The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 99,
September 6, 1890, by Various
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Title: Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 99, September 6, 1890
Author: Various
Release Date: May 20, 2004 [EBook #12393]
Language: English
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PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 99.
September 6, 1890.
MODERN TYPES.
(_BY MR. PUNCH'S OWN TYPE WRITER_.)
NO. XVIII.--THE UNDOMESTIC DAUGHTER.
The race of daughters is large, but their characteristics, vocations,
and aptitudes, are but little understood by the general public. It
is expected of them by their mothers that they should be a comfort,
by their fathers that they should be inexpensive and unlike their
brothers, and by their brothers that they should be as slaves,
submissively attached to the fraternal car of triumph. The outside
public, the mothers and fathers, that is to say, of other daughters,
look upon them vaguely, as mild and colourless beings, destitute alike
of character, of desires and of aspirations. And it must be said that
daughters themselves, before matrimony absorbs their daughterhood and
relieves them of their mothers, seem to be in the main content with
the calm and limited existence which their relations and the voice of
tradition assign to them. Most of them after they have passed through
the flashing brilliance of their first season, and the less radiant
glow of their second, are happy enough to spend the time that must
elapse ere the destined knight shall sound the trumpet of release
at the gates of the fortress, in an atmosphere of quiet domestic
usefulness. One becomes known to fame, and her friends, as being above
all others, "such a comfort to her mother." She interviews the cook,
she arranges the dinners, she devises light and favourite dishes
to blunt the edge of paternal irritability by tickling the paternal
palate, she writes out invitations, presides at the afternoon
tea-table, and, in short, takes upon herself many of those smaller
duties which are as last straws to the maternal back. Another becomes
the sworn friend and ally of her brothers, whom she assists in their
scrapes with a sympathy which is balm to the scraped soul, and with
a wisdom in counsel, which can only spring from a deep regret at not
having been herself born a boy, and capable of scrapes.
[Illustration]
But there is often in families another and an Undomestic Daughter, who
aspires to be in all things unlike the usual run of common or domestic
daughters. From an early age she will have been noted in the family
circle for romantic tendencies, which are a mockery to her Philistine
brothers, and a reproach to her commonplace sisters. She will have
elevated her father to a lofty pinnacle of imaginative and immaculate
excellence, from which a tendency to shortness of temper in matters of
domestic finance resulting in petty squabbles with her mother, and an
irresistible desire for after-dinner somnolence, will have gradually
displaced him. One after another her brothers will have been to her
Knights of the Round Table of her fancy, armed by her enthusiasm for
impossible conflicts, of which they themselves, absorbed as they
are in the examination and pocket-money struggles of boyhood, have
no conception whatever. The effort to plant the tree of romance in
an ordinary middle-class household was predestined to failure. Her
disappointments are constant and crushing. Desires and capacities
which, with careful nurture, might have come to a fair fruit, are
chilled and nipped by the frost of neglect and ridicule. Her mind
becomes warped. The work that is ready to her hand, the ordinary round
of family tasks and serviceableness, repels her. She turns from it
with distaste, and thus widens still more the gulf between herself and
her relatives. Hence she is thrown back upon herself for companionship
and comfort. She dissects, for her own bitter enjoyment, her inmost
heart. She becomes the subtle analyst of her own imaginary motives.
She calls up accusing phantoms to charge her before the bar of her
conscience, in order that she may have the qualified satisfaction of
acquitting herself, whilst returning against her relatives a verdict
of guilty on every count of the indictment. In short, she becomes
a thoroughly morbid and hysterical young woman, suspicious, and
resentful even of the sympathy which is rarely offered to her. In the
meantime, two of her younger sisters are wooed and won in the orthodox
manner by steady-going gentlemen, of good position and prospects. The
congratulations showered upon them, and the rejoicings which attend
them on their wedding days, only serve to add melancholy to the
Undomestic Daughter, who has already begun to solace herself for her
failure to attract men by the reflection that matrimony itself is a
failure, and that there are higher and worthier things in life than
the wearing of orange-blossoms, and going-away dresses. It must be
said that her parents strive with but little vigour against their
daughter's inclination. Her father having hinted at indigestion as the
cause of her unhappiness, and finding that the hint is badly received,
shrugs his inapprehensive shoulders, and ceases to notice her. Her
mother, persuaded that sanity is to be found only on the maternal side
of the family, lays the peculiarities of her daughter to the charge of
some abnormal paternal ancestor. Having thus, by implication, cleared
herself from all responsibility, she feels that she is better able to
take a detached and impartial view of errors which, seeing they are
those of her own flesh and blood, she professes herself utterly unable
to understand or to correct.
The Undomestic Daughter thus acquires the conviction that she herself
is the most miserably crushed member of a down-trodden sex. In this,
and in the agreement which she exacts from two or three melancholy
friends, she seeks a solace for her sufferings. After a time, however,
she discovers that this is insufficient. It must be said to her credit
that her energies find the outlet of a passive sorrow inadequate. She
burns to prove that one who is misunderstood and despised cannot only
find useful work to do, but can do it better than her humdrum domestic
sisters. Unfortunately, however, she overlooks the obvious and easy
duties of her home. She scans the remote corners of the world. Her
bruised spirit flutters about the bye-ways of charitable effort,
and at length she establishes herself as a visitor, a distributer
of tracts and blankets, and an instructor of factory girls. It
is unnecessary to insist that these occupations are useful and
praiseworthy in the abstract. It may be doubted, however, whether
they should be undertaken by one who has to neglect for them equally
necessary but less attractive labours.
The Undomestic Daughter, however, rejoices in the performance of work,
which, as it were, sets a seal to her wretchedness, and stamps her as
a being apart from the ruck of her sex. She now takes her meals alone,
and at her own hours. She probably breakfasts at half-past seven, and
dashes out to interview the Secretary of the Society for Improving the
Cultivation of Mustard and Cress on the Desert Patches of the Mile End
District. After this she will hasten to Lambeth, in order that mothers
residing in that teeming quarter of the town may be blessed with
mittens and mob-caps, and returning thence she devotes an hour or so
to lectures which are to make her expert in tending the ailments of
humanity. Occasionally the family arrangements are upset, in order
that she may have her dinner at an hour which will make it convenient
to her to attend the meeting of an Institute for Reading Historical
Novels to Working Girls, and her father will lose all his available
stock of good temper on finding that the moments generally devoted by
him to soup are occupied to his exclusion by the apple-tart provided
for his busy daughter. Hence come more storms and misunderstandings.
Paternal feet are put down--for a time, and neglected excellence pines
in bed-rooms.
Shortly afterwards the Undomestic Daughter discovers that nature
intended her to be a hospital nurse, and she takes advantage of a
period when her mother, being occupied in tending a younger brother
through scarlatina cannot offer a determined opposition, to wring an
unwilling consent from her father, and to leave her home in order to
carry out her plan. This phase, however, does not last many weeks, and
she is soon back once more on the parental hands. Thus the years pass
on, the monotony of neglecting her home being varied by occasional
outbursts of enthusiasm which carry her on distant expeditions in
strange company. During one of these she falls in with a lay-preacher,
who to a powerful and convincing style adds the fascination of having
been turned from an early life of undoubted dissipation. She sits at
his feet, she flatters him as only a woman can flatter a preacher, and
having eventually married him, she helps him to found a new religion
during the intervals that she can spare from the foundation of a
considerable family. Warned by her own experience, she will never
allow her daughters to be seen without their sewing or their knitting.
Her sons will all be forced to learn useful trades, and it is quite
possible that as time passes she may irritate even her husband, by
constantly holding herself up to her somewhat discontented family as a
pattern of all the domestic virtues.
* * * * *
NURSERY RHYME.
(_TRADE'S UNION VERSION._)
Bah! bah! Blackleg! Have you any pluck?
Backing up the Masters when the Men have struck!
You're for the Master, we're for the Man!
"Picket" you, and "Boycott" you; that is BURNS's plan!
* * * * *
The Waterloo Monument at Brussels, in the suburban cemetery of Evère.
_Motto_:--"For Evère and for Evère!"
* * * * *
PRIZE EPITAPH.
"A deep impression," said the _Standard_, last Wednesday, "was made on
the hearers" (i.e., Prince BISMARCK'S audience at Kissengen) "when, in
reply to a remark by one of the guests" (remark and name of immortal
guest not reported), "the Ex-Chancellor said, 'My only ambition now
is a good epitaph. I hope and beg for this.'" May it be long ere
necessity imperatively demands his epitaph, good or indifferent, say
all of us. But in the meantime, and to come to business, how much will
the Ex-Chancellor give? Why not advertise, "A prize of ---- (we leave
it to the Prince to fill up the blank) will be given for the best
epitaph"? With characteristic modesty, Prince BISMARCK, as reported,
only asks for "a _good_ epitaph." Why shouldn't he have the best that
money can buy, and brains sell? Correspondents have already commenced:
here are a few:--
"Beneath this slab the bones
of this great boss are.
Can Ossa speak? And would
they say 'Canossa?'"
A would-be Competitor sends this,--
"Here lies BISMARCK--
He made _his_ mark."
A Correspondent writes:--"I haven't an epitaph handy about BISMARCK,
but here's one on a billiard-marker, buried, of course at Kew:--
"'Rem acu tetigi,' let this attest,
Now he has gone away for his long rest."
Yours,
NIL DE MORTUIS."
"P.S.--I'll think over the BISMARCK one, specially if he offers a
prize of anything over a sovereign, as of course it ought to be,
since the Ex-Chancellor always went in for an Imperial policy, which,
however, didn't insure his life. This is very nearly an epitaph--praps
you'll arrange it for me."
Another says, "This is simple:--
"Ci gît,
P.B."
Yes, very simple, but not good enough. Perhaps our Correspondents will
improve when the amount of the prize is fixed.
* * * * *
[Illustration: FANCY PORTRAIT.
"THE PHYLLOXERA, A TRUE _GOURMET_, FINDS OUT THE BEST VINEYARDS AND
ATTACHES ITSELF TO THE BEST WINES."
(_From the "Times," August 27. Adapted by Our Appreciative Artist._)]
* * * * *
FOUND IN A RUM PLACE.--The Latest Spice discovered in Jamaica--the
SPEAKER's Mace.
* * * * *
THE DAMSELS OF DIEPPE;
_OR, THE LEGEND OF LIONEL._
"Newhaven to Dieppe," he cried, but, on the voyage there,
He felt appalling qualms of what the French call _mal de mer_;
While, when the steward was not near, he struck Byronic attitudes,
And made himself most popular by pretty little platitudes.
And, while he wobbled on the waves, be sure they never slep',
While waiting for their LIONEL, the Damsels of Dieppe.
He landed with a jaunty air, but feeling rather weak,
While all the French and English girls cried out, "_C'est magnifique!_"
They reck'd not of his bilious hue, but murmur'd quite ecstatical,
"Blue coat, brass buttons, and straw hat,--_c'est tout-à-fait_
piratical!"
He hadn't got his land-legs, and he walked with faltering step,
But still they thought it _comme-il-faut_, those Damsels of Dieppe.
The Douane found him circled round by all the fairest fair,
The while he said, in lofty tones, he'd nothing to declare;
He turned to one girl who stood near, and softly whisper'd, "Fly, O
NELL!"
But all the others wildly cried, "Give us a chance, O LIONEL!"
And thus he came to shore from all the woes of Father Nep.,
With fatal fascinations for the Damsels of Dieppe.
He went to the Casino, whither mostly people go,
And lost his tin at baccarat and eke _petits chevaux_;
And still the maidens flocked around, and vowed he was amusing 'em,
And borrowed five-franc pieces, just for fear he should be losing 'em;
And then he'd sandwiches and bocks, which brought on bad dyspep-
sia for LIONEL beloved by Damsels of Dieppe.
As bees will swarm around a hive, the maids of _La belle France_
Went mad about our LIONEL and thirsted for his glance;
In short they were reduced unto a state of used-up coffee lees
By this mild, melancholic, maudlin, mournful Mephistopheles.
He rallied them in French, in which he had the gift of rep-
artee, and sunnily they smiled, the Damsels of Dieppe.
At last one day he had to go; they came upon the pier;
The French girls sobbed, "_Mon cher!_" and then the English sighed,
"My dear!"
He looked at all the threatening waves, and cried, the while embracing
'em,
(I mean the girls, not waves,) "Oh no! I don't feel quite like facing
'em!"
And all the young things murmured, "Stay, and you will find sweet rep-
aration for the folks at home in Damsels of Dieppe."
And day by day, and year by year, whene'er he sought the sea,
The waves were running mountains high, the wind was blowing free.
At last he died, and o'er his bier his sweethearts sang doxology,
And vowed they saw his ghost, which came from dabbling in psychology.
And to this hour that spook is seen upon the pier. If scep-
tical, ask ancient ladies, once the Damsels of Dieppe.
* * * * *
MR. PUNCH'S DICTIONARY OF PHRASES.
ELECTIONEERING.
"_The Party which befriends the cause of the Working-Man;_" i.e., "The
Party which (at election-time) rather wishes it had done so."
"_The Party which advocates economy and keeps down taxation;_" i.e.,
"The Party which likes to make its opponents do the expenditure on
Army, Navy, &c."
IN THE SMOKING-ROOM.
"_I remember, years ago, I used to take_ exactly the same view
_myself;_" i.e., "But, unlike you, I have made some use of my
opportunities and experience since then."
"_But there you see you are begging the whole question_" or, "_My good
fellow, you're only arguing in a circle;_" i.e., "Rather than admit
that I am wrong, I would begin the argument over again."
"_Of course you remember that splendid passage in ----;_" i.e.,
"Decided score! _Know_ you haven't ever heard of the book."
* * * * *
SHAKSPEARE's "deeds" going to America? The World is the richer for his
words, and certainly to the country of his birth belong the records of
his deeds.
* * * * *
JOURNAL OF A ROLLING STONE.
SIXTH ENTRY.
Still endeavouring to earn an honest, but unpleasant, penny as a
(temporary) Private Tutor. Begin to be vaguely conscious that my grasp
of the Latin Grammar is not as firm as it might be. Will my classical
training see me through, or will "ERNIE" see through my classical
training?
ERNIE (before breakfast) offers to conduct me round the grounds.
Must take the youngster down a peg or two. So, when he shows me the
stables, rather proudly, I remark, pityingly--"What! Only _three_
nags?"
"Oh, _I_ ride a pony," he replies, airily. "What can _you_ ride, Mr.
JOYNSON? _Do_ you know how to ride--or _do you generally fall off_?"
Explain to him elaborately that I am rather more at home on horseback
than on my legs. He winks, as if he didn't quite believe me. I
can't go on, as it's certainly _infra dig._ to be praising one's
accomplishments, especially to a chit like this.
"We buried NERO here," the boy says, pointing to a damp mound. "He
was our Newfoundland dog, and the gardener dropped a beam on him, and
killed him as dead as JULIUS CÆSAR. Oh, Mr. JOYNSON, _when_ did JULIUS
CÆSAR die?"
Happily my presence of mind does not desert me. I reply, severely,--
"What! Don't you know your Roman History better than that?"
"No," he answers--"do you?" Then a sudden thought strikes him. "Oh,
I'll ask Miss MYRTLE" (Miss MYRTLE is the Governess)--"_she_'ll be
sure to know. _She_ isn't a muff."
_Query_--What is the best line to take with a remark like that?
Before I decide the point, HERBIE rushes out into the garden, and
is immediately sent spinning into a cucumber-frame by his kind elder
brother, who then disappears into the house.
Yells from HERBIE. Go in and send the Governess to him. Relief from
children for about ten minutes.
_At Breakfast_.--Mother cross. Seems to think that _I_ ought to have
prevented ERNIE from mutilating HERBIE. HERBIE appears with head
bandaged, still sobbing. French again, thank Heaven!--so children
silent. Never felt the advantage of foreign languages till now.
Mamma, with a courage worthy of a better cause, asks me, "What time
lessons will begin?" I reply, evasively, "that I shall be in the
library, and that I will ring for _ERNEST_ (I lay stress on the word
ERNEST, as excluding the two others) when I am ready for him."
I do, after a good preliminary smoke. HERBIE and JACK present
themselves at the same time. I send them off to the Governess, and
lock the door; Governess sends them back to me; result is, that they
play about outside library all morning, so that we (ERNEST and I) can
hardly hear ourselves speak.
Put ERNIE through his paces. Ask him what he knows. Process (I
fear) incidentally reveals to him what _I_ know. Hear him at lunch
explaining to HERBIE (with whom he has made friends again) that I am
"not bad at sums, but a shocking duffer at Latin." Pretend not to hear
the remark.
_Afternoon_.--Find the three boys, _and two girls_, all
waiting--apparently--to go out for a country walk with me!
What! Two-and-two! Never!
"But--er--" I say, addressing the little girls, in a pleasant tone,
"aren't you going out with your Governess?"
"Oh, yes"--they both exclaim at once--"_she's coming too_!"
The situation is becoming more and more embarrassing. I can't, in
politeness, refuse the Governess's society for a walk. I solve the
problem, temporarily, by telling all five children to run up to Miss
MYRTLE, and ask her which way she thinks we had better go.
They perform the commission with alacrity, which gives me the
opportunity of slipping out at back-door, and taking quiet ramble by
myself. _When_ will Paterfamilias himself turn up? I have not seen or
heard from Mr. BRISTOL MERCHANT yet.
I am fated, however, to hear from him pretty soon; and, when I do,
his communication is surprising. It comes in the form of a telegram,
addressed to me. It runs thus:--
"Just heard President asked you to take tutorship. Misunderstanding.
Very sorry, but have myself engaged another tutor. He will arrive this
evening. Shall I tell him not to come? Awkward! Wire reply."
Awkward! On the contrary, I feel it to be almost providential. Mamma
doesn't apologise, but says, frankly--"Why, if he comes, there'll be
two tutors--and _one is quite enough_!"
I telegraph briefly to the effect, that, under the circumstances, I
will go at once.
Bid good-bye (after lunch) to ERNIE, in hall. He says--"I knew _you_
would never do for the place," and ought to have his ears boxed by his
fond Mamma, but hasn't. As I go down front walk, see him and HERBIE
and JACK all putting out what I think I may appropriately call their
"mother tongues" at me from a top window!
_Moral_--for my own consumption: Never go to an uncultivated family
again.
So ends my Tutorship! And I've never once set eyes on my employer all
through!
After this _fiasco_, the President certainly ought to do something
handsome for me.
He does! Writes and says how sorry he is to hear of the stupid mistake
that has been made. He knows of another very nice family, in Cheshire,
who want a Private Tutor. Shall he mention my name to _them_? Not for
worlds!
* * * * *
[Illustration: WHO WOULD NOT BE A TENOR?
_The Fair Bohemian Girl_:--
"I HAD RICHES TOO GREAT TO COUNT, COULD BOAST
OF A HIGH ANCESTRAL NAME;...
BUT I ALSO DREAMT, WHICH CHARMED ME MOST,
THAT YOU LOVED ME STILL THE SAME--
THAT YOU LOVED ME, YOU LOVED ME STI-ILL THE SAME!"
(_Sketched from a Provincial Pit._)]
* * * * *
TRICKS UPON TRAVELLERS.
What means _Train de Luxe_? Peppery "PUNJAB" replies,
Two dirty sleeping-oars wherein one lies
Awaiting a breakfast; to feel disgust utter
At coffee, two boiled eggs, and plain roll and butter,
(Miscalled "_Grub de Luxe_," in the bitterest chaff,)
At the humorous price of four francs and a-half!
Item: Thirty-five francs for a bottle of brandy!
(A thing that--at breakfast--of course comes in handy).
A horrible dinner; no wine, and no beer,
Not even a soda your spirits to cheer;
No water to wash in at Turin--just think!
On arrival in France, not a drop e'en to drink!
What wonder poor "PUNJAB," who hails from the "Garrick,"
Got hungry as VASHTI, and dry as a hayrick?
An _Edition de Luxe_, as a rule, is a sell,
But a _Train de Luxe_ sure as a fraud bears the bell,
Which promises travel more cosy and quicker,
And leaves you half starved, without money--or liquor!
* * * * *
KILLING NO MURDER!--A Correspondent of the _Times_, protesting against
the assumption of combatant rank by the Army Surgeons, writes:--"A
military doctor is armed, and like others is entitled to defend
himself when attacked, but that is a very different thing from giving
him full licence to kill." The Correspondent evidently overlooks the
powers afforded by a medical diploma!
* * * * *
[Illustration: "IT'S AN ILL WIND" &C.
"Partridge-shooting will be postponed in several districts till the
middle of September."--_Daily Telegraph_, August, 28.
_Chorus of Partridges_. "LONG MAY IT RAIN!"]
* * * * *
MISLED BY A MANUAL!
(THE LAMENT OF A WOULD-BE LINGUIST.)
When on my Continental tour preparing to depart,
I bought a Conversation-Book, and got it up by heart;
A handy manual it seemed, convenient and neat,
And gave for each contingency a dialogue complete.
Upon the weather--wet _or_ fine--I could at will discourse,
Or bargain for a bonnet, or a boot-jack, or a horse;
Tell dentists, in three languages, which tooth it is that hurts;
Or chide a laundress for the lack of starch upon my shirts.
I landed full of idioms, which I fondly hoped to air--
But crushing disappointment met my efforts everywhere.
The waiters I in fluent French addressed at each hotel
Would answer me in English, and--confound 'em!--spoke it well.
Those phrases I was furnished with, for Germany or France,
I realised, with bitterness, would never have a chance!
I swore that they should hear me yet, and proudly turned my back
On polyglots in swallowtails, and left the beaten track....
They spoke the native language _now_; but--it was too absurd--
Of none of their own idioms they apparently had heard!
My most colloquial phrases fell, I found, extremely flat.
They _may_ have come out wrong-side up, but none the worse for that.
I tried them with my Manual; it was but little good;
For not one word of their replies I ever understood.
They never said the sentences that _should_ have followed next:
I found it quite impossible to keep them to the text!
Besides, unblushing reference to a Conversation-Book
Imparts to social intercourse an artificial look.
So I let the beggars have their way. 'Twas everywhere the same;
I led the proper openings--they _wouldn't_ play the game.
Now I've pitched the Manual away that got me in this mess,
And in ingenious pantomime my wishes I express.
They take me for an idiot mute, an error I deplore:
But still--_I'm better understood than e'er I was before!_
* * * * *
A PRODUCT OF THE SILLY SEASON.
DEAR MR. PUNCH,
London at the end of August is not particularly inviting, save in one
respect--it is negatively pleasant to find that _Matinées_ are all
but suspended. I should say quite, were it not that the Shaftesbury
Theatre on the 27th opened its doors at a quarter to three o'clock
in the afternoon, for the performance of _The Violin Makers_, an
adaptation of _Le Luthier de Crémone_, and the production of a "new
and original Comedy sketch," in two Acts, called _The Deacon_, by
HENRY ARTHUR JONES. The first piece I had already seen at the Bushey
Theatre, with Professor HERKOMER, R.A., in the principal character.
I had now an opportunity of comparing the Artist-Actor with the
Manager-Actor, and must confess that I liked the former better than
the latter. Mr. WILLARD as _Filippo_, was Mr. WILLARD, but Professor
HERKOMER, shaved for the occasion, seemed to be anyone other than
Professor HERKOMER. The mounting of the piece at Bushey was also
greatly to be preferred to the _mise-en-scène_ in Shaftesbury
Avenue, and as the accomplished Artist-Actor had also supplied
some exceedingly touching music to his version of FRANÇOIS COPPEE's
Poetical Play, which was wanting two hundred yards from Piccadilly
Circus, I was altogether better pleased with the entertainment served
up with _sauce à la Herkomer_. I may be wrong in preferring the
amateur to the professional, or I may be right--after all, it is
merely a matter of opinion.
Mr. JONES is entirely justified in calling _The Deacon_ a "sketch,"
as it can scarcely claim greater histrionic importance. I think I
may take it for granted that a sausage-maker, from the nature of his
employment, is usually presumed to be a man not absolutely without
guile, and, therefore, _Abraham Boothroyd_, "Wholesale bacon-factor,
Mayor of Chipping Padbury on the Wold, and Senior Deacon of Ebenezer
Chapel," may perhaps be counted one of those exceptions that are said
to prove the rule. According to Mr. JONES, this eccentric individual
comes up to town to attend an indignation meeting held with a view to
protesting against the conversion of Exeter Hall into a temple of the
drama, and after dining with "a _Juliet_ of fifteen years ago," and a
new and quaint sort of Barrister, accompanies them to the play, and
is so greatly pleased with the performances presented, to him, that,
before the curtain falls, he announces his intention of repeating
his visit to the theatre every evening until further notice! This may
be true to human nature, because there is authority for believing
that the said human nature is occasionally a "rum un"; but, without
the precedent I have quoted, it is difficult to accept the sudden
conversion of _Mr. Boothroyd_ as quite convincing. I could scarcely
have believed that Mr. JONES, who has done such excellent work in
_Judah_, and _The Middleman_, could have been the author of _The
Deacon_, had not his name appeared prominently on the playbill, and
had not a rumour reached me that this "comedy sketch" had adorned for
years, in MS. form, a corner of some book-shelves. I think, if the
rumour is to be believed, that it is almost a pity that there was any
interference with that corner--I fancy _The Deacon_ might have rested
in peace on the book-shelves indefinitely, without causing serious
injury to anyone. But this is a fancy, and only a fancy.
I may add that Mr. WILLARD made the most of the materials provided for
him; but whether that most was much or little is, and must remain, a
matter of conjecture. On the whole, if I had understood aright what
the sad sea waves were evidently attempting to say to me, I think I
would not have attended on the 27th of August a London _Matinée_. But
this is a thought, and nothing more. Believe me, dear _Mr. Punch_,
yours, more in sorrow than in anger,
A CRITIC, LURED TO TOWN FROM THE COUNTRY.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE DOCTRINE OF "HINTERLAND."
THESE THREE GENTLEMEN DO NOT PLAY THE GAME, BUT WISH TO TAKE A MORNING
WALK BY THE SEA.]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
The Baron has recently been reading a new work, disinterestedly
recommended to him by M. ROQUES, the French publisher and French
bookseller of Bond Street, entitled _L'Ame de Pierre_, by GEORGES
OHNET. It is a strangely fascinating story; the picturesque
descriptions transport us to the very places; and the studies of life,
are, specially of certain phases of French life, most interesting
to an English reader. The cosmopolitan Baron DE B.W. wishes that
Frenchmen, however manly they may be, were not so easily and so
constantly moved to tears. This however, is only a matter of taste.
What the purpose of the novel may be--for GEORGES OHNET has written
this with a purpose--is not quite evident. Whether it is intended
to chime in with the popular theme of hypnotism, and illustrate it
in a peculiar way, or whether it is merely illustrating _Hamlet's_
wise remark that, "There is more in heaven and earth than is dreamt
of in your philosophy," the Baron is at a loss to determine. It
is psychological, it is materialistic, it is idealistic, it is
philosophical, it is ... French. The _Vacuus Viator_ may have a worse
companion on a long journey than _L'Ame de Pierre_.
Talking of materialistic, "let us," quoth the Baron, "be grateful to
Mrs. DE SALIS for a bookful of '_Tempting Dishes for Small Incomes_,'
published by LONGMANS & Co." First of all get your small income, then
purchase this book, for eighteenpence, or less with discount; or (a
shorter and a cheaper way) borrow it from a friend. Let the Small
Incomer cast his watery eye over Lobster cutlets, p. 19, and Lobster
pancakes: let him reduce his small income to something still smaller
in order to treat himself and family to a _Rumpsteak à la bonne
bouche_, a Sausage pudding, and a Tomato curry. The sign over a
Small-Income House is the picture of a Sheep's Head, usually despised
as sheepish: but go to p. 28, and have a _tête-à-tête_ (_de mouton_)
with Mrs. DE SALIS about _Sheep's head au Gratin_.
Rabbit batter pudding, eh? with _shalot à discrétion_. How's that for
high? Let the Small Incomer get some dariole tins, mushrooms, chives,
rabbits, tripe, onions, oil, ducks, eggs, and with _egg kromeskies_
he'll dine like a millionnaire, and be able to appreciate a real
_epigram_ of Lamb (not CHARLES) and Peas. Don't let the Man with a
Small Income be afraid of trying _Un Fritot de Cervelle de Veau_,
simply because of the name, which might do honour to the _menu_ of
a LUCULLUS. "Blanch the Brains" for this dish--delicious!--"and fry
till a nice golden colour." Beautiful! Nice golden colour like dear
BLANCHE's hair: only often that's a BLANCHE without brains. And now
your attention, my Small Incomer, to _Eggs à la Bonne Femme_. This
work ought to be arranged as a catechism: in fact all cookery books,
all receipt books, should be in the form of Question and Answer.
_Question_.--Now, Sir, how would you do _Eggs à la Bonne Femme?_
Perhaps this query might be preceded by general information as to
who the particular "_bonne femme_" (for she must have been a very
particular _bonne femme_) was to whom so many dishes are dedicated.
[In the Scotch McCookery books, _Broth o' the gude-wife_ would be a
national name.]
_Answer_.--To make _Eggs à la Bonne Femme_, Mrs. DE SALIS says, "Get
as many eggs as there are guests (they should all be the same size)--"
Now this is a difficulty. It is not an easy matter to assemble round
your table a party of guests "all the same size:" still more difficult
is it to get together a lot of eggs all the same size as the guests.
But, when this has been got over, read the remainder at p. 55, and
then, as _Squeers's_ pupils used to have to do, go and reduce the
teaching to practice.
The receipt for _Potatoes à la Lyonnaise_ begins with, "Mince an
onion, and fry it in hot butter"--O rare! Why do more? Who wants
potatoes after this? And, when you've had quite enough of it, smoke
a pipe, drink a glass of whiskey-and-water, go to an evening party,
and then, if you won't be one of the most remarkable advertisements
for _cette bonne femme_ Madame DE SALIS, why I don't live in Baronion
Halls, and my name's no longer
THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.
P.S.--So many persons have sent in touching requests to the Baron only
to notice their books with one little word, that his library table
groans under their weight. To about a hundred of them that one little
word might be "Bosh!"--but even then they'd be pleased.
* * * * *
THE NEW STOCKING.
[The CHANCELLOR of the EXCHEQUER has announced that the
Treasury have decided to enable the small investor in Consols,
upon a written request to the Bank of England, to have his
dividends re-invested as they arise, and thus automatically
accumulated without further trouble on his part.--_Times_.]
Oh, it was the old Lady of Threadneedle Street,
And she held up her Stocking (ne'er used for her feet),
And she ups, and says she, "I've an excellent notion;
Leastways, 'tis one borrowed from COHEN by GOSCHEN;
Which nobody can deny!
"The cash that you put in my Stocking, my dears,
Will grow by degrees, if you leave it for years.
By your dividends? Ah! you draw _them_, girls and boys,
And spend 'em, the _Times_ says, in sweets and in toys;
Which nobody can deny!
"How very much better to let 'em remain;
Re-invest 'em, in fact! An original brain
Has hit on that capital notion, at length,
And I'm game for to back him with all my old strength,
Which nobody can deny!
"Leave your dividends in my--suppose we say hose--
And the cash, snowball-like, gathers fast as it goes.
So my--Stocking (I _must_ use the word) will be seen,
The latest and best Automatic Machine,
Which nobody can deny!
"Think, children, of Ac-cu-mu-la-tive Con-sols!
Much better than bull's eyes, and peg-tops, and dolls!
Yes, this is the notion, exceedingly knowin',
Which GOSCHEN, the Chancellor, borrows from COHEN,
Which nobody can deny!
"To the Nation friend COHEN's idea's a great gift;
It should lend such a "vigorous impulse to thrift;"
Leave your coin in my Stocking--in time it will double,
Without giving you, what a Briton hates, Trouble!
Which nobody can deny!
"Then think of the saving in potions and pills,
And the fall in that _very_ bad stock--Doctor's Bills--
When your Dividends no longer spoil girls and boys
With per-ni-ci-ous sweets, and with re-dun-dant toys,
Which nobody can deny!
"So, dear Little Investors, I trust you'll come flocking,
Like bees to the hive, to my last style of Stocking,
My new, automatic, self-mending, smart hose,
In which cash, left alone, gathers fast as it goes,
Which nobody can deny!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: WHAT OUR ARTIST HAS TO PUT UP WITH.
_Inquisitive and Motherly Old Stranger_ (_deliberately settling
herself down between Our Artist and what he is trying to sketch_). "I
SUPPOSE YOU OFTEN FIND IT VERY DIFFICULT TO GET NEW SUBJECTS, DON'T
YOU? I HEARD A THING THE OTHER DAY--," &C., &C., &C.]
* * * * *
ANOTHER VICTIM.
[The Emperor of AUSTRIA will leave Voecklabruck on September 2
to attend the Army manoeuvres in Silesia. On the 17th he will
go to attend the manoeuvres in Prussian Silesia, and will
be the German EMPEROR's guest at Schloss Kohnstook, near
Liegnitz.--_Times_.]
_Imperial Victim sings:_--
"Here awa', there awa', wandering WILLIE."
O WILHELM, my lad, _you_ might well sing that song.
This stir's getting troublesome, not to say silly,
Our "Travelling EMPEROR"'s coming it strong.
This playing at Soldiers, is't never to cease?
There's no rest but the grave for the Pilgrim of--Peace!
_Sub tegmine fagi_, in holiday Autumn,
E'en Emperors sometimes incline to take ease,
But when once _he_ has dropped in upon 'em, and caught 'em,
The Tityrus _rôle_ is all up. 'Tis a tease.
I was just settling down to my pipe and my bock,
When he bursts in like this! Gives a man quite a shock!
He has stirred them up pretty well all round already.
Good Grandmother GUELPH! Well, with her, 'twas just "come and off!"
(A true British "Summer" the wildest will steady),
And then he drops in upon tired Cousin ROMANOFF.
Ha! ha! How the CZAR must have laughed--in his sleeve--
At that "capture," which WILHELM could scarcely believe!
Taken prisoner, the "Travelling EMPEROR!" Funny!
Oh, could they have kept him till Autumn was o'er!
No such luck! I must stir up, and spend time, and money,
In playing the old game of Soldiers! Great bore!
Ah, my youthful, alert, irrepressible KAISER,
When just a bit older you'll be a bit wiser.
Voecklabruck's pleasant in genial September,
And now I must start for Silesia. Ah me!
That name gives a KAISER so much to remember--
Would FREDERICK--THE GREAT--have "waltzed round" with such glee,
Trotting out Europe's soldiers and ships in this way?
Well, the KAISER's a "kid," I suppose it's his play.
I wonder what BISMARCK the blunt thinks about it.
He hardly takes _Kriegspiel_ views of the earth;
He _may_ be prepared to applaud, but I doubt it.
I fancy him moved to a saturnine mirth.
I wonder where next the young ruffler will go.
I should like, if I dared, to suggest--Jericho!
"Come out, Cousin HAPSBURG, your uniform don,
And let's play at Soldiers!" Ah, yes, that's his voice.
How glad Grandma GUELPH must be now he has gone,
And how at his leaving the CZAR must rejoice!
And now _I_ am in for it all, for awhile.
Ah, well, I must dress, and endeavour to smile.
Only _if he_ would off it to Stamboul or Cairo,
Look up EMIN PASHA, survey Zanzibar,
Or try butterfly hunting at Kilimi Njaro,
The Crowned Heads of Europe were easier far.
But Africa's "_fauna_ and _flora_" would pall--
_He_ wants armies and fleets, or he can't rest at all.
Silesian manoeuvres! I know what they mean;
Long hours in the saddle, much dust, many hails!
An elderly Emperor's fancy might lean
To idling, or hunting the chamois with WALES.
Now, _he_ would not worry--but grumbling's no use,
So here's for Schloss Ronnstock, and endless Reviews!
* * * * *
OUR FAILURES.--"One man in his time plays many parts," and JOHN
L. SULLIVAN, the great American "Slogger," having lately rather
failed, perhaps, as a pugilistic "Champion," has done what Mr.
HARRY NICHOLLS's lyric hero so yearned to do, viz., "gone on the
Stage." Decline of the Drama, indeed! Recruited from the ranks of
the Amateurs, on one side from the "Swells," on the other from the
"Sports," the Stage _ought_ to flourish. "Critics," said Dizzy, "are
those who have failed in Literature." Will it by-and-by be said that
Actors are those who have failed in "Sassiety" and the Prize Ring, as
Mashers or as Bashers?
* * * * *
[Illustration: ANOTHER VICTIM.
WILLIAM THE IRREPRESSIBLE. "NOW THEN, COUSIN AUSTRIA, PUT ON A
UNIFORM, AND COME AND PLAY AT SOLDIERS!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: RATHER SEVERE.
_Regular_ (_manouevering with Yeomanry_). "GOT TO GIVE UP MY
ARMS, HAVE I? UMPH! THIS COMES OF GOING OUT WITH A LOT OF DARNED
VOLUNTEERS!"]
* * * * *
THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK.
MODERN NAUTICAL VERSION.
(_BY A CORRESPONDENT WITH ADMIRAL TRYITON'S FLEET._)
FIT THE LAST.--THE VANISHING.
We sought it with search-lights, we sought it with care,
We pursued it with ships and hope;
But it seemed to have suddenly vanished in air
From under the heaven's blue cope.
We shuddered to think that the chace might fail,
And TRYON, excited at last,
Went ramping like redskin in search of a trail,
For the ten days were nearly past.
"There is Thingumbob shouting!" the Admiral said.
"He is shouting like mad, only hark!
He is waving his hands, he is wagging his head,
He has certainly found the--Snark!"
We gazed in delight, whilst a Bo'sun exclaimed--
(Your Bo'sun is always a wag!)--
"In the East there's a wision, a _mirage_ it's named!
_That_ the Snark? Put yer head in a bag!"
Then Admiral TRYON he ramped like a lion,
In prospect of splendid success.
But the Snark, with a spasm, plunged in a sea chasm;
Of SEYMOUR one couldn't see less.
"It's the Snark!" was the sound that first fell on our ears,
It seemed almost too good to be true.
Then followed a torrent of laughter and jeers,
Then the words, "It is all a Yah-Boo--"
Then silence. Some fancied they heard in the air
A sigh (from the lips of J.D.?)
That sounded like "----jum!" But some others declare
It was more like a half-choked big D.!
We hunted ten days and ten nights, but we found
Not so much as poor collier-barque.
By which we might tell that we steamed o'er the ground
Where CULM-SEYMOUR had handled the--Snark!
In the depths of that two thousand square miles, they say,
'Midst the world's mocking laughter and glee,
SEYMOUR softly and silently vanished away--
This Snark _was_ a Yah-Booh-Jum, you see!
* * * * *
"A VERY SHORT HOLIDAY."
[Illustration: "Is this a dagger that I see before me?"
No, c'est un souvenir d'Aubourg, une petite truelle à poisson de
l'Hostellerie des Vieux Plats, Gonneville.]
For the benefit of all tourists in Normandy, and visitors to Le Havre,
Etretat, and all round and about that quarter, I gave an account,
two weeks ago, of the excellent fare provided for us by _La famille
Aubourg_ at Gonneville. But on that occasion I made the great mistake
of calling their curious old house--a perfect little museum of
curiosities and works of Art--"a hotel." By my halidom! "Hotel," save
the mark--and spend the shilling. "Hotel," quotha! "Hotel" is far too
modern. Old English "Inn" more like. The kind of inn, good gossip,
which was kept in SHAKSPEARE's time by "mine host," where everyone,
with coin of the realm in his purse, could take his ease and be happy.
So, to put me right on this matter, M. AUBOURG sends me a _truelle_ of
burnished metal, on which is inscribed, "_Hostellerie des Vieux Plats,
Souvenir d'Aubourg_," which _truelle_, if not large, "yet will serve"
to help fish, or _pommes soufflées_, or _pommes Anna_, and, mark ye,
my masters, will also serve to recall to my memory a right merrie,
even tho' 'twere an all too short, holiday.
* * * * *
[Illustration: MR. PUNCH'S PARLIAMENTARY ARTIST FAILS TO ESCAPE FROM
HIS MODELS.]
* * * * *
PICTURESQUE LONDON; OR, SKY-SIGNS OF THE TIMES.
(_AN EXTRACT FROM THE "TRIVIA" OF THE FUTURE._)
"But when the swinging signs your ears offend,
With creaking noise."
GAY's _Trivia; or, The Art of Walking the Streets of London_.
Offend our _ears_? Pedestrian Muse of GAY,
Had you foreseen the London of to-day,
How had you shuddered with ashamed surprise
At "swinging signs" which now offend our _eyes_!
Long have Advertisement's obtrusive arts
Pervaded our huge maze of malls and marts;
But now the "swinging signs" of ogre Trade,
Even the smoke-veiled vault of heaven invade,
And sprawling legends of the tasteless crew
Soar to the clouds and spread across the blue.
See--if you can--where Paul's colossal dome
Rises o'er realms that dwarf Imperial Rome.
Cooped, cramped, half hid, the glorious work of WREN
Lent grandeur once to huckstering haunts of men,
Though on its splendour Shopdom's rule impinged,
And plaster, had they power, kind heaven's clear vault
With vulgar vaunts of Sausages or Salt.
Picture the proud and spacious city given
Wholly to Shopdom's hands! 'Twixt earth and heaven
Forests of tall and spindly poles arise,
With swinging signs that almost hide the skies.
Huge letterings hang disfiguring all the blue
To vaunt the grace of SNOBKINS's high-heel'd Shoe.
A pair of gloves soar to a monstrous height,
Long have its letterings large, its pictures vile,
Possessed the mammoth city mile on mile;
Made horrors of its hoardings, and its walls
Disfigured from the Abbey to St. Paul's,
And far beyond where'er a vacant space
Allowed Boeotian Commerce to displace
Scant Urban Beauty from its last frail hold,
On a Metropolis given up to Gold.
But till of late our sky at least was clear
(Such sky as coal-reek leaves the civic year)
If not of smoke at least of flaming lies,
And florid vaunts of quacks who advertise.
Not these sky-horrors, huge and noisy-hinged,
Shamed the still air about it, or obscured
Its every view. Is it to be endured,
O much-enduring Briton? There be those
Who'd scrawl advertisements of Hogs or Hose
Across the sun-disc as it flames at noon,
Or daub the praise of Pickles o'er the moon.
Unmoved by civic pride, unchecked by taste,
They 'd smear the general sky with poster's paste
And at Dan Phoebus seem to "take a sight."
Colossal bottles blot the air, to tell
That MUCKSON's Temperance drink is a great sell.
Here's a huge hat, as black as sombre Styx,
Flanked by the winsome legend, "Ten and Six."
Other Sky-signs praise Carpets, Ginghams, Socks,
Mugg's Music-hall, and "Essence of the Ox."
Bah! GAY's trim Muse might sicken of her rhymes
Had she to read these Sky-signs of the Times!
[Illustration]
* * * * *
IN THE KNOW.
(_BY MR. PUNCH'S OWN PROPHET._)
I Was aware that Mr. J. was a semolina-brained impostor, but I should
never have conceived that even he, the jelly-faced chief of the
chowder-heads, could have attained to such a pitch of folly as to
inform me that "the _Prix Montyon_ is not a medal, and cannot be
worn at Court." These are his words. Did I ever say it was a medal? I
remarked that the QUEEN had given me permission to wear it at Court.
That is true. But I never said that I would or could so wear it. As
for Her Most Gracious Majesty's permission, it was conveyed to me in
a document beginning, "VICTORIA, by the grace of," &c, and containing
the signature of Lord HALSBURY, the Lord Chancellor--No, by the way,
that is another Royal communication. The Permission begins, "To
our right trusty and well-beloved." What beautiful, confiding,
affectionate words are these! Who can wonder that a Queen who
habitually makes use of them should reign in the hearts of her
subjects?
Since I returned from France I have been on a further and more
extensive Continental tour, and have received more marks of
distinction from various Crowned Heads. Did you hear the strange story
of what took place at the meeting of the German EMPEROR with the
CZAR of Russia? It was the hour of the mid-day meal. The EMPEROR, at
the head of his Wyborg Regiment, had performed prodigies of valour.
Mounted on his fiery _Tchinovick_ (a Circassian mustang) he had
ridden into the heart of the hostile position, and with one stroke
of his _Pen_ (a sort of Russian scimetar with a jewelled hilt) he
had captured a convoy containing three thousand _Versts_ (a sort of
condensed food), intended for the consumption of the opposing Army.
Tired with his labours, he was now lying at full length beside his
Imperial host on the banks of the torrential Narva. The CZAR, in
attempting to open, a Champagne bottle, had just broken one of his
Imperial nails, and had despatched his chief butler to Siberia,
observing with pleasant irony, that he would no doubt find a corkscrew
there. At this moment a tall and aristocratic stranger, mounted upon
a high-spirited native _Mokeoffskaia_, dashed up at full gallop. To
announce himself as Lieutenant-General POPOFF, to seize the refractory
bottle, to draw the cork, and pour the foaming liquid into the
Imperial glasses, was for him the work of a moment. That stranger
was I. In recognition of my promptitude, _the_ CZAR has conferred
upon me the Stewardship of the Vistula Hundreds, with the command
of a division of the Yeomanoff Cavalry, the most distinguished
horse-soldiers in Europe.
The German EMPEROR was equally impressed. His Majesty smiled, and,
turning to General CAPRIVI, told him to consider himself henceforth
under my orders for everything that concerned the peace of the world.
I could see that CAPRIVI did not relish this, but I soon made him know
his place, and when I threatened to send for Prince BISMARCK--who, by
the way, has granted me the unique honour of an interview--he became
quite calm and reasonable. On my way home, I called in on Prince
FERDINAND of Bulgaria, _who offered me his Crown_, telling me at the
same time that he intended to take a course of German Baths. He said
I should find STAMBOULOFF a very pleasant fellow; "but," he added,
"you've got to know him first."
I, of course, refused His Highness's offer, and accepted instead the
Cross for Valour on the Field of Battle. I then hurried off to Servia.
King MILAN informed me that, if I wished to take a Queen back with me
to England, he would dispose of one very cheaply. Having advised the
Regents as to the best method of governing the country, I departed
for Roumania. The Queen of ROUMANIA welcomed me as a literary man.
She writes all the Roumanian sporting prophecies in verse. The King
invested me at once with the _Stonibroku_ Order in brilliants, with
the _Iohu_ Clasp for special promise shown in connection with turf
literature. I may assure you in confidence that there will be no war
for the next week or two. This result is entirely due to me.
Do you want to hear about the St. Leger? I need only say that my
own _Surefoot_ has brought me _Alloway Heaume_. Whilst in Russia I
heard about plenty of _Serfs_, but they were not saints. Anybody who
proposes to wear a _Blue-green_ waistcoat on the _Queen's Birthday_
ought to eat _Sainfoin_ for the rest of his life, and be taken _Right
Away_. Finally, if _The Field_ is to _Memoir_ as a window-sash is to
a Duchess's flounces, what chance has a crack-brained Bedlamite of
munching potatoes in St. James's Palace? Answers must he posted not
later than Monday. All prizes genuine. No blanks.
Yours as always, GENERAL POPOFF.
* * * * *
FROM THE FRENCH--AND THE ENGLISH.
[Illustration: Ra-ta-Plan, Ra-ta-Plan-quette!]
_Captain Thérèse_, Comic Opera. Music by ROBERT PLANQUETTE, composer
of _Paul Jones_ and _Les Cloches de Corneville_. Book by Messrs.
BISSON and BURNAND; GILBERT À BECKETT assisting in the lyrics. The
Carl Rosa Company, DRURIOLANO IMPERATORE, wouldn't wait for the
production of an Opera in Paris in order to bring it out here with the
French _cachet_, but determined to have one done all for themselves,
and to bring it out here first. So the French author began it, the
English one finished it, and the Composer wrote music for original
French and original English words. It is an international Opera; a new
departure, and in the Operatic world an important one. It answers a
question which was once the question of the day, "Why should London
wait?" London, represented by Sheriff DRURIOLANUS, did not wait, and
was served immediately with _Captain Thérèse_, produced Monday the
25th, at the Prince of Wales's Theatre; and the gratitude of London
has justified the generosity of all concerned behind the Curtain, and
in front of the house. Even in August the five million odd of those
left in Town can appreciate good music, capital acting, magnificent
dresses, and perfect _mise-en-scène_. The Prince of Wales's Theatre
has a reputation for level excellence in Comic Opera--it is the
_spécialité de la maison_, and the new lyrical piece is a worthy
successor to _Dorothy, Marjorie_, and _Paul Jones_. As _Captain
Thérèse_, Miss ATTALLIE CLAIRE reminds mature playgoers of that "such
a little Admiral" that was irresistible many years ago. She is bright,
clever, and, above all, refined. Miss PHYLLIS BROUGHTON makes up
for rather a weak voice by great strength in dancing, and Mr. HARRY
MONKHOUSE is genuinely comic. Mr. HENRY ASHLEY, always conscientious
even in his mirth, at the end of the Second Act, is suggestive of
the Astley's of the Westminster Road. Like the piece, he is very well
mounted. Madame AMADI is also excellent, a genuine lady-comedian--or
should it be _comédienne_? Then there is Mr. JOSEPH TAPLEY, a capital
tenor, and Mr. HAYDEN COFFIN, silver-voiced and graceful, the _beau
idéal_ of the hero of a Light Opera company. For the rest, the
chorus and band could not be better, and the production is worthy of
DRURIOLANUS, or, rather, CHARLES, his brother, and also his friend. So
Messrs. BISSON and PLANQUETTE, and their English _collaborateur_, may
toast one another, happy in the knowledge that the _entente cordiale_
has once more received hearty confirmation at the hands of the London
public; they may cry, with reason, _Vive la France!_ and Hip, hip,
BRITANNIA! feeling sure that, by their joint exertions, they have
obtained for the Anglo-Saxon race that blessing to the public in
general, and Theatrical Managers in particular, a lasting piece.
[Illustration: "'Ashley's' Revived!"]
[Illustration: "Flagging Energy."]
* * * * *
"WEDDED TO THE MOOR."
The sportive M.P., when the Session _is_ done,
Is off like a shot, with his eye on a gun.
He's like _Mr. Toots_ in the Session's hard press,
Finding rest "of no consequence." Could he take less?
But when all the long windy shindy is o'er,
He, like _Oliver Twist_, is found "asking for _Moor_!"
* * * * *
JOTS AND TITLES.--The busy persons who, in a recent Mansion House
list, had found quite "a Mayor's nest" in the highly important
question of a Cardinal's precedence, have recently started another
scare on discovering that the Ex-Empress's Chaplain at Chislehurst has
described himself, or has been described, on a memorial tablet which
he had put up in his own church, as a "Rector." Evidently a mistake.
If he erected the Memorial, he should have been described as "The
Erector."
* * * * *
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.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol.
99, September 6, 1890, by Various
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH ***
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