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. 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 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. And stir its calm content; 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. 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 You fancy this the finest of ovations, And feel a thrill of triumph, I'll be bound. Bow! bow! The bouquets and " Bis! bis!" seem glorious, Mere charivari, very little meaning, Cher" Faute-de-mieux"! A truly happy nomen, Your Song! Mere clap-trap smooth and noisy clatter; My "turn" will come, and my new song, "Revision," 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, 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. 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. MISCREANT! Caitiff! thus around thee DISMAYED DETECTIVE. To tell my plans,-drop my disguise. A PROMINENT MEMBER OF THE CRIMINAL What! Would you gag the Daily Papers, AN ANONYMOUS CORRESPONDENT. it out," How pen my rubbish without stint, CHORUS (threateningly): DISMAYED DETECTIVE. [Enter a Chief Commissioner. 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, When no clue on the surface is seen, You forget a Detective is meant to detect. 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. 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. |