Chapter IV

You are to remember that when the events I have narrated befell I was but a lad, and had a lad's horror of that which smacked of the supernatural. As we ran, I must have fallen in a swoon, for I remember nothing more until I found myself walking with trembling feet through the policies of the ancient mansion of Dearodear. By my side strode a young nobleman, whom I straightway recognised as the Master. His gallant bearing and handsome face served but to conceal the black heart that beat within his breast. He gazed at me with a curious look in his eyes.

"SQUARETOES, SQUARETOES," said he--it was thus he had named me, and by that I knew that we were in Scotland, and that my name was become MACKELLAR--"I have a mind to end your prying and your lectures here where we stand."

"End it," said I, with a boldness which seemed strange to me even as I spoke; "end it, and where will you be? A penniless beggar and an outcast."

"The old fool speaks truly," he continued, kicking me twice violently in the back, but otherwise ignoring my presence; "and if I end him, who shall tell the story? Nay, SQUARETOES, let us make a compact. I will play the villain, and brawl, and cheat, and murder; you shall take notes of my actions, and, after I have died dramatically in a North American forest, you shall set up a stone to my memory, and publish the story. What say you? Your hand upon it."

Such was the fascination of the man that even then I could not withstand him. Moreover, the measure of his misdeeds was not yet full. My caution prevailed, and I gave him my hand.

"Done!" said he; "and a very good bargain for you, SQUARETOES!"

Let the public, then, judge between me and the Master, since of his house not one remains, and I alone may write the tale.

(To be continued.--Author.) THE END.--Ed. _Punch_.

[Footnote 1: _Editor to Author_: "How did the glasses manage to glare? It seems an odd proceeding for a glass. Answer paid."

_Author to Editor_: "Don't be a fool. I meant the Doctor--not the glasses."]

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

_The Children of the Castle_, by Mrs. MOLESWORTH (published by MACMILLAN), will certainly be a favourite with the children in the house. A quaintly pretty story of child life and fairies, such as she can write so well, it is valuably assisted with Illustrations by WALTER CRANE.

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE evidently means to catch the youthful book-worm's eye by the brilliancy of his bindings, but the attraction will not stay there long, for the contents are equal to the covers.

These are days of reminiscences, so _"Bob," the Spotted Terrier_, writes his own tale, or, wags it. Illustrations by HARRISON WEIR. And here for the tiny ones, bless 'em, is _The House that Jack Built_,--a paper book in actually the very shape of the house he built! And then there's the melancholy but moral tale of _Froggy would a-Wooing Go_. "Recommended," says the Baron.

Published by DEAN AND SON, who should call their publishing establishment "The Deanery," is _The Doyle Fairy Book_, a splendid collection of regular fairy lore; and the Illustrations are by RICHARD DOYLE, which needs nothing more.

_The Mistletoe Bough_, edited by M.E. BRADDON, is not only very strong to send forth so many sprigs, but it is a curious branch, as from each sprig hangs a tale. The first, by the Editor and Authoress, _His Oldest Friends_, is excellent.

_Flowers of The Hunt_, by FINCH MASON, published by Messrs. FORES. Rather too spring-like a title for a sporting book, as it suggests hunting for flowers. Sketchy and amusing.

HACHETTE AND CIE, getting ahead of Christmas, and neck and neck with the New Year, issue a _Nouveau Calendrier Perpéteul_, "_Les Amis Fidèles_," representing three poodles, the first of which carries in his mouth the day of the week, the second the day of the month, and the third the name of the month. This design is quaint, and if not absolutely original, is new in the combination and application. Unfortunately it only suggests one period of the year, the dog-days, but in 1892 this can be improved upon, and amplified.

No nursery would be complete without a _Chatterbox_, and, as a reward to keep him quiet, _The Prize_ would come in useful. WELLS, DARTON, & GARDNER, can supply both of them.

F. WARNE has another Birthday-book, _Fortune's Mirror, Set in Gems_, by M. HALFORD, with Illustrations by KATE CRAUFORD. A novel idea of setting the mirror in the binding; but, to find your fortune, you must look inside, and then you will see what gem ought to be worn in the month of your birth.

WILLERT BEALE's _Light of Other Days_ is most interesting to those who, like the Baron, remember the latter days of GRISI and MARIO, who can call to mind MARIO in _Les Huguenots_, in _Trovatore_, in _Rigoletto_; and GRISI in _Norma_, _Valentina_, _Fides_, _Lucrezia_, and some others. It seems to me that the centre of attraction in these two volumes is the history of MARIO and GRISI on and off the stage; and the gem of all is the simple narrative of Mrs. GODFREY PEARSE, their daughter, which M. WILLERT BEALE has had the good taste to give _verbatim_, with few notes or comments. To think that only twenty years ago we lost GRISI, and that only nine years ago MARIO died in Rome! Peace to them both! In Art they were a glorious couple, and in their death our thoughts cannot divide them. GRISI and MARIO, Queen and King of song, inseparable. I have never looked upon their like again, and probably never shall. My tribute to their memory is, to advise all those to whom their memory is dear, and those to whom their memory is but a tradition, to read these Reminiscences, of them and of others, by WILLERT BEALE, in order to learn all they can about this romantic couple, who, caring little for money, and everything for their art, were united in life, in love, in work, and, let us, _peccatores_, humbly hope, in death. WILLERT BEALE has, in his Reminiscences, given us a greater romance of real life than will be found in twenty volumes of novels, by the most eminent authors. Yet all so naturally and so simply told. At least so, with moist eyes, says your tender-hearted critic,

THE SYMPATHETIC BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

* * * * *

WIGS AND RADICALS.

["As a protest against the acceptance by the Corporation of
Sunderland of robes, wigs, and cocked hats, for the Mayor and
Town Clerk, Mr. STOREY, M.P., has sent in his resignation of
the office of Alderman of that body."--_Daily Paper_.]

_Brutus_. Tell us what has chanced to-day, that STOREY looks so sad.

_Casca_. Why, there was a wig and a cocked hat offered him, and he put it away with the back of his hand, thus; and then the Sunderland Radicals fell a-shouting.

_Brutus_. What was the second noise for?

_Casca_. Why, for that too.

_Brutus_. They shouted thrice--what was the last cry for?

_Casca_. Why, for that too--not to mention a municipal robe.

_Brutus_. Was the wig, &c, offered him thrice?

_Casca_. Ay, marry, was it, and he put the things by thrice, every time more savagely than before.

_Brutus_. Who offered him the wig?

_Casca_. Why, the Sunderland Municipality, of course--stoopid!

_Brutus_. Tell us the manner of it, gentle CASCA.

_Casca_. I can as well be hanged, as tell you. It was mere foolery, I did not mark it. I saw the people offer a cocked hat to him--yet 'twas not to him neither, because he's only an Alderman, 'twas to the Mayor and Town Clerk--and, as I told you, he put the things by thrice; yet, to my thinking, had he been Mayor, he would fain have had them. And the rabblement, of course, cheered such an exhibition of stern Radical simplicity, and STOREY called the wig a bauble, though, to my thinking, there's not much bauble about it, and the cocked-hat he called a mediæval intrusion, though, to my thinking, there were precious few cocked-hats in the Middle Ages. Then he said he would no more serve as Alderman; and the Mayor and the Town Clerk cried--"Alas, good soul!"--and accepted his resignation with all their hearts.

_Brutus_. Then will not the Sunderland Town Hall miss him?

_Casca_. Not it, as I am a true man! There'll be a STOREY the less on it, that's all. Farewell!

* * * * *

"NOT THERE, NOT THERE, MY CHILD!"

By some misadventure I was unable to attend the pianoforte recital of Paddy REWSKI, the player from Irish Poland at the St. James's Hall last Wednesday. Everybody much pleased, I'm told. Glad to hear it. I was "Not there, not there, my child!" But audience gratified--

"And Stalldom shrieked when Paddy REWSKI played,"

as the Poet says, or something like it. I hear he made a hit. The papers say he did, and if he didn't it's another thumper, that's all.

* * * * *

"SO NO MAYER AT PRESENT FROM YOURS TRULY THE ENTREPRENEUR OF THE FRENCH PLAYS, ST. JAMES'S THEATRE."--It is hard on the indefatigable M. MAYER, but when Englishmen can so easily cross the Channel, and so willingly brave the _mal-de-mer_ for the sake of a week in Paris, it is not likely that they will patronise French theatricals in London, even for their own linguistic and artistic improvement, or solely for the benefit of the deserving and enterprising M. MAYER. Even if it be _mal-de-mer_ against _bien de Mayer_, an English admirer of French acting would risk the former to get a week in Paris. We are sorry 'tis so, but so 'tis.

* * * * *

"THE MAGAZINE RIFLE."--Is this invention patented by the Editor of _The Review of Reviews_? Good title for the Staff of that Magazine, "The Magazine Rifle Corps."

* * * * *

_Critic_. "BY JOVE, HOW ONE CHANGES! I'VE QUITE CEASED TO ADMIRE THE KIND OF PAINTING I USED TO THINK SO CLEVER TEN YEARS AGO; AND _VICE VERSÂ_!"

_Pictor_. "THAT'S AS IT _SHOULD_ BE! IT SHOWS PROGRESS, DEVELOPMENT! IT'S AN UNMISTAKABLE PROOF THAT YOU'VE REACHED A HIGHER INTELLECTUAL AND ARTISTIC LEVEL, A MORE ADVANCED STAGE OF CULTURE, A LOFTIER--"

_Critic_. "I'M GLAD YOU THINK SO, OLD MAN. BUT, CONFOUND IT, YOU KNOW!--THE KIND OF PAINTING I USED TO THINK SO CLEVER TEN YEARS AGO, HAPPENS TO BE _YOURS_!"]

* * * * *

BETWEEN THE QUICK AND THE DEAD.

The Appeal's to Justice! Justice lendeth ear
Unstirred by favour, unseduced by fear;
And they who Justice love must check the thrill
Of natural shame, and listen, and be still.
These wrangling tales of horror shake the heart
With pitiful disgust. Oh, glorious part
For British manhood, much bepraised, to play
In that dark land late touched by culture's day!
Are these our Heroes pictured each by each?
We fondly deemed that where our English speech
Sounded, there English hearts, of mould humane.
Justice would strengthen, cruelty restrain.
And is it all a figment of false pride?
_Such_ horrors do our vaunting annals hide
Beneath a world of words, like flowers that wave
In tropic swamps o'er a malarious grave?

These are the questions which perforce intrude
As the long tale of horror coarse and crude,
Rolls out its sickening chapters one by one.
What will the verdict be when all is done?
Conflicting counsels in loud chorus rise,
"Hush the thing up!" the knowing cynic cries,
"Arm not our chuckling enemies at gaze
With charnel dust to foul our brightest bays!
Let the dead past bury its tainted dead,
Lest aliens at our 'heroes' wag the head."
"Shocking! wails out the sentimentalist.
Believe no tale unpleasant, scorn to list
To slanderous charges on the British name!
That brutish baseness, or that sordid shame
Can touch 'our gallant fellows,' is a thing
Incredible. Do not our poets sing,
Our pressmen praise in dithyrambic prose,
The 'lads' who win our worlds and face our foes?
Who never, save to human pity, yield
One step in wilderness or battlefield!"

Meanwhile, with troubled eyes and straining hands,
Silent, attentive, thoughtful, Justice stands.
To her alone let the appeal be made.
Heroes, or merely tools of huckstering Trade,
Men brave, though fallible, or sordid brutes,
Let all be heard. Since each to each imputes
Unmeasured baseness, _somewhere_ the black stain
Must surely rest. The dead speak not, the slain
Have not a voice, save such as that which spoke
From ABEL's blood. Green laurels, or the stroke
Of shame's swift scourge? There's the alternative
Before the lifted eyes of those who live.
One fain would see the grass unstained that waves
In the dark Afric waste o'er those two graves.
To Justice the protagonist makes appeal.
Justice would wish him smirchless as her steel,
But stands with steadfast eyes and unbowed head
Silent--betwixt the Living and the Dead!

* * * * *

OPERA NOTES.

What's a Drama without a Moral, and what's _Rigoletto_ without a MAUREL, who was cast for the part, but who was too indisposed to appear? So Signor GALASSI came and "played the fool" instead, much to the satisfaction of all concerned, and all were very much concerned about the illness or indisposition of M. MAUREL. DIMITRESCO not particularly strong as the _Dook_; but Mlle. STROMFELD came out well as _Gilda_, and, being called, came out in excellent form in front of the Curtain. Signor BEVIGNANI, beating time in Orchestra, and time all the better for his beating.

* * * * *

"FOR THIS RELIEF MUCH THANKS."--The difficulties in The City, which _Mr. Punch_ represented in his Cartoon of November 8, were by the _Times_ of last Saturday publicly acknowledged to be at an end. The adventurous mariners were luckily able to rest on the Bank, and are now once more fairly started. They will bear in mind the warning of the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, as given to the boys in the above mentioned Cartoon.

* * * * *

* * * * *

AVENUE HUNCHBACK.

Of course there is nothing very new in the idea of a cripple loving a beautiful maiden, while the beautiful maiden bestows her affections on somebody else. SHERIDAN KNOWLES's Hunchback, _Master Walter_, is an exception to Hunchbacks generally, as he turns out to be the father, not the lover, of the leading lady. It has remained for Mr. CARTON to give us in an original three-act play a deformed hero, who has to sacrifice love to duty, or, rather, to let self-abnegation triumph over the gratification of self. This self-sacrificing part is admirably played by Mr. GEORGE ALEXANDER, whose simple make-up for the character is irreproachable. That something more can still be made by him of the scene of his great temptation I feel sure, and if he does this he will have developed several full leaves from his already budding laurels, and, which is presently important, he will have added another 100 nights to the run.

_Maud_ (_without_ the final "_e_") capitally played by Miss MAUDE (_with_ the final "E") MILLETT. (Why didn't the author choose another name when this character was cast to Miss MILLETT? Not surely for the sake of someone saying, "Come into the garden"--eh? And the author has already indulged his pungent humour by giving "_George_" _Addis_ to "GEORGE" ALEXANDER. Mistake.) This character of _Maud_ is a sketch of an utterly odious girl,--odious, that is, at home, but fascinating no doubt, away from the domestic circle. Is a sketch of such a character worth the setting? How one pities the future Bamfield _ménage_, when the unfortunate idiot _Bamfield_, well represented by Mr. BEN WEBSTER, has married this flirting, flighty, sharp-tongued, selfish little girl. To these two are given some good, light, and bright comedy scenes, recalling to the mind of the middle-aged playgoer the palmy days of what used to be known as the Robertsonian "Tea-cup-and-saucer Comedies," with dialogue, scarcely _fin de siècle_ perhaps, but pleasant to listen to, when spoken by Miss MAUDE MILLETT, MISS TERRY, and Mr. BEN WEBSTER.

In Miss MARION TERRY's _Helen_, the elder of the Doctor's daughters, we have a charming type, nor could Mr. NUTCOMBE GOULD's _Dr. Latimer_ be improved upon as an artistic performance where repose and perfectly natural demeanour give a certain coherence and solidity to the entire work. Mr. YORKE STEPHENS as _Mark Denzil_ is too heavy, and his manner conveys the impression that, at some time or other, he will commit a crime, such, perhaps, as stealing the money from the Doctor's desk; or, when this danger is past and he hasn't done it, his still darkening, melodramatic manner misleads the audience into supposing that in Act III, he will make away with his objectionable wife, possess himself of the two hundred pounds, and then, just at the moment when, with a darkling scowl and a gleaming eye, he steps forward to claim his affianced bride, _Scollick_, Mr. ALFRED HOLLES, hitherto only known as the drunken gardener, will throw off his disguise, and, to a burst of applause from an excited audience, will say, "I arrest you for murder and robbery! and--I am HAWKSHAW the Detective!!!" or words to this effect. In his impersonation of _Mark Denzil_ Mr. STEPHENS seems to have attempted an imitation of the light and airy style of Mr. ARTHUR STIRLING.

The end of the Second Act is, to my thinking, a mistake in dramatic art. Everyone of the audience knows that the woman who has stolen the money is _Mark Denzil's_ wife, and nobody requires from _Denzil_ himself oral confirmation of the fact, much less do they want an interval of several minutes,--it may be only seconds, but it seems minutes,--before the Curtain descends, occupied only by _Mark Denzil_ imploring that his wife shall not be taken before the magistrate and be charged with theft. This is an anti-climax, weakening an otherwise effective situation, as the immediate result of this scene could easily be given in a couple of sentences of dialogue at the commencement of the last Act. It is this fault, far more than the unpruned passages of dialogue, that makes this interesting and well acted play _seem_ too long--at least, such is the honest opinion of A FRIEND IN FRONT.

* * * * *

THE BURDEN OF BACILLUS.

Is there no one to protect us, is existence then a sin,
That we're worried here in London and in Paris and Berlin?
We would live at peace with all men, but "Destroy them!" is the cry,
Physiological assassins are not happy till we die.
With the rights of man acknowledged, can you wonder that we squirm
At the endless persecution of the much-maltreated germ.

We are ta'en from home and hearthstone, from the newly-wedded bride,
To be looked at by cold optics on a microscopic slide;
We are boiled and stewed together, and they never think it hurts;
We're injected into rabbits by those hypodermic squirts:
Never safe, although so very insignificant in size,
There's no peace for poor Bacillus, so it seems, until he dies.

It is strange to think how men lived in the days of long ago,
When the fact of our existence they had never chanced to know.
If the scientific ghouls are right who hunt us to the death,
Those who came before them surely had expired ere they drew breath:
We were there in those old ages, thriving in our youthful bloom;
Then there was no KOCH or PASTEUR bent on compassing our doom.

Men humanity are preaching, and philanthropists elate
Point out he who injures horses shall be punished by the State;
Dogs are carefully protected, likewise the domestic cats,
Possibly kind-hearted people would not draw the line at rats:
If all that be right and proper, why then persecute and kill us?
Lo! the age's foremost martyr is the vilified Bacillus!

* * * * *

WALK UP!

As far as Vigo Street, and see Mr. NETTLESHIP's Wild Beast Show at the sign of "The Rembrandt Head." Here are Wild Animals to be seen done from the life, and to the life; tawny lions, sleepy bears, flapping vultures, and eagles, and brilliant macaws--all in excellent condition. Observe the "Lion roaring" at No. 28, and the "Ibis flying" with the sunlight on his big white wings against a deep blue sky, No. 36. All these Wild Animals can be safely guaranteed as pleasant and agreeable companions to live with, and so, judging from certain labels on the frames, the British picture-buyer has already discovered. Poor Mr. NETTLESHIP's Menagerie will return to him shorn of its finest specimens--that is, if he ever sees any of them back at all.

* * * * *

IN OUR GARDEN.

It has occurred to me in looking back over these unpremeditated notes, that if by any chance they came to be published, the public might gain the impression that the Member for SARK and I did all the work of the Garden, whilst our hired man looked on. SARK, to whom I have put the case, says that is precisely it. But I do not agree with him. We have, as I have already explained, undertaken this new responsibility from a desire to preserve health and strength useful to our QUEEN and Country. Therefore we, as ARPACHSHAD says, potter about the Garden, get in each other's way, and in his; that is to say, we are out working pretty well all day, with inadequate intervals for meals.

ARPACHSHAD, to do him justice, is most anxious not to interfere with our project by unduly taking labour on himself. When we are shifting earth, and as we shift it backwards and forwards there is a good deal to be done in that way, he is quite content to walk by the side, or in front of the barrow, whilst SARK wheels it, and I walk behind, picking up any bits that have shaken out of the vehicle. (Earth trodden into the gravel-walk would militate against its efficiency.) But of course ARPACHSHAD is, in the terms of his contract, "a working gardener," and I see that he works.

At the same time it must be admitted that he does not display any eagerness in engaging himself, nor does he rapidly and energetically carry out little tasks which are set him. There are, for example, the sods about the trees in the orchard. He says it's very bad for the trees to have the sods close up to their trunks. There should be a small space of open ground. ARPACHSHAD thought that perhaps "the gents," as he calls us, would enjoy digging a clear space round the trees. We thought we would, and set to work. But SARK having woefully hacked the stem of a young apple-tree (_Lord Suffield_) and I having laboriously and carefully cut away the entire network of the roots of a damson-tree, under the impression that it was a weed, it was decided that ARPACHSHAD had better do this skilled labour. We will attain to it by-and-by.

ARPACHSHAD has now been engaged on the work for a fortnight, and I think it will carry him on into the spring. The way he walks round the harmless apple-tree before cautiously putting in the spade, is very impressive. Having dug three exceedingly small sods, he packs them in a basket, and then, with a great sigh, heaves it on to his shoulder, and walks off to store the sods by the potting-shed. Anything more solemn than his walk, more depressing than his mien, has not been seen outside a churchyard. If he were burying the child of his old age, he could not look more cut up. SARK, who, probably owing to personal associations, is beginning to develop some sense of humour, walked by the side of him this morning whistling "_The Dead March in Saul_."

The effect was unexpected and embarrassing. ARPACHSHAD slowly relieved himself of the burden of the three sods, dropped them on the ground with a disproportionate thud, and, producing a large pocket-handkerchief, whose variegated and brilliant colours were, happily, dimmed by a month's use, mopped his eyes.

"You'll excuse _me_, gents," he snuffled, "but I never hear that there tune, '_Rule Britanny_,' whistled or sung but I think of the time when I went down to see my son off from Portsmouth for the Crimee, '_Rule Britanny_' was the tune they played when he walked proudly aboard. He was in all the battles, Almy, Inkerman, Ballyklaver, Seringapatam, and Sebastopol."

"And was he killed?" asked the Member for SARK, making as though he would help ARPACHSHAD with the basket on to his shoulder again.

"No," said ARPACHSHAD, overlooking the attention--"he lived to come home; and last week he rode in the Lord Mayor's coach through the streets of London, with all his medals on. Five shillings for the day, and a good blow-out, presided over by Mr. AUGUSTIN HARRIS, in his Sheriff's Cloak and Chain at the 'Plough-and-Thunder,' in the Barbican."

HARTINGTON came down to see us to-day. Mentioned ARPACHSHAD, and his natural indisposition to hurry himself.

"Why should he?" asked HARTINGTON, yawning, as he leaned over the fence. "What's the use, as Whosthis says, of ever climbing up the climbing wave? I can't understand how you fellows go about here with your shirt-sleeves turned up, bustling along as if you hadn't a minute to spare. It's just the same in the House; bustle everywhere; everybody straining and pushing--everybody but me."

"Well," said SARK, "but you've been up in Scotland, making quite a lot of speeches. Just as if you were Mr. G. himself."

"Yes," said HARTINGTON, looking admiringly at ARPACHSHAD, who had taken off his coat, and was carefully folding it up, preparatory to overtaking a snail, whose upward march on a peach-tree his keen eye had noted; "but that wasn't my fault. I was dragged into it against my will. It came about this way. Months ago, when Mr. G.'s tour was settled, they said nothing would do but that I must follow him over the same ground, speech by speech. If it had been to take place in the next day or two, or in the next week, I would have plumply said No. But, you see, it was a long way off. No one could say what might not happen in the interval. If I'd said No, they would have worried me week after week. If I said Yes, at least I wouldn't be bored on the matter for a month or two. So I consented, and, when the time came, I had to put in an appearance. But I mean to cut the whole business. Shall take a Garden, like you and SARK, only it shall be a place to lounge in, not to work in. Should like to have a fellow like your ARPACHSHAD; soothing and comforting to see him going about his work."

"I suppose you'll take a partner?" I asked. "Hope you'll get one more satisfactory than SARK has proved."

HARTINGTON blushed a rosy red at this reference to a partner. Didn't know he was so sensitive on account of SARK; abruptly changed subject.

"Fact is, TOBY," he said, "I hate politics; always been dragged into them by one man or another. First it was BRIGHT; then Mr. G.; now the MARKISS is always at me, making out that chaos will come if I don't stick at my place in the House during the Session, and occasionally go about country making speeches in the recess. Wouldn't mind the House if seats were more comfortable. Can sleep there pretty well for twenty minutes before dinner; but nothing to rest your head against; back falls your head; off goes your hat; and then those Radical fellows grin. I could stand politics better if Front Opposition Bench or Treasury Bench were constructed on principle of family pews in country churches. Get a decent quiet corner, and there you are. In any new Reformed Parliament hope they'll think of it; though it doesn't matter much to me. I'm going to cut it. Done my share; been abused now all round the Party circle. Conservatives, Whigs, Liberals, Radicals, Irish Members, Scotch and Welsh, each alternately have praised and belaboured me. My old enemies now my closest friends. Old friends look at me askance. It's a poor business. I never liked it, never had anything to get out of it, and you'll see presently that I'll give it up. Don't you suppose, TOBY my boy, that you shall keep the monopoly of retirement. I'll find a partner, peradventure an ARPACHSHAD, and we'll all live happily for the rest of our life."

With his right hand thrust in his trouser-pocket, his left swinging loosely at his side, and his hat low over his brow, HARTINGTON lounged off till his tall figure was lost in the gloaming.

"That's the man for _my_ money," said ARPACHSHAD, looking with growing discontent at the Member for SARK, who, with the only blade left in his tortoiseshell-handled penknife, was diligently digging weeds out of the walk.

* * * * *

IN THE CLUB SMOKING-ROOM.

"Lux Mundi," said somebody, reading aloud the title heading a lengthy criticism in the _Times_.

"Don't know so much about that," observed a sporting and superstitious young man; "but I know that '_Ill luck's Friday_.'"

* * * * *

_Mr. Punch_. "THAT'S ALL VERY WELL, BUT IT'S TOO DULL. LET THEM HAVE A LITTLE SUNSHINE, OR THEY WILL NEVER FOLLOW YOU."]

* * * * *

_Fair Client_. "I'M ALWAYS PHOTOGRAPHED FROM THE SAME SIDE, BUT I FORGET WHICH!"

_Scotch Photographer_ (_reflectively_). "WELL, IT'LL NO BE _THIS_ SIDE, I'M THINKIN'. MAYBE IT'S T'ITHER!"]

* * * * *

PARS ABOUT PICTURES.

Yes, quite so. It's a very good excuse! Whenever I do not turn up when I am expected, my children say, "Pa's about pictures." It's just the same as a doctor, when he forgets to keep an appointment, says, "he has unexpectedly been called out." Yah! _I'd_ call some of 'em out if I had the chance. I took French leave the other day, and went to the French Gallery, expecting to see sketches in French chalk, or studies in French grey. Nothing of the kind! Mr. WALLIS will have his little joke. The main part of the exhibition is essentially English, and so I found my Parisian accent was entirely thrown away. If it had only been Scotch, I could have said something about the "Scots wha hae wi' WALLIS," but I didn't have even that chance. Too bad, though, the show is a good one. "English, you know, quite English." Lots of good landscapes by LEADER, bright, fresh, breezy. Young painters should "follow their Leader," and they can't go very far wrong. I would write a leader on the subject, and introduce something about the land-scape-goat, only I know it would be cut out. Being very busy, sent Young Par to see Miss CHARLOTTE ROBINSON's Exhibition of Screens. He behaved badly. Instead of looking at matters in a serious light, he seemed to look upon the whole affair as a "screening farce," and began to sing--

Here screens of all kinds you may see,
Designed most ar-tist-_tic_-a-lee,
In exquisite va-ri-e-tee,
By clever CHARLOTTE ROBINSON!
They'll screen you from the bitter breeze,
They'll screen you when you take your teas,
They'll screen you when you flirt with shes--
Delightful CHARLOTTE ROBINSON!

He then folded his arms, and began to sing, "with my riddle-ol, de riddle-ol, de ri, de O," danced a hornpipe all over the place, broke several valuable pieces of furniture, and was removed in charge of the police. And this is the boy that was to be a comfort to me in my old age!

Yours parabolically, OLD PAR.

* * * * *

Novel praise from the _D.T._ for the Lord Mayor's Show, during a pause for lunch:--"It is so quaint, so bright, so thoroughly un-English." The Lord Mayor's Show "So Un-English, you know"! Then, indeed have we arrived at the end of the ancient _al-fresco_ spectacle.

* * * * *

IN A HOLE.

(_BRIEF IMPERIAL TRAGI-COMEDY, IN TWO ACTS, IN ACTIVE REHEARSAL._)

["Well, if it comes to fighting, we should be just in
a hole."--_A Linesman's Opinion of the New Rifle, from
Conversation in Daily Paper._]