Another parody on Tancred, written by "Cuthbert Bede " (the Rev. Edward Bradley), appeared in The Shilling Book of Beauty, it was entitled "Tancredi ; or, the New Party." By the Right Hon. B. Bendizzy, M.P.

In 1887 Messrs. Swan Sonnenschein & Co., London, published a shilling volume of prose burlesque novels, written by H. F. Lester. The first, entitled Ben D'ymion, was a parody of Lord Beaconsfield s novel Endymion. The other authors imitated in this collection were William Black, George Elliot, Henry James, Thomas Hardy, and J. H. Shorthouse.

Ben D'ymion had originally appeared in Punch in 1880.

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THE AGE OF LAWN-TENNIS.

(After Lord Beaconsfield's "SYBIL.")

CHAPTER I.

ADVANTAGE, we win," shouted Sphairistikos. "Never," replied Retiarius, as he made his favourite stroke, which came speeding, whirling, hissing, the onethousandth part of an inch over the top of the net, and fell twisting, twirling, shooting, in the extreme left-hand corner of the great twelve-yard court, only to be returned, however, by the flexibility of a wrist which had been famous in Harrow's playing-fields in days of yore. 'Forty-thirty."

"Deuce."

"Vantage against you!" "Game and set!" Such were the Babel-like cries which greeted our ears, as we approached Tong Castle's level lawn, one fine autumnal afternoon.

And what was the scene that confronted us? Ambitious adversaries, on all sides, were hitting to and fro, in alternated strokes, a gyratory ball, and loudly vociferating amobean numerals as either side became

involved in some reticular difficulty.

Here was to be seen, in variegated garb, such a galaxy of beauty as Shropshire seldom sees, assembled to render homage to the great Lawn-Tennis Champion, and to witness the feats of some of England's doughtiest players.

Here were to be seen the eagle-eyed volleyer, the deft half-volleyer, the swift server, and the nimble net-player; while here, too, the quick cut, the treacherous twister, and the brilliant back-hander were exhibited on all sides in their purest perfection.

“Advantage, we win," repeated Sphairistikos. "Deuce," said Retiarius, as his great stroke passed and shot lightning-like past his adversary's racket.

And so they played and played on, till the balls began to glance in the golden light of a glorious sunset, and then to grow dimmer and dimmer in the deepening shadows of a rich twilight.

CHAPTER II.

But to what was all this tending, and to what condition had the Lawn-Tennis players brought the Great Western State which they inhabited ?

A monarch on the throne, whose age alone prevented her from casting in her lot with an aristocracy of wealth and learning, who had already commenced to narrow life within the limits of the twelve-yard court!!

A gentler sex, forsaking the sacred duties of domesticity that they might lend grace and elegance to the all-prevailing pastime !!

A degraded peasantry, living but to delineate on level lawns the bounds past which England's greatest and noblest born must not propel the gyrating sphere !!

A rustic generation, rising but to collect for their oppressors the distant-driven ball, and developing into manhood merely to tend and trim the smooth-shaven Lawn-Tennis ground, which had now become a necessary adjunct alike to glebe and manor !!

It was an age of Lawn-Tennis !!

66

'Why, so?" said Sphairistikos.

"It is as yet," replied he, "only half-developed. A nation young in Lawn-Tennis has much to learn; much to forget. My impression is that the volley, properly understood, will convulse the future."

"I believe in service for my part," remarked Sphairistikos,-"Secure your first stroke. Demoralize first, win afterwards; I would borrow from the great nation which gave us Tennis, and say, ‘Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coûte.'"'

"But I am looking to a distant future," continued Retiarius. "We shall see great changes. There will be hereditary volleyers. The theories of Darwin must prevail. Volleyers will play with volleyers. The pastimes of a country lead to its courtships. It has always been so. A generation of volleyers will rise up who will volley from the service-line as accurately as their grandfathers have done from the nets."

"What news from Afghanistan ?" asked a fair player, who was putting on her shoes.

"Fifteen, the Government loses," replied a Tennissteeped youth; "they have served two faults,-one into Afghanistan; one into Zululand."

"Bother Afghanistan," said another damsel in short petticoats, "I want the scoring question settled."

But the attendants now announced that the courts were ready.

Fifteen, I win "

"Fifteen, all."

And so on, and on, and on, the adversaries played, with constantly-varying fortunes, till another day was nearly done, and they were once more compelled to surrender before the flickering blaze of a vanishing sun.

From Tennis Cuts and Quips. Edited by Julian Marshall. London. Field and Tuer.

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A curious story of a plagiarism is related of Disraeli in the Life of Mr. Abraham Hayward, Q C., who was formerly on the staff of the Morning Chronicle.

Early in the "fifties," Mr. Disraeli made sundry depreciatory remarks on the speeches of military members of Parliament, classing them contemptuously as effusions of "the military mind." The men of the Morning Chronicle replied to Mr. Disraeli's attack on the intellect of soldiers by printing a translation of a magnificent eulogium on the Maréchal de St. Cyr by M. Thiers, setting forth the qualities necessary to a military commander. Mr. Disraeli was evidently struck by the brilliancy of the counter hit, for a few years later, when the Duke of Wellington died, he interpolated the translation, errors and all, in the oration which as leader of the House of Commons it was his duty to deliver on the death of that great general. The old writers of the Chronicle secured the insertion of the speech and the translated passage in the Globe. Mr. Disraeli's friends made every attempt to explain away the plagiarism till an article in Fraser's Magazine, written by Mr. Hayward, showed clearly that the passage was not even taken from the French original, but directly from the translation which appeared in the Morning Chronicle. Mr. Hayward was very proud of this article of his, in which he also handled Mr. Disraeli's "Revolutionary Epick very roughly.

man.

THE WOMAN IN TIGHTts.

By Wilkie Collins.

THE narrative commenced by Walter Heartbright, teacher of jig-dancing, of Fulwood's-rents, Holborn. This is a story of what a woman's impatience can procure, and what a man's irresolution can achieve. If the law were not such a blundering battering-ram the events which fill these pages might have merited its attention. I live with my mother, who keeps a general shop. Events alter my life. I go to Cumberland to attend on a gentleThe story continued by Mr. Bearly, Gummeridge House, Cumberland: I am all self, etchings, and nerves. Why? I know not. Perhaps Laura knows, or Sir Pursefull. I am asked to make a statement. Aided by a galvanic battery I make it. Laura has gone on the stage. I am worried. Why should I be? I give it up. Thank you. Don't bang. Send Heartbright here. I would see him dance. Statement by Hester Teecloth, cook at Count Bosco's: I remember a lady being brought to our house last June. She came in a temper and a brougham. She was laid on the sofa. She looked wildlike, and kept shouting "There they go, millions of 'em." When the doctor saw her he winked at the count and whispered, "Delicious trimmings," but the poor thing was plainly dressed. That's all I know. Heartbright finishes the story: We are to be married in a week's time. Laura's faculties have returned. Mr. Bearly and his nerves have found Nirvana. Sir Pursefull was drowned while showing off a lifebelt of his own invention. Bosco is in an asylum. His time is occupied in plucking green mice from his beard, and chirruping to pink canaries which he fancies he sees on the wall. My mother, always of a retiring disposition, has given up business. I am heir of Gummeridge House. Thus it ends.

WILLIAM EVISON ROSE.

The Weekly Dispatch. February 25, 1883,

In this parody competition the compositions were limited to 300 words, a regulation which sadly hampered the competitors.

In Bret Harte's Sensation Novels Condensed, there is a parody of Wilkie Collins, called "No Title."

THE LUCK OF TORY CAMP.

By Bread Tart.

THERE was commotion in Tory Camp. Outside a rude cabin waited an excited crowd, headed by Solly, a stalwart digger, with a Raphael face and profusion of dark beard, whose duel with Harden Bill, the Rad-Dog Woodcutter, was still talked of with bated breath. The name of a woman was on every lip, a name familiar in the campPoll Icy. The less said of her the better; no better than she should be perhaps; half foreign, half Ingin; but yet the only woman in camp, and now in woman's direst extremity. Suddenly an excited Celestial joined the group. "Lemme investigate, John," said he;" me PalMal, me washee-washee dirty linen, me go see her." "Scoot, you dern skunk!" thundered Solly; "none but a down-east johnny-cake 'ud trust you with any woman nowadays." At that moment a wail, feeble, yet sufficient to quell the laughter that greeted Solly's sally, announced a birth in Tory Camp. Little Randy, or the Luck-for by these names the frolicsome miners had christened the infant (in beer)-grew and throve, and soon became a power in the camp. His childish jokes with

My father was a north-country surgeon. He had retired, a widower from Her Majesty's navy many years before, and had a small practice in his native village. When I was seven years old he employed me to carry medicines to his patients. Being of a lively disposition, I sometimes amused myself, during my daily rounds, by mixing the contents of the different phials. Although I had no reason to doubt that the general result of this practice was beneficial, yet, as the death of a consumptive curate followed the addition of a strong mercurial lotion to his expectorant, my father concluded to withdraw me from the profession and send me to school.

Grubbins, the schoolmaster, was a tyrant, and it was not long before my impetuous and self-willed nature rebelled against his authority. I soon began to form plans of revenge. In this I was assisted by Tom Snafflea school-fellow. One day Tom suggested:

"Suppose we blow him up. I've got two pounds of gun-powder!"

"No, that's too noisy," I replied.

Tom was silent for a minute, and again spoke. "You remember how you flattened out the curate, Pills! Couldn't you give Grubbins something-something to make him leathery sick-eh ?"

A flash of inspiration crossed my mind. I went to the shop of the village apothecary. He knew me; I had often purchased vitriol, which I poured into Grubbins's inkstand to corrode his pens and burn up his coat-tail, on which he was in the habit of wiping them. I boldly asked for an ounce of chloroform. The young apothecary winked and handed me the bottle.

It was Grubbins's custom to throw his handkerchief over his head, recline in his chair, and take a short nap during recess. Watching my opportunity, as he dozed, I managed to slip his handkerchief from his face and substitute my own, moistened with chloroform. In a few minutes he was insensible. Tom and I then quickly shaved his head, beard, and eyebrows, blackened his face with a mixture of vitriol and burnt cork, and fled. was a row and scandal the next day. My father always

There

An official letter, with the Admiralty seal, informed me that I was expected to join H. M. ship Belcher, Captain Boltrope, at Portsmouth, without delay. In a few days I presented myself to a tall, stern-visaged man, who was slowly pacing the leeward side of the quarter-deck. As I touched my hat he eyed me sternly:

"So ho! Another young suckling. The service is going to the devil. Nothing but babes in the cockpit Boatswain's mate, pass the and grannies in the board.

werd for Mr. Cheek!"

Mr. Cheek, the steward, appeared and touched his hat. "Introduce Mr. Breezy to the young gentlemen. Stop! Where's Mr. Swizzle?"

"At the masthead, sir." "Where's Mr. Lankey ?"

"At the masthead, sir."

"

Mr. Briggs?''

Masthead, too, sir."

"And the rest of the young gentlemen?" roared the enraged officer.

"All masthead, sir,"

"Ah!" said Captain Boltrope, as he smiled grimly, "under the circumstances, Mr. Breezy, you had better go to the masthead too."

CHAPTER III.

At the masthead I made the acquaintance of two youngsters of about my own age, one of whom informed me that he had been there 332 days out of the year.

"In rough weather, when the old cock is out of sorts, you know, we never come down," added a young gentleman of nine years, with a dirk nearly as long as himself, who had been introduced to me as Mr. Briggs. "By the way, Pills," he continued, how did you come to omit giving the captain a naval salute!"

46

'Why, I touched my hat," I said, innocently. That will do "Yes, but that isn't enough, you know. very well at other times. He expects the naval salute when you first come on board-greeny!"

66

I began to feel alarmed, and begged him to explain. Why, you see, after touching your hat, you should have touched him lightly with your forefinger in his waistcoat, so, and asked, "How's his nibs?'-you see?" "How's his nibs?" I repeated.

"Exactly. He would have drawn back a little, and then you should have repeated the salute, remarking 'How's his royal nibs?' asking cautiously after his wife and family, and requesting to be introduced to the gunner's daughter."

"The gunner's daughter?"

"The same; you know she takes care of us young gentlemen; now don't forget, Pillsy!"

When we were called down to the deck I thought it a good chance to profit by this instruction. I approached Captain Boltrope and repeated the salute without conHe remained for a scientiously omitting a single detail. moment livid and speechless. At length he gasped out: "Boatswain's mate !"

64

'If you please, sir," I asked, tremulously, "I should like to be introduced to the gunner's daughter!"

"O, very good, sir!" screamed Captain Boltrope, rubbing his hands and absolutely cap-ring about the deck with rage. "Od-n you! Of course you shall

!

O ho! the gunner's daughter! O, h-ll! this is too much! Boatswain's mate !" Before I well knew where

I was, I was seized, borne to an eightpounder, tied upon it and flogged!

From Sensation Novels Condensed, by Bret Harte. London. Ward, Lock and Co.

腰

THE PALE-FACED WARRIORS.

By Captain Mayne Reid.

CHAPTER I.

"

"I feel kinder dull," said Tiger Tom to me one day. "Let us go and kill some Injins." We soon reached the forest, but not a Redskin was in sight. Tom examined the trail closely, and with an old backwoodsman's unerring instinct declared we should see no "Injins that day. As I was complimenting him upon his wonderful sagacity, we were suddenly surprised by a band of the dreaded Chickatoos. With one thought for those at home Tom took to his heels and vanished. The savages bound me to a tree, and told me not to run away. I promised not to.

CHAPTER II.

An exciting discussion upon cookery, of which I was the central object, followed. One advocated roasting, another baking me! I did not favour either. Between them I got into a stew. At night, whilst the rascals slept, 1 perceived an Indian maiden by my side. She unbound me, and gave me the full dress of a chief, and some pigment to stain my skin with. To disguise myself was the work of a minute and three-quarters, when the savages awoke, and missing me, set up a terrific yell, and started in pursuit. To avoid observation, I accompanied them.

CHAPTER III.

The chase was particularly close. I was anxiously awaiting nightfall to escape them, when, horror! something wet touched my cheek. It was raining. The rain fell in torrents, and as it washed my colour off and I gradually became white, the Chickatoos saw through my disguise. Seizing his rifle, the chief told me to stand apart. He fired, but missed me. I feigned to be hit, and springing into the air, turned sixteen distinct somersaults. Before they recovered from their surprise, I disappeared in the forest.

F. P. DELAFOND.

The Weekly Dispatch Competition. February 25, 1883. In this competition, the compositions were limited to 300 words, which prevented the authors from giving more than a very rough caricature of their originals. But in 1867, Mr. Walter Parke contributed a parody of Captain Mayne Reid to Judy free from any such harrassing restriction, and succeeded in producing a most blood-curdling romance. It was entitled "The Skull Hunters: A Terrific Tale of the Prairie !!" By Captain Rayne Meade ; and consisted of twenty-one chapters of thrilling adventures, and daring exploits with illustrations to match. This was published in book form in 1868, another and revised edition was brought out in 1887, during the excitement about Buffalo Bill's Wild West. This had a tremendous sale, it was called "The Skull Hunters; or, The Warriors of the Wild West." Judy Office, London.

ANTICIPATIONS OF THE DERBY. BY A FRENCH VISITOR.

I. L'Homme qui Rit.

"In England, everything is great, even that which is not good, even oligarchy itself!" Thought profound and sublime of the Master; apophthegm initiatory and bitter of the Man who Laughs-who laughs, but who can also

bite.

For Genius, as for Ambition-for Prometheus who thinks, as for Prometheus who wields the great battalions -seems it not that there is reserved, by the derisive irony of Fate, an expiatory rock, an island exile?

For Victor Hugo, this rock, expiatory but glorious, calls itself Guernsey.

For Napoleon, it had two names; it was Elba, and it was Ste. Hélène.

Patience, Master! Watching the brumous clouds, tainted with Britannic fogs, that roll around the Islands of the Sleeve in the crepusculary sadness of an English spring-listening to the breeze, keen, acute, Arctic, Polar, which groans, which growls, which howls, which whistles menacing but impuissant, around the walls of Hauteville House-remember thyself, Master, that History, as for Ambition, so for Genius, repeats herself, in moments, for the one of remorse, for the other of caprice!

After Elba, the Hundred Days.

After Ste. Hélène, the voyage of the Belle-Poule. "He laughs best who laughs last," says the Proverb. Proverbs are the wisdom of nations.

And thou, oh Master, oh author of the Man who Laughs, thy laugh is as the laugh of Gwynplaine, sombre but not cynical, permanent but full of pity, of compassion-a laughter broken with tears-above all, a laughter which endures!

II. The Solidarity of the Sportmans.

Yes; in England, everything is great. Even in her sports, she is the Titaness of the Ocean.

There is a solidarity of peoples; above all, there is a solidarity amongst the votaries of Diana, huntress pale, chaste, ferocious, formidable, but ravishing, but divine!

The sportmans of France, the sportmans of England, they are as the brothers of Corsica. What says your Williams?" As we were being washed by nurse, we got completely mixed!"

Touching and tender fantasy of this grand old Swan of Stratford-upon-Thames! Or, what say I-of Corsica ? Of Siam-melancholy but affecting type of the rudimentary solidarity of the Orient !

I had long desired to watch you insularies in the sports of the hippodrome, in which I am myself not without skill; but the furious storms of the Sleeve twice detained me at Calais, and once at Boulogne. I consoled myself in the hope that everthing comes to him who knows how to wait.

I knew how to wait. I waited.

After Chantilly, Epsom's courses!

The sea appeared calm; not a wrinkle in the folds of the steel-blue Sleeve.

I embarked myself, with my luggage in my left hand and my "Ruff's Guide to the Turf" in my right.

I shall see them, then, at last-these courses, sacred in the past by the memory of Eclipse and the Flying Admiral Childers, dear to the patriotic heart of France in the present days by the triumph of Gladiateur!

III.

Ocean less Perfidious than the Aristocracy
of Albion.

The sun was shining. The Ocean stirred gently in its sleep. Its ripples were as tender, as voluptuous, as the sighs of pleasure which scarcely derange the diaphanous scarf that lies upon the bosom of beauty. Oh, Phoebus! Oh, Neptunus! Oh, Venus!

I told you the sun was shining. My heart also. That I was gay! Gaiety premature, unreasonable, absurd!

As we cross Calais Bar the vessel rolls. I like it not. Can she be strong enough for the traverse, often fearful and stormy, to Douvres? I begin to marvel whether she is made of iron, or only made of wood.

I address the question, politely, to a young English sportmans by my side-" Pardon, Mister! but what is the vessel made of?"

A spasm of uncertainty, if not of pain, passes across his face as he points to an inscription inside the paddleboxes.

One can only die one time; nevertheless, it is permitted to exclaim against the perfidy of the Steam-Lords of the Board of Commerce for London and Douvres. I read the inscription. Hope abandons me. The vessel is not made of iron !

She is not even made of wood!!
She is only "Maid of Kent!!!"

IV. Portentosum Mare.

An agitation which I have never felt before seems to seize upon me.

The further we go, the more it increases.

The young English sportmans, with the cynical indifference of the patrician, contemplates my sufferings, and lights his cigar. Is it that he calls that “solidarity”?

Two blonde misses with their papa-oligarch, fat, and without sympathy-sit near me. They talk to each other freely. At times they laugh. I laugh not, I!

Nor would they laugh, spoilt infants of Fashion, if I were to express the ideas that are struggling in my bosom -if I were to show them all that is within me !

V. After Convulsion, Despair.

I have shown them all that was within me. They have moved away-it was a prudent step. Now that they are gone, I could almost wish that I were dead!

VI. Noblesse Oblige.

The young English sportmans is, after all, a good infant. He brings me a big goblet and a biscuit, which comfort me, and tries to speak to me in French,

Words sympathetic, but mysterious.

"Ah, Monsieur,” he says, il faut décidément maintenir votre pivert!"

Enigma! "I must keep up my wood-pecker?" I have no wood-pecker! I tell him so in his own tongue; adding that I am very fond of shooting at the doves.

66

Ah, " he rejoins, "we don't call 'em Doves, we call 'em les hiboux du coiffeur-Barbers' Owls!"

We become more and more friendly, as the pain subsides. When we reach Douvres, I give him my card.

He says that he has forgotten his; but that I shall have no difficulty in finding him at any of the tambours de la chasse-Sporting Drums-especially if I ask for Lord William Wiggins, of Wapping.

What a droll of a name! Not facile to pronounce, that! Let us essay, with the help of the dictionary of pro

nunciation:

"Quilliam Ouiggins—of Ouapping.”

VII. The Babylon of Britain. Yes; in England everything is great. Behold this London, confused and chaotic amalgamation of bourg upon bourg, of city upon city, almost of county upon countybehold its administration, vague, contradictory, without doubt, but immense, but Titanic, but sublime.

To-day London has but one heart, which palpitates— one thought, which engrosses—one dream, which possesses -one hope, which enchants. To the heart, the thought, the dream, the hope, there is one key. It is the Epsom's Courses, at Derby!

VIII. Explications.

Questions to resolve: "Who is Epsom?" "And where is Derby?"

Mystery strange and inexplicable, this Epsom! Not one of my interlocutors, of French or English, can give me any particulars of his life. Oh fame, oh renown, oh fickleness of popular affection! We go to the Courses he has founded; and yet the very day of his death is forgotten or unknown!

Another mystery. Derby is a hundred and twenty miles from London; and yet many of my friends assure that they will drive down without a single change of horses! Ah, then, it is no marvel, this predominance of the old England in the hippic arena, when even the ordinary horses of the carriage can travel a hundred and twenty miles-two hundred kilomètres-without fatigue.

These facts were new to me. They were also new to most of my countrymen with whom I conversed. The Unknown-behold the Redoubtable!

IX. Vieille Ecole, Bonne Ecole,

Happily, I encounter Lord Ouiggins.

He is an aristocrat of the old rock-a little mocking, perchance, a little reserved, cold, indifferent, proud, but of an antique probity, a disinterestedness more than Roman.

He takes me under his charge.

I had been deceived. They were mocking themselves of me, those who told me the courses were at Derby. They are run on Epsom's Salt-Downs.

66

Derby "is only the title of their founder, one of those English eccentrics of whom the type is so familiar in France-poet, politician, jockey-Premier Minister of Great Britain until he was overthrown by the intrigues of Sir Benjamin Gladstone !

After one thunder-stroke, another :
Gladiateur is not to run!

Is this, then, the old Britannic chivalry-the love of what the poet has proudly called "Greenwich Fair-Play"? Is this the entente cordiale? I survey Lord Ouiggins. He can scarcely meet my eye. He turns aside. Let us hope it is to blush!

He tries to defend the invidious exclusion. He pretends that in the Derby-Course the horses must not exceed a at least quite certain age; also that Gladiateur was sufficiently near that age when he did run. Puerile evasion! False pride of nationality!

What is to become of the money I have wagered? Lord Ouiggins tells me to console myself. He has private information. He will not see a foreign gentleman wronged.

X. Les Nuits de Londres.