Part 3

I did not offer her a chair, I flung one at her head. That impulse towards some physical demonstration, that craving for physical contact which attacks us go suddenly with its terrific impulse, and chokes and stifles us, ourselves, beneath it, blinding us to all except itself, rushed upon _Tooraloora_ then: and she landed me one in the eye. Now, this was the moment I had been expecting and dreading, practically, ever since her hand had left my ear the night before--this moment when it should strike me again. I do not mean consciously, but there are a million slight, vague, physical experiences and sensations within us of which the mind remains almost unconscious; and I have no pretensions to physical courage. For a second I felt the colour rise to my face. Every expletive that should have been forgotten, I remembered. My pulses seemed beating as they do in fever, my ears seemed full of sounds, and I felt the cold touch of the policeman's grasp like ice upon my shoulder as a voice murmured, "This means forty shillings or a month."... When we reached the station I flung myself upon the floor, leaning my head upon my hand, the white powder upon my coat still lingered. I seemed to hear _Tooraloora_ murmur, "'E don't know where 'E are!"

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AT THE OLD MASTERS.

The following selections may assist the Art-student visiting Burlington House:--

No. 3. By GEORGE ROMNEY. Not so much a "Rum Knee" as a queer left arm. Gout apparently, skilfully depicted.

No. 5. By Sir HENRY RAEBURN, R.A. _Lorenzo and Jessica_, at 50 and 40 respectively.

No. 9. By Sir JOSHUA REYNOLDS, P.R.A. Selected from _Reynolds' Miscellany_. Portrait of a gentleman in full uniform, out for a walk, on a stormy day, on the sea-shore. He is evidently saying, "Here's a nice predicament! I've powder on my hair, no hat, and it's coming on to pour cats and dogs."

No. 13. By Sir JOSHUA REYNOLDS. A Portrait of _The Marquis of Granby_. Presented, of course, by Mr. WELLER, Senior. Probably the original sign of the inn of which Mr. W. was proprietor.

No. 16. By GEORGE ROMNEY. _Portrait of Mrs. Farrer_. Charming. Might go Farrer and fare worse.

No. 24. By GEORGE! . . . ROMNEY. _Portrait of Lady Hamilton._ "Unfinished"--but perfect.

No. 38. "A Constable"--who arrests our attention. This, you may depend upon it, is a Constable _with a warrant_.

No. 50. By REMBRANT. Man guarding a hawk. Very graceful, but a Hawk-ward sort of person.

No. 51. By GERARD TERBURG. A lady, after taking something which has disagreed with her. "Prithee, why so pale?"

No. 68. By VAN DER HELST. It is called a "_Family Group_,"--probably in consequence of the wife being shown as presenting her husband _with a hare_.

No. 73. By DICK HALS. Regard the wondrous collars. It is "Collar Day." Must have been the work of two artists, as this could have been painted by no one HALS(!!)

No. 94. By Sir THOMAS LAURENCE, P.R.A. "_The bells are a ringing for Sarah._" Curtain rises and SARAH steps forward to sing.

No. 122. By JACOB JORDAENS. Splendid. "Try our stout, JANE!"

No. 126. By J. M. W. TURNER, R.A. "_Snowstorm._" Wonderful!! But where was the artist when he took it?

Do not leave without closely examining No. 181, by FRANÇOIS CLOUET, "_Portrait of a Princess_." And do not neglect the "gems of the collection" in the Water-colour Room. This is full of "interesting and remarkable cases" which have been fully reported in all the papers. The exhibition is open till March 16. Don't miss it.

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Lord Randolph Churchill.

BORN, FEBRUARY 13, 1849. DIED, JANUARY 24, 1895.

Gone!--like a meteor whelmed in night, Who should have shone as fame's fixed star! Unwelcome loss, when sons of light So few and so infrequent are. To flare athwart the startled sky, A prodigy portentous, fills The vision of the vulgar eye, The common soul with wonder thrills. And much of meteoric glare Seemed herald of that steadier course, Which, drawing less the general stare, Spoke to the wise of light and force. Now all's extinct in early gloom, Eclipsed in shadow premature. A brilliant soul, a bitter doom! And who shall read with judgment sure The secret of the light that failed, The mystery of the fallen star? Though whilom worshippers have railed, Though clingers to the conqueror's car Reviled a vanquished victor's name, The brightness of that brief career Defies the dullards who defame, Confounds the incompetents who sneer. But yesterday, in sooth it seems, The promise of the platform's pride Inspired a Party's youthful dreams, And filled to flood their hope's high tide. Now all is hushed,--save the sad voice Of admiration and regret, Which, spite of faction's spleenful noise, Ne'er failed stout son of England yet!

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He took a house in Hampshire. Why? Because he said he liked to visit his old Hants.

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A FEELING PROTEST.

Sir,--I have recently seen letters and paragraphs in various newspapers instigating travellers going abroad to choose the Folkestone and Boulogne route instead of going _viâ_ Dover and Calais. I forget what particular reasons are given for advocating this substitution, nor do I care what they are or what they may be. Why? Because, first, undeniably _viâ_ Dover to Calais is the shortest route, and to those of BRITANNIAS'S sons and daughters--gallant islanders all--who detest the sea as much as does the humble individual who now addresses you, the saving of twenty minutes or half an hour, or in some instances it may be even more, of the sea-passage would be well worth any extra expense (if extra expense there be, which, an' I remember rightly, is not the case), especially when aboard such steam-vessels as are now provided; though, be the steam-vessels what they may, there is still in one and all of them that peculiar flavour and motion about which I would rather not speak, or even think, lest I should be unable to finish this important letter.

But there is yet another reason why the Dover and Calais route is the best of all ways to the Continent, and that is on account of the excellent _déjeuner_--still, as I believe, unequalled at any port or at any station in Europe--served to the many poor hungry and thirsty travellers quickly, hotly, and as comfortably as the confounded bustling circumstances of travel will permit. Why the railway company which takes us to Paris cannot give us three quarters of an hour for our very necessary toilette (after the sea passage) and our food, and then do the journey in double quick time, or in the same time as now for the matter of that (for what does it matter to the accomplished traveller who "_does_ know where he are" and where he _will_ be, and has pre-ordered everything wisely and well?), and so get up to Paris in time for a little late supper and an early bed?

For those who value their digestions, and who love good food and drink, even when they have but a short time for refreshment, there is but one route to Paris from London, and that is _viâ_ Calais, _i.e._ _viâ_ the buffet. Only, _cher messieurs les directeurs de la ligne du Nord_, cannot you possibly manage to extend our luncheon-time at Calais to just three quarters of an hour, instead of giving us only a beggarly twenty-five minutes at best, and do the thing well while you are about it? As to the Boulogne route, well, one goes to Boulogne to stay, and so the buffet, _en passant_, is of small importance.

May this reach the eyes and touch the hearts of all in authority, for it is a _cri du c[oe]ur_ from

AN INCONSTANT TRAVELLER.

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TO ATALANTA.

Ah, ATALANTA! timely wise, When the disdain within your eyes That wondrous vision daunted, The golden apples, they whose spell Both gods and mortals knew right well, Eternally enchanted,

You instantly the race forbore, You made your choice for evermore And gathered up the burden! The ancient spell had conquered you, The distant goal you did not rue, You won a dearer guerdon!

Oh, modern ATALANTA, stay, When with HIPPOMENES to-day You arduously grapple! An instant ponder on your case If you should ever lose the race, And likewise lose the apple!

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Delightful reminiscences are these of GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA'S, told in his own peculiar rattling-off, running-on, one-anecdote-down-t'other-come-on style. Of all "people he has met" he has plenty to say, but _nil nisi bonum_; all writ with a magnum-bonum pen. Once he was a "Gipsy King, ha! ha!" but, long ago, as he tells us, he renounced all claims to the throne of Bohemia, abdicated, retired, and, no more a Rad, has led a Reformed Club life. Who wrote the burlesque Eugene Aram verses, ending with,--

"And GEORGE AUGUSTUS walked before, With gyves upon his wrist"?

All the notabilities of his earlier days were mentioned in that poem, at least so I believe, for does it not belong to a date when the Baron had not come within measurable distance of his title when he watched the great guns from afar with awe; when he saw them in the Cyder Cellars and at Evans's, both of which night resorts he, having been first taken there by a kindly but injudicious man-about-town, subsequently patronised on such holidays as were offered to him by the jovial nights after the Eton and Harrow matches at Lord's, and on the eve of such a festival as the University Boat Race. The Baron in those happy days and nights was attired in the costume in which RICHARD DOYLE has dressed young _Clive Newcome_ when he accompanied his father, the Colonel, on that ever memorable evening to The Cave of Harmony, and heard the song that made him so wrathful. There are no Cyder Cellars, Coal Holes, and Evans's nowadays, which owlish resorts were strictly restricted to the use of the male sex, young and old. But even if a kind, considerate legislature does insist on extinguishing the lights, and turning us out in the streets at 12.30 precisely, are morality and health so very much benefited by the process? Isn't it cheerful to read of the pleasantly convivial late hours in the Georgian Augustan Era? The celebrities at home and abroad that he knew were legion, and I'll be bound (as the Book said) that he hasn't emptied his memory stores by many a cupboard full. There is one sentiment which appeals to the Baron's head, heart, and pocket, and delighteth him hugely--it is GEORGE AUGUSTUS'S righteous denunciation of "the unjust and iniquitous income-tax." The Baron says ditto to Mr G. A. S. at p. 310, vol. ii. _Inter alia_, the autobiographist is correct in saying that MADISON MORTON'S _Box and Cox_ was concocted from _Une Chambre à Deux Lits_ "and another French farce," of which, as he doesn't give the name, the Baron will here take the liberty of mentioning it. It was a farce with music, that is to say a _comédie-vaudeville en un acte_, written by Messrs. LABICHE and LEFRANC, and produced at the Palais-Royal in 1846. Its name was _Frisette_. _Box and Cox_ was produced in 1847 at the Lyceum. Very little furniture for the English farce was taken from _Une Chambre à Deux Lits_, but packages of dialogue were handed in to _Box and Cox_ from _Frisette_.

THE BARON DE B.-W.

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A GOD IN THE OS-CAR.

["Amongst the candidates for the Regius Professorship of History at Cambridge is Mr. OSCAR BROWNING."--_Daily Paper._]

The History Professorship-- Who'll from the PREMIER get the post? Here's Mr. OSCAR BROWNING, one Whose name is chosen from the host.

But should Lord R. o'erlook his claim, Oh! will O. B. be wildly riled. In fact, will OSCAR BROWNING then Develop into OSCAR WILDE?

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QUEER QUERIES.--COSTLY COLOURS.--Could some reader inform me whether it would be of any use to request the Works Committee of the London County Council to paint my back door for me? It has become a little discoloured through age, and a local carpenter has offered to put on "two coats of good sage-green enamel paint" for five-and-sixpence. But as I see that the Works Committee only spent £2,186 over the painting of Hammersmith Bridge, I fancy that it would be cheaper to employ them, if I could. It is pleasant to think what exceptionally fair wages they must have paid over this job (using the word in its natural meaning), and how much time the poor men engaged in it must have been able to give to their family circles. This is as it should be.--TRUE PROGRESSIVE.

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NIAGARA HALL.--They say the sham ice here is almost perfect, very nearly as good as the real ice, in fact so little is the difference between the real and sham that a skater, unless he had tried it, would hardly real-ice it! The band plays, "Hwfa (Williams) of thee I'm fondly dreaming!" as the _patineurs_ and _patineuses_ who have paid their three or five shillings glide about at the rate of either eighteenpence or two-and-sixpence a foot.