CROWNING THE EDIFICE.

(A Study Translated into English from Zolaesque.)

Emile was triumphant. The arm-chair of the Academy was still vacant. He did not yet fill it. But, for all that, he was triumphant, for he had performed a brave action. He had achieved a veritable success. It was more than thousands from the coffers of the publishers, more than pages of praises of the papers. It was a great event at length wonderfully accomplished.

Emile sat in his London lodgings satisfied with all his surroundings. Of course, he was interviewed. He had been followed from France to England, and had seen in an evening paper an account of the temporary indisposition of one very dear to him on board the boat. He was prepared for his visitor.

"I am very comfortable. I think England charming; love its fog, and am deeply impressed with the Lord Mayor. I soon had enough of the first meeting of the Congress of the Institute, but thought the ball at Guildhall excellent. I really have no more to say. Next please." But his Interviewer was not to be discarded hurriedly. He stood to his guns, or, rather, his reporter's book.

"Are you not proud of all your volumes? Do you not think that by writing them you have achieved the success of the century?"

"I am certainly proud of my work. But my work is not my greatest achievement. No, a thousand times no, it is not my greatest achievement."

"Well what is?" asked the Interviewer; and then he added, "Please look sharp about it, as I have to do the Archbishop of Canterbury, Mr. Monte Carlo Wells, and Mr. Balfour, before I return to the office."

"Yes, I am prouder of this last feat," pursued the Master, ignoring the presence of the Reporter, "than the rest put together. It has taken me all my life to make up my mind to do it; but it is done at last."

"Of what are you speaking?"

"Yes, what are my novels compared to the heroism of those sixty-five minutes! That hour has been a bar to my compatriots. It has kept them in France. And now I am their superior. I have at length the right to boast a triumph!"

The Interviewer made an entry in his note-book, then he asked for further explanation.

"And so you are prouder of this event than all your hard-earned fame. And now tell me what event has so greatly moved you?"

"With pleasure. But listen. For twenty years I have laboured to write the history of France in romance. And when I say the history of France, I mean that part of the nation's story which has sprung from the Third Empire."

"Yes, yes," interrupted the Interviewer; "and you have done it well. But pardon me, I am pressed for time. His Grace of Canterbury awaits me at Lambeth. Out with it! What is your special cause for pride?"

"Yes, I have been maligned, misunderstood, insulted, hated. But men must now call me a man of great courage, a man of infinite determination. For I have done it. Yes, after a lifetime of careful consideration I have done it!"

"Done what?" asked the Interviewer, who was growing impatient.

Then came the reply, uttered in a tone of indescribable emotion:

"I have crossed the Channel!"

"MY CUMMERBUND."

Sunday.—At Club. Conversation (learned) about epidemics. Heard somebody (an authority of course on the subject) say, "Oh, rub plenty of camphor into your cummerbund." Replied, "Yes; good idea." Wrote it down. Was going to question him as to details, but found he had quitted the club. Know what camphor is, not quite certain as to "cummerbund." Think it's Indian. Called in at Oriental Club. Old Oriental says, "Only natives wear cummerbunds." Oh, then "cummerbund" is not something to eat or drink? "No; it's a kind of cloth. Get 'em anywhere now." Anywhere? It appears I am behind the age. Everyone, except myself apparently, knows all about a "cummerbund." It sounds a bit Scotch; also German. "Cummer" Scotch; "Bund" German. German Bund. To be obtained at hosier's, or at any emporium for Indian clothing. Good.

Monday.—Bought cummerbund. Bright colour; neat. Bought also large bottle of camphor. Rubbed it in. Strong smell—more than strong. But self-preservation is first law, &c., &c., so get accustomed to it. After one day's wearing, don't notice saturated cummerbund. Quite accustomed to it.

Tuesday.—Went to see Smith. "Hullo, old fellow," he says, "afraid of moths in your clothes, eh?" Ask what he means. He mentions strong smell of camphor. I explain my preventive measures. "Oh, that's all very well!" he returns; "but the very best thing is to soak your shirt in turpentine. I'm sure of it." Sure he is right, because he is a student at Guy's. Thank him warmly for this life-saving hint. Rush home; follow his advice. Beastly smell at first, but soon cease to notice it. Continue wearing camphorated cummerbund also, as an extra precaution. Call on Mrs. Montgomery-Mumby. Sweet girl her niece! Somehow she seems to avoid me, a thing she never did before. So they all do, and I have no one to talk to but a crippled uncle of theirs, who apparently has a bad cold in his head, for he holds his handkerchief to his nose all the time. Jones called. Says he has seen Smith. "By Jove!" he exclaims, "you've been going in for oil painting, or chemistry, or something. There's a tremendous smell of turpentine." I explain. "Oh, there's no harm in that," he says; "but a far better thing is to wet your waistcoat with carbolic acid. Antiseptic, you know." Now he is a student at Bart's, and probably knows as much as Smith. Thank him, and resolve to try his preventive in addition to the other. Down to Eastbourne. Everyone clears out of railway carriage soon after I get in, except one old man, who says he is a medical man, and that a plentiful use of disinfectants is no doubt advisable.

Wednesday.—Meet Robinson on the Parade. Says he saw Smith on Tuesday. Asks me what I think of the epidemic scare. Explain my precautions. "Thought I noticed an awful smell," he says. "Hope it's all right. As for me, I believe there's nothing like pouring sulphuretted hydrogen all over the inside of your coat. Had it from my uncle, who was Medical Officer of Health at Benares." An invaluable suggestion; buy a bottle, and follow his directions when dressing for dinner. Horrible stench, like rotten eggs! However, soon get accustomed to it. To a dance at the Cholmondeley-Chicks's. Never more annoyed in my life. Every girl says she has no dance left. What can have offended them all? The only partner I have is Cholmondeley-Chick's maiden aunt, and she faints in my arms after going once round the room. However, I have a good supper, for the dining-room is quite empty all the time I am in it, so I can get as much as I like.

Thursday.—Back to town. Tomkins looks in. Says he saw Smith the other day. Then looks curiously all round room. "Do you keep eggs in this room?" he asks; "hot weather turned 'em bad, eh?" Explain that I have used sulphuretted hydrogen. "Those chemical things," he says, holding his nose, "are not half so good as plain, homely preparations. The finest thing of all is to soak all your clothes in gin and peppermint. Had it from a man who ought to know, for he spent last autumn in Hamburg and used bottles full." Thank him with sincere gratitude, and as soon as possible try this new precaution. To theatre. People near me begin a great talking. Commissionaire asks me to leave. Says "money will be returned." Hanged if I go! I've paid for this seat. Then a fearful uproar starts. Do not remember details of fight, but find myself "chucked" into the roadway. Policeman picks me up as drunk and incapable. Spend night in police-cell. * * * * Explanations magisterially accepted.... Apology given and taken. Off (with the cummerbund), and away for a tour in the North.

A VERY GREAT MAN.

(Cub Hunting.)

Young Farmer. "Well, Master Jack! Out again?"

Master Jack. "Why, Yes. Fact is, you know, always like to get as much in as possible before we begin to Advertise. Brings such a beastly lot o' Duffers out, don't you know!"

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Chatto and Windus have just issued a new edition of Ouida's Dog of Flanders. The well-got-up and cheaply-priced volume contains three other Stories, nearly as charming. In the quartette Ouida, my Baronite says, will be found at her best—Ouida, without the weeds of grossness and comical classicality that sometimes grow in her pastures. Of this volume of her works it may be said that, happily, Lemprière is not in it.

To those about to travel, whether there and back, or there or back, is immaterial, the Baron strongly recommends The Great Shadow and Beyond the City, two stories in one volume by Conan Doyle, published in Arrowsmith's three and sixpenny series. It is a long time since the Baron has read a more dramatically told story than that of The Great Shadow. Truly, if his opinion had been asked, he would have seriously advised any novelist against attempting, in any form, a description of the Battle of Waterloo. Yet, though Conan Doyle has done it admirably, there is, thinks the Baron, just one chapter too much of this work. No one, since Charles Lever wrote, has achieved anything like it, though there is just a smack of Orthis Mulcaney & Co. about it which—"but that is another story." The Baron finding no fault with the illustrations as illustrations, wishes that the tales had been left to themselves, and that they had been told without these superfluous aids. It is a pleasure to recommend such a book, and it is recommended by everybody's trusted Literary Adviser, The Baron de Book-Worms.

What the Vicar of Amesbury Inclines to Say.

(Judging from his Letter in the "Standard," September 22, on the Desecration or Preservation of Stonehenge Question.)

HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF.

(A Thought at the Haymarket Theatre.)