class="sc">Prime Minister wishing to shake hands with him. May I inquire how there can be a "Vicar of Blairgowrie" at all? Is not the Established Church in Scotland the Presbyterian one? I know that they have "Lord Rectors" up north, and so perhaps there are Rectors as well, but I never heard of a Lord Vicar. "The Lord Vicar of Blairgowrie" would sound rather well. But what would his Lord Bishop say? Can any genuine Scotchman kindly assist me in unravelling this puzzle?—Southron Body.

Our Auxiliaries.—When are we likely to have a Minister of War who will do real justice to Officers of the Volunteers? I may say that I am thinking of becoming an Officer myself, and I fancy that the following inducements would be likely to bring in a fresh supply of these deserving men:—(1) Exemption from Taxes. (2) Ditto from Rates, and Serving on Juries. (3) More gold braid everywhere. (4) A Volunteer Captain to rank equal to a Lieutenant-General, and a Major of Volunteers equal to the Commander-in-Chief. (5) Retiring pension, and not less than six medals or decorations, after half a year's service. Do you think that there would be much good in my writing to Mr. Campbell-Bannerman and suggesting this?—Modest Merit.

UNDER THE ROSE.

(A Story in Scenes.)

Scene IV.—An Up-platform at Clapham Junction.
Time—Monday afternoon.

Curphew (to himself, as he paces up and down with a pre-occupied air). I ought to have been up at the Hilarity rehearsing hours ago. Considering all that depends on that play of mine—but there'll be time enough to pull Flattery together before Saturday. And this is the only chance I have of seeing Althea for days. Her mother hinted last night that she was obliged to let her travel up to Waterloo alone, and if I did happen to be going up about this time—and of course I do happen to be. I must tell Althea; I can't go on playing a part any longer. I felt such a humbug last night over that confounded Eldorado business. But if I'd revealed myself then as "Walter Wildfire, Comedian and Vocalist," those puritanical parents of hers would probably have both had a fit on the floor, and have kicked me out of the house as soon as they were sufficiently recovered! That's the worst of becoming intimate with a serious Evangelical family in the character of a hard-working journalist. I ought to have undeceived them, I suppose, but it was such a blessing to sink the shop—and besides, I'd seen Althea. It would have been folly to speak until—but she must know now, I'll have no more false pretences. After all, there's no disgrace in being a music-hall singer. I've no reason to be ashamed of the means by which I've got my reputation. Ah! but she won't understand that—the name will be enough for her! And I can't blame her if she fails to see the glory of bringing whisky and water nightly to the eyes of an enraptured audience by singing serio-comic sentiment under limelight through clouds of tobacco-smoke. Heaven knows I'm sick enough of it, and if Flattery only makes a hit, I'd cut the profession at once. If I could only hear her say she—there she is—at last—and alone, thank goodness! I wish I didn't feel so nervous—I'm not likely to get a better opportunity. (Aloud, as he meets Althea.) Mrs. Toovey said I might—can I get your ticket, or see after your luggage, or anything?

Althea. Oh, thank you, Mr. Curphew, but Phœbe is doing all that.

Curph. (to himself, his face falling). That's the maid; then she's not alone! I must get this over now, or not at all. (Aloud.) Miss Toovey, I—I've something I particularly want to say to you; shall we walk up to the other end of the platform?

Alth. (to herself). It looks more serious than ever! Is he going to give me good advice? It's kind of him to care, but still——(Aloud.) Oh, but we shan't have time. See, there's our train coming up now. Couldn't you say it in the railway carriage?

[The train runs in.

Curph. (to himself). For Phœbe's edification! No, I don't quite——(Aloud, desperately.) It—it's something that concerns—something I can't very well say before anyone else—there'll be another train directly—would you mind waiting for it?

Alth. (to herself). It's very mysterious. I should like to know what it can be! (Aloud.) I—I hardly know. I think we ought, perhaps, to—but this doesn't look a very nice train, does it?

Curph. (with conviction). It's a beastly train! One of the very worst they run, and full of the most objectionable people. It—it's quite noted for it.

Alth. (to Phœbe, who hurries up with her hand-bag). No, never mind; I'm not going by this train, Phœbe; we'll wait for a more comfortable one.

Phœbe. Very good, Miss. (To herself, as she retires.) Well, if that isn't downright barefaced—I don't know what it is! I hope they'll find a train to suit 'em before long, and not stay here picking and choosing all day, or I shan't get back in time to lay the cloth for dinner. But it's the way with all these quiet ones!

Alth. Did you want to speak to me about last night, Mr. Curphew? Has my cousin Charles been getting into any mischief? I only came in afterwards; but you were looking so shocked about something. Was it because he had been to a theatre, and do you think that very wicked of him?

Curph. (to himself). I ought to manage to lead up to it now. (Aloud.) It was not a theatre exactly—it was—well, it was a music-hall.

Alth. Oh! but is there any difference?

Curph. Not much—between a music-hall and some theatres. At theatres, you see, they perform a regular play, with a connected plot—at least, some of the pieces have a connected plot. At a music-hall the entertainment is—er—varied. Songs, conjuring-tricks, ventriloquism, and—and that kind of thing.

Alth. Why, that's just like the Penny Readings at our Athenæum!

Curph. Well, I should hardly have—but I'm not in a position to say. (To himself.) I'm further off than ever!

Alth. It couldn't be that, then; for Papa has presided at Penny Readings himself. But Charles must have told him something that upset him, for he came down to breakfast looking perfectly haggard this morning. Charles had a long talk in the library with him last night after you left, and then Papa went to bed.

Curph. (to himself). I felt sure that fellow spotted me. So he's let the cat out to old Toovey! If I don't tell her now. (Aloud.) Did Mr. Toovey seem—er—annoyed?

Alth. He looked worried, and I believe he wanted to consult you.

Curph. (to himself). The deuce he did! (Aloud.) He mentioned me?

Alth. He talked of going round to see you, but Mamma insisted on his staying quietly indoors.

Curph. (to himself). Sensible woman, Mrs. Toovey! But I've no time to lose. (Aloud.) I think I can explain why he wished to see me. He has discovered my—my