AN IMPORTANT PERSONAGE.

ONE day last week, according to a report in the Times, "Lord ERNE was appointed Imperial Grand Master of the World." For what reason has Lord ERNE received this appalling dignity, which to describe in appropriate terms would require the genius of a MILTON or a DANTE? It was conferred upon Lord ERNE at Carrickfergus, County Antrim, at an Orange Lodge. So the world, being round as an orange, is to be one huge Orange Lodge, of which Lord ERNE is henceforward" Imperial Grand Master," like Mefistofele in BoÏTo's

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Except that the male dramatis personæ are soldiers and sailors, and that out of eleven scenes, two are at Aldershot, and one on board a vessel bearing the happy combination-title "H.M.S. Wellesley," there is nothing extraordinarily nautical or military about the play. That the plot justifies its authors' description of their work as new and original" is soon made evident by the incident of the petty officer, Jack Medway, [What a capital name for a sailor! so appropriate, you know! None of your common hackneyed "Bill Barnacle," or Tom Tug," or Jack Mainbrace"-oh, dear, no!] striking his superior officer and being court-martialled; and then the newness and originality of the story are further shown by the presence of a Wicked Baronet who is also "an Army Contractor" [Happy touch this, brings "Wicked Bart." up to date], and by there being a good deal of hiding behind doors and curtains, and plenty of overhearing and seeing what wasn't intended to be overheard or seen, and everything happening just at the right moment, too, so as to clear the innocent and confound the guilty; and having so far proved the newness and originality of the plot to the entire satisfaction of the audience, will it be believed that the Wicked Bart. has actually committed a forgery, and that the second villain holds this in terrorem over his head, until first villain, unable to stand it any longer, stabs second villain, and then tries his best to get poor petty officer TERRISS found guilty of the crime? And then, so fresh and full of novel surprises is this play. Would anyone who has ever seen a melodrama imagine that the unfortunate heroine actually falls ill, escapes from

Nautical Situation. Terriss the Tar, the Swell of the Ocean, escapes with the Heroine in the Captain's Gig.

her captors, and staggers about the country in a blinding storm of snow, until she faints by the wayside and is rescued by her lover? Isn't all this "new and original ? Rather! or at all events if it isn't now, it was once upon a time. Such is The Union Jack. For a hero of this sort of melodrama, the Messrs. GATTI are fortunate in possessing a

Rara avis in Terriss."

play itself, this sturdy melodramatic actor will soon run Mr. WILSON BARRETT very hard indeed, though the latter, at present, as far as preachifying goes, can give Mr. TERRISS half-a-dozen lengths and beat him easily. The truth is, that this melodramatic stereotyped hero has become rather a bore, and I shall not be surprised if the honest patrons of Adelphi drama do not resent the next attempt, if it be unwisely repeated, at entertaining them with this school-boyish kind of play.

Mr. CHARLES CARTWRIGHT, as the scoundrelly Captain Morton, was thoroughly artistic. I doubt if even that unexceptionable stagevillain, Mr. WILLARD, could have played it better. And this is the highest praise. The ladies were all good; especially Miss OLGA NETHERSOLE, in the one genuinely pathetic situation of the play. Miss OLGA is not the "leading lady," but the misled lady, and at the end of the play when everybody is happy, no one cares twopence what becomes of her. "Poor little Me!" She is quite out of it. Miss CLARA JECKS is just the very Polly Pippin required by the new and original "Adelphoi" PETTITT and GRUNDY BROS.; and Miss ELEANOR BUFTON, as Mrs. Stone, one of the Wicked Bart.'s creatures," suggests by her sardonic smile possibilities of such sensational crimes as might make over again the fortune of Miss BRADDON, and inspire Mr. FARJEON with a plot as cheerful as that of Uncle Silas.

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Of course, however successful the play may be, it can never go without a hitch as long as there is a nautical character in it like Mr. Mr. Shine as British SHINE in a sailor's costume. There is, how- Sailor, with Robert ever, one new and original mystery about Macaire's old creaking the play, and that is-Why is it called "The snuff box. Nautical Union Jack?" The Union Jack is occa- effect: Little Cove and sionally alluded to in the dialogue, but the only Big Creek. time it is visible is when the comic sailor sticks up a small toy-flag over the window of the old toll-house on the highroad, and wittily remarks that the cottage thus decorated looks like a ship. Of course the play is successful; of course it will " run"; but if no nautical piece can, as I have proved, "go without a hitch," certainly a play called The Union Jack must be of "flagging" interest. JACK IN THЕ Box.

THE MEETING OF THE EMPERORS.
(Song of a Sensational Special.)
AIR-" The Meeting of the Waters."
THERE is not, for the quidnunc, a city so sweet
As St. Petersburg now while the Emperors meet.
One may wander o'er Europe anear and afar,
Yet not find such a chance for a staggering "par."
It is not that the KAISER will give me a "tip,"
Or the CZAR in my ear a state-secret let slip;
That either will whisper his wish or his will,-
Oh no, there is something more promising still.

As an oracle now for some days I may shine,

A BLOWITZ-though but at a penny a line.

I have only some awful war-rumour to start,

To shock-somebody's-nerves, or chill-somebody's-heart!

Sweet stream of the Neva, beloved of the Russ,

What canards I'll let fly from your shores, with what fuss! What odds if they're fudge? I shall feather my nest,

And the gobemouches, though fluttered, will soon sink to rest.

IMPROVEMENTS IN THEATRES.-In the new Theatre being built for Mr. HARE, the stall-chairs are on wheels. They are standing out in the spacious hall, and on arriving at the front door, the visitor's hat, coat, and stick, are immediately removed by a hidden machinery which wheels him into the exact situation he is intended to occupy. An electric-bell at his side has to be sounded for refreshments, and another for a cab or carriage, as the case may be. When the vehicle has arrived at the front door the visitor is noiselessly trundled out backwards, without disturbing the audience, the receding chair allowing him to see the performance until he passes through pire trap-doors" into the hall, when his hat, coat, gloves, umbrella, stick, goloshes, &c., are fitted on to him again, when is carried out under the portico, and with a gentle and pleasant force, is projected into his carriage or cab, of which the door will have been previously opened by a Commissionnaire in attendance. There will be machines into which you put the requisite sum and obtain your ticket. There are many other novelties. It will be perfectly ventilated, as there will be plenty of HARE there.

vam

OUR VILLAGE INDUSTRIAL COMPETITION. Husband (just home from the City). "MY ANGEL !-CRYING !-WHATEVER 'S THE MATTER?" Wife. "THEY 'VE-AWARDED ME-PRIZE MEDAL"-(sobbing)-"F' MY SPONGE CAKE!" Husband (soothingly). "AND I'M QUITE SURE IT DESERVWife (hysterically). "OH-BUT-'T SAID-'TWAS-FOR THE BEST SPECIMEN-O' CONCRETE!"

THE END OF WIMBLEDON.

(The Story of a Grandfather, to be told Fifty Years hence.)

"AND so, my little ones," said the old man, pointing with his stick to a mass of factories, suburban villas, and public-houses, "you want to know what sort of a place that was when I was a young man, many, many years ago?"

"Yes, yes!" cried the children, as they dragged the veteran on to the top of an electric omnibus, that, belonging to the London and South-Western Railway Company, was stationary, and likely to remain so for some time.

"Well, you must know," continued the white-headed grey-beard, "that in those days it was all open country. If I am not mistaken, where you now see that crowded burial-ground there was a brickfield that used to be the pride of the Duke of CAMBRIDGE. It was to save, if I remember rightly, persons from being shot to death by thousands that the Duke ordered the Volunteers away!"

Ay, that it was! It was either to save slaughter, or to use the land for running up houses-I forget which. But, as you see, they have run up houses since."

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"And what was Wimbledon like in the days of the Volunteers ?" asked RICHARD. "Well," said the old man, smilingly, my memory is not so good as it used to be; but what I recollect most distinctly is a trophy connected with Hop Bitters. It was shown to the public in a large marquee, called the Exhibition Tent, from ten till dusk; and I fancy, too, that beside this trophy, were boots, and dozens of champagne, and cigarettes, and soap advertisements, and walking-sticks, and all sorts of queer things."

"Dear me, how funny!" giggled little MARY. "And what were they for?"

"To encourage the love of rifle-shooting, I imagine; but I am not quite sure. The people who presented them may have had some other object in view, but of that I know nothing. Then there were all manner of fancy tents, furnished in the oddest fashions; and then there were Ladies lounging about, doing nothing in particular; and for a fortnight it was a regular pic-nic." "Was there any shooting ?"

"To the best of my recollection there was. I fancy it used to be called pothunting. I don't think that many of the Volunteers used to shoot-I mean not the

real ones. I remember, distinctly, that the strangest costumes used to be worn at the ranges."

"Was there much discipline?" asked RICHARD, who was now putting the questions.

"I don't think there was much," replied the old man, except, perhaps, amongst

the police."

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Do you remember who were the greatest marksmen in 1888 ?"

"To be sure I do. The winner of the Queen's Prize was an engraver who used to work on the noblest paper in the whole world; while the Albert Jewel (which was the any-rifle-equivalent to the Queen's Prize), was carried off by Quarter-master ARROWSMITH, who as you know, is a millionnaire."

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6

Surely not the Mr. ARROWSMITH Who published Called Back,' and the Tinted Venus,' and whose latest édition de luxe (the thirtieth) of Tracked Out,' at ten guineas a copy, has received only recently so warm a welcome in every quarter of the civilised world ?"

"The very same!"

"And when the camp of the National Rifle Association was expelled from Wimbledon, and tried first on the Brighton Downs, and then at Wormwood Scrubs, and next at Herne Bay, and subsequently for some time in Olympia, until last year it was held in the Thames Tunnel - did it flourish ?"

"That, my dear little ones," said the old man, who was getting rather weary of the conversation, you must judge for yourselves. You now have the past and the present before you, and consequently are in a position to take your choice!"

"HONOURS EASY."-Voilà ZOLA décoré! But not "decorous," a word that does not exist in the French language. ZOLA a Knight of the Legion of Honour! If the French Honour list is alphabetical, then, with ZOLA they must have got to the very end of it.

rheumatics, and scrawls this 'ere letter in bed, Jemimer, and 'ammers at work in my 'ed. Bloomin' nice state o' things for July, CHARLIE! mer's 'ad me on the 'op,

Sum

For a fellow must be a fair turmut to stand such a
Season of Slop.

I'ave seen a few mizzlyish ones, but my eyes and a
band-box, dear boy!

This bangs 'em to bits; it is somethink a teatotal frog
might enjoy.

Rain? Bust it, the word isn't hadyquate now, and if
Science would teach

'Ow to talk of our weather O.K., she must tip us some
new parts of speech.

St. Swithin be jolly well jiggered! He's got me on toast, and no kid.

I'd been piling the dibs for a outing, and saved up a couple of quid,

So I jined a swell party of right 'uns who'd rented a
prime four-in-'and,

For a tool down to Dorking by road, and, by Jove, we meant doing the grand.
If you'd witnessed the muster at HATCHETT'S, at ten-thirty sharp Toosday week,
You'd ha' bust arf your buttons orf, CHARLIE. It mizzled, a reglar damp reek,
Like a cook-shop in Winter, my pippin; and as for our party, great SCOTT!
You'd a swore as you never popped lamps on a funnier wropped-upper lot.
The top-coats and muckingtogs, CHARLIE, the rugs, and the hulsters with 'oods!
For a party of Gents in July! Oh, I tell yer 'twas reglar good goods.
Britons hout for a 'oliday? Bosh! North-sea pilots in shin-plaster suits,
And Friars in brown bed-gowns, and Bobbies with tippets and double-soled boots!
That nicks hus more nearer like, CHARLIE. Yours truly was toffed up superb,
In a thick hoatmeal suit of splashed dittos; and as I stood there on the kerb,
A puffing a prime Larrynargar, my waterproof slung on my arm,
I tell you I fetched Piccadilly, and worked on the gals like a charm.

Well, we took a nip round at the bar. Brandy neat was my tipple; sounds rum
For the dog-days, old pal, I'll allow, but then dog-days is all a dashed hum.
Lemon-squosh is a capital lotion when Summer is fair on the job,

But to lap lemon-squash on a hiceberg is shivery work, s'help me Bob!

Well, we started. Oh, CHARLIE, that ride! Which yours truly ain't sugar or salt, To melt in a shower; we packed close, liquored up every time we'd a halt; Puffed sputtering cigars like dashed chimneys, or asphalter's cauldrons, and yet We couldn't keep in any warmth, nor we couldn't keep out any wet.

Tried to joke, my dear boy, but each wheeze, like the weather, was watery and dull;

I had a toon hup on the 'orn, but I made jest the muckiest mull,
Couldn't squeeze out one fair sisirary; and when there's a rowdedow round,
'ARRY 'ates to be out of the 'unt, as you know by this time, I'll be bound.
Hutter frost, my dear boy, and no herror, that run down to Dorking by road,
And next day I wos doing a doss with rheumatics as bad as be blowed.
This mucky mix-up they call Summer! The Seasons are 'aving a game,
And that sloshy old squirter, St. Swithin, they tell us, old pal, is to blame.
St. Swithin! He's wus than Sir WILFRID, His whack's forty days and no more,
But he's now like Old Joe in the song, for he kicks up behind and before.
He has spiled the whole Season this year, for he's drownded both June and July,
And it's pelting like fun as I write, although Orgust is now precious nigh.
Mucked Henley! My Houseboat-leastways I'd the run of it, CHARLIE, old pal,
The Boss bein' BAGSHOT, the Booky, who hired it to please his new gal-
Our Houseboat, the " Margery Daw," was as smart as they make 'em, no
doubt,

But the spree gave yours truly the hump; it wos jest one perpetual spout.
Couldn't do a lark round with the ladies or git a fair boss at a race.
Ony wish I could spot old St. Waterworks; hang him, I'd sit on his face!
As to Wimbledon, well, that wos wus. Wot's the good of the toppingest togs
In weather like washing-day, CHARLIE, a season fit only for frogs?

As to cricket, oh, criminy crikey! It's muck, my dear feller-sheer muck! When MCDONNELL, can't play Sussex "lobs," and when WALTER READ's done for a duck,

To squat on damp seats, doubled up like a cab-driver caught in a storm,
May be wot Surrey mugs would call "sport," but I tell yer it isn't my form.
Lawn-tennis? Oh, turn it up-turn it up! Beastly to see pooty gals,
With shiny black muckingtogs smothered, a-hiding their snappy fal-lals.
A trottin' about with damp racquets, their dear little noses all red,
'Anging round on the chance of a game, when they'd better be tucked up in bed,
Why the great "Bounding Brothers" theirselves, those top-sawyers at service
and" smash,"

The RENSHAWS, carnt play in a puddle or mud-swamp with science and dash.
Saw them pull off the finals, wet-footed; fair cautions for pluck and for skill;
But WILL only seemed arf in earnest, and ERNEST scarce played with a will.

And here I am mugged up in blankets, and lapping a go of rum 'ot! [that's all going to pot. 'Ow's yerself and the country, old 'ermit? I s'pose Teatotallers, tadpoles, and turmuts, may like this Unlimited Slosh, [barney will wash. But don't call it Summer, dear boy, for I'm blowed if that St. Swithin the snivelling old Spoil-sport is 'aving a Triumph, wus luck! [and Muck. But Bizness and Pleasure this season are ruined by Mizzle Oh, for Cheap Hemigration, my pippin! The very fust cove it should carry

To sunshine and dry-feet somewheres, should be yours (wot there's left of him),

'ARRY.

DAY being one of the Special Commissioners, the Parnellites "GIVE YOU GOOD DAY."-By objecting to Mr. Justice give their opponents the chance of reproaching them with not wishing to have the light of Day on their alleged dark secrets. Perhaps, after all, the Special Commission may be postponed sine die, without a Day.

EXTREMES MEET.

(Musings of a Misanthrope, after reading the "Latest
Foreign Intelligence.")

How bored these rambling Royalties must be!
A morning call, a Five o'clock swell Tea,
Or other hollow "function" of Society,
Has as much vital interest and variety
As these parades where crowned toff meets toff,
And HOHENZOLLERN bows to ROMANOFF.
Say I "drop in" on JONES and JONES's wife;
We bore each other nearly out of life,
And part much wearier, but nothing wiser.
Is it much different with CZAR and KAISER?
Mrs. JONES gives me tepid tea, a look
At her old Album or new Birthday Book;
The Russ the Teuton banquets when they meet,
Shows him his Army, and parades his Fleet.
Good Mrs. JONES and I contrive to chat
About my Tennis, or her Persian Cat;
I caring for her Cat, she for my Tennis
As much as a blind nigger might for Venice.
Teuton and Russ make after-dinner speeches,
And which the hollowest depth of bathos reaches
Might tax a cynic TALLEYRAND to tell.
They vow they love each other passing well,
(As I admire" dear Mrs. JONES's" tabby)
Whilst each laugh low the inward laugh of LABBY.
Mrs. JONES tells me that, upon her life,
She's pining for a sight of my sweet wife
They're social rivals, and they love each other
As-well, as WILLIAM loves his northern brother.
The Muscovite or Swede, it matters not-
Drinks to the Teuton's health, talks royal "rot"
Concerning "bonds of friendship," and the traces
That bind in one fast "team" two rival races.
So their "agreement" is by bunkum ratified
WILLIAM smiles graciously," the CZAR "looks
gratified,"

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And Special Correspondents-wondrous creaturesWho read, in passing smirks on Royal features Imperial policy-proclaim aloud

Autocrat twaddle to the gaping crowd.

Well, all this smiling sham, this humbug solemn, Ekes out an article, or pads a column.

But, mighty CESAR! how these great and gracious "Forked radishes," these vagrant and veracious Imperial Panjandrums must be bored!

I fell asleep at JONES's-nearly snored!-
But better tepid tea and twaddling tattle
Than bunkum-banquets which may lead to battle!