OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

commend the book everywhere, and to everybody, but that by now no such passport is necessary. Certain personages and localities in the THE volumes of "The Autonym Library" by any other name story recall to the Baron's mind a pretty play, and a most successful would be just as handy. "It was a curious coincidence in names,' one, produced at the St. James's Theatre under Mr. ALEXANDER'S quoth the Baron, "that, when first I took up one of these volumes, I management. It was Liberty Hall, by SIDNEY CARTON, and the was discoursing with an eminent judge on some mysterious points in characters were the friendless girl, played, I fancy, by MARION the celebrated 'Claimant' trial, TERRY; the somewhat cynical and mysterious lonely man, played by a full and detailed report of Mr. GEORGE ALEXANDER; and, finally, Toddy, the old bookseller and which would afford matter for book-collector, a part that suited Mr. RIGHTON down to the ground. an Arthur-Ortonym' library Such undesigned coincidences are interesting to reader and playgoer, of fiction." The particular and in no way detract from the author's originality. B. DE B-W.

"OUR BENIGHTED ANCESTORS "

OR, HOW IT WILL STRIKE POSTERITY.
(Circa 2894 A.D.)

';

Amanda (looking over AMANDUS's shoulder). What are you so absorbed in, my dear?

Amandus (rousing himself). Why darling, in this very clever, though painful, antiquarian work by Dr. DIGEMUP called "Dips into the Dismal Ages." (Shudders sympathetically.) Dear, dear, how it makes one pity one's poor, respectable, but ridiculous ancestors of 66 so-called Nineabout a thousand years syne,-say the end of the teenth Century!"

volume which had attracted the Baron's attention was Mad Sir Uchtred of the Hills, by S. R. CROCKETT. 'Tis a strange book, and the "kindly reader," so addressed prefatially by the author, may have a kindly word for it, and, "by my troth," quoth the Baron," the reading of it made pass an hour or so 'twixt meal-times not unpleasantly," the while he sat on the smooth deck of a wave-conquering yacht, in view of the hoary side of the Green Isles of Arrah and Bedad, what time the Sea-any-monies and the coal-scuttle fish shot like blue Amanda. Why dear, what did they do? blazes "through the silver threads of the still and sleepy waters." Amandus. You should rather ask, what did they suffer? I was And that is how the Baron would write were he describing the reading a graphic, but harrowing, account of an extraordinary scene Crockettically. The story of Sir Uchtred was evidently annual "Custom" they had-they, the conventional, commonplace, suggested by the Strange Adventures of the Great King Nebu-conformists of the day, top-hatted Philistines, "civilised" into chadnezzar, and indeed the guileless author would so have it characterlessness, polished into pithlessness, humanised into moral understood from the headings prefixed to his chapters. There is pap and pulp. It seems to have been a custom almost as cruel as much about "Randolph " in it, which is pleasant, seeing that for the blood-bath of Dahomey, as irrational and tormenting as the some time" our only Randolph" is absent from us, going round the hari-kari of old Japan. world, and getting himself, the Baron hopes, all round again by the Amanda. Dear me! Poor dear deluded duffers, why did they do it? process.

Sir Uchtred goes mad, mad as a hatter ("What hatter? But no Amandus. That even the pundits of the "Shrimpton-on-Sea" Exmatter!" quoth the poetical Baron),-and wanders about "with a ploration Society cannot so much as conjecture. Their excavators lately tile off," just as a hatter would do who was so demented as to forget came upon a most mysterious "marine deposit" in a sand-choked his business. Then at the critical moment he is suddenly restored to chalk-cave in the course of repairing the great South-Coast Marine his senses by hearing, in the darkness, far down, a bell ring! Yes, he Embankment. Here are pictures of some of the items. Many of had heard it before, a sweet church bell, long ago in his infancy. them are mysteries whose nature and use cannot be fathomed. Here Just as the wicked character in Nicholas Nickleby's first play is an apparatus supposed to have been a barbarous musical instruwritten for the Crummles Company, the villain of the piece, when ment, a hoop with a piece of parchment stretched across it, and about to commit his greatest piece of villainy, hears a clock strike! He ornamented with movable brazen discs. It may have been used to has heard a clock strike in happier times, in the days of his innocency, scare gulls. At any rate, it must have made a hideous din when and he is struck by the striking coincidence, and he weeps-he beaten or agitated. It was discovered near certain strange semirelents! he is good once more!!! And this is how mad Sir Uchtred is polished fragments of what were apparently the rib-bones of some brought back again to his senses, and how all ends happily for every-extinct animals. Their use now cannot even be surmised; neither body except for a certain lame tamed black wild cat, which, after can that of a curious wooden implement somewhat resembling a having had a great deal to do with the story, disappears, and is heard miniature model of the obsolete agricultural implement once known, of no more. Alas! poor Yorick! Will good Sir R. CROCKETT of the it appears, as a "shovel" or "spade." Pens write another little red book-(" such is the colour of the cover Amanda. How very odd! Still, hardly dreadful, dear, so far, in the Autonym Library. But for certain 'tis a much read book," Amandus (gravely). Perhaps not! Though the significance even quoth idiotic Sir Bookred of the Swills)-informing us what became of these comparatively harmless absurdities is painful. But my dear, of the cat with three legs and eight lives, one of its chances having Dr. DIGEMUP's researches lead him to the belief that in the latter gone? I haven't met such a cat as this since Mr. ANTHONY HOPE half of the Nineteenth Century a hideous Annual Custom preintroduced us to the appreciative tail-less one belonging to Mr. vailed. In the autumn of the year, it would seem, a sort of Social Edict of Banishment drove all decent and well-to-do citizens from their own happy homes, to make themselves miserable by way of penance probably-in strange places, fusty, ill-furnished, often unhealthy, and always expensive, far from all the comforts and decencies, the conveniences and charms of their own well-ordered residences.

Witt's Widow.

And another book in the library is The Upper Berth. It sounds an aristocratic title, doesn't it? Go not by sound save when the cheering dinner-gong or luncheon-bugle may summon thee; and then" stand not on the order of your going," but go and order whatever there may be on the menu. "The Upper Berth," says the Baron, still aboard the gallant vessel, is the best ghost story I have read for many a day. "Tis by MARION CRAWFORD, and not written in his well-known modern Roman hand. Then in the same volume, by the same author, is The Waters of Paradise, which is disappointing, certainly, after the sensational Upper Berth. Therefore, quoth the Baron, "my counsel and advice is, read, if you will, The Waters of Paradise, only take them off at a draught first; don't mix the spirit with the waters, but take The Upper Berth afterwards. For choice read it in bed, with the aid of one solitary light, taking care to select a tempestuous night, when boards creak, windows rattle, and doors open of their own accord. In these conditions you will thoroughly enjoy MARION CRAWFORD's Upper Berth, and will gratefully thank the thoughtful and considerate

BARON DE BOOK-WORMS."

66

Amanda. But why did they do this dismal thing?

eh?

Amandus. It is not conceivable that they would do it save or compulsion. It is conjectured that some secret religious tribunal or vengeful Social Vehmgericht drove the devoted victims to this dreadful doom. They had to pass weeks, and sometimes months, either in continual travel-as tiring and painful as the penitential pilgrimages of a yet earlier date-or in compulsory incarceration in dismal dungeons or comfortless caravanserais.

Amanda (shivering). Oh dear, how very dreadful! Amandus. Dreadful, indeed! The leaders, controllers, or "gangers" of these Autumnal Pilgrimages of Pain, were certain mysterious Paterfunctionaries called, it appears, by the generic name of familias." The Paterfamilias, who appears to correspond somewhat to the ancient idea of a Pilgarlic or Scapegoat, had, though " against his will," like the mythical John Gilpin, to lead his family followers in this peripatetic purgatory, suffer its worst horrors himself, and-pay all the expenses!!!

sore

P.S.-Once more ashore, and abed, convalescenting, in view of the poluphosboytoning thalasses (Yes, my boy O! the Baron knoweth the Greek is not thus, but why not lug in the name of sea-going BOYTON on such an appropriate occasion ?), the Baron readeth Ships that pass in the Night. A deeply pathetic story in one volume, which the Baron cannot regret not having read long ere this, as it suits his mood so Amandus. As far as can be ascertained, it seems to have been exactly now. He thanks Miss BEATRICE HARRADEN, and would re-known as the "Annual Holiday," or "Autumn Outing"!

Amanda. SHOCKING!!! And what did they call this horrid custom?

66

IN PARIS OUT OF THE SEASON. (With some Notes on a Detective Melodrama at the Ambigu.) DEAR MR. PUNCH,-When I announced my intention of running over to Paris for a few days, my friend BUZZARD looked at me with a stony contempt. "To Paris?" he said, at this time of year! Why, you must be mad. What on earth are you going to do there?" I tried to explain to BUZZARD, whose frigid superiority frightens me, that I liked Paris, that I was going there pour me dégourdir; that it was just as possible to breakfast at LEDOYEN's or VOISIN's, and to dine at DURAND'S or JOSEPH's in September as at any other time; that a few theatres were still open; that the Boulevards were there for the flâneur; but I failed to penetrate his scorn, even with the most idiomatic French at my command. However, I determined that BuzZARD, like the weight of the elephant in the problem, must be neglected; and here I am in the Rue de Rivoli with another madman like unto myself. We take our café complet in bed; we wear beautiful French ties, made of foulard, with two vast ends floating like banners in the Parisian breeze-in a word, we are thoroughly enjoying ourselves in an entirely non-British fashionwhich I take, indeed, to be of the essence of a pleasant holiday. What care we for the echoes of the Trades Union Congress; for the windiest of KEIR HARDIE'S blatancies; for the malignities of Mr. CHAMBERLAIN, or the failure of Lord ROSEBERY's Ladas at Doncaster? We are in Paris, and the sight of a cuirassier trotting past with his great black crinière waving behind, or of the lady bicyclists scudding by in knickerbockers, excites us more than even the latest ravings of the newest woman in London. BUZZARD be blowed! You may tell him I said so.

shoulders by a strap. In short, he is tout-ce-qu'il-y-a de plue Anglais. His son Shames is even more aggressively British. Sir John orders lunch: vous donner moa bifteck" is the obvious formula. Shames concurs with a "Yehs, Pappah," which provokes roars of laughter. But stay, what is this? Sir John takes Shames aside: they talk in beautiful French. Can it be? Yes, by Heaven, it is the great Vidocq with his faithful Coco-Latour! We breathe again, for now we know that the innocent man is safe. The procession, however, approaches. The condemned man speaks from below to his daughter in the balcony. He declares his innocence. Now good Vidocq, to the rescue. Display all your arts, convict the guilty, disguised Marquis, and save the estimable Lebrun! But Vidocq looks on impassive, a dull thud is heard and the head of the innocent rolls into the basket. Immediately afterwards Yvrier staggers in. Too late, he says, he has been convinced of Lebrun's innocence. At the last moment Lebrun looked at him with eyes in which there was no trace of guilt. That last look did it, and now Yerier in a passion of repentance offers himself to help Vidocq, even in the most subordinate capacity, to track down the guilty, and to remove the stain from Lebrun's name. I pass over the padding, during which Vidocq appears, for no earthly reason, in numerous disguises, and come to the last scene. Roland has all but killed George Mazerolles in a duel, he has murdered Sabine, who, before dying, rounds on him, and he is now, by a strange conjunction of circumstances, in the very room in which he murdered Madame Mazerolles. Thither also comes everybody else. Vidocq, who is tracking Roland, discovers, through a paper belonging to the late Madame Mazerolles, that Roland, her murderer, was her son, not her step-son, and that he, Vidocq, is the father of Roland. In his youth lidocq had been a soldier. Somewhere he had met Madame Mazerolles. Nous nous sommes aimés entre deux batailles, entre deux victoires," and Roland was the fruit of their love. Horror of horrors! What is he to do? First he tells Roland that he killed, not his step-mother, but his mother. At this awful intelligence, Roland faints in an armchair for precisely ten seconds. Recovering himself, he is fain to escape. Vidocq, all his fatherly instincts aroused, says he shall. The weak Yerier consents, when suddenly, from behind a curtain, appears Hélène Lebrun in I want to let Mr. CONAN DOYLE know that there is a great open-black. The murderer of her father must not escape, she declares, ing for him here. If I may judge by the latest detective drama, the whereupon the great detective, vowing that his son shall never be ideas of the Parisian public with regard to the acumen and general food for the guillotine, shoots him dead with a toy pistol in the power of a detective are still very primitive. Yet GABORIAU did region of the left waistcoat pocket. Tableau! Curtain! something in this line, and, in the Vicomte de Bragelonne, did not d'Artagnan show himself on the occasion of a certain duel to be a detective of unmatchable force? Still the fact remains that the play-going Parisian public is easily satisfied in the matter of detectives. Listen, if you doubt me, to a plain unvarnished account of "La Belle Limonadière," the "Grand drame nouveau en cing actes, huit tableaux," which is now running gloomily, but with immense success, at the Ambigu.

Madame de Mazerolles, a wealthy widow, is, in the first Act, robbed and brutally murdered by her stepson, Roland, a dissipated young man, who is incited to the commission of the crime by his wicked mistress Sabine. Vidocq, the great representative of the new school in detection (circa A.D. 1820), is away at the time, and in his absence the investigation falls to his rival Yurier, who belongs to the old school. In the chamber of death Yurier soon makes up his mind that the guilty person is one Henri Lebrun, a faithful and gigantic old soldier, much given to beating his breast with both fists and talking at large about his services to his country, his immaculate honesty and his domestic virtues. Suddenly Vidocq enters. He discovers that the assassin has entered by a certain door because a cobweb has been disturbed, he picks up a red flower dropped by the assassin, he pours contempt on the crass stupidity of Yerier-all quite in the best Sherlock Holmes style. But nothing comes of it all. Poor Henri Lebrun, still beating his breast with fists, is arrested, and after a painful interview with his only daughter (whom he discovers to have been the mistress of George, the son of Madame Mazerolles), he becomes sublime, accuses himself quite unnecessarily of the murder he had never committed, and is marched off to prison amid the execrations of the populace, the triumph of the crass Yrrier, and the loudly expressed determination of Vidocq to bring the guilty to justice and save the life of the innocent Lebrun. Time passes. Lebrun, overwhelmed by an entire absence of proofs, is tried and condemned to death. It is the morning appointed for his execution. The curtain rises in the upper floor of a restaurant commanding an extensive view of the guillotine. The sight-seers troop in. First of all comes Roland, the murderer, disguised in black as a wicked Marquis, and accompanied by the infamous Sabine. Hélène Lebrun, the daughter of the condemned man, also troops in to slow music in black. There is a commotion at the door, and the obsequious innkeeper backs on to the stage ushering in Milord Sir John Stilton and his son "Shames." Sir John is dressed in an enormous green swallow-tailed coat with brass buttons, a striped yellow waistcoat, a pai of yellow knickerbockers, and stockings brilliantly striped with red and black. On his head he wears a low-crowned hat. In one hand he carries an umbrella, while a telescope dangles from his

66

There, Mr. Punch, you have the French Sherlock on the stage. A wonderful man, is he not? Yours, as always, A VAGRANT.

ON THE WAR IN THE EAST.
(By a Western Wonderer.)

ALL in the East seems so dawdling and queer!
Bogus engagements, and battles pour rire,
Militant meetings where nobody meets-
Ghostly armies and phantom fleets;
"Terrible slaughter"-with never a blow,
Corpse-choked rivers that maps do not show;
Wild contradiction and vagueness extreme,
Faith, it all reads like some Flowery Land dream,
Arabian-nightish, and opium-bred,
Japanese-spookish, delirium-fed,

Wild, willow-patternish; sort of a "War"
JOHNNY might paint on a blue ginger-jar.
Wonder how long such a queer war will wag on?
No one can tell-when 'tis Dragon v. Dragon!

THANKS TO THE "BYSTANDER."

I AM glad to see the "BYSTANDER" in the Graphic has recently uttered a startled protest against the fashion, now somewhat overdone, and occasionally objectionably done, of lady-begging for charitable purposes in the London streets. On the sudden apparition of one of these merry half-sisters of charity (were not the Pecksniffian daughters Charity and Merry?) Mr. ASHBY STERRY became wellnigh hysterrycal, and his generosity being temporarily paralysed, he fled, with pockets tightly buttoned. For the moment he was no longer the "BYSTANDER," whose motto is that of Captain Cuttle, "Stand by," but, as though he had heard the command to "Stand and deliver," our sturdy "BYSTANDER" became a fugitive from before the face of the giddy charity girl, and thus at one go" saved his halfpence and his honour. For his reputation would have suffered had he impolitely rebuffed his fair unfair assailant. He did well to flee, he did still better to write and publicly complain. We trust that this process adopted by the Sterry O'Type (a fine old Irish title by the way) may have its due influence, and that the abuse, which has become thus Sterry O'typed, of a fashion good in itself and its origin, may soon cease to exist. En attendant, Mr. Punch is pleased to know tha the "BYSTANDER" is still running on, and not likely to come to a standstill.

་་

Farmer. "IT'S VERY KIND OF YOU, MARM; BUT 'TAIN'T MUCH GOOD IF I CAN'T GET GOLD FOR IT!'

MANNERS.

PROBABLE ANNOUNCEMENT.-New "OH, THEN I MUST BE ON MY BEST BEHAVIOUR, Book-A Mischievous Medlar. I SUPPOSE?"

BE NATURAL, WHATEVER YOU

Then wheer' asta beän saw long, leäven me a-liggin' aloän?
Friend? Thoort nowt o' a friend, leavin' meä to groomble and And we're goin' from woorse to woost, and a aäsk tha, wheer will it end?

LYRE AND LANCET.

(A Story in Scenes.)

PART XII.-DIGNITY UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

here of your having known me at Mrs. DICKENSON'S. I couldn't
afford to have it get about in the circle I'm in that I'd ever lived
with any but the nobility. I'm sure you see what I mean. Of
course I don't mind your saying we've met.

be careful myself, being maid to Lady MAISIE MULL.
Phill. Oh, I quite understand. I'll say nothing. I'm obliged to

friends as we used to be!
Miss Dolm. My dear EMMA! It is nice seeing you again-such

SCENE XXI.-The Housekeeper's Room at Wyvern; Mrs. POMFRET,
the Housekeeper, in a black silk gown and her smartest cap, is
seated in a winged arm-chair by the fire, discussing domestic
politics with Lady CULVERIN's maid, Miss STICKLER. The Chef,
M. RIDEVOS, is resting on the sofa, in languid converse with Mlle.
CHIFFON, Miss SPELWANE's maid; PILLINER'S man, LOUCH,
watches STEPTOE, Sir RUPERT'S valet, with admiring envy, as he
makes himself agreeable to Miss PHILLIPSON, who is in demi- I
toilette, as are all the other ladies' maids present.

Miss Stickler (in an impressive undertone). All I do say, Mrs. POMFRET, ma'am, is this: if that girl LOUISA marches into the pew to-morrow, as she did last Sunday, before the second laundry maidand her only under-scullery maid-such presumptiousness should be put a stop to in future!

Mrs. Pomfret (wheezily). Depend upon it, my dear, it's her ignorance; but I shall most certainly speak about it. Girls must be taught that ranks was made to be respected, and the precedency into that pew has come down from time immemoriable, and is not to be set aside by such as her while I'm 'ousekeeper here.

Mlle. Chiffon (in French, to M. RIDEVos). You have the air fatigued, my poor friend! Oh, there but fatigued!

M. Rideros. Broken, Mademoiselle, absolutely broken. But what will you? This night I surpass myself. I achieve a masterpiece a sublime pyramid of quails with a sauce that will become classic.

I pay now the penalty of a veritable crisis of nerves. It is of my temperament as artist.

Mlle. Chiffon. And me, my poor friend, how I have suffered from the cookery of these others-I who have the stomach so feeble, so fastidious! Figure to yourself an existence upon the villainous curry, the abominable "Iahristue," beloved by these barbarians, but which succeed with me not

I

else. (She crosses to Mrs. POMFRET.) Mrs. POMFRET, what's Phill. At her Grace's? I'm afraid you're thinking of somebody become of the gentleman I travelled down with-the horse doctor? do hope he means to come in; he would amuse you, Mr. STEPTOE. never heard anybody go on like him; he did make me laugh so! Mrs. Pomfr. I really can't say where he is, my dear. I sent up word to let him know he was welcome here whenever he pleased; but perhaps he's feeling a little shy about coming down.

Phill. Oh, I don't think he suffers much from that. (As the door opens.) Ah, there he is!

Mrs. Pomfr. (rising, with dignity, to receive UNDERSHELL, who enters in obvious embarrassment). Come in, Sir. I'm glad to see you've found your way down at last. Let me see,

I haven't the advantage of knowing your-Mr. UNDERSHELL, to be sure! Well, Mr. UNDERSHELL, we 're very pleased to see you. I hope you'll make yourself quite at home. Her ladyship gave particular directions that we was to look after you-most particular she was!

Undershell. You are very good, Ma'am. I am obliged to Lady CULVERIN for her (with a gulp) condescension But I shall not trespass more than a short time upon your hospitality.

Mrs. Pomfr. Don't speak of it as trespassing, Sir. It's not often we have a gentleman of your profession as a visitor, but you are none the less welcome. Now I'd better introduce you all round, and then you won't feel yourself a stranger. Miss PHILLIPSON YOU have met, I know. [She introduces him to the others in turn; UNDERSHELL bows helplessly. Steptoe (with urbanity). Your fame, Sir, has preceded you. And you'll find circle on a better acquaintance if this is your first experience of this particular form of society?

Broken, Mademoiselle, absolutely broken.",

at all-oh, but not at all! Since I am here-ah, the difference! I us a very friendly and congenial, little
digest as of old-I am gay. But next week to return with Made-
moiselle to the curry, my poor friend, what regrets!

M. Rid. For me, dear Mademoiselle, for me the regrets-to hear no more the conversation, so spiritual, so sympathetic, of a fellowcountrywoman. For remark that here they are stupid-they comprehend not. And the old ones they roll at me the eyes to make terror. Behold this Gorgon who approaches. She adores me, my word of honour, this ruin!

[Miss STICKLER comes up to the sofa smiling in happy unconsciousness.

Miss Stick. (graciously). So you've felt equal to joining us for once, Mossoo! We feel it a very 'igh compliment, can assure you. We've really been feeling quite "urt at the way you keep to yourself -you might be a regular 'ermit for all we see of you!

M. Rid. For invent, dear Mees, for create, ze arteeste must live ze solitaire as of rule. To-night-no! I emairge, as you see, to res-tore myself viz your smile.

Miss Stick. (flattered). Well, I've always said, Mossoo, and I always will say, that for polite 'abits and pretty speeches, give me a Frenchman!

ah!

M. Rid. (alarmed). For me it is too moch 'appiness. For anozzer, [He kisses his fingers with ineffable grace. Phillipson (advancing to meet Miss DOLMAN, who has just entered). Why, I'd no idea I should meet you here, SARAH! And how have you been getting on, dear? Still with?

Miss Dolman (checking her with a look). Her grace? No, we parted some time ago. I'm with Lady RHODA COKAYNE at present. In an undertone, as she takes her aside.) You needn't say anything

Und. (to himself). I mustn't be stiff, I'll put them at their ease. (Aloud.) Why, I must admit, Mr. STEPTOE, that I have never before had the privilege of entering the (with an ingratiating smile all round him) the "Pugs' Parlour," as I understand you call this very charming room.

[The company draw themselves up and cough in disapprobation. Stept. (very stiffly). Pardon me, Sir, you have been totally misinformed. Such an expression is not current here.

Mrs. Pomfr. (more stiffly still). It is never alluded to in my presence except as the 'Ousekeeper's Room, which is the right and proper name for it. There may be some other term for it in the Servants' 'All for anything I know to the contrary-but if you'll excuse me for saying so, Mr. UNDERSHELL, we'd prefer for it not to be repeated in our presence.

Und. (confusedly). I-I beg ten thousand pardons. (To himself.) To be pulled up like this for trying to be genial-it's really too humiliating!

Stept. (relaxing). Well, well, Sir; we must make some allowances for a neophyte. You'll know better another time, I daresay. Miss PHILLIPSON here has been giving you a very favourable character as a highly agreeable rattle, Mr. UNDERSHELL. I hope we may be favoured with a specimen of your social talents later on. We're always grateful here for anything in that way-such as a recitation now, or a comic song, or a yumorous imitation-anything, in short, calculated to promote the general harmony and festivity will be appreciated.