (at times by her very heel) the Advanced Woman. True that she resembles no one in actual existence, true, indeed, that she is outrageously and offensively improbable, but the public were not happy till they got her. They're happy now. So am I.

[Sidenote: Mrs. Shriek Shriekon speaks out.]

I should have thought that _my_ views on the Advanced Woman were sufficiently well known; but, since you ask my opinion, I may say at once that I lose no opportunity of inveighing against this _fin-de-siècle_ abomination. Once on a time it was not thought unbecoming for a woman to be modest and retiring. She knew her sphere, and, queen in her own selected world, she did not aspire to a sovereignty which naturally belonged to others. If they were alive to-day (and, after all, some of them are), our grandmothers would hardly know their GRAND children--the Heavenly Twins. I am glad that I am permitted to keep burning the sacred lamp of the Old Womanhood. Indeed, it looks as if the jeers which a thoughtless world has hitherto reserved for the Old Maid were being transferred to the Old Woman. Yet to those who have never yielded to the spell of the latter-day notions, there is only dismay in the spectacle of the Advanced Woman sweeping triumphantly on, with her mind full of sex-problems she has not brains enough to understand, and her breath stained with the trace of cigarettes she does not care to conceal. Wholesomeness dies at being dubbed old-fashioned; Modesty does not survive the disgrace of not being up to date. It's a bad world, my masters, and I'm never tired of saying so.

[Sidenote: Ann U. Woman dreams of the Future.]

The fact that you have invited my opinion with full knowledge of what I shall say, emboldens me to speak out. Man's day (which, like every dog, he has had) draws to an end. For centuries he has had Woman at his mercy. What she is to-day, that he has made her. And what is she? His Doll, his Slave, his "Old Woman." But Man made one fatal mistake. In a weak moment he consented to allow Woman to earn her own living. From that moment our ultimate triumph was assured. Now we know our strength. Told of old that we were brainless, we now become Senior Wranglers. Condemned aforetime to inactivity, we now realise that in life's struggle there are no prizes we are not competent to secure, though, of course, we are not always permitted. We have precipitated ourselves out of a yellow miasma of stagnant sloth into an emancipated, and advanced day. The Advanced Woman has come to stay--but not with any husband. She will be as free as the air, as strong as the eagle. I must stop, as to do any more fine writing would be to anticipate my next novel. Be sure to get it. It will be called----[No; I can stand a good deal, but not that.--ED.]

* * * * *

"TRIPPING MERRILY."

That holiday cruise on board the good steamship _Cannie Donia_! Did I dream it? or was it a reality? "Are there wisions about?" It seems like yesterday or like years ago, and I know it was neither. "Old KASPAR'S,"--or let us say middle-aged KASPAR'S,--"work was done" _pro tem._, and he could not neglect so great an opportunity, nor refuse so inviting an invitation as that sent him by Sir CHARLES CHEERIE, the Chairman, to come aboard for the trial trip of the G.S.S. _Cannie Donia_. So I, middle-aged KASPAR, work done as aforesaid, did then and thereby become TOMMY the Tripper, and, as such, went aboard the gallant SS. abovementioned, all-to-the-contrary, nevertheless, and notwithstanding.

And what a goodly company!

Sir CHARLES and Lady CHEERIE, perfect host and hostess in themselves. Here too was our TOBY, M.P., waggish as ever. "I am not down on the official list of guests as 'TOBIAS,'" quoth he. "And why?" I gave it up. "Because," says he, answering his own conundrum, "I am a free and independent scribe, and there is nothing _to bias_ me. Aha!" The sea air agrees with TOBY, M.P. "And where _would_ the Member for Barkshire be," he asks, propounding as it were another and a better puzzle, "but aboard a bonnie barque? My bark," he continues gaily, "may be worse than my bite, but----" Here the bugle-call to breakfast sounds, and from ocular evidence I can roundly assert that whatever his bark may be, I will back his bite--and this without backbiting, of which, as I trust, neither of us is capable--against that of any two of his own size and weight. Yet TOBY _en mangeant_ is not the dog in a manger, no, not by any means! With one eye to the main chance, and another to the corresponding comfort of his co-breakfasters, so pursueth he his steadfast course, as indeed do we all, to the astonishment of most of us, through the shoals of toast and butter; over the shallows of eggs; safely through the Straits of Kipper and Kurrie; with a pleasant time in Hot Tea Bay; then through a Choppy sea, between the dangerous rocks of Brawn and Bacon; into the calm Marmaladean Sea, where we ride at anchor and all is well.

After breakfast, the cigar, or pipe, with conversational accompaniment, what time we pace the quarter-deck. Prognostications as to probable weather are "taken and offered" by nautically-attired guests, who, in a general way, may be supposed from their seagoing costume "to know the ropes." Here is the ever amiable and truly gallant Sir PETER PLURAL, looking every inch the ideal yachtsman, as honorary member of the Upper House of Cowes and Ryde Piers. Wonderful man Sir PETER! knows everybody, is liked by everybody; has been yachting and sailing and voyaging for any number of years; knows even the smallest waves by sight, and, if asked, could probably tell you their names! One day he will publish his reminiscences!

We anchor off Queenstown. The estimable, jovial VALENTINE VULCAN, M.P., from the North, must ashore to purchase some trifling knickknacks by way of mementoes of the visit. Instead of "knickknacks" he lays in a stock of "knock-knocks," yclept "shillelaghs," which are served out to him by a delicately pale beauty of Erin, dark-haired, slim waisted, and as elegant as might be any natty girl from County Trim. She shows us some dozen shillelaghs with hard, murderous-looking, bulbous knobs.

"Phew!" whistles VALENTINE VULCAN, M.P., weighing one of these dainty sticks in his hand. "You might get rather a nasty crack from this." I agree with him, and the sad daughter of Erin regards us sadly and sympathetically.

"Maybe," I think to myself, "she has lost a friend or a lover in one of these confounded O'CAPULET and O'MONTAGUE rows. Poor girl!" And I eye her with a look wherein admiration is tempered with pity. It occurs to me that I will say something appropriate, just to show her how I, a stranger and a Saxon, feel for her. It may lead her to express her hearty detestation of these faction-fights, and of these deadly fracas with the armed constabulary. So I say, with a touch of deep indignation in my tone, "It's a shame," say I, "that such things as these"--and I nod frowningly at the shillelaghs, which VULCAN, M.P., is twirling meditatively, one in each hand, as if right and left were about to fight it out--"it's a shame that such things as these should be permitted!" The pale, sad, beautiful daughter of Erin, regards me mournfully, and then, in a tone expressive of astonishment blended with firm remonstrance, she asks,--

"An' what _would_ the poor Boys use, an' they not allowed fire-arms?"

That was all. No smile is on the lips of Erin's pale daughter. She is apparently in earnest, though both VULCAN and myself, talking it over subsequently, unite in opinion that, perhaps, she had been availing herself of this rare and unique opportunity of "getting at" the Saxon.

So she went on recommending sticks and photographs, and did a good bit of business with our generous VULCAN, M.P., who returned, laden with gifts for various fellow-guests aboard the good SS. _Cannie Donia_.

What amusing nights and delightful days! The ladies--bless 'em!--all charming, and very Barkisses in their perpetual "willingness" to do anything and everything that might give pleasure and afford amusement. Two fairy-gifted maidens entertain us mightily with a capital dramatic sketch of their own composition; others follow suit, playing the piano; and a _sestette_ perform, without previous rehearsal, glees, madrigals, part-songs, and choruses to popular plantation melodies, under the leadership of that masterly musician TOM TOLDEROL, whose only regret is that he has not been able to bring on board with him his sixteen-horse-power-fifty-stopped-sixteen-pedal organ (designed and made by the eminent firm of BELLOWS, BLOWER & CO., at a cost of some few thousand pounds), though, as he explains to us, he would have done so, had this musical mammoth been only compressible within the limits of an ordinary carpet bag.

However, _à propos_ of organs, we have with us a representative of one of the greatest organs--of the Press--full of wise saws and modern instances; as jolly as a sandboy, or rather as a schoolboy out for a holiday. A sailor every inch of him, and this is saying a great deal, as he must be over six feet, and broad in proportion.

Appropriate, too, as aboard "the craft," is the presence of the Great Grand Secretary, Mr. BENJAMIN BOAZ, A.M., P.G.M., &c., &c., and the still Greater, Grander Something Else, P.P.M., &c., Sir JONATHAN JACHIN, mysterious officers, _Arcades ambo_, of the Secret Rites of Masonry, fall of nods, winks, becks, wreathed smiles, signs, secrets, fun, frolic, and tales galore.

Ah! the happy days! And the happy evenings! What excellent "toasts" and "returnings of thanks" by my Lord AFFIDAVIT, by Sir POSEIDON À VINKLO (President of the Anchorite Court), by ANDREW MCJASON (senior of the Argonautic Firm that built the good ship _Cannie Donia_), and the sprightliest speech of all by Sir CHARLES CHEERIE!

Round to Falmouth, up the Fal, "with our Fal, lal, la," as singeth our brilliant _sestette_ to piano, or, to quote Sir JONATHAN, "our P. an' O." accompaniment.

Then S'uth'ards! Then.... But "here break we off."

Thus do I briefly make some record of a "trial trip"; and may no trip that any of us may make, whether involving a trial or not, have worse results than has this, of which, beginning and finishing happily and gloriously as it has done--and such be the _Cannie Donia's_ fate evermore--I am privileged to write this slight record, and proud to account myself henceforth as

ONE OF THE TRIPPERS.

* * * * *

* * * * *

A PRINCELY OFFER.

["TO POETS.--£5 offered for a One-Act Opera Libretto, subject to conditions," &c.--_Advertisement in "Morning Post._"]

Passed are the days when in accents pathetic Writers complained of their wage as unjust, Gone are the times when the genius poetic Struggled in penury, dined on a crust!

Nor need they longer, who strive for a pittance, Grieve if the editors still are remiss; What though the papers refuse them admittance While they're afforded such chances as this?

Writers of verse, here is news to elate you! "Poets" (the title you value the most), Simply magnificent offers await you!-- _Vide_ this paragraph, cut from the _Post_.

Hasten, ye bards (who surely a debt owe To this MÆCENAS, this opulent man), Hasten with joy to prepare a _libretto_ Fit to accomplish his excellent plan!

He will fulfil your most lofty ambitions-- Such generosity simply astounds!-- You will receive (under certain "conditions") Honour, and glory, and fame, and--_five pounds_!

* * * * *

A PARADOX OF THEATRICAL SUCCESS.--At the Criterion very difficult to get into _Hot Water_.

* * * * *

TIPS.

(_To a Friendly Adviser._)

When starting off on foreign trips, I've felt secure if someone gave me Invaluable hints and tips; Time, trouble, money, these would save me.

I'm off; you've told me all you know. Forewarned, forearmed, I start, instructed How much to spend, and where to go; Yet free, not like some folks "conducted."

Now I shall face, serene and calm, Those persons, often rather pressing For little gifts, with outstretched palm. To some of them I'll give my blessing.

To others--"_service_" being paid-- _Buona mano, pourboire, trinkgeld_; They fancy Englishmen are made Of money, made of (so they think) _geld_.

The _garçon_, ready with each dish, His brisk "_Voilà, monsieur_" replying To anything that one may wish; His claim admits of no denying.

The _portier_, who never rests, Who speaks six languages together To clamorous, inquiring guests, On letters, luggage, trains, boats, weather.

The _femme de chambre_, who fills my _bain_; The _ouvreuse_, where I see the _acteur_, A cigarette to _chef de train_, A franc to energetic _facteur_.

I give each _cocher_ what is right; I know, without profound researches, What I must pay for each new sight-- Cathedrals, castles, convents, churches.

Or climbing up to see a view, From _campanile_, roof or steeple. Those verbal tips I had from you Save money tips to other people.

Save all those florins, marks or francs-- Or _pfennige_, _sous_, _kreutzer_, is it?-- The change they give me at the banks, According to the towns I visit.

I seem to owe you these, and yet Will money do? My feeling's deeper. I'll owe you an eternal debt-- A debt of gratitude, that's cheaper.

* * * * *

TO SENTIMENT.

(_After a Long Course of Cynicism._)

"Sentiment is come again." So says clever Mr. ZANGWILL. Most things tire the human brain; Mugwump mockery and slang will: Pessimism's pompous pose, Hedonism's virus septic; Cynicism's cold cock-nose, Creedless dismals, doubts dyspeptic, All are wearying--being sham. Twopenny Timon tires and sickens. Bitters bore us! We'll try jam! Back to LYTTON, HOOD, and DICKENS? Sorrows of sweet seventeen? Vows that manly one-and-twenty meant? Yes! we're sick of Cynic spleen. Let's hark back again to Sentiment! Saccharine surfeit, after all, Though it be a trifle sickly, Changes our long gorge of gall. Come back, Sentiment, and quickly!

* * * * *

[Transcriber's Note:

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.]