of careful and systematic labour. There are, of course, different kinds of speeches. An after-dinner speaker and a practised debater must be ready to catch every chance reference or occasional incident, and turn it to his purpose. The less sign of preparation shown in an after-dinner speech, the more effective it is. This even may conceivably be the result of pains. Of speaking it may be said, as was irreverently said of writing by Sheridan,

You write at ease to show your breeding,

But easy writing's curst hard reading.

Debate, moreover, is like the duello-the parry depends upon the attack, and the attack upon the opportunities offered. When, however, a speech is on an important theme, and when an intelligent audience assembles to hear and profit by it, an orator who did not carefully prepare it would pass an affront upon the public. Is, then, a speech to be committed to memory? Not necessarily. A man will nevertheless do well to acquire perfectly two or three sentences in different parts on to which he can turn when out of wind, oblivious or temporarily gravelled for loss of matter. These halting stages are very useful as harbours of refuge, and have been employed by not a few of the best speakers of a previous generation.

REVIVAL OF PANTOMIME.

WHAT is represented as a new development, but is prac

WHAT tically a revival in theatrical art, constitutes one of the

most attractive exhibitions of the present season. I refer to the representation in pantomime of "L'Enfant Prodigue," which, after having obtained last year a remarkable triumph at the Bouffes Parisiennes, has now been transferred to the Prince of Wales's Theatre. In this, what is practically the Parable of the Prodigal Son is told in pantomime with the aid of no more speech than an occasional interjection. Pierrot, who is a variant of Pulcinello in the old French comedy de la foire, has been accepted in France as the type of good-natured simplicity and silliness. The height of popularity was reached by him in or about 1830, when, on the little stage of the Funambules, Debureau, the greatest pantomimist of the day, in his huge white smock with enormous buttons, his wide trousers, his white face, and his black cap, enchanted the Parisian public. Charles Nodier, Jules Janin, and Théophile Gautier were wild with admiration, the last named writing for him a recitation called "Pierrot posthume," in which the simpleton is persuaded that he is dead, and wails pitifully over his own loss.

SYLVANUS URBAN.

THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

JUNE 1891.

MADAME LA COMMANDANTE.

"A

BY A. WERNER.

ND so, after the first act, Deshayes and I went into the foyer"

The Chief of Mozimba Station was languidly rolling a cigarette between his long, white fingers, while the staff with the exception of the obsequiously attentive second in command-lent an equally languid ear, while sipping their after-dinner coffee, to his reminiscences of the beau temps jadis of Brussels. Rawlings, the Englishman, who was near the foot of the table, and out of Lieutenant SainteAldegonde's immediate line of vision, openly stifled a yawn, and gazed up at the rafters with the expression of a martyr. But the narrative was doomed never to reach its end.

"Isn't that a steamer whistling?" interrupted a sun-tanned officer, whose brusqueness of manner was as offensive to the polished Chief as the very Teutonic accent of his French. At the same time, a confused noise of yelling and shouting assailed the ears of the company, and they turned with one accord to the window-all but the Second, who still hung on Sainte-Aldegonde's lips with a show of grieved interest. The natives within the precincts of Mozimba Station, and those in the adjoining village, had already descried the steamer, and were greeting it with a prolonged howl of "Sail oh!"

Sainte-Aldegonde sat up in his chair, and sent his boy out to make inquiries. The latter reappeared before long, escorting a stalwart Dutchman, who was welcomed by a chorus of "How do, Duyzendaalders?" as soon as he showed his jovial countenance-round VOL, CCLXX. NO. 1926,

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and ruddy as a harvest moon, in spite of the climate-inside the door.

His report was quickly made. He had been sent on the steamlaunch Ibis to announce the arrival of the Reine Hortense, with the commandant of Charlotteville, who, accompanied by his wife, was making an official tour on the upper river. The Ibis had been detained by an accident to her machinery, which forced her to steam slowly-otherwise she would have arrived that morning. The larger vessel was not far behind, and would probably reach Mozimba in an hour or two.

Then a great silence fell upon the mess-room- -a silence none the less eloquent because of the very diverse feelings which produced it.

To say that Sainte-Aldegonde's countenance fell is to put it mildly. The Second's jaw dropped, and he looked blank. Eschenbach grinned a silent but expressive grin, and furtively rubbed his hands together. And Rawlings appeared to be struggling with a kind of agonised mirth, and drew his foot up quickly-for Hemingway, the Yankee agent from Slick & Wilbur's trading-station, had kicked him under the table, and then winked with one eye, while the rest of his features preserved a lugubrious immobility. Captain Duyzendaalders observed and wondered, but said nothing; and, in a few minutes, the spasm, whatever it was, which seemed to have seized upon the whole personnel of the station, passed away, and the Chief began giving orders right and left with a fiery vigour which was truly admirable. Then bustle and confusion reigned all around, in the midst of which Sainte-Aldegonde vanished, and was seen no more for some time. When he reappeared he was arrayed in a marvel of frilled shirt-front, got up regardless of climate, and seemed to have had his locks freshly crimped.

By the time everything was ready, and the garrison drawn up on the landing-stage, in clean white uniforms and shining rifle-barrels, the Reine Hortense came in sight, steaming slowly up the reach, with a prolonged howl from her whistles, which was not without its effect on Sainte-Aldegonde's sensitive nerves.

Bang! went the two howitzers-crack! crack! spit the Haoussas' rifles; and when the smoke cleared off they saw a group of people standing on her upper deck. The captain was there, and a big, fair, square-shouldered man in uniform, and beside him a little lady in white, with a tall coloured woman in a crimson turban, standing behind her.

The big fair man was General Van Heemskerk, Commandant of Charlotteville and Governor of the Colony, and the lady was his wife-the first white woman ever seen in Mozimba.

Not a pretty woman, but-sometimes almost plain, and sometimes beautiful. Sainte-Aldegonde looked at her critically, as he handed her across the gangway plank with much officious politeness, and suspended his judgment for the present. She stepped ashore-a slight, graceful figure, whose upright carriage made her seem taller than she really was, and looked round with a half-pleased, half-shy light in bird-like, brown eyes, and the softest of pink colour in her cheeks, and the flash of white teeth in a strangely winning smileand bowed in pretty recognition of the honest, admiring homage of black and white alike.

She was French of that rare, best French type which is unique of its kind, and no more to be described than other unique things. She had charm rather than beauty-the charm that belongs to delicate and perfect finish; and everything about her was finished, from the cut of lip and nostril to the fit of her dainty shoe. She was dressed simply enough, and with due regard to the climate, but Paris seemed to be stamped on every soft, white fold of her gown, and every bow of crimson ribbon which relieved it with a touch of colour. Something deeper, too, underlay the charm of her face and mannersomething that puzzled a superficial observer. She had taste, and tact, and wit; she had intellect too, an intellect many men enviedand, more than that, a great fiery heart, whose depths of love and compassion had never yet been sounded. She was the sort of Frenchwoman to make you understand Joan of Arc and Madame Roland; she might well have been descended from that Dominic de Gourgues, who went mad when he heard of the cruelties of the Spaniards, and forthwith set sail for the Spanish main to avenge the helpless Indians. Perhaps she was for there was old Huguenot blood in her veins.

Her father had been governor of an African colony, where her childhood was passed; then, after a few years at school, and under the care of her mother's relatives, she had reigned, for a brief, bright season, as queen of a Paris salon, with poets, politicians, and men of science at her feet, and finally had astonished her family and everyone else by marrying “un Hollandais absolument impossible."

But those dark eyes could see very clearly. They had never been habituated to spectacles of any kind; and they looked right into the soul of Mauritius Van Heemskerk, and knew that he was good. He might not be brilliant, according to the standard of literary and fashionable society, and his view of ethical questions was, perhaps, sadly bourgeois and borné ; but he was just, and strong, and wise, with the tough, canny, patient wisdom of the North and the sea;

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and she trusted him with her whole soul, and turned her back on Paris and "society," sailed for Africa with him, and was happy.

So she stepped ashore at Mozimba, amid much cheering and waving of hats and helmets, and Sainte-Aldegonde's most elaborate bow. And the latter wondered, in his despicable little soul, why the smile seemed to fade from her face as her eyes met his, and did not see that Rawlings, standing near, looked at him for a moment as though he longed to kick him.

He was a handsome fellow, Sainte-Aldegonde, after the conventional lady-killer pattern, with large eyes, long eyelashes, straight nose, and a beautiful black moustache, drooping over a mouth which, perhaps, gained by concealment.

He offered his arm to Madame Van Heemskerk-after the usual introduction and general speechification had been gone throughand conducted her up to the house, the rest of the party following.

"What a dude the fellow is!" remarked Hemingway aside to Rawlings: the two were standing somewhat apart.

"He's a beast!" said Rawlings, shortly and sharply. Hemingway looked at him inquiringly.

"If you can stand seeing him touch the hand of a woman like that, it's more than I can!"

"Oh!" said Hemingway, and began to whistle.

The main building of the new station had lately been finished, and was the pride of Sainte-Aldegonde's heart. Indeed, it presented quite a new and civilised appearance, with its walls of red and white brick arched windows, and verandah in front, roofed with corrugated iron.

She

Under the verandah, leaning against one of the pillars, sat, or rather lolled, a native girl of twelve or thirteen-slight, prettily-formed, and not ill-featured, and arrayed in an abbreviated cotton skirt, a bright silk handkerchief tied round her wool, and an astonishing quantity of bead necklaces and cheap Birmingham jewellery. was staring open-mouthed at the arrivals. Sainte-Aldegonde had been too much occupied with his guests to notice her till he was close upon her; then his face changed suddenly, and he said something in her own language which had the effect of making her cringe and cower, and slink away humbly, like a beaten dog. Madame Van Heemskerk did not understand the words; but she felt instinctively that, but for her presence, he would have kicked the girl, and involuntarily dropped his arm. He knew it, though he affected not to see; and there was an evil flash in his eyes for a moment-the next, he was urbane and smiling as ever.

The girl passed Hemingway and Rawlings, sobbing softly; she