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--.--.-OUR CAPITAL LETTER.

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OUR CAPITAL LETTER. BY "ZINCO." M-AJOIt BÁRTTELOT-WHO IS IN THE RIGHT ? —A WILD CAMP —FACT AND FICTION- WHAT 13 SHE LIKE ?-YRS. PEARCY- RUDYARD KIPLING MORA USES—CASTE— TIIB YANKEE SHARK—" TETJTHS MISSION —TIVB LE ROI-THE RAREE SHOW AGAIN —KTJDIK'S LAST VOLUME—A BOUNTIFUL BABON—DON'T TURN BACK MONEY—A CHESTNUT—THE OLD STORY-A LINEAGE. We shall soon have a Stanley bibliography thieh will in itself form a not uninstructive history. A great degree of sympathy is at present felt for ^LAJOR BARTTELOT, I or, at any rate, for his family. Very piteous reading is his book as edited by his brother. The letters to his family are so manly and affectiouate, so hopeful— When I get hi>me," When I see you," and all the time the finger of Fate was pointing to when the clock strikes nothing." I suppose it is generally conceded that gallant soldier was "not the man for Galway." He was too impetuous, too undiplomatic, too intolerant—he could not, in fact, bring him- self down to circumstances. There must have been Irish blood in his veins. Stanley sailed for America Still veiled in mystery. He will not speak out until he oomes back— until all the others have published their little narratives, and then he will know his ground. Jephson's book is out, Bonny's is to follow, then one by Jameson's widow with her husbandi; diary and letters, and, lastly, one by Troup. We shall soon know all about it—too much, in fact. But when all is said that can be said, why, in the name of good fortune, did Mr. Stanley oontinue to keep Major Barttelot, and to give him a responsible command, when he knew he was so unfitted to deal with the untutored savage P It seems he disliked the major actively; all agree that he did, and the poor fellow himself constantly alludes to his chief's animus against him. Yet in Stanley's long letter to Major Barttelot's father he states that he loved his son. But we must remember that the letter was written while the writer could not but feel keenly for the bereaved parent, so he would be led to strain a point and, in a journalistic way, say a little more than be meant, I give this week a sketch by the accom- plished artist wbo has illustrated Jephson's book, Mr. E. W. Charlton. It is THE CAMP AT YAMBUYA. Mr. Charlton has executed his sketches from rough notes supplied to him by Mr. Jephson they add greatly to the interest of the work. Said Lord Wellesley to Justice Plankett, One of my aides-de-camp has written a personal narrative of his travels pray, what is your definition of I personal' ?" Well, my lord," was Plunkett's reply, we lawyers always consider personal as opposed to real." » A portrait of the perpetrator of a great crime has always a psychological interest. We like to see the sort of person capable of a terrible deed, and try and trace in the features and the expression some indication of the evil within. There is nothing indicative of relent- less cruelty in the visage of MRS. PBA £ CT, I and yet she is alleged to have deliberately fanned the murder and strangled the help. *rtwtyr<—but there, 1 am always wondering-if, supposing the State were ever to legislate for those born morally ] deficient, would Mrs. Pearcy have come i under that category ? A hundred police, I mounted and on foot, were in attendance at ] the funeral of the murdered woman. But for f this precaution, the husband would have been lynched. A friend who knew Mrs. Hogg before she married Hogg tells "me she was a sweet-natured, pleasant woman, clever, tidy, and well educated. She used to go out sewing, and was much respected. Rudyard Kipling, in a strong and original letter to the Pioneer Mail on The New Unionism, speaks of the optimism of the more educated, their insular narrowness and self-conceit. "It never," he says, seems to occur to 'em that the human instinct of getting as much as possible for money paid, or, failing money, for threats and fawnings, is about as old as Cain; and the burden of their bat (talk) is 'Me an' a few mates o' mine are going to make a new world. All this talk of caste, says Kipling, is just caste—caste 4,000 years old. All things considered, there isn't anything much older than caste-it began with the second generation of man on earth — but to read the advance' papers you would think it was a revelation from heaven. The real fun will begin-as it has begun and ended many times before-when the castes of skilled » labour are pushed up and knocked about by the lower and unrecognised castes, who will form castes of their own and outcasts ou the I decision of their own. How those castes will scuffle and fight among themselves, and how astonished the Englishman will be!" Mr. Kipling takes kindly to the American work- ing man. He thinks he is more independent. He probably is so, as the social barriers are less formidable in a republic, and caste has a weaker hold on the imagination. But if the working man of the States is a bit more self-dependent than his brother here, the Yankee swindler can teach our long firm a thing or two. The story of the Field swindle is not very complimentary to our cuteness. We fell an easy prey to THE YANKEE SRARX, I who by means of plausible oircularil and a little ground bait netted JC50,000 in a few months. A banking account on forged references was opened. When the smash oame, or rather when the game was up, the total assets were a few pens, some paper/and ink. The B. P. are very easily gulled. Just the other day an advertise- ment appeared in a certain daily offering ladies clerical work on receipt of sevenpence, I think. Mr. Labouchere, whose mission (and a very useful one) it is to run such scoundrels to earth, followed up this adver- tisement, and found the Literary Bureau was an address in a low tobacconist's, and that a young man merely called to receive.the letters, which every morning were numerous. He traced him to another address used for the same purpose, and discovered t&e heartless swindler was netting several |kM8nds a day. Truth is something more thacL a. sooiety paper it does good service in unearthing edu- cated swindlers preying on tho "helpless and weak, if -4- The London Stereoscopic Company are making Regent-street lively when dusk sets in. On a prominent first floor window, by aid of a strong electrio battery, the photographio portraits of well-known characters are shown, one at a time, and each remains for about twenty minutes, so as to avoid collecting a crowd. The series is called Familiar Faces!" Actors in chief rohs, politicians, and cele- brities of all sorts are thus placed en evidence. The idea is really grand, but the effect is not a little weird-electrio light is so ghastly The show led off with H.H.H. the Prince of Wales, who did not look at all spectral! Then TUB NK"W LORD MAYOR. Y and his two sheriffs in full civic toggery-an imposing trio. And, by the way, the pro- cession on the 10th (the 9th falls on a Sunday) is to pass up to Drury-lane Theatre, where Drunolanna reigna supreme. The procession is to be archaeological, we are told; but we are alwajs told that, and yet, excepting the year of Mr. Nottage's mayoralty, it has usually resolved itself into a raree show for the roughs. And when you see the coach you see all. Oh, but [ forgot the lacqueys; they are always a sight to themselves, with their long silken hose, false calves, tassels, gold- laoed coats, and cooked hats. Do you remem- ber that old joke in Punch ? An Irish recruit on guard at the Castle gate, Dublin, hesitates to present arms to a pompous strident flankey in gorgeous livery, saying, Arrah, now, I wonder if he's a sarvin' man or a gineral 1" The death of Mr. Mudie, the famous librarian, will not affeot the firm. Heads die, firms grow another—the Iring never dies. The firm of Mudie has been respeotably con- ducted it is, in fact, an institution we could ill want. If Mudie collapsed, so would the three-volume novel. What Mudie takes is always a point in the sale of a book. # Another good bookman of the same genre lis Baron Tauchmtz, the head of the great I Continental publishing firm, a hale veteran of 13. Next year the firm will celebrate its iubilee, for it was in 1841 that the Baton initiated his series of cheap editions of British mthors. The Baron, who was plain Herr Tauchnifz then, acted in an honest 'aahion. Had he chosen, he might have pirated the works of English writers from the first, for the reason that at that date no such thing as international copy- right existed. Instead of this, however, he tsked permission of the living authors whose works he printed, and honourably paid them their does and royalties. The baron's ances- tors have been booksellers and publishers for three generations, but the present bearer of the name has oonferred upon it world-wide fame. Baron Tauchnitz is a most accom- plished English scholar, and he himself selects the works which from time to time he publishes in the cheap and excellent form so well known to all Continental travellers. The Baron's procedure contrasts favourably with that of Harper in Amerioa. I said that America could teach us a thing or two in a certain direction-it seems like it. Mr. Rudyard Kipling gave the house of Harper in New York some MS. stories, or for their consideration. They returned them as rubbish" beneath their notice. The young fellow found another market, and the stories, as we all know, boomed. Then Harper made a selection from the colleotions and published them. In a letter they tent Mr. Kipling a handsome acknowledgment of £10, which the spirited young fellow returned. Mr. Sala, in one of his echoes, questions the wisdom of returning cheques—he never does. Once a inew York firm pirated a novel of his, and sent the usual pat on the head of £ 10— Mr. Sala pocketed the affront* hut did not acknowledge it. I j It is curious how a ohestnut" survives. It seems to die, when suddenly it is revived in some paper hard up for copy." It has probably been partially forgotten, so other papers copy, and it goes the round. Someone has been re-telling the old, old story of ourgra- cious Sovereign's first love, understood in "well-informed circ!ea"tohave been Lord Alfred Paget, the old beau and habituS of the green- room and clubland, who departed this life in the summer. His lordship had been a page at Court, and the two young hearts bad played a little tune together. Rude hands stopped the musio, and his lordship got some diplo- matio or other service abroad. Before he departed he performed the classic lyric v— I'U hang my harp on a willow tree I'll off to the wars again A peaoeful home has no charms for me, The battlefield no pain. The lady I love will soon be a bride. Witha diadem 011 her brow. Oh, why did she flatter my boyish pri(3« She's going to leave me now." Now, this absurd fairy tale is going the rounds again, consequent on the death of Lord Ellenborough, who is tacked on to it as the hero of the little romance; but, oh, no, it was Alfred And now his Royal love, her gracious Majesty, has no fewer than fifty descendants, including sons and daughters, grandsons and granddaughters, great-grand- sons and great-granddaughters. Besides these, she has four sons-in-law, four daughters- in-law, five grandsons-in-law, and one grand- daughter-in-law, She has lost one son and one daughter, five grandsons, one grand- daughter, one great-grandson, and one son-in- law. If these were living her family oirole would number seventy-four.

HE CAME HOME TO DIE;

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