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IMMORTALITY INDEED!

"We've got it somewhere. I remember my father and grandfather talking about it. It's in an old house belonging to our family- Here he stops and stretches out his stick as if making a point. "The Waterfall's up there," and he indicates a path through the garden of a pretty little hostelrie which calls itselfThe years" on a statue of SHAKSPEARE, which has now been presented to Falls Hotel.'

A tidy landlady appears at the door.

"Mornin', Mrs. BRAITHWAITE!" says the Wicked Uncle. "We've still got some of that old whiskey you used to be so fond

of, Sir," says the tidy landlady, by way of reply.

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Have you?" he returns. Ah-well," he says, looking at me, we must taste that. It's no use trying to get to the Waterfall today," he says, looking at his watch; "Must back t' Lunch," and he takes down the nip with real relish. We bid the tidy landlady good-bye. When we are about a hundred yards down the road the Uncle discovers that he has left his umbrella behind. He won't be a minute; only just back to Mrs. BRAITHWAITE'S. In something under a quarter of an hour he returns. He seems to walk with some difficulty. This he attributes to rheumatism.

On our way home he is less communicative than he was. He seems to regret having confided to me his family grievance. I ask him why he doesn't publish the family documents? I remind him of the existence of the Old Manuscripts Commission, and point out how valuable these documents in the possession of his family would be. "Think," I say to him, "of the new light these papers would throw on the controversy as to the truth about MARY Queen of Scots." But the Wicked Uncle preserves a dogged silence. Once he mutters bitterly, "What's-doose-use-now?" After a time he uses

strong language about MARY Queen of Scots, then he relapses into silence, and, with his head bent, he either seems to be carefully watching his feet, or to be walking in his sleep.

We walk on, but our pace is delayed by the Wicked Uncle, who insists on carefully picking his way so as to avoid the slosh and mud, in which, however, he is not signally successful, as any effort to keep clear of a puddle on his right sends him into another on his left. On every occasion he exclaims, in the most good-natured tone possible, "Bless the Queen!" a formula which he uses as a substitute for more forcible language. Whether he is blessing MARY Queen of Scots, or our own Gracious Sovereign, I haven't an idea, but he is no longer stern and vindictive; and when I try to introduce afresh the subject of "road collops," WERDIE's last dying speech and confession, the Old Manuscript Commission, and the search into his historical papers, he only stares at me with a blank expression, shuts his eyes, opens them, and says in a tone of helpless resignation, "What's-doose-use ?"

We reach the house. Long after luncheon time. The Wicked Uncle begs me to "scuse him a minute as must write a port'nt ler." Neither ladies nor shooters have returned. The attentive butler has kept luncheon hot for anyone who may come in. No sign of Wicked Uncle. I finish lunch. In the library (not the bookshelves in the smoking-room where the literature is limited to the New Newgate Calendar, Illustrated, and one or two other books already specified), I find Robertson's Scotland in ten volumes. I examine the index, and retire to our bachelors' quarters in the Annexe with several of them. Now I will read up the subject, and refute the story I've heard this morning. I sit down with note-book, pens, ink, and paper. Light pipe. Storm. Afternoon becoming darker. Candles necessary: I am still at work on the subject (not having yet come across any mention, even in the earliest history, of WERDIE of the Whirlpool), when I hear a loud shout, much laughter, then the watch-cry of the Lochglennie Clan, "How are you ?" and my door is opened by D. B., who exclaims:

Uncle ?"

"How are you? What have you been doing with the Wicked "Nothing," I protest. "Why?" "Because," says the Laird, with a quiet chuckle, "when the housemaid went to light the fire in the smoking-room, she found him fast asleep in the waste-paper basket."

"I know," says D. B. to me, "he's been telling you all about WERDIE and MARY Queen of Squats, and he always finishes like that. He's all right now. How are you?" and off they go to their dressing-rooms.

I read no more of Robertson's Scotland, and shall not write to the Secretary of the Old Manuscripts Commission.

"OH, MY DEAR MUMMY!"-In last September's Number of The Universal Review there was an article on Mummer Worship," and in the October issue there is a graceful and witty poem by Sir EDWIN ARNOLD, which might be called Mummery Worship, as it is addressed to a pair of old slippers in the Egyptian Exhibition. Perhaps they were CLEOPATRA's. Certes, Sir EDWIN, that female sarpint was a slippery sort of person. The pictures, signed "J. B. P.," possess more than artistic merit, as they exactly illustrate the poem without departing one iota-or rather one Delta"-from this dream of Old Nile.

66

LORD RONALD GOWER, it is said, "has been at work for twelve

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the town of Stratford-on-Avon. SHAKSPEARE, says the description of it in the Times, "is here represented as seated, with a quill in his right hand." How original! how clever! in his right hand! not behind his ear, or in his mouth, but absolutely in his right hand, as he must have actually used it, unless he were lefthanded. And to think that the renowned sculptor was only twelve years over this great design!! Well, well!! Wonders of genius will

never cease.

The description goes on"his left carelessly thrown over the back of a chair". "-how graceful! how natural! "Care

Lika Joko's idea of the Gower Shakspearian statue after reading the Times repert. lessly," you 'll observe-" and holding a roll of manuscript." Now, SHAKSPEARE in such an attitude, and with these properties, who but a born genius would ever have dreamt of representing 66 a pen in his right hand," and a "roll of manuscript in his left.' What perfect symbolism! "Beneath him," continues the descriptionbut there, what matters what is "beneath him ?" Suffice it that there are figures of Lady Macbeth, Falstaff, Hamlet, and Prince Hal. Then there are "comic and tragic masks"-here's original symbolism for you!-and there are "pilaster angles," and "astragal entablature." We wouldn't have had it without these last not for worlds. Then there are "emblematical plants, fruit, and flowers cast in bronze." "The monument," says the reporter, proudly, "has been presented to the Shakspeare Memorial Association by Lord RONALD GOWER, and its value is estimated at several thousand pounds.' Crafty reporter! "Estimated," indeed! By whom? By Lord RONALD? At how much?"Several thousand pounds." Nonsense! much under the mark-say "millions." But then, why millions? "A thing of Beauty is a joy for ever"-and is priceless. After the luncheon, that Past Master of post-prandial oratory, and himself no mean sculptor, Mr. GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA, in his happiest vein, proposed "The Immortal Memory of SHAKSPEARE," but not (at least according to the report), "coupled with the name of the eminent Sculptor, Lord RONALD GOWER." of the "Divine WILLIAMS," can anything more be done to prevent As Parisians now possess a statue Englishmen forgetting SHAKSPEARE? No. The Bard has been chiselled by Lord RONALD GOWER, and his Immortality is at last assured.

TO THE MAORI FOOTBALL TEAM.
YOU'VE come then, brother Mao- | By Jove, this is a rum age,
At us to have a shy, [ris,
And if we'd guard our glories,
We'll have to mind our eye.
Our camp you seem to flurry,

And stir its calm content;
You've flabbergasted Surrey,
And scrumplicated Kent!"
Your kicking, brother Maoris,
Has given us the kick;
You 're well matched all, well
on the ball," [quick.
And strong, and straight, and

66

When a New Zealand team Licks BULL at goal and sorummage!

It beats MACAULAY's dream. You're welcome, brother Maoris, Here's wishing you good luck! With you there pace and power is, And skill, and lots of pluck. A trifle "rough." Why, just so! But that you'll mend, no doubt, And win, all Sportsmen trust so, In many a friendly bout.

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THE REASON JONES DOESN'T MARRY (SO HE SAYS) IS NOT THAT HE LACKS EITHER THE MEANS OR THE OPPORTUNITY-IT IS BECAUSE HE IS OF AN EXTREMELY DOMESTICATED NATURE, AND LIKES TO SPEND HIS EVENINGS AT HOME.

WAITING HIS "TURN."

Boulanger, "the Café Chantant St. Arnaud," at the wings, loquitur :

ALL very well, mon vieux! Congratulations
Shower upon you from the house all round.

You fancy this the finest of ovations,

And feel a thrill of triumph, I'll be bound.
But stay awhile! I dog you like grim fate;
And all things come to him who will but wait.

Bow! bow! The bouquets and " Bis! bis!" seem glorious,
E'en when they come from rustic hands and throats:
Your well-drilled claque is getting quite uproarious;
Vociferations though are not quite votes.
This hurricane of bravas! wild and windy,
What is it but what coarse JOHN BULL calls "shindy."

Mere charivari, very little meaning,

Cher" Faute-de-mieux"! A truly happy nomen,
In which, though your conceit is overweening,
You must, methinks, detect a fateful omen.
You're but a stop-gap Star, man, after all;
And when I rise upon them, you will fall.

Your Song! Mere clap-trap smooth and noisy clatter;
In a good house it scarce would get a hand.
And as for your stale "business" and poor "patter,"
Those who applaud them do not understand.
Oh yes, bow, smirk, my CARNOT, swallow praise
Whilst you can get it; 'tis a passing craze.

My "turn" will come, and my new song, "Revision,"
Will bring the house down in a sort of style
Shall make you a mere memory of derision;
So at your fleeting triumph I can smile.
Why, in its fullest flush my presence stings;
I caught that furtive look towards the wings!

I am your atra cura, and you know it.

Ask FLOQUET! Such tame trash invites its doom.

You want a chic composer and a poet,

Whose verse can make the People thrill-Bim! Boom!

I know the trick of it, I'll make them burn,

Flare, flame, explode! I only wait my "turn"!

MOST UNWARRENTABLE!

THE attack on Sir CHARLES WARREN. Those who join in bloodhounding him down must be interested in renewing the scenes ofj riot and disorder in Trafalgar Square with which Sir CHARLES dealt most effectively. The Police Force requires strengthening, and Sir CHARLES is perfectly alive to the fact. What on earth can it matter if, in number, our Police compare favourably with the Police force at Constantinople, or St. Petersburgh, or Vienna, or Jericho, if we have not sufficient Police to protect life and property in the Metropolis? The Londoner may say,

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THE "CAFE CHANTANT ST. ARNAUD." "ALL VERY WELL-FAUTE DE MIEUX'!-BUT WAIT TILL THEY HEAR MY NEW TOPICAL SONG, REVISION.' THAT'LL FETCH 'EM!!"

METROPOLITAN IMPROVEMENTS.

CALLING TO MIND AN OMISSION.

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An evening paper, last week, filled several columns of its pages with a list of the robberies that have taken place of late in various parts of London. One entry was to the effect that twelve months back, a bottle of lozenges was stolen from the shop of a chemist, and there were other announcements of equally startling importance. Strange to say there was no reference to the disappearance of brains some years ago from the office of the paper in question-from the Editor's room-brains that seemingly have not since been recovered.

Conundrums.

No. 1.-Of what use was VINCENT HOWARD in the Detective Department?

No. 2.-Of what use is he anywhere?

A prize will be given for a moderately satisfactory solution of either of the above conundrums.

HEIGHO, BACCHE!-In the Times, last Friday, its Correspondent at Vienna wrote, under the heading, "AUSTRIA-HUNGARY: ".

"The vintage has begun all over the Empire, but the wine will be everywhere poor in quality, and not much in quality. There never was within living memory such a bad year for vines."

This is bad for Austria-Hung'ry, but it's worse for Austria-Thirsty.

A SHORT ACT OF PARLIAMENT IS PASSED, PROVIDING THAT NO MAN SHALL BE "WHAT IS WORN" is the title of an article on Fashion ALLOWED TO OCCUPY THE INSIDE OF AN OMNIBUS UNTIL EVERY LADY IS SEATED. in the Daily News. "I can answer the question, "What is Worn,' writes a Constant Non-subscriber, signing SIR MORELL MACKENZIE, in his " Reply," has performed an eminently" IMPY Q-NIOUS." My last two winters' overcoat is successful operation on the German "Doctor Wasps." He has taken the worn-very much worn. So much so, that I can't wear sting out of their tales.

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MISCREANT! Caitiff! thus around thee
Closing, glibly we confound thee!
Thou must feed the morbid hunger
Of the grim Sensation-monger.
Tell us then what thou art doing,
What and whom art thou pursuing?
Quick! Give details! No delay!
Answer our persistent bray.

DISMAYED DETECTIVE.
Good people, surely you'll reflect
My work is simply to detect.
And how can I my object gain
If I my methods must explain?
It certainly would not be wise

To tell my plans,-drop my disguise.

A PROMINENT MEMBER OF THE CRIMINAL
CLASSES (con fuoco).

What! Would you gag the Daily Papers,
That tip us your Detective capers P
Why! how could coves like us find out,
Without 'em, just what you 're about?

AN ANONYMOUS CORRESPONDENT.
And how could I my fancies air,
And help to feed the daily scare?

it out,"

How pen my rubbish without stint,
And see myself set up in print?
A SUB-EDITOR OF A DAILY PAPER.
And how could I material waste
Which tickles so the public taste?
(Advancing on Dismayed Detective.)
So tell me what you mean to do,
What course you purpose to pursue.
I care not how the wind I raise
So that I feed the public craze!

CHORUS (threateningly):
Answer! Give the information
We are craving for sensation.
Quick! The details! No delay!
Answer our persistent bray.

DISMAYED DETECTIVE.
And they would force me to reveal
The very facts I should conceal!
There's no escape. Else would I fly!
Will no one give me help?

[Enter a Chief Commissioner.
CHIEF COMMISSIONER.
Yes, I?

CHORUS (falling back).

Sir CHARLES himself! What can he have to say?

CHIEF COMMISSIONER. Attend! I'll sing you my official lay.

Song.

When tracking some terrible crime,
For a moment the force seems at fault,
And Justice appears for a time

When no clue on the surface is seen,
To be baffled, and beaten, and halt.
And the trail is obscure and effaced,
Do you think the Detective's so green
As to let you know all he has traced.
Surely, goodness alone knows what next
you'll expect!

You forget a Detective is meant to detect.

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So it isn't by showing his hand,

Or supplying the needs of the Press With a sketch of the scheme he has plann'd, That his efforts he 'll crown with success; But by keeping the threads that he's got To himself, careful no chance to miss. Well, he tracked out the dynamite plotTen to one he'll make something of this! But that you'll share his confidence, pray don't expect.

Bear in mind a Detective is meant to detect! CHORUS.

We like not your official lay,

And heed no word of what you say.
Fit but, with your blockhead Force,
Crowds to drive from Charing Cross.
Military Martinet,

We'll be even with you yet! Thus your dictum we oppose. (They seize the Dismayed Detective.) What you 're up to, quick, disclose! CHIEF COMMISSIONER. Release him! (Waves truncheon.) For I summon thus a power [cower! Beneath whose gaze a crew like you will [The Scene opens at back, and reveals the Goddess of Luke-warm Public Opinion surrounded by a halo of moderate light. She extends her wand, when all the Chorus shrink back dazed, leaving the Dismayed Detective, who approaches her gratefully, in the centre of the Stage.

CHORUS (shuddering as they retreat). Baffled! who will feed the hunger Of the balked Sensation-monger? Still, whate'er the world may say, We'll keep up our blatant bray! [They cower lower and lower slinking away, while the Goddess of Luke-warm Public Opinion smiles faintly on the Chief Commissioner and the Dismayed Detective as the Curtain slowly descends.

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