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PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOLUME 93
SEPTEMBER 24, 1887.
RECORD OF THE SESSION—422.
Akers-Douglas }
Colonel Walrond } Dead Heat.
Baron Henry De Worms }
SALUBRITIES ABROAD.
Royat Improved.—I have said Royat ought to be rebuilt. The Grand Hotel is of a sort of Doll's House order of architecture, splendid front, no depth to speak of, and built on so steep an ascent that it is hoisted up at the back like a lady's skirt by a dress-improver. Beau site all the same, and magnificent view.
Last year the Hotel Continental formed part of a group of hotels—which seemed to have been the result of some violent volcanic eruption, when the mountain threw up several hotels, and left them there anyhow—is at present separated from the Splendide and its other former companions by an impromptu wall, and from all its front windows it commands varied, beautiful, and, on the Clermont-Ferrand side, extensive views. It has a pleasant garden, a most enjoyable terrace, and it only wants to be in the hands of a firmly fixed and intelligent management to make it quite the best hotel in Royat. "Personally recommended," that is, as managed under the direction of M. Hall this year.
The service at the Etablissement de Bains is about as good as it can be. There are, however, no bains de luxe. A few of these would attract those "whom" as the appeals to the charitable used to have it, "Providence has blessed with affluence."
"La Compagnie Brocard," which manages Royat's bathing arrangements and undertakes a portion of the mild yet (to my mind as a serious bather) sufficient amusements, is not, unfortunately for the public, in accord with M. Samie, the spirited Proprietor of an opposition Casino, where there is a small theatre, in its way a perfect gem. Here all the "Stars" of any magnitude make their appearance on visiting Royat. As a "Baigneur de Royat" puts it, in a local journal, the Compagnie Brocard cannot consider their stuffy little room ("le petit étouffoir") where theatrical performances are given as a real theatre. It is a pity that M. Samie and La Compagnie Brocard cannot, like the "birds in their little nests," agree. But as to Theatres and spectacles, my rule at Royat, or at any other Water-cure place, would be this:—
"Any baigneur found out of his hotel or lodgings after 10'15, p.m., shall be arrested, conducted back to his hotel, his number taken, and for the second offence he shall be fined. The fine to go to such objects as the Direction shall determine."
In short there should be introduced here the English University system of Proctors and bull-dogs.
Another Rule.—No theatrical entertainment should last more than two hours with entr'actes of seven minutes each. The ventilation of the salle de spectacle should be assured.
If a company wanted to play a piece in four Acts, they must stop here two days; and, if they couldn't do that, then they must begin their performance in the afternoon, have one entr'acte of an hour and a half to allow for dinner, and recommence at eight o'clock. I would discourage all evening indoor entertainments. Music, coffee, petits chevaux, M. Guignol's show, ombres chinoises, everything in fact that can be done al fresco—(and why not good plays al fresco? After the Laboucherian Midsummer Night's Dream, at Twickenham, which I am told was perfection)—cafés chantants, and so forth, including the "consommation devoutly to be wished," and all the lights out by 9.30. Lights in bedrooms to be extinguished same hour. This rule would mean, Early to bed, and early to rise, and the "baigneurs" would receive double the benefit they derive from these places, as now constituted. Life in the open air should be the rule; plenty of exercise, riding and walking, and regular hours for everything for three weeks. The baigneurs to choose their own hours, and be kept to them strictly.
But I have personally no sympathy with the baigneurs who find such a water-cure place as Royat dull. What do they want? If they cannot get on without a sort of continuation of the London Season, let them stay away altogether. Don't let them come and make night hideous with balls, suppers, dances, and won't-go-home-till-morning parties.
The above are my suggestions for the improvement of Royat; and now I go on to La Bourboule, and Mont Dore. By the way, the waters at these places are all supplied, as I am credibly informed, from the same source; but the waters flowing towards La Bourboule and Mont Dore traverse certain couches on their way, and come out arsenical. It is strong drinking at La Bourboule and Mont Dore.
One Joanne Guide introduces you to another Joanne Guide, or a history, you can't help yourself. The Joanne Guides are so united a family, that as soon as any member of it establishes itself on a friendly footing with you, your hand is always in your pocket while you are travelling on that Guide Joanne's account. An insidious tribe: and they make themselves absolutely essential to the traveller's existence and comfort.
Each Guide Joanne tells you about his own country all that is requisite for you to know, and just so much more as inspires you with a thirst for further information. Say for example you see an old Château. Let us say Le Château de Jean. You want to know everything about it. Good. You inquire of the Guide Joanne which professes to show you all over France, and which does it, mind you, in what would be an exhaustive style if it was not written with such an evident eye to the bookselling business. For example suppose you are looking for information about the well-known ancient Château de Jean, here is a specimen of what Joanne would say on the subject:—
"Sur la rive g. (V. ci-dessous B.) restes d'un château, style ogival, (mon. hist.,) bâti par le célèbre Jean Bienconnu-aux-enfants (V. mon. hist, xe et xiie s.), beau portail, jolis détails d'architecture (mon. hist.) et en particulier l'appartement dit de la Donzelle toute désespéré (pour le visiter, s'addresser au gardien, pourboire), qui a conservé une grande partie de sa décoration originale et de sa peinture (mon. hist. xie). Le donjon renfermait une oubliette profonde nommée DU RAT DÉVORANT, qui autrefois servait de grenier au malt (V. mon. hist.). Ascension des Obélisques sur la terrasse (splendide panorama) et belles promenades autour de la petite chapelle dite DU PRÊTRE CHAUVE. (V. vi. L'Itinéraire du Pays-de-Bonnes, Guide Diamant.)"
AN END OF THE SUMMER.
Jupiter Pluvius,
Sluicer, full-spout,
Downpour diluvious,
Pumped on the Drought.
Checked, aloud crying,
The voice of the Swain;
The rootcrops be dying,
From long lack of rain!
Pluvius poured away,
While the wind blew;
Tonans, he roared away,
Hullaballoo,
Kicking up, dweller
In quarters on high,
He, Cloud Compeller;
The Czar of the sky.
Clouds, in convulsion,
Or calm, he keeps under;
Rules, by compulsion:
The reason of thunder.
So did he lately
Compel them to rise,
Piled up in stately
Array on the skies.
Castles aërial,
Splendid when falls,
Sheen on etherial
Vapoury halls,
Battlements, bartizans,
Phantoms of towers,
Fenced round with partisans;
Cloud-cauliflowers.
Mountainous forms
In the realms of felicity,
By Jove, to move storms,
Fraught with force—electricity,
They serve to betoken
What mortals may tell;
The weather is broken:
Summer, farewell!
Light from Wind.
The Times says that experiments are being made at Cap de la Hève, near the mouth of the Seine, on the production of electricity for lighthouse purposes by means of the force obtained by windmills. Light from wind! Could the notion be applied at St. Stephen's? The Session just over has been mainly wind, so exceptionally "ill wind," that it has blown no good to anybody, and most certainly has thrown no "light" on anything. By all means let M. De L'Angle-Beaumanoir be empowered to experiment on the windbags of the House of Commons when they next meet.
QUITE ENGLISH.
(New Version, as Sung by the Comte de Paris.)
Here I come in complete Constitutional coat
(That's English, you know; quite English, you know):
The type of true Monarchy based on the Vote.
(That's English, you know; quite English, you know.)
To have a legitimate King on the throne,
To make all the Country's best interests his own,
Great, grand, patriotic, but not overgrown
(That's English, you know; quite English, you know).
Chorus.
Oh, the things that you see and the things that you hear
Are English, you know; quite English, you know.
My mind, like my last Manifesto, 'tis clear,
Is English, quite English, you know!
Just now a great calm meets the national eyes
(That's English, you know; quite English, you know):
But imminent perils it cannot disguise
(That's English, you know; quite English, you know).
We have deserved well of Conservative France;
A Monarchy only her bliss can enhance;
And now of its nature I'll give you a glance
(That's English, you know; quite English, you know).
Chorus.
The things will much please which you're going to hear
(They're English, you know; quite English, you know).
Legality banished must soon reappear
(That's English, quite English you know).
What one Congress does can't another undo?
(That's English, you know; quite English, you know.)
The Eternal Republic has gone all askew
(Not English, you know; not English you know).
'Twill presently get quite incurably queer,
And then will the Monarchy promptly appear.
I fancy myself that the moment is near.
(That's English, you know; quite English, you know.)
Chorus.
Mark the things which you see and the things which you hear
(That's English, you know; quite English, you know).
There's nothing that's solid or stable, I fear
(That's English, quite English, you know).
Direct, universal, free suffrage, my friends,
(That's English, you know; quite English, you know,)
Will vote—well for Me, and all trouble then ends
(That's English, you know; quite English, you know).
The King, with the Chamber's concurrence, will rule.
The Deputies then can no more play the fool,—
Clemenceau, Boulanger, and men of that school
(That's English, you know; quite English, you know).
Chorus.
Heed the things which you see and the things you now hear
(That's English, you know; quite English, you know).
Economy, Order, and Justice sans fear!
(They're English; quite English, you know!)
The Soldier and Citizen then will agree,
(That's English, you know; quite English, you know,)
The Press and the Priesthood alike will be free
(That's English, you know; quite English, you know).
Then will France to her ancient pre-eminence rise;
The German will watch her with reverent eyes;
All the Powers rush forward to be her allies
(That's French, you know; very French, you know).
Chorus.
These things you shall see which you now only hear
(That's certain you know; quite certain, you know):
If only you'll let my new System appear.
(That's English; quite English, you know!)
Constitutional principles, these, my good friend!
(They're English, you know; quite English, you know)—
They Conservative needs and Equality blend,
(That's English, you know; quite English, you know).
Do at my new Royal rig-out take a glance!
In this to the front I shall proudly advance,
As the true King of all, and first Servant of France,
(But English, you know; quite English, you know).
Chorus.
The things which I say it is time you should hear
(They're English, you know; quite English, you know).
The principles these to make France without peer
(Though they're English; quite English, you know)!
THE STATE OF THE GAME.
Lady Customer. "How much are Grouse to-day, Mr. Jiblets?"
Poulterer. "Twelve Shillings a Brace, Ma'am. Shall I send them——"
Lady Customer. "No, you need not send them. My Husband's out Grouse-shooting, and he'll call for them as he comes Home!!"
Aphorism.
(By a Snubbed Poet.)
"A Thing of Beauty is a joy for ever;"
Except a pretty girl, who thinks she's clever.
Nomenclature.—Somebody calls the "Thunderer's" daily fulmination against Mr. Gladstone an ignis fatuus, or foolish fire of Party journalism. Would not "Whip poor Will" be a more suitable title?
Mem. from Derbyshire.—The real "Lovers' Leap"—Marriage.
ALL IN PLAY.
My Dear Mr. Punch,
I have seen The Barrister at the Comedy, and want to see him again, because he is a most amusing gentleman and figures in a case full of good things. There are two authors—as there should be—a Leader and his Junior. Mr. George Manville Fenn (a very excellent novelist) is the "silk," and he has for his junior Mr. Darnley. This latter gentleman be it understood, represents only the best kind of "stuff," for the play is good throughout. It is in three Acts, and there is not a dull moment from commencement to finish. I do not feel equal to describing the plot, which is bustling and clever, nor to jotting down the jests which are funny and novel, nor to criticising the acting, which is all that it should be.
My time was fully employed on the first night, in laughing, an occupation shared by the entire audience. The play was never in danger. There was not a weak spot. No, not even the space covered by Mr. Darnley's moustache. It may be said that an earnest Barrister should be clean shaven, but the remark would only emanate from those who are bachelors. The married advocate has not only to consider his Judge and Jury, but also his wife, and nine times out of ten she combines in her own person the judicial functions with the power of the executive. Where all are good it seems invidious to particularise, but had I to call witnesses for the defence, I think I should choose Miss Susie Vaughan, and Messrs. Mervin, Caffrey and Prince Miller. Another great merit of The Barrister is that he is closely associated with the word "brief." He makes his appearance every evening at nine and has retired for the night before eleven. I fancy, that unlike many other "gentlemen of the long robe," he will have plenty of work to do during the Long Vacation and after.
Mr. Beerbohm Tree, who has become lessee of the Haymarket, has commenced his management by producing a one-act romantic play, called The Ballad Monger, a version (capitally adapted by the two Walters—Pollock and Besant) of M. Theodore de Banville's Gringoire. I remember the same piece was "done into English" some twenty years ago at a Gaiety matinée, when the translator, Mr. Alfred Thompson, appeared himself as the principal character, with the probably unlooked-for result of shelving the drama, so far as London was concerned, from that distant date until last Thursday evening. However, the motif of the play is pretty well known. Gringoire, a revolutionary "Poet of the People," with the connivance of Louis the Eleventh of France, is induced to recite an anti-Royalist song in His Majesty's presence, and is then promised his forfeited life by the same amiable sovereign if he can woo, and win, a maiden who has never set eyes on him before, within a quarter of an hour. In the scene at the Haymarket a table is discovered spread with a meal (I could not quite make out from the text whether it was intended to represent breakfast, dinner, supper, or tea), including some wine, a few grapes, and a freshly-cooked goose redolent of savoury perfumes. Mr. Beerbohm Tree is the poet, and were his method of performance only equal to his power of imagination, he would be very good indeed.
Unhappily his excellent ideas are not carried fully into action, and consequently, after seeing him for forty minutes, or thereabouts, sniffing at a property goose, staggering about the stage with a wine-cup, and declaiming poetry of unequal merit to Miss Marion Terry, one feels that the piece could only have "a happy ending" were Gringoire to be carried away for immediate execution. It is a little unfortunate, too, that the maiden to be wooed and won should be the charming actress I have just mentioned. Miss Marion Terry, in a "piece of absurdity" called Engaged, made a great hit some years ago by appearing as a young lady with a chronic appetite for food, that she was for ever seeking to satisfy. Since then I have always looked upon her as one craving for her meals. Consequently when I found her within easy reach of a goose and in an atmosphere of herbs of a savoury character, it seemed unnatural to me that she should deliberately turn her back upon all these good things to listen to Mr. Tree's poetically (but lengthily) expressed views upon liberty. I could but wonder why her choice had not fallen upon the goose on the table. Mr. Brookfield as Louis the Eleventh, incidentally suggests that that wily monarch was guilty of a crime with which he has not hitherto been credited—a proneness to give imitations of Mr. Irving in the character of Mephistopheles. For the rest, the piece itself is most interesting, is capitally staged, and in the subordinate characters, fairly acted. In the Red Lamp, which followed the Ballad Monger, Mrs. Tree appeared as Princess Claudia, the part originally played, and excellently played, by Lady Monckton. Although probably accustomed to rôles of a lighter kind, she was fairly equal to the occasion. As for her husband, as Demetrius, he was simply admirable and inimitable.
At the Olympic Mr. Willard has made his mark as the Pointsman. Since this clever actor first attracted attention by his wonderfully striking assumption of a "gentleman-burglar," in one of the earlier successes of Mr. Wilson Barrett at the Princess's, he has never had so good a chance of showing what he can do in the polished-scoundrelly line. He is the most accomplished murderer on the modern stage, and really, if one were forced to die a violent death, Mr. Willard seems to be the individual one would naturally select to perform the necessary, but unpleasant, operation. It does not in the least matter to an Olympic audience how he comes to be the proprietor of a low Thames-side tavern when he seems better qualified to lead a cotillon in quite a fashionable West-End Square. All that is required of him by the Pit and Gallery, ay, and the Private Boxes and Stalls—is to do his little assassinations and kindred villanies in an educated and refined manner that can be appreciated by those who have benefited either from the good offices of the School Board or the careful tuition of the leading Universities. Mr. Willard is so good that no one pays particular attention to the efforts to please of his fellow-actors and actresses.
The scenery of the Pointsman is sufficiently ingenious to satisfy the cravings for sensation of a typical British audience. The Railway collision worked as a sort of transformation scene,—the interior of a signal-box changes into the site of a fatal accident—creates much enthusiasm, but the winsome if vindictive Willard still remains the centre of attraction. In the last Act a good deal of gunpowder is burned advantageously to the simplification of the issue. It is scarcely necessary to say that, when the Curtain falls, what remains of Virtue is triumphant, and all that is left of Vice is on the road to justly merited punishment. The Pointsman is likely to remain on the line of the Olympic bills for many a week to come. I should not be surprised to find him still there at Christmas.
Exhausted with the labour of looking in at all the principal London Theatres,
I have the honour to remain, my dear Mr. Punch,
One who has Gone to Pieces.
A BARR DRINK.
Hooray for the Thistle! Scotch yacht without peer;
May she win in her race with the smart Volunteer.
Punch hopes, Captain Barr, that no "slip" may turn up
'Twixt your lip and the yearned-for American Cup.
On both sides the Border we wish you success,
And we trust of the race you'll not make a Barr mess.
Your health in a cocktail, although you're afar,
And we can't call you—yet—an American Barr!
INDEPENDENCE.
"I'm afraid you've fallen down and hurt yourself, my little Man!"
"Well, and if I 'ave, it ain't none o' your Business!"
A REGULAR CELL.
Sir,—I am writing in the name of all the righteously indignant sons of Erin, to protest against the base shameless and infamous treatment accorded to that glorious champion and apostle of National freedom, the hero, William O'Brien, by the despicable set of traitors, who, under cover of the title of "Her Majesty's Government," are trampling, at Westminster, the liberties of my beloved country in the mud and preparing to fling her sons by thousands into the depths of the foul and filthy dungeons already marked out for their reception. It is reported that this, the first victim of their malignant spleen and hatred, is to be subjected to the gross indignity of receiving the ordinary treatment of a common criminal, and be subjected to the usual regulations of gaol discipline. Now, Sir, in the name of all that is enlightened and progressive, I ask, if, at the close of the nineteenth century, such outrage is to be committed? Surely in answer to my appeal the generous people of England will rise in their might and with one voice compel the myrmidons appointed to carry out the malignant and iniquitous behests of the Castle to provide the noble spirit that they had intended to torture with chains and darkness with a comfortable and roomy four-post bedstead, cheerful apartments, a champagne dinner with not less than seven courses, daily carriage exercise, the use of a piano and billiard-table if required, and an introduction to the best society of the neighbourhood, including the Bishop, the Mayor and other notables. Thus, and thus only, should Irish martyrs be allowed to suffer for Ireland's wrongs, and in this way alone will the Irish people in their thousands consent even to the momentary incarceration of the heralds of that mighty struggle with a tyrannic despotism that they are heroically maintaining, backed by the hearty and enthusiastic support of an onlooking and applauding Universe, against the blind and blustering bullying of a blood-thirsty Government. If I write with moderation and temperately it is because I feel confidently that the trivial relaxations I propose must, if not at once conceded by, be forthwith instantly wrung from the thieves and scoundrels who at the present moment are responsible for the Executive of my patient and law-abiding country. Relying on the generous impulse of all those who would not wish to see the patriot deprived of his home comforts, I beg, Sir, with much self-restraint, to subscribe myself,
Your calm and dispassionate Correspondent,
Emancipator Hibernicus.
Sir,—What's all this fuss about pushing this fellow O'Brien into a cell, nine feet by six? By all means push him in, or into one six feet by six, for anything I care. If he can't breathe the fresh air he wants inside, what of that? Serve him right. He has been egging on the dupes and fools who have listened to him to commit acts that, if the Executive were a trifle stronger, would soon crowd every gaol in the country to the roof, and now he has got a taste of the same medicine himself. I hope he likes it. As to his talking of "suffering in his health," who, I should like to know, supposes he goes to prison to improve it. Again, I say, "Serve him right!" and if he is let out some eighteen months hence well broken down, perhaps the experience will teach him to hold his tongue in future, and not go posturing on a platform with his political claptrap, for the purpose of interfering with the vested interests and inalienable rights of
Yours, rabidly,
An Irish Tory Landlord.
Sir,—That political prisoners should not be regarded precisely in the same light as common criminals, public opinion, by a very generally accepted consent, readily admits. Yet Mr. W. O'Brien can hardly expect to find residence in a Government gaol in all respects as comfortable as that supplied to him in his own chambers. Still he may probably reasonably expect no harsh, certainly no vindictive treatment, at the hands of the Authorities, but merely that constraint and subjection to ordinary discipline which his detention necessarily involves. As, after the issue of the warrant for his arrest, he was allowed virtually to choose his own time for its service, ride on an open car with a Mayor, preceded by a brass band, playing a solemn march, take up his residence at an hotel, and subsequently address a crowd from the balcony, the Executive cannot be said to have been very hard on him, at least in their preliminary treatment, and probably they will follow it up somewhat in the same lines, and, without making his incarceration a farce, allow it to be softened with such relaxations that, while not incompatible with the surrender of his liberty, may yet be found consistent with a due regard to the requirements of his health, and the circumstances which have led to his rather injudiciously placing it in jeopardy. Such, at least, Sir, is the view of the situation taken by
Your devoted and constant Correspondent,
Common Sense.
SEA-SIDE WEATHER STUDIES. "THE SEVENTH WAVE."
WHAT WAS IT?
I had been reading a lot of "Letters to the Times." That may account for any little confusion in the details of the subsequent events.
My interlocutor was tall and thin, and looming up lanky against a dusky sky, reminded me equally of an attenuated M.P., a phantom telegraph-pole, and Peter Schlemil, the Shadowless Man.
"Tyndall is quite right," murmured he.
"Glad to hear it," said I, earnestly. "I had been thinking lately that the distinguished savant was going decidedly wrong."
"Ah! he understands me!" sighed the Spectre.
It was more than I did; and I said so.
"Who and what are you, anyhow?" I inquired.
The lines of Long-thin-and-hungry seemed to shift and reshape.
"Ah!" came his voice, the same yet not the same, "elevation does not always give coolness, and one may be torrid and tempestuous even among the Alps."
Somehow this statement, though a truism, did not seem to fit on to previous remarks.
"I was once said to be 'Up in a balloon,'" continued Proteus (now looking rather like the Ancient Mariner,) "long and lean and brown, but letters written to the Times even from the utmost height lately attained by the French Aëronauts—to say nothing of the top of the tallest Lightning Conductor—would, I fear, be hot and ill-balanced. Look at Mr. H. O. Arnold-Foster!"
"Perhaps—in a sense—we are Lightning Conductors, you know," pursued my companion.
"As how?" I asked vaguely.
"Well we attract, and carry off harmlessly—it doesn't hurt us you see—the accumulated political electricity, which otherwise might rend and rive the State about which these Angry Amateurs are so passionately anxious."
I felt more mystified than ever.
"Tyndall, Grimthorpe, and Symons, F.R.S., are entirely right," continued old Length-without-breadth; "A Lightning Conductor which does not conduct lightning, like a Leader who cannot lead, or a Follower who will not follow, is worse than a nullity, it is a nuisance and a danger."
"Quite so," I rejoined, grasping eagerly at something which seemed definite and comparatively relevant.
"Lightning Conductors are, in their way, as essential as Law and Order. But as Tyndall says, in one case, and as I should say in the latter, all depends upon quality, efficiency, accurate adaptation to ends. Would you say, Oh! never mind about their quality or fitness, the first duty of the Executive is to maintain its Lightning Conductors?"
I replied that it really had not occurred to me to make any such statement, but I dared say I should.
"The Times said of the 'Report of the Lightning Rod Conference,' 'The book is one of the highest practical value, and all who are responsible for the preservation of public buildings should endeavour to render themselves familiar with the contents.' How true! That's my find old temperate 'Thunderer.'"
"Who are you who are so down upon Tyndall?" I asked.
"I down on the learned Professor?" retorted my companion, shifting, dislimning, and elongating singularly. "On the contrary, I am grateful to him for being 'down upon' the incompetent architects and careless surveyors who would make of me a pitiful sham. Only" (here another phantasmagorical shift) "when he angrily declares a certain prominent political personage, who shall be nameless, to be also 'a pitiful sham,' why, then I think, like so many other and unscientific 'writers to the papers,' he needs the Conductor of cool Common Sense to divert, carry off, and disperse his too furious fulminations."
"Then you are only a Lightning Conductor, after all?" I queried, with some sense of being disappointed, not to say "sold."
"Only!" retorted my spectral and shifting visitant, again shifting spectrally. "Why, I'm thinking of writing, for the Nineteenth Century, an article on 'Political Lightning Conductors,' which, I rather flatter myself, will comprehend everything, convince everybody, and conciliate even Professor Tyndall. If you like I will read, from the advance-sheets, a few passages which——"
But here I roused myself to determined resistance, and—awoke.
On the Wing.
In getting fair hold of the Coburg, Prince Ferdinand,
Bulgaria palpably thought she'd a "bird in hand,"
But the Prince and the Bulgars, when put to the push,
Will probably wish the "bird" back in the bush.
"OVERLOOKED!"
Field-Marshal Punch (to H.R.H.). "REALLY, YOUR ROYAL HIGHNESS, IN THE PRESENT STATE OF OUR DEFENCES, IS SIR EDWARD HAMLEY QUITE THE SORT OF MAN TO BE SHELVED?"
[Sir Edward Hamley served in the Eastern Campaign of 1854-55, including the affairs of Bulganac and McKenzie's Farm, the Battles of the Alma (horse shot), Balaklava, and Inkerman (horse killed), the Siege and Fall of Sebastopol, and repulse of the Sortie on the 26th October, 1854 (mentioned in Despatches, Medal with four clasps, Brevets of Major and Lt.-Colonel, Knight of the Legion of Honor, Sardinian and Turkish Medals, and 2nd Class of the Medjidie and C.B.). Sir Edward Hamley is the Author of The Operations of War, a work that may confidently be characterised as one of the most valuable modern Military books extant—"There exists nothing to compare with it in the English language for enlightened, scientific, and sober teaching in the general art of war"—vide the Times of 1st November, 1869. Served in the Egyptian War of 1882, in command of the 2nd Division, and was present at the Battle of Tel-el-Kebir, where he led the Division (received the thanks of both Houses of Parliament, twice mentioned in Despatches, K.C.B., Medal with clasp, 2nd Class of the Osmanieh, and Khedive'sStar).—Hart's Army List, July 1, 1887.]
MR. PUNCH'S MANUAL FOR YOUNG RECITERS.
The young Reciter is seldom happy in his delivery of blank verse. To which the unsympathetic may retort, that he does not deserve to be. Mr. Punch, however, recommends his pupils to treat such sneers with the contempt they merit, and to study the little dramatic exercise which has just been thrown off by a Blank Verse Bard who is kept on the premises. It can be announced on programmes as
Vengeance Foregone!
(You should have an ordinary wooden elbow-chair and a print wrapper within easy reach. Come on crouching, with an air of tigerish anticipation.)
'Tis he! Can I mistake the clustered curls
Upon his hated hyacinthine head?
Have they not wiled from me the fickle heart
Of perjured Bandolina! There, he stands
Before my window, where a winsome form,
Rotating slow with measured self-display,
Has caught his errant eye. Now, demi-siren,
[Hands extended in passionate invocation.
Make languorous those lustrous crystal orbs!
Wreathe, waxen arms, and lure him in, to me!
So—once again!—he falters—he is Mine!
[Savage exultation, with eyebrows.
Let me be calm.
(Self-restraint, indicated by violent heaving of shirt-front.)
Good morning, Sir, to you.
I pray you—
(with a forced sickly smile)
—step within, and seat yourself.
I will attend you in a moment.
(Hold open imaginary door; then resume soliloquy in fierce undertone.)
... Trapped!
He knows me not.
(With dark suspicion, which is easily conveyed by half closing eyes and pressing knuckle of bent forefinger against lower lip.)
Unless I be deceived,
No hazard freak of hooded Fortune's urn,
[A nasty line for the "h"-less.)
But Bandolina's dainty insolence
Decreed this visit ... Ha! my victim calls!
I come anon. Sir
(fawningly, with a side-glance of withering hate at your chair)
.
Patience, peevish worm!
Are you in such a hurry, then, to writhe?
[Fierce aside. (Here you draw the chair forward, and, placing yourself behind it, speak the following lines with easy fluency, accompanied by such pantomime as may suggest itself to you.)
I crave your pardon for my tardiness,—
Allow me to dispose these lendings—thus:
[Here you shake out the wrapper.
This band above the elbows—tighter—so.
I do assure you, Sir, this is no gag—
'Tis but a poor contrivance of mine own
To guard the mouth against th' encroaching sud.
Refreshing, Sir, indeed, this change of weather!
But one more knot.... and now
(here you stride to a position in front of the chair, which you survey with folded arms, and a mocking smile)
—my feigning's done!
Writhe as you will, I have you at my mercy.
Baldwin McAssir, have we met at last?
[In a terrible voice.
You know me not?—then quail, for I am he
By you bereft of Bandolina's love!
Fear not that I would stoop to seek your life—
My vengeance shall be sated on your hair,
And that is doomed to perish past recall!
Cast up your eyes to yonder whirling wheel:
[Point to ceiling with air of command.
Then on this brush—'tis set with bristling wires
(Some frivoller termed it my Cheveux de Frizz),
Which, with revolving teeth, shall shortly rake
Those curls by Bandolina oft caressed,