Chapter VIII: Act IV: Another splendid scene. Magnificently attired, Hayston

of Bucklaw_ attempts to raise a laugh. Success. _Mrs. Mac Bouncer_ coerces _Lucy_ in white satin to sign the fatal contract that will settle Master. Ah! that awful laugh--far more tragic than the one secured by _Bucklaw_! It is _Lucy_ going mad! She has already shown signs of incipient insanity by calling Mr. HOWE, otherwise _Bide-the-Bent_, a "holy Father,"--much to that excellent comedian's surprised content. Contract signed. Return of "Master." _Dénoûment_ must be seen to be appreciated. Here McMERIVALE bids Sir WALTER good-bye, and finishes in his own way. Last scene of all, and the loveliest. The earliest rays of the sun shining on the advancing tide! _Caleb_ picks up all that is left of "Master"--a feather! With Miss ELLEN, Master HENRY, McMARRIOTT, McMERIVALE, MACKINTOSH, MACKENZIE, and HAWES McCRAVENSWOOD, here is a success which the advancing tide of popular favour will float till Easter or longer, and will then leave a new feather in the cap of Master.

* * * * *

AN EMPEROR'S WILL.

[The German Emperor is an accomplished Sportsman. He appears
to be able to bring down his birds at will.--_Daily News_.]

Would you like to be an Emperor, and wear a golden crown,
With fifty different uniforms for every single day;
To make the nations shudder with the semblance of a frown,
And, if BISMARCKS should oppose you, just to order them away?
With your actions autocratic,
And your poses so dramatic;
Yours the honour and the glory, while the country pays the bill,
With your shouting sempiternal,
And your Grandmamma a Colonel,
And the power--which is best of all--to shoot your birds by will.

Then the joy of gallopading with a helmet and a sword,
While the thunder of your cannons wakes the echoes from afar.
And if, while you're in Germany, you happen to be bored,
Why, you rush away to Russia, and you call upon the CZAR.
With your wordy perorations,
And your peaceful proclamations,
While you grind the nation's manhood in your military mill.
And whenever skies look pleasant
Out you go and shoot a pheasant,
Or as many as you want to, with your double-barrelled will.

You can always flout your father, too--he's dead, but never mind;
He and all who dream as he did are much better in their graves.
And you cross the sea to Osborne, and, if Grandmamma be kind,
You become a British Admiral, and help to rule the waves;
With Jack Tars to say "Ay, Ay, Sir!"
To this nautical young Kaiser,
Who is like the waves he sails on, since he never can be still.
Who to every other blessing
Adds the proud one of possessing
A gun-replacing, bird-destroying, game-bag-filling will.

* * * * *

"HATS OFF!"--MR. EDWARD CROSSLEY, M.P., is to be congratulated on a narrow escape, according to the report in the _Times_ last week. During service in the Free Church at Brodick, some portion of the ceiling gave way, Mr. CROSSLEY was covered with plaster--better to be covered with plaster before than after an accident--and "_his hat was cut to pieces_." From which it is to be inferred that "hats are much worn" during Divine service in the Free Church, as in the Synagogue. And so no fanatic can be admitted who has "a tile off." How fortunate for Mr. E. CROSSLEY that this ancient custom of the Hebrews is still observed in the Free Kirk. Since then Mr. CROSSLEY has bought a new tile, and is, therefore, perfectly re-covered.

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

The Baron says that he has scarcely been able to get through the first morning of _The Last Days of Palmyra_, which story, so far, reminds him--it being the fashion just now to mention Cardinal NEWMAN's works--of the latter's _Callista_. And _à propos_ of _Callista_ let me refer my readers to one of the best written articles on the Cardinal that I have seen. It is to be found in _Good Words_ for October, and is by Mr. R.H. HUTTON. The Baron is coaching himself up for a visit to the Lyceum to see _Ravenswood_, of which, on all hands, he hears so much that is good. What a delightful scene where _Caleb_ steals the wild-fowl from the spit, and the subsequent one, where _Dame Lightbody_ cuffs the astonished little bairn's head! "As fresh to me," protests the Baron, "laughing in my chair, as I have been doing but a minute ago, as it was when I read it, the Council and Kirk-session only know how long ago!" And this farcical scene was considered so "grotesquely and absurdly extravagant" by Sir WALTER's contemporary critics (peace be to their hashes! Who _were_ they? What were their names? Who cares?) that the great novelist actually explains how the incident was founded on one in real life.

Now to my books. Gadzooks, what's here? Another volume of _Obiter Dicta?_ By one author this time, for if my memory fails me not, the previous little book was writ by two scribes. Well, no matter--or rather lots of matter--and by AUGUSTINE BIRRELL, who represents _Obiter_ and _Dicta_ too. With an unclassical false quantity anyone who so chooses to unscholarise himself, can speak of him as the _O'Biter_, so sharp and pungent are some of his remarks. Ah! here is something on LAMB. For me, quoth the Baron, LAMB is always in season, serve up the dish with what trimmings you may, but, if you please, no sauce. Size and shape are the only things against friend _Obiter_. It is not what this sort of book ought to be, portable and potable, like the craftily qualified contents of a pocket-flask, refreshing on a tedious journey. Had _Obiter_ been the size of either _The Handy Volume Shakspeare_, or of Messrs. ROUTLEDGE'S Redbacks--both the Baron's prime favourites--the Baron would have been able to dip into it more frequently, as he would into that same pocket-flask aforementioned.

"Next, please!" BLACKIE'S _Modern Cyclopedia_. Vol. VII., so we're getting along. I'll just cast my eye over it; one eye, not two, says the Baron, out of compliment to the Cyclops. This Volume deals with the letters "P," "R," "S," and any person wishing to master a few really interesting subjects for dinner conversation will read and learn up all about Procyon, Pizemysi, and Pyrheliometer, Quotelet, Quintal, and Quito, Regulus, Ramazan, Rheumatism, Rhynchops, Rum-Shrub, and Rupar, Samoyedes, Semiquaver, Sahjehanpur, Silket, Sinter, and Size. When it is known what a gay conversationalist he is, he may induce some one to put him up for a cheery Club, where he will be Blackie-balled. Still, by studying the Cyclopedia carefully, with a view to being ready with words for charades and dumb-crambo during the festive Christmas-tide, he may once again achieve a certain amount of popularity, on which, as on fresh laurels, he had better retire.

"Next, please!" _How Stanley Wrote his Darkest Africa_. By Mr. E. MARSTON. A most interesting little book, published by SAMPSON LOW & Co., illustrated with excellent photographs, and with a couple of light easy sketches, by, I suppose, the Author, which makes the Baron regret that he didn't do more of them. "Buy it," says the Baron. The Baron recommends the perusal of this little book, if only to understand the full meaning of the old proverbial expression "Going on a wild-goose chase." The author is a wonderfully rapid-act traveller. He apparently can "run" round every principal city in Europe and see everything that's worth seeing in it in about an hour and a half at most. In this manner, and by not comprehending a word of the language wherever he is, or at all events only a very few of the words, he continues to pick up much curious information which probably would be novel to slower coaches than himself.

Interesting account of JOSEF ISRAELS in the _Magazine of Art_; but his portrait makes him look gigantic, which JOSEF is in Art, but not in stature. Those who "know not JOSEF," if any such there be, will learn much about him, and desire to know more. "Baroness," says the Baron, "you are right: let Hostesses and all dinner-givers read 'Some Humours of the Cuisine' in _The Woman's World_." The parodies of the style of Mr. PATER, and of a translation of a Tolstoian Romance in _The Cornhill Magazine_, are capital. In the same number, "Farmhouse Notes" are to The Baron like the Rule of Three in the ancient rhyme to the youthful student,--"it puzzles _me_." It includes a few anecdotes of some Farm'ous Persons; so perhaps the title is a crypto-punnygraph.

All Etonians should possess _The English Illustrated Magazine_ (MACMILLAN'S), 1889-90, for the sake of the series of papers and the pictures of Eton College. There is also an interesting paper on the Beefsteak Room at the Lyceum by FREDERICK HAWKINS. Delightful Beefsteak Room! What pleasant little suppers--But no matter--my supper time is past--"Too late, too late, you cannot enter here," ought to be the warning inscribed over every Club or other supper-room, addressed chiefly to those who are of the Middle Ages, as is the mediæval

BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

* * * * *

FASHIONS IN PHYSIC.

[The President of the British Pharmaceutical Conference lately
drew attention to the prevalence of fashion in medicine.]

A fashion in physic, like fashions in frills:
The doctors at one time are mad upon pills;
And crystalline principles now have their day,
Where alkaloids once held an absolute sway.
The drugs of old times might be good, but it's true,
We discard them in favour of those that are new.

The salts and the senna have vanished, we fear,
As the poet has said, like the snows of last year;
And where is the mixture in boyhood we quaff'd,
That was known by the ominous name of Black Draught?
While Gregory's Powder has gone, we are told,
To the limbo of drugs that are worn out and old.

New fads and new fancies are reigning supreme,
And calomel one day will be but a dream;
While folks have asserted a chemist might toil
Through his shelves, and find out he had no castor oil;
While as to Infusions, they've long taken wings,
And they'd think you quite mad for prescribing such things.

The fashion to-day is a tincture so strong,
That, if dosing yourself, you are sure to go wrong.
What men learnt in the past they say brings them no pelf,
And the well-tried old remedies rest on the shelf.
But the patient may haply exclaim, "Don't be rash,
Lest your new-fangled physic should settle my hash!"

* * * * *

"TWINKLE, TWINKLE, LITTLE STAR!"--Professor JOHN TYNDALL wrote to T.W. RUSSELL last week commencing:--"Here, in the Alps, at the height of more than 7,000 feet above the sea, have I read your letter to the _Times_ on 'the War in Tipperary.'" Prodigious! "7,000 feet" up in the air. "How's that for high?" as the Americans say. How misty his views must be in this cloudland--and that the Professor's writing should be above the heads of the people, goes without saying.

* * * * *

FEMALE ATHLETICISM.--If Ladies go in for "the gloves," not as formerly by the coward's blow on the lips of a sleeping victim--often uncommonly wide-awake--the noble art of self-defence can be taught under the head of "Millin-ery."

* * * * *

"CHANGE OF AIR--WANTED," by a party much broken up, a new tune to replace the "_Boulanger March_!" If the new tune cannot be found, we can at least suggest a change of title for the old one. So, instead of "_En revenant de la Revue_," let it be "_En rêvant à la Revue_." It should commence brilliantly, then intermediate variations, in which sharps and flats would play a considerable part, and, finally, after a chromatic scale, down not up, of accidentals, it should finish in the minor _rallentando diminuendo_, and end like the comic overture (whose we forget--HAYDN'S?), where all the performers sneak off, and the conductor is left alone in his glory.

* * * * *

The British Fire Brigade representatives took with them a dog, to be presented to President CARNOT. Why only one dog? Two fire-dogs are to be found on the hearth of every old French Château. Why only half do it?

* * * * *

_Brown_ (_whose prize St. Bernard has just snatched a fillet of Veal from a Butcher's slab_). "HI! COME AND TAKE YOUR CONFOUNDED MEAT AWAY FROM HIM! _HE'S EATING THE SKEWERS!_"]

* * * * *

"DEATH AND HIS BROTHER SLEEP."

_QUEEN MAB_.

[Major MARINDIN, in his Report to the Board of Trade on
the railway collision at Eastleigh, attributes it to the
engine-driver and stoker having "failed to keep a proper
look-out." His opinion is, that both men were "asleep, or
nearly so," owing to having been on duty for sixteen hours
and a-half. "He expresses himself in very strong terms on
the great danger to the public of working engine-drivers and
firemen for too great a number of hours."--_Daily Chronicle_.]

_Who_ is in charge of the clattering train?
The axles creak, and the couplings strain.
Ten minutes behind at the Junction. Yes!
And we're twenty now to the bad--no less!
We must make it up on our flight to town.
Clatter and crash! That's the last train down,
Flashing by with a steamy trail.
Pile on the fuel! We must not fail.
At every mile we a minute must gain!
_Who_ is in charge of the clattering train?

Why, flesh and blood, as a matter of course!
You may talk of iron, and prate of force;
But, after all, and do what you can,
The best--and cheapest--machine is Man!
Wealth knows it well, and the hucksters feel
'Tis safer to trust them to sinew than steel.
With a bit of brain, and a conscience, behind,
Muscle works better than steam or wind.
Better, and longer, and harder all round;
And cheap, so cheap! Men superabound
Men stalwart, vigilant, patient, bold;
The stokehole's heat and the crow's-nest's cold,
The choking dusk of the noisome mine,
The northern blast o'er the beating brine,
With dogged valour they coolly brave;
So on rattling rail, or on wind-scourged wave,
At engine lever, at furnace front,
Or steersman's wheel, _they_ must bear the brunt
Of lonely vigil or lengthened strain.
_Man_ is in charge of the thundering train!

Man, in the shape of a modest chap
In fustian trousers and greasy cap;
A trifle stolid, and something gruff,
Yet, though unpolished, of sturdy stuff.
With grave grey eyes, and a knitted brow,
The glare of sun and the gleam of snow
Those eyes have stared on this many a year.
The crow's-feet gather in mazes queer
About their corners most apt to choke
With grime of fuel and fume of smoke.
Little to tickle the artist taste--
An oil-can, a fist-full of "cotton waste,"
The lever's click and the furnace gleam,
And the mingled odour of oil and steam;
These are the matters that fill the brain
Of the Man in charge of the clattering train.

Only a Man, but away at his back,
In a dozen ears, on the steely track,
A hundred passengers place their trust
In this fellow of fustian, grease, and dust.
They cheerily chat, or they calmly sleep,
Sure that the driver _his_ watch will keep
On the night-dark track, that he will not fail.
So the thud, thud, thud of wheel upon rail
The hiss of steam-spurts athwart the dark.
Lull them to confident drowsiness. Hark!

What is that sound? 'Tis the stertorous breath
Of a slumbering man,--and it smacks of death!
Full sixteen hours of continuous toil
Midst the fume of sulphur, the reek of oil,
Have told their tale on the man's tired brain,
And Death is in charge of the clattering train!

Sleep--Death's brother, as poets deem,
Stealeth soft to his side; a dream
Of home and rest on his spirit creeps,
That wearied man, as the engine leaps,
Throbbing, swaying along the line;
Those poppy-fingers his head incline
Lower, lower, in slumber's trance;
The shadows fleet, and the gas-gleams dance
Faster, faster in mazy flight,
As the engine flashes across the night.
Mortal muscle and human nerve
Cheap to purchase, and stout to serve.
Strained _too_ fiercely will faint and swerve.
Over-weighted, and underpaid,
This human tool of exploiting Trade,
Though tougher than leather, tenser than steel.
Fails at last, for his senses reel,
His nerves collapse, and, with sleep-sealed eyes,
Prone and helpless a log he lies!
A hundred hearts beat placidly on,
Unwitting they that their warder's gone;
A hundred lips are babbling blithe,
Some seconds hence they in pain may writhe.
For the pace is hot, and the points are near,
And Sleep hath deadened the driver's ear;
And signals flash through the night in vain.
Death is in charge of the clattering train!

* * * * *

"WHAT TO DO WITH OUR GIRLS." (_Paterfamilias's answer_.)--Give them away! (Matrimonially, of course.)

* * * * *

(_See Major Marindin's Report to the Board of Trade on the Railway Collision near Eastleigh._)]

* * * * *

Mr. ---- moved, "That this Mass-meeting pledges itself to support the efforts of Messrs. ---- & Co.'s men, by joining the Union, and further pledges itself to take all legal efforts to prevent anyone obtaining a job there so long as the dispute lasts." The resolution was carried by acclamation.

_Coroner_. How is it the child's father cannot get work? _Witness_. Because he has no Union card. _Coroner_. Then if men do not belong to the different Trades Unions they must starve.--_Coroner's Inquest Report_.]

* * * * *

ALL VERY VINE!

(_WITH ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO THE WHITE KNIGHT IN "THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS."_)

["One of the most interesting exhibits (at the Royal
Horticultural Society's Grape and Dahlia Show at Chiswick)
were clusters of grapes with the scent and taste of
strawberries and raspberries, as grown in Transatlantic
hothouses."--_Daily Paper_.]

I'll tell thee everything I can;
There's little to relate:
I met a simple citizen
Of some "United State."
"Who are you, simple man?" I said,
"And how is it you live?"
And his answer seemed quite 'cute from one
So shy and sensitive.

He said, "I make electric cats
That prowl upon the leads,
To prey upon the brutes who raise
Mad music o'er our heads.
I also make all sorts of things
Which much convenience give;
In fact, I'm an inventor spry,
And that is how I live.

"And I am thinking of a plan
For artificial hens,
And automatic dairy-maids,
And self-propelling pens."
"Such things are stale," I made reply,
"They're old, and flat, and thin.
Tell me the last thing in your pate,
Or I will cave it in!"

His accents mild took up the tale:
He said, "I've tried to make
A sirloin out of turnips, and
A vegetable steak."
I shook him well, from side to side,
To stimulate his brain;
"You've got some newer dodge," I cried,
"And that you must explain."

He said, "I always willingly
Do anything to please.
What do you say to growing grapes
That taste like strawberr-ees!
They're showing off at Chiswick now,
As I a sinner am,
Some big black Hamburgs which, when pressed,
Taste just like raspberry jam."

So now whene'er I drink a glass
Of wine that seems like rum,
Or peel myself an orange that
Reminds me of a plum,
Or if I come across a peach
With flavour like a bilberry,
I weep, for it reminds me so
Of Chiswick's Grape and Dahlia Show,
And that 'cute man I used to know,
Who could at will transform a sloe
Into a thing with the aro-
-ma of all fruits known here below,
From apricot to mulberry.

* * * * *

NATIVE GROWTH.

According to a case about oysters--instead of a case, it ought to have been a barrel--heard before Mr. Alderman WILKIN,--and as the case may be still _sub-Aldermanice_, we have nothing to say as to its merits or demerits,--it appears, that in September, 1889, the price of Royal Whitstable Natives was 14s. per 100; i.e., 1s. 3d. for a baker's dozen of thirteen. Though why a baker should be allowed "a little one in," be it oysters or anything else, only Heaven and the erudite Editor of _Notes and Queries_ know. But, without further allusion to the baker, who has just dropped in accidentally as he did into the conversation between _Mrs. Bardell_ and _Mrs. Cluppins_, when _Sam Weller_ joined in, and they all "got a talking," it is enough to make any oyster-lover's mouth water--no doubt the worthy Alderman's did water,--did water "like WILKIN!"--to hear that while everybody, including the worthy Alderman aforesaid, was paying 2s. 6d., and 3s., and even 3s. 6d. for real Natives, some people were gratifying their molluscous tastes at the small charge of One Shilling and Threepence for thirteen, or were getting six oysters and a half--the half be demm'd--for sixpence. Long time is it since we paid 1s. 3d. for Real Royal Natives. They may have left Whitstable at that price, but they never came to our Wits' Table at anything like that figure. Still, to the truly Christian mind it is pleasant, if not consoling, to know that some of our fellow-creatures, not generally so well-favoured as ourselves, should have been able to take advantage of the most favoured Native clause in the Oyster Season of 1889.

*** By the way, in answer to a Correspondent, who signs himself "AN ARTFUL DREDGER, WHO WISHES TO LIVE OUT OF TOWN," we beg to inform him that "Beds" is _not_ a county specially celebrated for oysters.

* * * * *

BREAKING A _RECORD_ ON A WHEEL!

Break, break, break!
On thy "Safety" swift, oh, "crack!"
And I would that my tongue could utter
My thoughts on the cyclist's track.

Oh, well for MECREDY, the "bhoy,"
That "records" for him won't stay;
And well for OSMOND and WOOD
That they break them every day.

And the "Safeties" still improve,
And their riders develope more skill;
And it's oh! for the records of yesterday!
To-morrow they'll all be nil!

Break! break! break!
On thy wheels, oh, S.B.C.!
But the grace of KEITH FALCONER, CORTIS, and KEEN,
Will they ever come back to me?

* * * * *

* * * * *

LOST HAIRS-AT-LAW.

"SEQUEL to a Breach of Promise Case" is the heading to a paragraph in the _Daily Telegraph_, recording how _Turner_ v. _Avant_ was heard before Mr. Commissioner KERR, who adjourned the case for three weeks, because, as Mr. AGABEG, the Counsel for the Plaintiff, observed, without agabegging the question, they couldn't get any information essential to the proceedings as to the whereabouts of the Miss HAIRS, who, after failing in her action against Sir GEORGE ELLIOTT, M.P., gave up minding her own business, which she sold, and retired to the Continent; and Plaintiffs also wanted to know the present address of a certain, or uncertain, Mr. HOLLAND, somewhile Secretary to the Avant Company. Odd this. Not find Hairs in September! Cry "_En Avant_!" and let loose the harriers!--a suggestion that might have been appropriately made by the Commissioner whose name alone, with respect be it said, should qualify him for the Chief Magistracy in the Isle of Dogs. In the meantime the Plaintiffs have three weeks' adjournment in order to search the maps and find HOLLAND.

* * * * *

TITLED MONTHS.--In the list given by the _Figaro_ of those present at Cardinal LAVIGERIE'S great anti-slavery function at Saint Sulpice was "_un ancien ministre plénipotentiare le Baron d'Avril._" What a set of new titles this suggests for any creation, of new Peers in England! Duke of DECEMBER! Earl of FEBRUARY! Of course, the nearest title to Baron D'AVRIL with us is the Earl of MARCH. The Marquis of MAY sounds nice; Lord AUGUST, Baron JULY; and, should a certain eminent ecclesiastical lawyer ever become a Law Lord, there will be yet another British cousin to Baron d'AVRIL and the Earl of MARCH in--Lord JEUNE.

* * * * *

NO MORE LAW OFFICERS!--"An Automatic Recorder on the Forth Bridge" was a heading to a paragraph in the _St. James's_ last Saturday. The announcement must have startled Sir THOMAS CHAMBERS, Q.C. Heavens! If there is one Automatic Recorder in the North, why not another in the South? Automatic Recorders would be followed by Automatic Common Serjeants, and--Isn't it too awful!

* * * * *

_The Herr Professor_. "ACH--BEST MISS ROSY, VILL YOU KINDLY TURN ME OVER!"]

* * * * *

LOOKING FORWARD.

(_EXTRACT FROM "THE DAILY PRIZE-FIGHTER," SEPTEMBER 24, 1900._)

Yesterday morning LOO BOBBETT and BEN MOUSETRAP had an interview with Mr. PHEASANT, the Magistrate presiding in the North-West London Police Court. The approaches to the Court were crowded from an early hour. Amongst those in the street we noticed BILLY BLOWFROTH, and SAM SNEEZER, the well-known pot-boys from "The Glove and Wadding" and "The Tap o'Claret" Hotels, SHINY MOSES, AARON ISAACS, and SANDY the Sossidge (so-called by his friends on account of his appearance), the celebrated bankers from the West-end of Whitechapel, and a large gathering of the _élite_ of the Lambeth Road. Inside the Court the company was, if possible, even more select. Mr. TITAN CHAPEL, the proprietor of the Featherbed Club, was the first to arrive in his private brougham, and he was followed at short intervals by the Earl of ARRIEMORE, Lord TRIMI GLOVESON, Mr. TOOWITH YEW, Mr. BRANDIC OHLD, Mr. SPLITTS ODER, Mr. GINCOCK TALE, and Mr. ANGUS TEWBER, with a heap more of the best known patrons of sport in the Metropolis. Little time was cut to waste in the preliminaries, and it was generally acknowledged at the end of the day that no prettier set-to had been witnessed for a long time than that which took place at the North-West London Police Court. We append below some of the more salient portions of the evidence.

_Inspector Chizzlem_. I produce a pair of gloves ordinarily used at London boxing matches. [_Produces them from his waistcoat pocket._

_Mr. Pheasant_ (_the Magistrate_). Pardon me. I don't quite understand. Were the gloves that you produce to be used at this particular competition?

_Inspector Chizzlem_. No, your Worship. These are one ounce gloves. The gloves with which these men were to fight are known as "feather-weight" gloves.

_Mr. Pheasant_. Ah, I see. Feather-weight, not feather-bed, I presume. (_Loud Laughter, in which both the accused joined._) Have you the actual gloves with you?

_Mr. Titan Chapel_ (_from the Solicitor's table_). I have brought them, Sir. Here--dear me, what can I have done with them? I thought I had them somewhere about me. (_Pats his various pockets. A thought strikes him. He pulls out his watch_.) Ah, of course, how foolish of me! I generally carry them in my watch-case.

[_Opens watch, produces them, and hands them up to Magistrate_.

_Mr. Pheasant_. Dear me!--so these are gloves. I know I am inexperienced in these matters, but they look to me rather like elastic bands. (_Roars of laughter. Mr. PHEASANT tries them on._) However, they teem to fit very nicely. Yes, who is the next witness?

_The Earl of Arriemore_ (_entering the witness-box_). I am, my noble sportsman.

_Mr. Pheasant_. Who are you?

_The Earl of Arriemore_. ARRIEMORE'S my name, yer Washup, wich I'm a bloomin' Lord.

_Mr. Pheasant_. Of course--of course. Now tell me, have you ever boxed at all yourself?

_The Earl of Arriemore_. Never, thwulp me, never! But I like to set the lads on to do a bit of millin' for me.

_Mr. Pheasant_. Quite so. Very right and proper. What do you say to the gloves produced by the inspector?

_The Earl of Arriemore_. Call _them_ gloves? Why, I calls 'em woolsacks, that's what I calls 'em. [_Much laughter._

_Mr. Pheasant_. No doubt, that would be so. But now with regard to these other gloves, do you say they would be calculated to deaden the force of a blow; in fact, to prevent such a contest from degenerating into a merely brutal exhibition, and to make it, as I understand it ought to be, a contest of pure skill?

_The Earl of Arriemore_. That's just it. Why, two babbies might box with them gloves and do themselves no harm. And, as to skill, why it wants a lot of skill to hit with 'em at all.

[_Winks at Lord TRIMI GLOVESON, who winks back._

_Mr. Pheasant_. Really? That is very interesting, very interesting indeed! I think perhaps the best plan will be for the two principals to accompany me into my private room, to give a practical exemplification of the manner in which such a contest is generally conducted. (_At this point the learned Magistrate retired from the Bench, and was followed into his private room by LOO BOBBETT. BEN MOUSETRAP, and their Seconds. After an hour's interval, Mr. PHEASANT returned to the Bench alone_.) I will give my decision at once. The prize must be handed over to Mr. MOUSETRAP. That last cross-counter of his fairly settled Mr. BOBBETT. I held the watch myself, and I know that he lay on the ground stunned for a full minute. (_To the_ Usher.) Send the Divisional Surgeon into my room at once, and fetch an ambulance. The Court will now adjourn.

[_Loud applause, which was instantly suppressed._

_Mr. Pheasant_ (_sternly_).> This Court is not a Prize-Ring.

* * * * *

"A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE" AT THE AVENUE.

First of all, the title of the piece is against it. _The Struggle for Life_ suggests to the general British Public, unacquainted with the name of DAUDET, a melodrama of the type of _Drink_, in which a variety of characters should be engaged in the great struggle for existence. It is suggestive of strikes, the great struggle between Labour and Capital, between class and class, between principal and interest, between those with moral principles and those without them. It is suggestive of the very climax of melodramatic sensation, and, being suggestive of all this to the majority, the majority will be disappointed when it doesn't get all that this very responsible title has led them to expect. Those who know the French novel will be dissatisfied with the English adaptation of it, filtered, as it has been, through a French dramatic version of the story. So much for the title. For the play itself, as given by Messrs. BUCHANAN and HORNER,--the latter of whom, true to ancestral tradition, will have his finger in the pie,--it is but an ordinary drama, strongly reminding a public which knows its DICKENS of the story of _Little Em'ly_, with _Vaillant_ for _Old Peggotty_, _Lydie_ for _Little Em'ly_, _Antonin Caussade_ for _Ham_, and _Paul Astier_ for _Steerforth_. Perhaps it would be carrying the resemblance too far to see in _Rosa Dartle_, with her scorn For "that sort of creature," the germ of _Esther de Sélény_. Mix this with a situation from _Le Monde où l'on s'ennuie_, spoilt in the mixing, and there's the drama.

For the acting--it is admirable. Miss GENEVIEVE WARD is superb as _Madame Paul Astier_, and it is not her fault, but the misfortune of the part, that the wife of _Paul_ is a woman old enough to be his mother, with whose sufferings--with her eyes wide open, having married a man of whose worthlessness she was aware,--it is impossible to feel very much sympathy. She is old enough to have known better. Mr. GEORGE ALEXANDER'S performance of the scoundrel _Paul_ leaves little to be desired, but he must struggle for dear life against his--of course, unconscious--imitation of HENRY IRVING. Shut your eyes to the facts, occasionally, especially in the death-scene, and it is the voice of IRVING; open them, and it is ALEXANDER agonising. No one can care for the fine lady, statuesquely impersonated by Miss ALMA STANLEY, who yields as easily to _Paul's_ seductive wooing as does _Lady Anne_ to _Richard the Third_. After Miss WARD and Mr. ALEXANDER, the best performance is that of Miss GRAVES as _Little Em'ly Lydie_, and of Mr. FREDERICK KERR as _Antonin Ham Caussade_,--the last-named enlisting the genuine sympathy of the audience for a character which, in less able hands, might have bordered on the grotesque. The comic parts have simply been made bores by the adapters, and are not suited to the farcical couple, Miss KATE PHILLIPS and Mr. ALBERT CHEVALIER, who are cast for them. If this play is to struggle successfully for life, the weakest, that is, the comic element, should at once go to the wall, and the fittest alone, that is, the tragic, should survive. Also, as the play begins at the convenient hour of 8.45, it should end punctually at eleven. The only realistic scene is in _Paul Astier's_ room, when he is dressing for dinner, and washes his hands with real soap, uses real towels, and puts real studs and links into his shirt, and then suddenly reminded, as it were, by a titter which pervades the house, that there are "ladies present," he disappears for a few seconds, and returns in his evening-dress trowsers and nice clean shirt, looking, except for the absence of braces, like a certain well-known haberdasher's pictorial advertisement. It is vastly to the credit of the management that all the articles of _Paul's_ toilet, including Soap(!!), are not turned to pecuniary advantage in the advertisements on the programmes. But isn't it a chance lost in _The Struggle for Life_ at the Avenue?

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CITY VESTRIES AND CITY BENEFACTIONS.

I have lately had the distinguished honour conferred upon me of being unanimously elected a Vestryman of the important Parish of Saint Michael-Shear-the-Hog, which I need hardly say is situate in the ancient and renowned City of London. I owe my election I believe, to the undoubted fact that I am what is called--I scarcely know why--a tooth-and-nail Conservative, no one of anything approaching to Radicalism being ever allowed to enter within the sacred precincts of our very select Body. Our number is small, but, I am informed, we represent the very pick of the Parish, and we have confided to us the somewhat desperate task of defending the funds entrusted to us, centuries ago, from the fierce attack of Commissioners with almost unlimited powers, but with little or no sympathy with the sacred wishes of deceased Parishioners.

Our contention is that wherever, from circumstances that our pious ancestors could not have foreseen, it has become simply impossible to carry out literally their instructions, the funds should be applied to strictly analogous purposes. For instance, now in a neighbouring Parish, I am not quite sure whether it is St. Margaret Moses, or St. Peter the Queer, a considerable sum was bequeathed by a pious parishioner in the reign of Queen MARY, of blessed memory, the income from which was to be applied to the purchasing of faggots for the burning of heretics, which it was probably considered would be a considerable saving to the funds of the Parish in question. At the present time, as we all know, although there are doubtless plenty of heretics, it has ceased to be the custom to burn them, so the bequest cannot be applied in accordance with the wishes of the pious founder. The important question therefore arises, how should the bequest be applied? Would it be believed that men are to be found, and men having authority, more's the pity, who can recommend its application to the education of the poor, to the providing of convalescent hospitals, or even the preservation of open spaces for the healthful enjoyment of the masses of the Metropolis! Yet such is the sad fact. My Vestry, I am proud to say, are unanimously of opinion that, in such a case as I have described, common sense and common justice would dictate that, as the intentions of the pious founder cannot be applied to the punishment of vice, it should be devoted to the reward of virtue, and this would be best accomplished by expending the fund in question in an annual banquet to those Vestrymen who attended the most assiduously to the arduous duties of their important office. JOSEPH GREENHORN.

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ANOTHER TERC-ISH ATROCITY.

(_BY A SCEPTICAL SUFFERER._)

[An Austrian physician, Dr. TERC, prescribes bee-stings as a
cure for rheumatism!]

How cloth the little Busy Bee
Insert his poisoned stings,
And kill the keen rheumatic pain
That mortal muscle wrings!

Great Scott! It sounds so like a sell!
Bee-stings for rheumatiz?
As well try wasps to make one well.
That TERC must be a quiz.

Rather would I rheumatics bear
Than try the Busy Bee.
No, Austrian TERC, your cure _may_ work!
But won't he tried on _me_!

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"IL IRA LOIN."--Great day for England in general, and for London in particular, when AUGUSTUS GLOSSOP HARRIS,--the "Gloss-op"-portunely appears nothing without the gloss up-on him,--popularly known by the title of AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS, rode to the Embankment with his trumpeters,--it being _infra dig._ to be seen blowing one himself,--with his beautiful banners, and his footmen all in State liveries designed by LEWIS LE GRAND WINGFIELD, he himself (DRURIOLANUS, not LEWIS LE GRAND) being seated in his gorgeous new carriage; Sheriff FARMER, too, equally gorgeous, and equally new, but neither so grand nor so great as DRURIOLANUS The Magnificent. Then followed "the quaint ceremony of admission." Not "Free Admission," by any means, for no man can be a Sheriff of London for nothing. There were loud cheers, and a big Lunch. _Ave Cæsar!_

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