NEW YEAR'S EVE AT LATTERDAY HALL.

(An Incident.)

Scene I.—Library in Latterday Hall, Sir Lyon Taymer's Country House. Sir Lyon Taymer discovered fuming by the mantelpiece, while his Secretary is glancing over some correspondence.

Sir Lyon (irritably). Here—I suppose you will have to answer this.

Secretary. What is that, Sir Lyon?

Sir Lyon. You know how anxious I am that my New Year's party should be a success. A whole heap of celebrities are coming, and, notwithstanding the immense expense, I engaged a party of Ghosts to amuse them. Now I have just had a telepathic communication from these Shadows of Shades—(that's all they are—only Ghosts of departed heroes and heroines in fiction)—asking whether they're to be treated on an equality with the other guests, or as mere entertainers! Did you ever hear of such impertinence! The spokesman—I should say, perhaps, the Spooksman—is, of all people in the other world, the VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. A clergyman too! It's quite inconsistent; and so snobbish!

Secretary. Dear Sir Lyon, excuse me, but it's perfectly natural that Ghosts should be a little sensitive on the social question. Remember, for years they were ignored, or looked upon as mountebanks. It is really only of late that there has been all this excitement about them, so it is not surprising they are anxious to be taken seriously.

Sir Lyon. Well, I suppose I am old-fashioned, but it seems to me quite ridiculous. These infernal Ghosts give themselves as many airs as though they were—the Blue Hungarians, at least.

Secretary. Ah, from a band we might expect airs. But I should advise you very strongly, Sir Lyon, to treat them as friends. You must be up to date.

Sir Lyon (with disgust). Allow them to dine—perhaps to dance—with my guests?

Secretary (with calmness). Certainly they will have to dine; and, as to dancing, of course they must, if they're received on an equal footing.

[Smiles to himself at his joke.

Sir Lyon. Oh—well—I suppose I must give in. Let them know at once, and for heaven's sake mind they're punctual.

[Scene closes as the Secretary hastily seizes a slate, and automatically writes to the Ghosts a very cordial and courteously-worded invitation.

Scene II.—New Year's Eve at Latterday Hall. In the magnificent dining-room are seated at dinner a large, well-known, and incongruous company. The Ghosts are chatting away in the most genial manner with the living distinguished people, and positively making the "celebrities" quite "at home." Daniel Deronda shows a marked liking for Dodo, whom he has taken to dinner, and is indulging in a light and airy flirtation with her, which takes a form peculiar to himself.

Dorian Gray taking Juliet in to dinner.

Daniel Deronda (earnestly). Who has ever pinched into its pilulous smallness the cobweb of matrimonial duty? Honesty is surely the broadest basis of joy in life.

Dodo (a modern Detail in accordion pleating, subject to morbid fits of irrelevant skirt-dancing). Oh, Mr. Deronda, what a silly girl I am! I can't bear that proverb about "Honesty being the best policy." It sounds like a sort of life Insurance.

[Giggles contemporarily. Dorian Gray having taken Juliet to dinner, and not getting on with her very well, is staring with unfeigned horror at Rochester, opposite, who is bullying Jane Eyre to a pitiable extent. Behind him is a screen of gilt Spanish leather, wrought with a rather florid Louis Seize design and encrusted with pearls, moonstones, and large green emeralds.

Dorian (aside, to Young Subaltern, who has come Home. On leave. For Christmas). Who is that dreadful man?

Young Subaltern. Who? Old Rochester? Oh, he's a Plain Hero. From the past. He's all right. How well you're looking! Younger than ever, by Jove! Which is curious. But why that absurd buttonhole?

Dorian (hurt). You never like anything I wear. You Anglo-Indians are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.

[Arranges his fringe in an old Dutch-silver mirror on the opposite mantelpiece, framed in curiously-carved ivory Cupids, and studded with precious stones, chiefly opals, sapphires, and chrysoberyls.

Ethel Newcome (to Secretary). Who are those two pretty American girls? They seem to be attracting a great deal of attention. (I am completely forgotten, I notice.) Do their dresses come from Paris?

Secretary. No. I think not, dear Miss Newcome. From Messrs. Howells and James, I fancy.

Richard Feverel (cheerily, across the table to Mr. Pickwick). In tolerance of some dithyrambic inebriety—quiverings of semi-narration—we seem to be entering the circle of a most magnetic pseudo-polarity. Don't we?

Mr. Pickwick (puzzled). Very kind of you to say so, I'm sure. May I have the pleasure of taking wine with you?

[Dinner proceeds with animation. Bootles' Baby, Little Jim, Paul Dombey, and the Heavenly Twins come in to dessert, and are more or less troublesome.

Sir Lyon (aside, to Secretary, when the ladies have retired). I say, you know I am afraid this is going to hang fire. It's nothing less than a miracle for a social affair to go off well when the people are not in the same set. Old Pickwick's been asking for "a wassail bowl." I haven't got such a thing about me; and I should have thought '74 champagne would have been good enough, but he says it's like our humour—too new! The children are bothering to know why there isn't a Christmas-tree.

Secretary. Tell them to go to the—Haymarket. The reward will be—swift. Might I suggest mistletoe? I should be very pleased to go under it with Madame Bovary, just to show the others how to——

Sir Lyon (stiffly). Much obliged, but I will not give you that trouble. If anyone goes under the mistletoe with Madame Bovary it will be myself. Remember that.

Secretary. Oh, certainly! I merely meant——How about crackers? I could set the thing going by pulling one with Miss Olivia. The old Vicar said just now, in his pointed, Gothic way, something about times having changed, and——

Sir Lyon. Yes, we'll have crackers, but you can leave me to pull the first one with Miss Olivia. It would look better. Perhaps we'd better let the Ghosts give their entertainment now—eh?

Secretary. I'll arrange it at once.

Scene III.—In the Hall, in which is a temporary theatre; all the Modern Celebrities are seated on rows of chairs, chattering, flirting, and discussing Insomnia and the New Criticism. Behind the scenes the Ghosts are disputing as to which shall recite first, the order of precedence depending entirely on the question as to which is the most completely defunct. Finally, Ernest Maltravers and Tom Jones go on together, and the Curtain goes up.

Ernest Maltravers (musingly, in a low yet ringing voice, in which Pride struggles with Emotion). Let us learn, from yon dinner-table, o'er which brooded the spirits of the Novelists of all time, to lift ourselves on the wings of Romanticism back to Bombastic and Primeval Prose. (Breaks off suddenly. Aside, to Tom Jones.) I cannot go on like this. We ought to have had a scenario.

Tom Jones (suppressing laughter, aside). Why, thou foolish scoundrel, is there not one in front? How else could be seated there so many fair ladies and gallant gentlemen?

Ernest Maltravers (aside). In the contemplation of your idiocy, I curb with difficulty the impulse that leads me to crush the life from your bosom. Know, Ignorant One, that a scenario is not the same thing as an auditorium.

[Tom Jones is about to attack him with fine old English violence, when the curtain suddenly falls. The entertainment is interrupted. The audience appear at once amused and shocked. Dorian takes out his little vinaigrette exquisitely set with turquoises, cymophanes, amethysts, and tourmalines, and offers it to the Subaltern, who, evidently unaware of its use, pockets it.

Subaltern. You got that out of a cracker, didn't you? I'll take it Home. For the kids.

[The entr'acte is growing so prolonged that the Secretary goes behind the scenes to know the cause of the delay. He finds all confusion. The party has been increased by the presence of Mr. Stead's Spook Julia, who, having half an hour to spare, has come to protest against the "indignity" as she calls it, of fine old crusted Ghosts being expected to perform to a lot of mere modern myths. She speaks with such eloquence that she persuades them, one and all, to leave without finishing their performance and entirely without ceremony. Nothing the Secretary can say has any effect, and they all vanish, leaving "not a wrack behind," except, a slate pencil Julia has dropped in her excitement.

Sir Lyon (after hearing the news). Shameful! Never again will I have a Ghost in this house. This is what comes of treating them as equals! I'll—I'll—I'll write to the Psychical Society!

[Scene closes as all the guests crowd round him and ask him to drink the health of Modern Fiction and—The New Year.

MAY AND DECEMBER.

[Brighton is now represented by two of the youngest members in the House.... Mr. Gladstone intends to spend Christmas at Brighton.]

Just now, when the weather seems May in December,

They've sent up from Brighton another young member,

Two juvenile gentlemen sit for the town,

Their ages united just two-thirds would be

Of that of the statesman who often goes down

To seek renewed youth by the murmuring sea—

Mr. G.

Two Tories—meek May fighting sturdy December

Their foe is an old hand these lads should remember.

They'll probably sit most judiciously dumb,

Or only object like the murmuring sea.

To the House, sent from Brighton, the youngest have come;

From the House, down at Brighton, the oldest will be—

Mr. G.

A SEASONABLE VADE MECUM.

(By Ker Mudgeon, Senior.)

Crossed in Love.—A wedding-present cheque.

FINAL ORDERS.

Keeper (to Boy out for his first day's driving). "Mind and Spread yerself out!"