MIXED NOTIONS.—No. II. UGANDA.

Scene—As before, a Railway-carriage in a suburban morning train to London. Persons also as before—namely, two Well-informed Men, an Inquirer, and an Average Man.

First Well-informed Man (laying down his paper). So the Government's going to stick to Uganda, after all. I had a notion, from the beginning, they wouldn't be allowed to scuttle.

Average Man. Ah—I don't know that I'm particularly enthusiastic about Uganda.

Inquirer. Why not?

A. M. What are we going to get out of it?—that's the question. We go interfering all over the world, grabbing here, and grabbing there, merely in order to keep other people out; and then some nigger King, with a cold in his head, sneezes as he passes the Union Jack. That's an insult to the flag, of course; so off goes an expedition, and, before you know where you are, we've spent about ten millions, and added a few thousand acres of swamp to the Empire. Why can't we leave things alone? Haven't we got enough?

First W. I. M. That's all very well, I daresay; but you forget that the Berlin Conference made Uganda one of our spheres of influence.

Inquirer. When was that?

First W. I. M. Why, just after the Franco-Prussian War. They all met in Berlin to settle up everything—and we got Uganda.

Inquirer. I thought it was later than that, somehow.

First W. I. M. Well, anyhow, it was somewhere about that time. I don't pledge myself to a year or two. But what I say about Uganda is this. We're there—or rather the Company is—and we should simply disgrace ourselves before the whole world if we chucked up the sponge now. And, if we did, we should have France or Germany nipping in directly.

Second W. I. M. They can't.

First W. I. M. Why not?

Second W. I. M. Why not! Because it's our sphere of influence whatever happens.

Inquirer (timidly). I'm afraid you'll think me very ignorant, but I don't quite know what a "sphere of influence" is. I've read a lot about it lately, but I can't quite make it out.

Second W. I. M. (condescendingly). Yes, I know it's deuced difficult to keep up with these new notions, unless you're in the way of hearing all about them. Spheres of influence mean—well, don't you know, they mean some country that's not quite yours, but it's more yours than anybody else's, and if anybody else comes into it, you're allowed to make a protocol of it. Besides, it gives you a right to the Hinterland, you know.

Inquirer (dubiously). Ah, I see. What's the Hinterland?

Second W. I. M. (stumped). I fancy it's about the most fertile part of Africa. (To First W. I. M.) Isn't it?

First W. I. M. Yes, that's it. It's the German for Highlands.

Inquirer. Of course, so it is. I might have thought of that.

Average Man (to First W. I. M.). Seems to me you've none of you got hold of the right point. What I want to know is, does Uganda pay? Lugard says it don't; the Company hasn't made anything of it, and they've got to go whether they like it or not; though I daresay they're deuced glad to be out of the hole. But, if it don't pay, what on earth are we going to do with it?

Second W I. M. (triumphantly reinforcing him). Yes, what on earth are we to do with it?

First W. I. M. (calmly, but contemptuously). Ah! I see you're both little-England men. From your point of view, I daresay you're right enough. But I'm one of those who believe that we must stick on wherever we've planted the flag. I agree with Moltke, that the nation that gives up is in a state of decay.

Second W. I. M. It wasn't Moltke who said that; it was Victor Hugo, or (after a pause) Lord Palmerston.

First W. I. M. Well, it doesn't matter who said it. The point is, it's true. Besides, what are you going to do about the slaves and the Missionaries?

Average Man. Oh, bother the Missionaries!

First W. I. M. It's all very well to say "bother the Missionaries!" but that won't get you any further. They're our fellow-creatures after all, and what's more, they're our fellow-countrymen, so we've got to look after them.

Average Man. I should let the whole lot of Missionaries fight it out together. They only keep quarrelling amongst themselves, and trying to bag one another's converts; and then France and England get involved.

Inquirer. By the way, where is Uganda, exactly?

First W. I. M. Just behind Zanzibar—or somewhere about there. You can get to it best from Mashonaland. Didn't you see that Rhodes said he was going to make a telegraph-line through there? It used to belong to the Sultan of Zanzibar. Don't you remember?

Inquirer. Of course; so it did.

[Train draws up at Terminus.

"’Twas Whispered in Heaven, ’twas Muttered in H——." À propos of the much-discussed article written by Dr. St. George Mivart in The Nineteenth Century, on "Happiness in Hell."—begging pardon for uttering a word "unmentionable to ears polite,"—our old friend 'Arry writes thusly:—"Sir,—We 'ave all of us been familiar for years with the well-known 'Mivart's 'Otel.' If the clever Professor is correct, this name ought to be changed, as there ain't no such a place; and, in future, when alluded to, it ought to be called Mivart's Cool 'el. Am I right?

"Yours truly, The 'Arry Opagite."

In "Lucky Shoes," baskets, and in other dainty trifles, does Rimmel arrange his beautiful bottles of scent. Rimmel is not a Head Centre, but our Chief Scenter, "and," exclaims Mr. Wagstaff, the Unabashed, "what a great day will be his Scentenary!"

"The Silent Battle."—See this charming piece at the Criterion. Of course it is brought out by Mr. Charles Wyndham in illustration of the old proverb, "Acts, not words."

CHOOSING CHRISTMAS TOYS.

(A Sketch in the Lowther Arcade.)

Between the sloping banks of toys, and under a dense foliage of coloured rosettes, calico banners, and Japanese-lanterns, the congested Stream of Custom oozes slowly along, with an occasional overflow into the backwaters of the shops behind, while the Stall-keepers keep up a batrachian and almost automatic croak of invitation.

Fond Grandmother. So you've chosen a box of soldiers, have you, Franky?—very well. Now what shall we get for little Elsie and Baby?

Franky (promptly). Another box of soldiers would do nicely for Elsie, Grandmamma, and—I know, a fort for Baby!

Grandm. (doubtfully). But they're such little tots—they won't know how to play with them.

Franky. Oh, but I can teach them, you know, Grandmamma.

Grandm. That's right—I like to see a boy kind to his little sisters.

[She adopts Master Franky's disinterested suggestion.

A Mother. Now, Percy, it's all nonsense—you can't want any more toys—those you've got are as good as new. (To her Friend.) He's such a boy for taking care of his things—he'll hardly trust his toys out of their boxes, and won't allow anyone else to touch them!

The Friend. Dear little fellow—then I'm sure he deserves to be given a new toy for being so careful!

The Mother. Well, he'll give me no peace till I do give him something. I know—but mind this, Percy, it's only to keep you quiet, and I'm not going to buy Eddie anything. (To Friend.) He gives all his things away as it is! [Master Percy takes both these valuable moral lessons to heart.

Mrs. Stilton (to her less prosperous Sister-in-law, Mrs. Bloomold). Nonsense, Vinnie, I won't hear of it! Reggie has more toys already than he knows what to do with!

Mrs. Bloom. (apologetically). Of course, my dear Sophia, I know your children are born to every——but still, I have no one but myself now, you know—and if I might—it would be such a pleasure!

Mrs. Stilton. I have already told you there is not the slightest occasion for your spending your money in any such foolish manner. I hope that is enough.

Mrs. Bloom. I'm sure he would like one of these little water-carts—now wouldn't you, Reggie? [Reggie assents shyly.

Mrs. Stilton. Buy him one, by all means—he will probably take the colour out of my new carpets with it—but, of course, that's of no consequence to you!

Mrs. Bloom. Oh dear, I quite forgot your beautiful carpets. No, to be sure, that might——but one of those little butcher's shops, now!—they're really quite cheap!

Mrs. S. I always thought cheapness was a question of what a person could afford.

Mrs. Bloom. But I can afford it, dear Sophia—thanks to dear John's bounty, and—and yours.

Mrs. S. You mustn't thank me. I had nothing to do with it. I warned John at the time that it would only——and it seems I was right. And Reggie has a butcher's shop—a really good one—already. In fact, I couldn't tell you what he hasn't got!

Reggie. I can, though, Aunt Vinnie. I haven't got a train, for one thing! (To his Mother, as she drags him on.) I should like a little tin train, to go by clockwork on rails so. Do let Auntie——what's she staying behind for?

Mrs. Bloom. (catching them up, and thrusting a box into Reggie's hands). There, dear boy, there's your train—with Aunt Vinnie's love! (Reggie opens the box, and discovers a wooden train.) What's the matter, darling? Isn't it——?

Mrs. S. He had rather set his heart on a clockwork one with rails—which I was thinking of getting for him—but I am sure he's very much obliged to his Aunt all the same—aren't you, Reginald?

Reggie (with a fortunate inspiration). Thank you ever so much, Auntie! And I like this train better than a tin one—because all the doors open really—it's exactly what I wanted!

Mrs. S. That's so like Reggie—he never says anything to hurt people's feelings if he can possibly help it.

Mrs. B. (with meek ambiguity). Ah, dear Sophia, you set him such an example, you see! (Reggie wonders why she squeezes his hand so.)

A Vague Man (to Saleswoman). Er—I want a toy of some sort—for a child, don't you know. (As if he might require it for an elderly person.) At least, it's not exactly a child—it can talk, and all that.

Salesw. Will you step inside, Sir? We've a large assortment within to select from. Is it for a boy or a girl?

The Vague Man. It's a boy—that is, its name's Evelyn—of course, that's a girl's name too; but it had better be some thing that doesn't—I mean something it can't—— [He runs down.

Salesw. I quite understand, Sir. One of these little 'orses and carts are a very nice present for a child—(with languid commendation)—the little 'orse takes out and all.

The V. M. Um—yes—but I want something more—a different kind of thing altogether.

Salesw. We sell a great many of these rag-dolls; all the clothes take off and on.

The V. M. Isn't that rather——and then, for a boy, eh?

Salesw. P'raps a box of wooden soldiers would be a more suitable toy for a boy, certainly.

The V. M. Soldiers, eh?—yes—but you see, it might turn out to be a girl after all—and then——

Salesw. I see, you want something that would do equally well for either. Here's a toy now. (She brings out a team of little tin swans on wheels.) You fix a stick in the end—so—and wheel it in front of you, and all the little swans go up and down.

[She wheels it up and down without enthusiasm.

The V. M. (inspecting it feebly). Oh—the swans go up and down, eh? It isn't quite—but very likely it won't—May as well have that as something else—Yes, you can send it to—let me see—is it Hampstead or Notting Hill they're living at now? (To the Saleswoman, who naturally cannot assist him.) No, of course, you wouldn't know. Never mind, I'll take it with me—don't trouble to wrap it up!

[He carries it off—to forget it promptly in a hansom.

A Genial Uncle (entering with Nephews and Nieces). Plenty to choose from here, eh? Look about and see what you'd like best.

Jane (the eldest, sixteen, and "quite a little woman"). I'm sure they would much rather you chose for them, Uncle!

Uncle. Bless me, I don't know what boys and girls like nowadays—they must choose for themselves!

Salesw. (wearily). Perhaps one of the young gentlemen would like a dredging-machine? The handle turns, you see, and all the little buckets go round the chain and take up sand or mud—or there's a fire-engine, that's a nice toy, throws a stream of real water.

[Tommy, aged eleven, is charmed with the dredging-machine, while the fire-engine finds favour in the eyes of Bobby, aged nine.

Jane (thoughtfully). I'm afraid the dredging-machine is rather a messy toy, Uncle, and the fire-engine wouldn't do at all, either—it would be sure to encourage them to play with fire. Bobby, if you say "blow!" once more, I shall tell Mother. Uncle is the best judge of what's suitable for you!

Uncle. Well, there's something in what you say, Jenny. We must see if we can't find something better, that's all.

Salesw. I've a little Toy-stige, 'ere—with scenes and characters in "Richard Cured o' Lyin'" complete and ready for acting—how would that do?

[Tommy and Bobby cheer up visibly at this suggestion.

Jane. I don't think Mother would like them to have that, Uncle—it might give them a taste for theatres, you know!

Uncle. Ha—so it might—very thoughtful of you, Jane—Mustn't get in your Mother's bad books; never do! What's in these boxes? soldiers? How about these, eh, boys? [The boys are again consoled.

Jane (gently). They're getting rather too big for such babyish things as soldiers, Uncle! I tell you what I think—if you got a nice puzzle-map for Tommy—he's so backward in his Geography—and a drawing slate for Bobby, who's getting on so nicely with his drawing, and a little work-box—not an expensive one, of course—for Winnie, that would be quite——

[These sisterly counsels are rewarded by ungrateful and rebellious roars.

Uncle. Tommy, did I hear you address your sister as a "beast"? Come—come! And what are you all turning on the waterworks for, eh? Strikes me, Jane, you haven't quite hit off their tastes!

Jane (virtuously). I have only told you what I know Mother would wish them to have, Uncle; and, even if I am to have my ankles kicked for it, I'm sure I'm right!

Uncle. Always a consolation, my dear Jenny. I'm sure no nephew of mine would kick his sister, except by the merest accident—so let's say no more of that. But it's no use getting 'em what they don't like; so suppose we stick to the fire-engine, and the other concern—theatre is it, Johnny?—Very well—and don't you get me into trouble over 'em, that's all. And Winnie would like a doll, eh?—that's all right. Now everybody's provided for—except Jane!

Jane (frostily). Thank you, Uncle—but you seem to forget I'm not exactly a child! [She walks out of the shop with dignity.

Uncle. Hullo! Put my foot in it again! But we can't leave Jenny out of it—can we? Must get her a present of some sort over the way.... Here, Tommy, my boy, you can tell me something she'd like.

Bobby (later—to Tommy). What did you tell Uncle to get for Jane?

Tommy (with an unholy chuckle). Why, a box with one of those puff-things in it. Don't you know how we caught her powdering her nose with Mother's? And Uncle got her one too! Won't she be shirty just!

[They walk out in an ecstasy of anticipation, as Scene closes.

Mr. Punch's Paragraphist says, "he was never good at dates," not even when served in dishes, for they're dry at the best; but, of the very newest and best kind of Date Cards, Marcus Ward & Co. have a capital selection. Among them the Grandfather's Clock makes a pretty screen, and, being a clock, is, of course, always up to the time of day.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

The Baron's Diarist and Date Examiner makes the following exhaustive notes:—first that Mr. C. Letts describes some of his Pocket Diaries as "The Improved." There is nothing so good but what it could be better. Lett's admit this, and be satisfied with the latest edition of Letts' Annuals, which are prizes, though, until Jan. 1, blanks.

The Paradise of the North, by David Lawson Johnstone. When a gentleman chooses the North Pole as a Paradise, he must be allowed any amount of Latitude and Longitude. This explorer leaves his Chambers (the Publishers of that ilk) in order to get out of the world by the coldest route.

A note on Innes & Co. "Innes" has several Outs this season. Cheery name for a Christmas Publisher, "Innes." We take our ease at our Innes, and we read with pleasure their dainty books called, Bartlemy's Child, by Frances Compton, a very pretty story. L. B. Walford (the authoress of Mr. Smith) condescends to write For Grown-Up Children, a number of delightful tales.

Messrs. Osgood as good as ever. Why not follow up their Bret Harte Birthday Book (most Harte-tistically got up) with a Sweet-Heart Birthday Book? Madame Van de Velde has compiled this. Our sparklingest Baronite exclaims, "Velde done!"

Thanks to Marcus Ward & Co. for The Cottar's Saturday Night, by Robbie Burns. "Oh, wad some friend the giftie gi'e us!"—as anyone who would like this for a Christmas present may say, adapting the poet to his purpose.

"A most sweet story! A most charming story!!" gurgled the Baron, as, with sobs in his inner voice, talking to himself, he finished the penultimate chapter of Dolly. "Now, Mrs. Burnett, if you dare to kill your heroine, I swear I'll never forgive you, and never read another of your fatally-fascinating books." The Baron trembled as he commenced the last chapter of the simplest, most natural, most touching, and most exquisitely-told story he has read for many a day. How would it end? A few lines sufficed. "Bless you, Mrs. Burnett!" snivelled the Baron, not ashamed of dabbing his eyes with his kerchief. "Bless you, Ma'am! You have let 'em live! May your new book go to countless editions! May it be another Little Lord Fauntleroy, and may you reap a golden reward for this, your masterpiece of simple work, your latest story—Dolly!" The Baron is bound ("bound in morocco" as the slaves were, poor wretches!) to add that he wishes it had not been illustrated, for, as good wine needs no bush, so a perfect story, such as is this, needs no illustration; nay, is rather injured by it than not. There is only one small item of common-place in it, and that is making the would-be seducer a married man. Of course, to prove him so was the easiest and shortest way of saving his vain and feather-headed little victim. Perhaps an alternative would have involved complication, and might have marred the natural simplicity of the story. So critically the Baron states his one very small objection, and reverts with the utmost pleasure to the hours he spent over the tale, absorbed in every page, in every line of it; and herewith doth he, not only most strongly, but most earnestly recommend everyone to procure this book (published by E. Warne & Co.), for it is one that can be and must be given a place of honour by the side of Dickens and Thackeray, to be read again and again, here a bit and there a bit, when other works of fiction now enjoying a greater literary reputation (though 'twould be difficult to name them), shall be relegated to the lowest shelves of books that have had their day. "Dixi! Scripsi!" quoth The Learned Baron de Book-worms.

NOTICE.—Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.