PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 108.

March 30, 1895.

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 108.
March 30, 1895.

"ANIMAL SPIRITS."

No. IX.—Awkward position of Hippoliceman among the wild Bulls and Bears in Throgmorton Street.

(Vide Papers, March 22.)

AN ELECTION ADDRESS.

[Mr. Rider Haggard has become the accepted Conservative candidate for a Norfolk constituency. The following is understood to be an advance copy of his Address.]

Intelligent electors, may I venture to present

Myself as an aspirant for a seat in Parliament?

The views of those opponents who despise a novelist,

Are but the foggy arguments of People of the Mist!

No writer, I assure you, can produce a better claim,

A greater versatility, a more substantial fame;

My candidature, though opposed by all the yellow gang,

Has won the hearty sympathy of Mr. Andrew Lang.

And if what my opinions are you'd really like to know,

They're issued at a modest price by Longmans, Green, & Co.;

The Eight Hours Bill, for instance, I'm prepared to speak upon

From a practical acquaintance with the Mines of Solomon.

Whatever my intentions as to Woman's Rights may be,

I yield to none in honouring the great immortal She;

While, as to foreign policy, though Blue Books make you yawn,

You'll find the subject treated most attractively in Dawn.

When I am placed in Parliament, I'll speak with fluent skill,

And show (like Mr. Meeson) I've a most effective will;

And if there is a special point for which I mean to fight,

It is for legislation to protect my copyright.

If chance debate to matters in South Africa should tend,

My anecdotes will cause the Speaker's wig to stand on end;

And if an opportunity occurs, I'll rouse the lot

By perorating finely in impassioned Hottentot!

So, Gentlemen, I beg you, let my arguments prevail,

Shame would it be if such a cause through apathy should fail,

Shame on the false elector who his honest duty shirks!

Believe me, Yours.

The Author of She, Dawn, and other works.

Suggested Revival of an Old Form of Punishment for Future Obstrutionist Speculators in Throgmortonian Kaffir Land.—"Put 'em in the Stocks."

"WHEN ARTHUR FIRST AT COURT."

Last week the Court Theatre was advertised as a "Company, Limited." The cast in the bill was given as Chairman, Arthur W. Pinero; First Director, Sir Arthur Sullivan (with a song?); Second Director, Herbert Bennett (Director also of Harrod's Stores, Limited, the success of which establishment has been so great as to now out-Harrod Harrod); and then Arthur Chudleigh (who was jointly lessee at one time with Mrs. John Wood), as Director and Acting Manager. The Solicitor is down as Arthur B. Chubb ("little fish are sweet"), and the Secretary is Mr. A. (presumably Arthur?) S. Dunn. Most appropriate this name to finish with; "and now my story's Dunn." Fortunate omen, too, that there are two "n's" in Dunn, which otherwise is a word associated with a Court not quite so cheerful as the Court Theatre.

But the curious note about it is the preponderance of "Arthurs." Arthur Pinero, Arthur Sullivan, Arthur Chudleigh, Arthur Chubb, and Arthur (?) Dunn. If they have power to add to their number, why not take in Arthur Jones, Arthur Lloyd, and Arthur Roberts? That would make the Dramatic Arthurs and the Musical Arthurs about equal.

Matilda Charlotte Wood is mentioned as having had an agreement with one of the Arthurs yclept Chudleigh, and probably also a disagreement too, as their once highly prosperous joint management came to an end. But now "she will return," at least, everyone hopes so, as, after her capital performance of the Sporting Duchess at Drury Lane, she has shown us that she is as fresh and as great an attraction as ever. Some of the Arthurs will write for her, one Arthur will compose for her, two Arthurs will act and sing with her, and Arthur, the managing director, will direct and manage her. May every success attend the venture! But how about authors and composers offering their work to so professional a board of directors? Doesn't Sir Fretful Plagiary's objection to sending his play in to the manager of Drury Lane, namely, that "he writes himself." hold good nowadays? Hum. A difficulty, most decidedly; still, not absolutely insuperable.

Which Settles It.

Over-enthusiastic Person (speaking confidentially of his absent Friend to the young Lady to whom absent friend is going to propose). Everybody speaks in his praise. He is an exceptionally good man.

Sharp Young Lady. Ah, then he is "too good to be true." I shall refuse him!

[Exit separately.

"MUSIC HATH CHARMS."

H.R.H. The Duke, accompanied by Drummer-boy Herbert Gladstone, leads the Sunday Park Band.

"The Duke of Cambridge takes the liveliest personal interest in the proposal made by Mr. John Aird, and supported by Mr. Herbert Gladstone, First Commissioner of Works, that military bands should perform in the Royal Parks on suitable occasions during the season."—Daily Telegraph, March 20.

QUITE A CATCH.

Young Splinter (driving Nervous Old Party to Covert). "Yes, I love a Bargain in Horseflesh! Now, if you believe me, I picked this little Beggar up the other day for a mere Song. Bolted with a Trap—kicked everything to smash. Bid the Fellow a Tenner for her, and there she is!" [Old Party begins to feel that "'E don' know where 'e are," or will be presently.

"MUSIC HATH CHARMS."

A Song for a Summer Day, 1895.

(A Very Long Way after Dryden.)

["Mr. Herbert Gladstone, in reply to Mr. Aird, said he was glad to tell the hon. gentleman that he had been informed by his Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge that arrangements were being made for a military band to play in Hyde Park on certain days in summer."—Parliamentary Report.]

I.

In harmony, in public harmony,

This bit of pleasant news began.

St. Stephen's underneath a heap

Of burning questions lay.

When Herbert raised his head

His tuneful voice was heard on high,

And this is what it said:

That Great George Ranger could descry

A chance of making a big leap

To pop-u-lar-i-ty.

That Music's power should have full summer sway,

And the bands begin to play!

With harmony, with general harmony,

Around the information ran

That harmony, sweet harmony,

Should stay mere rumpus with its rataplan,

And make Hyde Park a pleasant place to Man!

II.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

When Herbert thumps the side-drum well

The listening nursemaids well may stand around,

A-wondering at that curly swell,

A-worshipping the rattling sound.

Less than a dook they think can hardly dwell

In that drum major's toffy togs.

He startles even the stray dogs!

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

III.

The brass band's loud clangour

The populace charms,

The kettledrum-banger

The baby alarms.

At the double, double, double beat

Of young Gladstone's drum

The Socialist spouters from back street and slum

Cry, "Hark! our foes come!

Way oh! We'ad better retreat!"

IV.

The shrill and sprightly flute

Startles the seculurist spouts and shovers.

The crowds of music-lovers

Flock to its sound and leave tub-thumpers mute.

V.

Dark Anarchists proclaim

Their jealous pangs and desperation,

Fury, frantic indignation,

Depths of spite and heights of passion.

Music mars their little game.

VI.

Yes, Music's art can teach

Better than savage ungrammatic speech.

Young Herbert let us praise,

"The dear Dook" let us love.

The weary wayfarer, the wan-faced slummer,

Beneath the spell of Music and the Drummer,

Feel rataplans and rubadubs to raise

Their souls sour spleen above.

VII.

"Orpheus could lead the savage race,

And trees uprooted left their place,

Sequacious of the lyre."—

Precisely, Glorious John! Yet 'twere no lark

To see the trees cavorting round the Park.

No! Our Cecilia's aim is even higher.

To soothe the savage (Socialistic) breast,

Set Atheist and Anarchist at rest,

And to abate the spouting-Stiggins pest

Young Herbert and grey George may well aspire.

The "Milingtary Dook"'s permission's given

That the Park-Public's breast, be-jawed and beered,

May by the power of harmony be cheered,

And lifted nearer heaven!

Grand Chorus.

(By a Grateful Crowd.)

"This 'ere's the larkiest of lays!

Things do begin to move!

'Erbert and Georgy let us praise,

And all the powers above.

We've spent a reglar pleasant 'our

Music like this the Mob devour.

Yah! Anerchy is all my heye.

That cornet tootles scrumptiously.

Go it, young Gladsting! Don't say die

Dear Dook, but 'ave another try.

'Armony makes disorder fly

And Music tunes hus to the sky!

"THE 'KEY-NOTE'-ORIOUS MRS. EBBSMITH."

The Dowdy Mrs. Ebbsmith makes it hot for her young man.

Mr. Pinero's new play at the Garrick Theatre is a series of scenes in dialogue with only one "situation," which comes at the end of the third act, and was evidently intended to be utterly unconventional, dreadfully daring, and thrillingly effective. "Unconventional?" Yes. "Daring?" Certainly; for to burn a bible might have raised a storm of sibilation. But why dare so much to effect so little? For at the reading, or during rehearsal, there must have been very considerable hesitation felt by everybody, author included, as to the fate of this risky situation—this "momentum unde pendet"—and for which nothing, either in the character or in the previous history of the heroine, has prepared us. Her earliest years have been passed in squalor; she has made a miserable marriage; then she has become a Socialist ranter, and hopes to achieve a triumph as a Socialist demagogue. Like Maypole Hugh in Barnaby Rudge she would go about the world shrieking "No property! No property!" and when, in a weak moment, she consents to temporarily drop her "mission," she goes to another extreme and comes out in an evening dress—I might say almost comes out of an evening dress, so egregiously décolleté is it—to please the peculiar and, apparently, low taste of her lover, who is a married man,—"which well she knows it," as Mrs. Gamp observes,—but with whom she is living, and with whom, like Grant Allen's The Woman who did (a lady whom in many respects Mr. Pinero's heroine closely resembles), and who came to grief in doing it, she intends to continue living. This man, her paramour, she trusts will be her partner in the socialistic regeneration of the human race. At the close of the third act Mrs. Ebbsmith, being such as the author of her being has made her, is presented with a bible, and, in a fit of ungovernable fury, she pitches it into the stove "with all her might and main"; and then it suddenly occurs to her that she has committed some terrible crime (more probably it occurred to the author that he had committed the unpardonable sin of offending his audience)—and so she shoots out her arm into a nice, cool-looking stove (suggestive of no sort of danger to her or the book), and drags out the pocket volume apparently quite as uninjured as is her own hand at the moment, though this is subsequently carefully bound up with a white handkerchief in the last act. Well—that's all. There is the situation. The Key-note-orious Mrs. Ebbsmith is supposed to repent of her sins against society; and off she goes to become the companion of the unmarried parson and of the lively widow his sister. What the result of this arrangement will be is pretty clear. The Key-note-orious One will soon be the parson's bride; but "that is another story."

To carry out this drama of inaction, as it is schemed, should occupy eight persons something under two hours; but it takes thirteen persons three hours to carry it along. Five of these dramatis personæ are superfluous; and much time is wasted on dialogues in Italian and French that could be "faked up" from any conversation-book in several languages, and evidently only lugged in under the mistaken impression that thereby a touch of "local colour" is obtained.

As it is the audience wearies of the long speeches, and there is nothing in the action that can rouse them as there was in The Second Mrs. Tanqueray, a play that Mr. Pinero has not yet equalled, much less surpassed.

But what is a real pleasure, and what will attract all lovers of good acting, is, first of all, Mr. Forbes Robertson's admirable impersonation of the difficult, unsympathetic rôle of a despicably selfish, self-conceited, cowardly prig; and, secondly, to a certain extent, the rendering of the heroine by Mrs. Patrick Campbell, who, however, does not come within measurable distance of her former self as Mrs. Tanqueray—her "great stove scene" being about the weakest point in her performance. But there cannot be a divided opinion as to the perfect part given to Mr. John Hare, and as to the absolutely perfect manner in which it is played by this consummate artist in character. All the scenes in which he appears are admirably conceived by the author, and as admirably interpreted by the actor.

Transformation Scene. The Rowdy-Dowdy Mrs. Ebbsmith fascinates the Dook.

Mr. Hare's performance of the Duke of St. Olpherts is a real gem, ranking among the very best things he has ever done, and I may even add "going one better." It is on his acting, and on the acting of the scenes in which he appears, that the ultimate popularity of the piece must depend. The theatrical stove-cum-book situation may tell with some audiences better than with others, but it is not an absolute certainty; while every scene in which the Duke of St. Olpherts takes part, as long as this character is played by Mr. Hare, is in itself an absolute isolated triumph. Mr. Aubrey Smith, as the modern young English moustached parson, en voyage, with his pipe, and bible in his pocket (is he a colporteur of some Biblical Society, with a percentage on the sale? otherwise the book is an awkward size to carry about, especially if he has also a Murray with him), is very true to life, at all events in manner and appearance; and Miss Jeffreys, as his sister, who looks just as if she had walked out of a fashion-plate in The Gentlewoman, or some lady's journal, plays discreetly and with considerable self-repression. Of course it will remain one of the notable pieces of the year; but what will keep it green in the memory of playgoers is not the story, nor its heroine, nor its hero, but the captivating impersonation of the Duke of St. Olpherts by Mr. John Hare.

SO LIKELY!

Scene—Bar of a Railway Refreshment Room.

Barmaid. "Tea, Sir?"

Mr. Boosey. "Tea!!! ME!!!!"

THE GAME OF DRAUGHTS.

(By One who has Played it.)

Assume that I am living in Yokohama Gardens (before the pleasant change from winter to spring), and that I am conscious of the near approach of the North Pole. The fires in the grates seem to be lukewarm, and even the coals are frozen. My servants have told me that the milk had to be melted before it could adorn the breakfast-table; and as for the butter, it is as hard as marble. There is only one thing to do, to send for that worthy creature Mr. Lopside, an individual "who can turn his hand to anything."

"Well Sir," Mr. Lopside arrives and observes after a few moments spent in careful consideration of the subject from various points of view, "of course you feel the cold because there is five-and-twenty degrees of frost just outside."

I admit that Mr. Lopside's opinion is reasonable; and call his attention to the fact that a newspaper which is lying on the floor some five yards from a closed door is violently agitated.

"I see Sir," says he promptly. "If you will wait a moment I will tell you more about it."

He takes off his coat, throws down a bag of tools (his chronic companion), and lies flat on the floor. Then he places his right ear to the ground and listens intently, pointing the while to the newspaper that has now ceased to suffer from agitation.

"There you are, Sir!" he exclaims triumphantly. "There's a draught there. I could feel it distinctly."

He rises from the ground, reassumes his overcoat, and once more possesses himself of his bag of useful instruments.

"Well, what shall I do?" I ask.

"Well, you see Sir, it's not for the likes of me to advise gentry folk like you. I wouldn't think of presuming upon such a liberty."

"Not at all, Mr. Lopside," I explain with some anxiety.

"Then Sir—mind you, if it's not taking too much of a liberty—I would, having draughts, get rid of them. And you have draughts about, now haven't you?"

I hasten to assure him that I am convinced that my house is a perfect nest of draughts.

"Don't you be too sure until I have tested them," advises Mr. Lopside.

Then the ingenious creature again divests himself of his overcoat and workman's bag and commences his labours. He visits every door in the house and tries it. He assumes all sorts of attitudes. Now he appears like Jessie Brown at Lucknow listening to the distant slogan of the coming Highlanders. Now like a colleague of Guy Fawkes noting the tread of Lord Monteagle on the road to the gunpowder cellar beneath the Houses of Parliament. His attitudes, if not exactly graceful, are full of character.

"There are draughts everywhere," says Mr. Lopside, having come to the end of his investigations.

"And what shall I do?" I ask for the second time. Again my worthy inspector spends a few minutes in self-communing.

"It's not for the likes of a poor man like me, Sir, to give advice; but if I were you, Sir, I would say antiplutocratic tubing."

"What is antiplutocratic tubing?"

"Well, Sir, it's as good a thing as you can have, under all the circumstances. But don't have antiplutocratic tubing because I say so. I may be wrong, Sir."

"No, no, Mr. Lopside," I reply, in a tone of encouragement. "I am sure you are right. Do you think you could get me some antiplutocratic tubing, and put it up for me?"

"Why, of course I could, Sir!" returns my worthy helper, in the tone of a more than usually benevolent Father Christmas. Then he seems to lose heart and become despondent. "But there, Sir, it's not for the likes of me to say anything."

However, I persuade Mr. Lopside to take a more cheerful view of his position, and to undertake the job.

For the next three hours there is much hammering in all parts of the house. My neighbours must imagine that I have taken violently to spiritual manifestations. Wherever I wander I find my worthy assistant hard at work covering the borders of the doors with a material that looks like elongated eels in a condition of mummification—if I may be permitted to use such an expression. Now he is standing on a ledge level with the hall lamp; now he is reclining sideways beside an entrance-protecting rug; now he is hanging by the bannisters midway between two landings. The day grows apace. It is soon afternoon, and rapidly becomes night. When the lights are beginning to appear in the streets without, Mr. Lopside has done. My house is rescued from the draughts.

"You won't be troubled much more, Sir," says he, as he glances contemptuously at a door embedded in antiplutocratic tubing. "Keep those shut and the draughts won't get near you—at least so I think, although I may be wrong. Thank you, Sir. Quite correct. Good evening."

And he leaves me, muffled up in his overcoat, and still clinging to his basket, with its burden of saws, hammers, chisels, and nails of various dimensions. I enter the dining-room with an air of satisfaction as I hear his echoing footsteps on the pavement without, and attempt to close the door. It will do almost everything, but it won't shut. I give up the dining-room, and enter my study. Again, I try to close the door. But no; it has caught the infection of its neighbour and also declines to close. I try the doors of the drawing-room, bedroom, and the dressing-room. But no, my efforts are in vain. None of them will close. The wind howls, and the draughts rush in with redoubled fury. They triumph meanly in my despair.

There is only one thing to do, and I determine to do it. I must send for Mr. Lopside to take away as soon as possible his antiplutocratic tubing. After all he was right when he had those, alas! unheeded misgivings. He said "he might be wrong"—and was!

THINGS ONE SAYS WITHOUT THINKING.

"I'm so sorry you've had to come and Dine with us without your Husband, Lizzy. I suppose the real truth is that, being Lent, he's doing Penance by dining at home!"

"Oh, no! I assure you! He thinks it a Penance to dine out!"

QUARTER-DAY; OR, DEMAND AND NO SUPPLY.

Resentful Ratepayer loquitur:—

"Demand and Supply!" So economists cry,

And one, they assure us, must balance the other.

I fancy their doctrines are just all my eye,

But then I'm a victim of bad times and bother.

At least, friend Aquarius, you'll understand

That Jack Frost and you have between you upset me.

You are down on me—ah! like a shot—with Demand,

But as to Supply—ah! that's just where you get me.

Water? You frosty old fraud, not a drop,

Save what I have purchased from urchins half frozen,

I've had for six weeks for my house and my shop,

And they tell me the six weeks may swell to a dozen!

Call that Water-Supply, Mister Mulberry Nose?

Why, your oozy old eyelids seem winking in mockery,

My cisterns are empty, my pipes frozen close,

I've nothing for washing my hands, clothes or crockery.

As to flushing my drain-pipes, or sinks, why you know,

I might as well trust the Sahara for sluicing.

A bath? Yes, at tuppence a pailful or so.

Good gracious! we grudge every tumbler we're using.

Your stand-pipes and tanks compensate for such pranks?

Get out! You are playing it low down, Aquarius.

Be grateful for mercies so small, Sir? No thanks!

My wrongs at your hands have been many and various.

But these last six weeks, Sir, are just the last straw

That break the strong back of the rate-paying camel,

I do not quite know what's the state of the law,

But if yours is all freedom, and mine is all trammel,

If yours is Demand, and mine is not Supply,

As 'twould seem by the look of that precious rate-paper,

Aquarius, old boy, I have plans in my eye

For checking your pretty monopolist caper.

Pay up, and look pleasant? Ah yes, that's my rule

For every impost, from Poor Rate to Income.

But paying for what you don't get fits a fool,

Besides, you old Grampus-Grab, whence will the tin come?

Supply discontinued? Aquarius, that threat,

Is losing its terrors. I don't care a penny,

'Twon't frighten me now into payment, you bet,

When for the last six weeks I haven't had any.

Whose fault? Well, we'll see. But at least you'll agree

When Supply's undertaken, and paid, in advance, for,

A man expects something for his L. S. D.

Then what have you led me this doose of a dance for?

That question, old Snorter, demands a prompt answer,

And Taurus expects it of you, my Aquarius,

Or else, Sir, by Gemini, I shall turn Cancer,

And then the monopolists mayn't look hilarious.

How do the Water Rates come to my door?

'Twould furnish a subject for some brand-new Southey.

Your dunning Demand Notes are always a bore,

But when one is grubby, half frozen and drouthy,

When cisterns are empty and sinks are unflushed,

And staircases sloppy, and queer smells abounding,

To be by an useless Aquarius rushed

For "immediate payment" is—well, it's astounding.

How will the water come down through the floor

When mains are unfrozen and pipes are all "busting"?

Why spurting and squirting, with rush and with roar,

The wall-papers staining, the fire-irons rusting,

And rushing, and gushing, and flashing and splashing,

And making a sort of Aix douche of the bedroom,

And comfort destroying, and every hope dashing,

And leaving one scarce a square yard of dry head-room.

'Twill leak, spirt and trickle, and, oh such a pickle

Will make of my dwelling, from garret to basement,

Well, that's after thaw. But, by Jove, it does tickle

My fancy, and fill me with angry amazement,

To see you mere standing ice-cool, and demanding

Prompt payment—for what? Why, long waterless worry!

Aquarius, we must have a fresh understanding;

Till then—"Call again!" and don't be in a hurry!

[Slams door, and retires in dudgeon.

Motto for Stockbrokers.—A mine in the Randt is worth two in the Bush.

QUARTER-DAY; OR, DEMAND AND NO SUPPLY.

Ratepayer. "WHAT'S THIS FOR? WATER! WHY I HAVEN'T HAD ANY!"

THE WOMAN WHO WOULDN'T DO.

(She-Note Series.)

The two were seated in an untrammelled Bohemian sort of way on the imperturbable expanse of the South Downs. Beneath them was a carpet of sheep-sorrel, its orbicular perianth being slightly depressed by their healthy weight. In the distance they noticed thankfully the saucer-shaped combes of paludina limestone rising in pleasant strata to the rearing scarp of the Weald. Perugino Allan was the gentleman's name. He had only met Pseudonymia Bampton the day before, but already from mere community of literary instincts they were life-long friends. She had reached the trysting-place first. All true modest women do this.