Punch,
or the London Charivari

VOL. 93.

December 10th 1887

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

THE LETTER-BAG OF TOBY, M.P.

From the Rochdale Rasper (Late the Birmingham Pet).

One Ash, Rochdale, Saturday.

Dear Toby,

The address from which I write to you is familiar in the public ear in connection with a long series which, such is the ignorance of mankind, I have heard described as petulant, querulous, self-adulatory notes. I have often wondered that it has not occurred to any one to notice the singular appropriateness of the name of my humble home. It is not for me, at my time of life, to claim anything like prescience of affairs. I may have been right in my views of the succeeding events of the past half-century, or I may have been wrong. I will just mention that my friend, T-nn-s-n, who has a pretty faculty for poetry, once summed me up in a couplet which I venture to think is not without its charm. "J-hn Br-ght," he wrote—

J-hn Br-ght

Is always right.

He told me in confidence that he had at one time contemplated a eulogistic poem of some seventy or eighty lines, price to the Nineteenth Century a guinea each. But, having thrown off this couplet, it appeared in itself so sufficient, so comprehensive yet so precise, that amplification would have rather reduced than increased its value. Therefore it remains a brilliant fragment.

But I am wandering from the theme, which, in the present instance, is not myself but my country address. What I thought might be interesting to point out is the curious felicity of the nomenclature, and the remarkable foresight of which it is proof. More than a generation ago it received this singular appellation. At that time nothing seemed more remote from ordinary apprehension than that in this year I should be what we call "a Unionist," an ally and supporter of Lord S-l-b-ry, pulling in the same boat as the H-m-lt-ns, and marching shoulder to shoulder with Ashm-d B-rtl-tt. In those days I was wont to pour forth torrents of angry contempt upon the Conservative party. D-sr-li was my wash-pot, over the Markiss I cast out my shoe; but even then my address was One Ash, Rochdale. Do you begin to see what I mean? One Empire, One Parliament, One Ash! Some of my old colleagues and disciples among the Radicals scoff at me because of my new companions. But, as usual, I have been right from the first. I have always been what the Marchioness called a "wonner." What has happened is that the Liberal Party and my old companions have moved away from me, whilst the Conservatives have moved towards me. I am the same to-day as yesterday, or as these fifty years past. "J-hn Br-ght, always right," and any change of relationship or appearance is due to the ineradicable error and fatal foolishness of others.

What I feel, dear Toby, in reviewing a long and honourable life, is the terrible feeling of monotony. I sometimes find myself envying ordinary men like Gl-dst-ne, who, looking back over their past life, can put their hand down and say, "There I blundered, there I was misled by circumstances." For a long time Gl-dst-ne kept pretty straight—that is to say I agreed with him. But he has gone wrong lamentably on this Irish Question, and all the righteous acts of his life—that is to say, steps in which he has chanced to walk in time with me—are obliterated. It is true that, at one time, it was I who was the foremost Apostle of Irish National feeling. At this date people with inconvenient memories are constantly raking up passages in my speeches about Ireland, and the English yoke which, except that they are too finely cut, and of too noble a style of eloquence, would exactly suit Gl-dst-ne to-day. I said these things then, it is true, and then they were right. I do not say them to-day, and therefore they are wrong. Quod erat demonstrandum. (You will observe that since, with a distinguished friend, I have joined the political company of gentlemen, I have forsaken my old habit of keeping to the Saxon tongue, and sometimes, as here, I drop into Latin. Occasionally I fall into French. Autres temps, autres mœurs.)

My nearest approach to human frailty, is, perhaps, to be found in a certain measure of absence of suavity. It is perhaps possible that my temper was,—I will not say soured, but—not sweetened by the vile attacks made upon me personally by Irish Members in Parliament during the last ten years. You remember what B-nt-nck said about me? I don't mean Big Ben, or Little Ben, but Lord George B-nt-nck. "If Br-ght," he said, "had not been a Quaker, he would have been a prize-fighter." I think there is about the remark some suspicion of lack of respect. But, also, it is not without some foundation of truth. I admit an impulse to strike back when I am hit; sometimes when I am not. Through two Parliaments the ragged regiment that live upon the contributions of their poor relations in domestic service in the United States have girded at me in the House of Commons. This was my reward for the rhetorical services I did for Ireland a quarter of a century ago. They pummelled me, kicked me, dragged my honoured name in the dust, and spat upon me in the market-place. That gross ingratitude I could never forgive, and if in reprisal, the cause I once advocated suffers, can I be held blameable?

But this seems to be running into the groove of apology, and I never apologised to anyone for anything in my life. For fear I should begin now, I will close this letter, remaining, Your friend, J-hn Br-ght.

P.S.—I observe that in my haste I have not called you a fool, or directly stigmatised as such anyone alluded to in this letter. I am afraid this will be regarded as a sign of growing weakness. But I will bring up the average in the next letter I write for publication.

DARWINIAN ANCESTOR

Composing the Song, "For O it is such a Norrible Tail!!"

"Our ancestor was an animal which breathed water, had a swim-bladder, a great swimming tail, and an imperfect skull."—Darwin to Lyell.

THE BABES IN THE CHRISTMAS WOOD. "The Cry is still they come!"

PUTTING HIS FOOT IN IT.

She. "And do you still squeeze up the Ladies' Feet in your Country?"

He. "On the contrary, Madam! That is a Chinese custom. We in Japan always allow the Ladies' Feet to grow to quite their full size. Not that any would ever rival yours, Madam!"

[Is delighted with his neat little Compliment!]

THE BABES IN THE CHRISTMAS WOOD.

The Publishers' Cantata.

Various well-known Publishing Firms in the guise of Forest-trees discovered shedding their leaves.

General Chorus.

See Christmas is upon us and the world around us living,

Seeks us and asks the pretty gifts it soon would fain be giving.

The stories thrilling, tender, sweet, to suit all tastes and ages,

All gleaming with their covers gay and picture-covered pages;

The dainty illustrated leaf, the paper softly tinted,

In type, to suit young eyes and old, all exquisitely printed:

Of artist's pencil, author's pen, the choicest, fairest flower,

Behold as the glad season comes we thus upon you shower.

Messrs. Blackie & Sons.

Christmas leaves? Would you pick up the handsomest ones,

First look at these scattered by Blackie & Sons.

Here tales of home life and adventure in plenty,

Have good names to vouch for them. Take G. A. Henty,

In "Bonnie Prince Charlie" and "Orange and Green,"

He lays first in Scotland, then Ireland his scene,

And thrills you with reading the hairbreadth escapes,

Of the heroes he rescues from numberless scrapes.

But while in "For the Temple," he ventures to tell

How in ages long past great Jerusalem fell;

Yet if less ancient horrors are more to your mind,

In the reign of the "Terror" material you'll find;

And if you would learn how pluck never goes wrong,

You've but to go straightway to "Sturdy and Strong."

Next Elizabeth Lysaght in "Aunt Hesba's Charge,"

On the virtues of old Maiden Aunts doth enlarge,

And relates in "Our General" by a small head,

How a family through all its trials may be led.

Then J. Percy Groves in "The War of the Axe,"

Tells a stirring Cape story of Caffre attacks,

And "The Seven Wise Scholars" supply Ascott R. Hope,

For knocking off seven good tales, ample scope,

He in "Old Renown" stories, too, brilliantly writes

Of the deeds done of old by brave heroes and knights;

While E. Brookes harking back with his "Chivalric Days,"

Of the boys and the girls of old times sings the praise.

"Girl Neighbours," allows Sarah Tytler to say,

On the whole she prefers the girl of the day;

In "Miss Willowbrown's Offer," how traitors may fail,

Sarah Dowdney describes in a well-written tale.

With "The Babbling Teapot," to a little girl changed,

Mrs. Champney has well into Wonderland ranged.

Out of "Willie," who here "Gutta Percha" is named,

George Macdonald, an excellent story has framed,

And has shown how he finds life's troubles prove plastic,

Possessing a brain which his friends deem elastic.

In "The Princess" and "Goblin" he tries a new scheme,

And sweeps you along with his mystical theme;

But when she meets "Curdie" he now and then treads

On ground that is over his young readers' heads.

If a truant's adventures, fair reading you find,

The good ship "Atalanta," you'd bear in your mind,

And you'll follow "aboard" it, the hero whose fate

Henry Frith's thrilling pages know how to relate.

Next in "Chirp and Chatter" from field and from tree,

Young children taught lessons by L. Banks you'll see.

"Queen Maud," with her "orders" by Louisa Crow,

Shows pride in a haughty young maiden brought low:

While in the "Squire's Grandson," J. Callwell proves how

A small boy can make up a family row.

The stories of Wasa and Menzikoff tell

Two historical tales, and do it right well.

In his "Dick o' the Fens," one Fen,—Manville Fenn,—

Gives some capital studies of Lincolnshire men;

But in "Sir Walter's Ward," the age of Crusades,

Mr. William Everard brightly invades.

The "Girlhood" of "Margery Merton" relates,

The struggle that oft a young artist awaits,

And how in the end her brave efforts prevail,

Alice Corkran unfolds in her well-written tale.

And if "Clogs," well selected for children to wear,

You're in need, Amy Walton will find you "a pair."

If the "Secret" of "Rovers" is more to your taste,

Harry Collingwood follow,—your time you'll not waste.

In field, forest, or stream, would you "Insect Ways" learn,

For their "Summer Day's" life to J. Humphreys turn.

But to close:—Gordon Browne, whose famed pencil so skilled,

Of the foregoing pages so many has filled,

Crowns the whole by contributing last, but not least,

His new "Hop o' my Thumb" and "The Beauty and Beast."

George Routledge & Sons.

Are you seeking for young children picture-books to please the eye?

Then your need George Routledge and his Sons will readily supply.

Here's "Little Wide-Awake," designed to suit the earliest age,

Bound brightly, with a picture too on nearly every page;

And then there's "Sunny Childhood," with its colouring so gay,

Where Mrs. Sale Barker has such pleasant things to say;

And in "Our Friends" and in "Our Home" she takes them by the hand,

And talks to little readers in the words they understand.

"Our Darlings," too, by Mars, show how our little darlings fare

Who by their Mars (and Pa's as well) are taken everywhere.

If "Fairy Tales" you're seeking, Laboulaye's collected lore,

With new ones, and unheard before, will furnish up your store.

And if young heroes of all climes should come within your scope,

You'll turn to "Youngsters' Yarns," and will have faith in Ascott Hope.

Then "Herbert Massey's" doings in "Eastern Africa" you'll find,

Told by Commander Cameron, quite of a thrilling kind.

"The Children of the New Forest," that Marryat wrote of yore,

Paul Hardy and John Gilbert join to illustrate once more.

"Round Nature's Dial," by H. M. Burnside, tells full and clear

The shifting story of the times and seasons of the year.

The "Annual" for "Every Boy" affords all boys a treat,

Which, thanks to Edmund Routledge, may be held as quite complete.

Here "Caldecott's last 'Graphic' Pictures" come in handy guise,

While by her "Book" consulting, the "Young Lady" may grow wise.

How good we'd be if all, before they do, to think would tarry

On what Miss Edgeworth taught to "Lucy," "Rosamond," and "Harry."

"Natural History," Illustrated "for Young People," must do good,

As a text-book for young children, ably done by F. G. Wood.

The "Funny Foxes and their Feats" and doings "at the Fair,"

With some of Ernst Griset's happiest efforts may compare.

"The 'Shall Nots' of the Bible" and "Loving Links" combine,

In page illuminated, human verse and text divine.

"Play and Earnest" tells of children who their playing much enjoy,

In a story quaint and charming of a plucky little boy.

Then "Sunbeam Stories," "Storm" and "Sunshine," told in prose and rhyme,

And "Stories" for a "Holiday," as also "Pets' Pastime."

These, with "Sindbad's" famed Adventures, new to many we suppose,

With Kate Greenaway's bright Almanack our list must fitly close.

Messrs. Macmillan & Co.

Surely "Little Miss Peggy" will work you the spell

Mrs. Molesworth's charmed pen weaves so deftly and well,

For this quaint little lady, with ways sweet and bright,

Her small nursery readers can't fail to delight.

In "An Unknown Country" pen and pencil beguile

Him who tempts it to visit his own Sister Isle.

The text he'll find art a true handmaid to wait on

In the exquisite work of F. Noel Paton.

Christmas Cards.

Of Christmas Cards a splendid show

This year! Wherever you may go

You see them. When you're told, you know

They're Christmas Cards.

In such a game of Cards the thing

Before the eyes of all to bring

Is Christmas, but they're Summer, Spring,

Most Christmas Cards.

Taking high rank among the Christmas Cards,

The artistic reproductions, Marcus Ward's,

Of two of Raphael's best-known Madonnas

Must, at this season, carry off the honours.

Both from one Pitti Palace—need we name them?—

'Twould be a thousand pities not to frame them.

(Air—"King of the Cannibal Islands.")

Here's an "Opal Souvenir,"

Lovely mem of present year,

And it comes from, as we hear,

Hildesheimer and Faulkner.

Among the Cards the best designs

Are those by Weedon, Wilson, Hines,

Bothams, Dealy also shines,

Kilburne, Drummond, on like lines,

Williamson, Maguire too,

Sigimund, artistic crew,

All at work their best to do

For Hildesheimer and Faulkner.

(Air—"Rare Ben.")

Raphael Tuck!

Here's luck!

Rejoice! no dumps!

Why, all your Cards are trumps!

And all applied

To merry Christmas-tide!

In these un-Christmas days,

Punch says 'tis greatly to thy praise.

So, Raphael Tuck,

My buck,

Here's luck!

To Mr. Punch.

"Such books, cards, and crackers," cries Poet, perplexed,

"As remain on the list, I will give 'in our next.'"

OUR DEBATING CLUB.

An apology—Eloquent Peroration by our Vice-President—Naylor offers some critical remarks, and Kirkstone relates a humorous anecdote.

I am in a position this week to redeem my promise, and raise the hitherto impenetrable veil that has long shrouded the proceedings of the Gargoyle Club from the Public Eye. In the exercise of the discretion with which I have been entrusted, I have somewhat departed from the form of report originally contemplated, and selected only the more striking and characteristic deliverances of my fellow Gargoyles, interspersed with such short notes and descriptions as may best serve to bring out their several mannerisms and idiosyncrasies. Should I offend by this I shall deeply regret it, but I find that there are traditions and customs in the management of a facetious periodical which, however exacting and absurd in themselves, must be respected by those who would furnish it with literary matter.

Having thus apologised in advance to any honourable Gargoyle who may consider himself misrepresented or insufficiently reported, let me present, as the first instalment of these papers, some extracts from notes taken at a most instructive debate last session upon the motion (brought forward by Plumley Duff; opposed by Gaspard Hartupp), that:

"In the opinion of this House, Science has been productive of more real benefit to the Human Race than Art."

Somehow, although I know that Duff's speech was compounded of plain common sense interspersed with abundant facts (all Duff's speeches are like that), I did not begin to take notes that evening until Hartupp had reached his peroration, which was in this form:—

"Sir," said Hartupp (with an inflection of unspeakable pathos in his voice, which ought to make Pinceney shed tears—but does not), "before I sit down—before, Sir, I resume my seat,"—(this solemnly, as if he has a deep presentiment that he may never resume another seat)—"let me ask the Honourable Member who is responsible for the Motion on the paper this evening—let me put to him this single inquiry, this solitary question—and I shall await his answer with considerable curiosity." ... (Here Hartupp gazes with an air of challenge at Duff, who, however, is drawing Euclid's first proposition upon his blotting-pad, an occupation which seems to absorb the whole of his faculties for the moment.) "Is he here to-night to deny the existence of any good that is not visible, that is not tangible, that cannot be measured with a tape, or weighed in scales? Sir, that is the philosophy of the volatile sparrow, of the soulless hog, that skims the vault of the azure empyrean, and wallows content in the mire of his native sky—I should say" (with an air of careless concession to prosaic accuracy), "stye! That bird, Sir, that pig, like the Honourable Proposer himself"—(a titter here from the more frivolous; Duff rubs his nose, and evidently wonders whether Hartupp has been saying anything worth noticing)—"would find the universe none the poorer had Praxiteles carved nothing more immortal than an occasional cold fowl; had Homer swept his lyre, not in commemoration of the fall of an ancient Troy, but to celebrate the rise of a new soap (Hartupp rather prides himself on his talent for antithesis); "and had Titian lavished all his wealth of glowing colour and gorgeous hues upon the unretentive surface of some suburban pavement! But, Sir, I hope that we, by our vote to-night, will afford no encouragement to the gross and contemptible materialism which is the curse of the present day, and of which, I am compelled to add," (here he glances reproachfully at the unconscious Duff, who is sharpening a pencil), "we have been afforded so melancholy an example this evening. Let us proclaim to the world without that we, as Gentlemen and as Gargoyles, repudiate, that we loathe, that we abhor, that we abominate," (Hartupp seems to be screwing all these verbs out of himself, and throwing them defiantly at Duff,) "the grovelling tendency of our animal nature to ignore the joys of the soul and the pleasures of the intellect, and place its highest enjoyment in the ignoble pursuit of creature comforts!"

[Here Hartupp sits down amidst applause, and applies himself diligently to his whiskey-and-water.

At a later period in the evening, just as the debate was beginning to languish, Naylor started to his feet with a long strip of paper which, being shortsighted, he held close to his nose. Naylor invariably takes elaborate notes, with the intention of pointing out and refuting the errors of all previous speakers. Unfortunately, as he cannot always read the notes, and seldom remembers the objections he meant to urge, his criticisms are not as effective as could be desired. On this occasion, Naylor said:—"I'm not going to make a speech, Sir, I only want to point out one or two things which struck me as requiring to be met. I'll take them in their order." (Here he fumbles with his strip of paper, which will get upside down when he wished to refer to it). "Oh, here it is! There was a Gargoyle who said—I believe it was the Proposer of this motion—didn't you?" (To Duff, who shakes his head in solemn disclaimer). "Well, it was somebody, anyway, but he told us that——." (Here Naylor again refers to his notes). "I'm afraid I can't exactly make out what he did say—but I don't agree with him. Then there was another speaker who said, (I took it down at the time) that he'd rather have a good traction-engine than the finest poem ever written! Well, my reply to that is——" (here Naylor has another wrestle with his notes and comes up triumphant) "that's his opinion. I wouldn't. Next, someone asked, 'What practical use was Shakspeare to any man?'" (A pause.) "I've got an answer to that on my notes, somewhere, only I can't find it. But, anyhow," (cheerfully) "I know it was rather sticking up for Shakspeare, to a certain extent. Then, didn't someone else say, 'Music elevated the mind?'" (A Member acknowledges the responsibility of this bold sentiment.) "Well, I don't say it doesn't—only, how? you know, that's the point!" (A long pause, during which Naylor and his notes appears to be getting inextricably involved). "There was a lot of other things I meant to say, but I'm afraid I don't quite remember them at this moment."

With this, Naylor sat down suddenly, apparently very little depressed by the total absence of applause—he knew that a fearless critic is never popular.

After that we had a little speech from dear old Kirkstone, who rose to tell us an anecdote, which the subject had suggested to him. Appropriate anecdotes are always occurring to Kirkstone, and he applies them in the neatest and happiest manner, being gifted with the keenest sense of humour of any one in our Society. In fact, the very keenness of Kirkstone's appreciation operates almost as a disadvantage, as will be seen from the following extract, taken on the spot.

Kirkstone (rising, and playing with his watch-chain). "Sir, whilst listening to the speeches of Honourable Members this evening, I could not help being reminded of a story I heard the other day." (Here a slight spasm passes over his ample cheeks, and we all settle down in delighted anticipation). "There was an old farmer—one of the regular old-fashioned sort." (Faint preliminary chuckle down in Kirkstone's throat.) "Well, he had a daughter, who—tchick!—played on the—tehee!—the piano, and one day he was induced to go in for a"—(convulsion, followed by sounds like the extraction of a very refractory cork)—"for a Steam-plough! Soon afterwards he happened to meet a friend—another farmer, or the parson, I forget which, and it don't signify. Well, and the friend asked 'how he got on with his Steam-plough.' And the old farmer says—hork-hork!—he says, 'Don't talk to me 'bout no Steam-plough—ki-hee-hee!—when there's my darter at home, and she—crick, crick, criggle!' (Kirkstone proceeds gallantly, but is unintelligible until the close)—'with her darned pianner—haw-haw-haw!' Well, the House can apply the moral of that themselves—I thought it was rather to the point myself. That's all I got up to say."

I am afraid Kirkstone thinks we are all of us rather dull.

A DRAMATIC ORATORIO.

Mr. Frederic H. Cowen's dramatic Oratorio, Ruth, was produced last Thursday at St. James's Hall, and the verdict on the entire work from "bar one" to bar last was emphatically favourable. The Composer has nothing to regret on this score. The workmanship throughout is thoroughly good, and in some instances admirable, though the First Part is not distinguished by any very striking originality.

In the Second Part, which begins appropriately with Harvest or "Half-est time," Mr. Boaz Lloyd gave a very trying scena magnificently. But why does he pronounce "excellent" as "exceelent?" Perhaps he has ascertained on undeniable authority that this is the way Boaz would have pronounced it. À propos of this eminent tenor, on one occasion, not this, there was very nearly being a duel about his identity. An Irish gentleman, turning to his friend, informed him, "That's Sims Reeves," whereupon his better informed companion returned, "He! Lloyd!" which, but for a toimely explanation, begorra, would have led to a challenge!

To resume. The "Dance of Reapers and Gleaners" must have sounded rather out of place in Worcester Cathedral, where Ruth was first produced. In the Chorus of the Reapers and Gleaners, who were not in the least out of breath with their dance—but perhaps these had only been delighted spectators—full justice was done to the finest number in the Oratorio—at least, so it appeared to the humble individual who had the honour of representing you on this occasion. Then in the duet,

Lloyd and Albani

As Boaz and Ruth,

Were perfect, no blarney,

I'm telling the truth.

The applause was enthusiastic: indeed, not only in this instance, but throughout the performance, these two sang magnificently. Boaz must have been a very kind man; at all events, as Boaz and Ruth are invariably heard of together, it is clear that he could never be accused of being Ruthless.

Now, just one question: the Book of Words with musical phrases, is sold in the room, and on the title-page we read that "the words are selected,"—most judiciously too—by Mr. Joseph Bennett, and "the Book of Words" is fitted "with analytical notes by Joseph Bennett,"—though we should have thought that Mr. Cowen's notes were sufficient by themselves. Then we find the analytical Noter saying at the end of Part I., "The assertion may safely be made, that no poetical situation in dramatic Oratorio, has been treated more successfully than the foregoing." Now, suppose this were a book of a new Opera, would it be right and proper for the librettist who had adapted the subject from Shakspeare, for example, to give his opinion on the work of his collaborateur? Wouldn't this be taking an unfair advantage of his position? It doesn't matter in this case, as I perfectly agree with him, but it is the principle, whatever it may be, for which I contend, and sign myself,

Your Musical Representative, Peter Piper.

Uncle Remus on C. S. P-rn-ll.—"Brer Fox he lay low."

SHOWS VIEWS.

Amongst entertainments of a pleasing character the performances of "Mr. and Mrs. German Reed" hold their own gallantly. At the present moment a little play called Tally Ho is occupying the boards, much to the delight of those serious pleasure-seekers who consider a box at a theatre wicked, but find no particular harm in the stalls of St. George's Hall. Mr. Alfred Reed and Miss Fanny Holland are as amusing as ever, and the music is all that could be desired. The dialogue of the piece, or entertainment, or whatever it is, is not too new. I fancy the author must have seen London Assurance, and listened to Lady Gay Spanker's description of the fox chase. And having seen the piece and heard the speech, possibly read the burlesque thereon by the late Gilbert Abbott à Beckett, in the Scenes from Rejected Comedies, published as long ago as the forties. "How time flies!" as a lady behind me observed, after expressing her opinion that Mr. Corney Grain was better than his pupil—John Parry! "I remember him as far back as a quarter of a century," continued the fair dame, "and didn't you hear him say he was over fifty years old when he sang that song calling himself an old fogey?" Mr. Grain fails to do himself justice when he assumes an elderly air inconsistent with the number of his summers. Such an assumption can but cause pain—to his contemporaries!

On Thursday last The Woman Hater was produced for the first time in London at Mr. Terry's Theatre (on the grounds that familiarity breeds contempt, I prefer to allow the actor to retain his titular prefix), with more or less success. On the whole I condole with our country cousins if they have been allowed to see this strange play very frequently. Personally I would not care to form a part of any audience at Mr. Terry's Theatre during its run, which I am bound to add I am afraid will not be a long one. The construction of the three-act farce (as it is called) is feeble in the extreme, and suggests that the author, from a literary point of view, has a great deal to learn. I do not think (unless his future pieces are very unlike The Woman Hater) that he will have much chance of gaining a permanent position in the Temple of Fame. This is merely a matter of opinion, but, speaking for myself, had I a theatre (which I should call of course Mr. Thingembob's Theatre, or the Theatre Royal Dash Blank, Esq.), I believe I should somehow or other instinctively avoid the works of Mr. David Lloyd for some time to come. That is to say if he confined his pen to farce and comedy. It is quite possible he may be much more at home in tragedy. As a fact, there is a sort of gloomy glamour about The Woman Hater that suggests the reflection that, after all, the play might have been more exciting if a murder had been skilfully introduced into Act I., and it had been written throughout in blank verse. I think the lover, Tom Ripley, might thus have been murdered with or without (for preference, with) his sweetheart. Early in Act II. the character very nicely played by Mr. Kemble might have committed suicide, with one or two others; for choice, others. Act III. might have been allowed (after the necessary alterations had been made to fit it to the requirements of the novel development of the original plot) to stand as it is. In its present form the incidents connected with the spiriting away (after a desperate and revolting fight with the keepers) of the hero to a Lunatic Asylum, are, to say the least, unpleasant. Mr. Bishop, as the psychological specialist (the resident medical superintendent of the licensed house), was excellent. It is a question, however, whether those well-intentioned representatives of the Lord Chancellor, the Commissioners in Lunacy, would have been entirely satisfied with his action in connection with the incarceration of one sane patient in the place of another patient equally free from mental disease. But that is a matter affecting the author rather than the player. Miss M. A. Victor, as a widow lady of great wealth and superior position, was, of course, quite in her element, and gave an admirable sketch of a British matron from Belgravia or Mayfair. Mr. Terry, too, deserves a word of praise for his own droll performances, which caused more than once, on the first night, a burst of hearty laughter. Pleasantry apart, in spite of the acting, good all round, I fear The Woman Hater will soon have to return to the provinces, to make room for something just a little better suited to the London requirements of Mr. Terry and the audiences of Mr. Terry's Theatre.

New Book.—The Green Ways of England. By a Warwickshire Man.

SO VERY LIKELY.

Small Rustic (to Brown, whose Champion North-Caspian Bear-hound has just gobbled up one of Farmer Rackstraw's Prize Rabbits, which had got out of the hutch). "If yer'll gi' me Tuppence, Zur, I'll swear it wos the Rabbit as begun it!"

ON THE WRONG SCENT.

Master of Hounds, loquitur:—

"Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouths like bells.

Each under each." So Shakspeare's Theseus tells

The merits of his tuneful Spartan pack.

Would I could echo it concerning mine!

Tut, tut! They're off again on their own line.

Come back, ye fools, come back!

I envy Theseus! Just the sort of hounds

For a true Tory huntsman; kept in bounds

By discipline none ventures to defy.

With such a pack I should be well content;

But some of mine are keen on a false scent,

And off on a wild cry.

Oh, these young dogs! They think disorder's dash;

Heedless of horn, rebellious to the lash;

Just now, too, when our quarry is so clear!

Oh, hang the howling, yelping, whimpering lot!

On a fine herring-trail the fools have got.

They'll spoil the chase, I fear.

Come back! Come back! What, "Vincent," "Bartlett," ho!

This sort of thing won't pay at all, you know.

We are not, now, after that sort of game.

Ah, sweet Sir Roger, our Spectator's friend.

What would you say to this? Come, let it end.

For shame, ye curs, for shame!

Addison's "good old Knight" was happier far.

In his well-ordered pack the casual jar

Of a raw dog or "noted Liar" met

No recognition; no, "he might have yelped

His heart out," but the row had nothing helped

The hounds astray to set.

Here be "notorious Liars" in full force

(The epithet is technical, of course).

"Torrington," back! Back, "Stanley"! "Ecroyd," back!

Heed "the old hounds of reputation" here.

This shindy must be stopped, or 'twill, I fear,

Demoralise the pack!

THE OLDEST SKETCHING CLUB IN THE WORLD.

At the house of Nat Langham young men were taught how to use their hands skilfully years agone; at the home of the Langham their hands are trained with equal care and discretion, with a different end in view. At the former they were excited, at the latter they are soothed. The spirits of the last are finer, if less ardent, than those of the first. Friday cannot be unlucky, for all their sketches are produced on that proverbially unfortunate day. A subject is given, and in two hours, over pipes and coffee, it is completed. Marvellous these rapid acts of sketchmanship! The Impressionists nowhere! The result? Well, go to the Gallery, 23, Baker Street. Look at the collection of pictures—on the two hours' system—by Messrs. Stacey Marks, Calderon, Fred Walker, Hodgson, Cattermole, B. W. Leader, Charles Keene, E. Hayes, H. Moore, Vicat Cole, Frank Dicksee, E. Duncan, C. J. Lewis, F. Weekes, Carl Haag, and other clever gentlemen, and see if Mr. Punch is not right in his commendation. The Langham Sketching Club has existed over half a century, and this is its first public exhibition. Ah! well, it is never too late to mend.

The Winter's Tale at the Lyceum.

There's a charm in her innocent glances,