PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOLUME 98.

January 25, 1890.

UNTILED; OR, THE MODERN ASMODEUS.

"Très volontiers," repartit le démon. "Vous aimez les tableaux changeans: je veux vous contenter."

Le Diable Boiteux.

XVII.

"'The Humours of the Town!' Archaic phrase,

Breathing of Brummel and the dandy days

Of curly hats and gaiters!

'Humours' seem rarer now, at least by night,

In this strange world of gilt and garish light,

And bibulous wits and waiters."

So I. The Shadow smiled. "There's food for mirth

In every nook of the sun-circling earth

That human foot hath trodden.

Man, the great mime, must move the Momus vein,

Whether he follow fashion or the wain,

In ermine or in hodden.

"A City of Strange Meetings! Motives strong

Why men in well-dressed multitudes should throng,

Abundant are and various.

Strongest, perhaps, the vague desire to meet;

No animal as Man so quick to greet,

So aimlessly gregarious.

"In Council, Caucus, Causerie, there's an aim

Which many know and some might even name;

But see yon motley muster,

Like shades in Eblis wandering up and down!

Types there of every 'Show Class' in the Town

Elbow and glide and cluster."

I see long rooms, en suite, with lofty walls,

And portières sombre as Egyptian palls;

I hear the ceaseless scuffle

Of many trim-shod feet; the thin sweet sound

Of stricken strings which faintly echoes round

Those draperied vistas muffle.

Susurrus of a hundred voices blent

In the bland buzz of cultured chat; intent

Set faces mutely watching

From cushioned corner or from curtained nook;

Hands that about old ears attentive crook,

The latest scandal catching.

Cold rock-hewn countenances, shaven clean,

Hard lips, and eyes alert with strength and spleen;

Visages vain and vapid,

All wreathed with the conventional bland smile

That covers weary scorn or watchful guile,

Shift here in sequence rapid.

"Why is this well-dressed mob thus mustered here?"

I asked my guide. "On every face a sneer

"Curls—when it is not smirking.

Scorn of each other seems the one sole thing

In which they sympathise, the asp whose sting

Midst flowery talk is lurking."

"Friend, mutual mockery, masked as mutual praise,

Is a great social bond in these strange days.

Rochefoucauld here might gather

Material for new maxims keen and cold.

They meet, these convives, if the truth be told,

For boredom and bland blather.

"Royston's Reception,—ah! yes; beastly bore!

But must drop in for half an hour, no more.

The usual cram,—one knows it.

Big pudding with a few peculiar "plums."

Everyone kicks, but everybody comes.

Don't quite know how he does it!'

"So Snaggs, the slangy cynic. See him there

With pouching shirt-front and disordered hair,

Talking to Cramp the sturdy,

Irreverent R. A. And he,—that's Joyce,

The shaggy swart Silenus, with a voice

Much like a hurdy-gurdy.

"You see him everywhere, though none knows why;

Every hand meets his grip, though every eye

Furtively hints abhorrence.

Society's a gridiron; fools to please,

Wise men must sometimes lie as ill at ease

As might a new St. Lawrence."

A buzz, a bustle! How the crowd makes way,

And parts in lines as on some pageant day!

'Tis the Great Man, none other,

"Bland, beaming, bowing quick to left and right;

One hour he'll deign to give from his brief night

To flattery, fuss and pother.

"Though the whole mob does homage, more than half

Behind their hands indulge in sorrel chaff,

And venomous invective.

And he, the hard-faced Cleon with his ring

Of minor satellites? Could glances sting

His were not ineffective!

"Crouched in yon corner, huddled chin to knees,

Like some old lion sore and ill at ease

Left foodless in the jungle,

Sits Grumper, growling oaths beneath his breath

At Cleon, who—to him—sums party-death

And diplomatic bungle.

"'Beshrew him for a——!'" "Grumper's speech is strong;

Flanders and screeds of old satiric song

Blend in his vigorous diction.

Around, in lounging groups or knots apart,

Are lesser lights of thought, small stars of art,

And petty chiefs of fiction.

"Hosts of the nameless, fameless, 'Small Unknown';

Men who can form a 'corner', float a loan,

Wire-pull a local Caucus,

But cannot paint poor pictures, write bad plays,

Or on a platform wildly flame or praise

In rolling tones or raucous.

"These lounge and hover, sip champagne and whiff

Mild cigarettes; these too, in secret sniff

At 'the whole queer caboodle.'

Why do they meet? How shall I say, good friend?

Modern symposiasts seem a curious blend

Of porcupine and poodle.

"'In these Saturnian days Amphitryon spreads

His meshes wide, and counts not brains but heads.

The Tadpoles and the Tapers

Are scorned by the few Titans; true; but aims

Differ; to some 'tis much to see their names

Strung in the morning papers.

"So Private Views are popular, and men

Meet just to prompt the social scribe's smart pen.

Taste too austerely winnows

Town's superflux of chaff from its scant wheat:

Our host prefers to mix, in his Great Meet,

The Tritons and the minnows!"

"With mutual scorn!" I cried. "Has Fashion power

Thus to unhumanise the 'Social Hour,'

Theme of old poets' vaunting?

Gregarious spites and egotisms harsh!—

Foregathering of frog-swarms in a marsh

Yields music as enchanting."

(To be continued.)

HOLIDAY CATECHISM.

Mr. Punch. Well, Master Jack Horner, where have you been this time?

Master J. H. Polly and I visited Madame Tussaud's,—they have got Mr. Sala there, looking so amiable! We were pleased to see him! And Polly afterwards would take me into the Chamber of Horrors! But I paid her out by getting her to try a boat on "Ye Ocean Wave," as they call it, at Hengler's!

Mr. P. Done anything else?

Master J. H. To be sure. Looked in at "Niagara," where they have got a Forest of Christmas trees. Capital! Popped into "Waterloo," opposite. Smashed skull in a trophy of arms amongst the relics—lovely! The picture, too, not half bad. Then improved our minds at the Tudor Exhibition.

Mr. P. And where else have you been?

Master J. H. To the Crystal Palace, where they have got Cinderella this year. It's first-rate!

"Vanity Un-Fair."—A week ago a caricature of one of the most popular and pleasant-looking of officials—a scholar and a gentleman—Mr. Edward Pigott—the Examiner of Plays, was published in Vanity Fair. Unrecognisable as a portrait, the picture was painfully hideous. Why it should have been allowed to appear is a mystery, as Mr. Pigott is a man that either is, or should be, without an enemy. There is only one thing to be done—our contemporary (following a recent precedent preserved in its own columns) should publish an apology.

"Speed the Parting."—The last four weeks of Barnum at Olympia are announced. If this is a fact, won't there arise a chorus of general jubilation from Theatrical Managers? Rather!

"Ana."—Obiter dicta anent the Parnell Commission will be published in one supplementary volume, entitled, Osheana.

GRADUAL TRANSFORMATION SCENE.--FLIGHT OF THE DEMON INFLUENZA AT THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

THE DITTY OF THE DAGGER.

[A writer on Fashion says, "The latest fad is the wearing of large daggers in the hair, which renders a lady quite dangerous to her neighbours.">[

Ethelinda hath a dagger; Irving gave it; calmly there,

As the fashion is, she sticks it in her coronal of hair.

It looks very like the dagger 'bout which Macbeth told such fibs,

That cold steel which tickled Duncan underneath his royal ribs.

Whomsoever she approaches, that three-cornered dagger prods,

And a hecatomb of corpses follows when her head she nods.

Kate and Margaret were wounded as if they'd been to the wars,

Hilda too and Olga owe her very aggravating scars.

Ben and Ted have both been prodded, and unhappy Lionello,

Looks as if he'd been engaging in a terrible duello.

If the fashion thus continues of stilettos worn like this,

Men must case their heads in helmets, or ne'er go near girls, I wis.

Nathless, were I Ethelinda's mother, I would say, "Beware!

If you must keep such a dagger, leave it upstairs—with your hair."

Ethelinda fiercely would repel the base insinuation,

But the hint might save her neighbours any further laceration.

SET DOWN FOR TRIAL.

Dear Mr. Punch,

During the Winter Vacation, now at an end, I have been visiting some of the theatres with a view to educating my eldest son. Hearing that in A Man's Shadow at the Haymarket there was a representation of "the Assize Chamber, Palais de Justice, Paris," I took Northbutt (the name I have given to my boy, in recognition of the kindness that is habitually shown to the Junior Bar by two of the most courteous Judges of modern times) to that temple of the Drama, and was delighted at the dignity and legal acuteness displayed by Mr. Kemble as the President of the Court. On referring to the programme, I found that the part of the Usher was played by Mr. Robb Harwood, and I trust that learned Gentleman (I cannot help feeling that from his Christian name, Mr. Harwood must be connected with the law) will forgive me if I make a few suggestions. It has been my good fortune to be present in a French Court, and I can assure Mr. Robb, that the Usher is an infinitely more important personage than he represents him to be. I am not a dramatist, but I can readily understand that it might interfere with the interest of the play, and perhaps, unduly damage the importance properly attributable to the utterances of the Lessee of the theatre, were Mr. Robb to give increased prominence to his rôle while Mr. Beerbohm Tree is present in the character of Lucien Laroque. But this is unnecessary, as Mr. Kemble about the middle of the sitting very properly adjourns the Court presumably for luncheon. It is then, that the Usher should emerge from his comparative obscurity, and, so to speak, make his mark. I jot down a rough idea of my notion in dramatic form for the consideration of the adapter of the piece, Mr. Robert Buchanan.

Scene—The Assize Chamber (Palais of Justice, Paris). Mr. Kemble has just retired with his colleagues to luncheon. Mr. Beerbohm Tree, as Laroque, has been removed in the custody of an old officer, in a uniform produced by Messrs. Nathan, from a sketch by "Karl." (Vide Programme.) Mr. Fernandez is seen seated beneath the dock. Advocates fraternise with a Young Abbé, who has evidently a taste for sensational murder cases.

Usher (to Crowd). Now then, Gentlemen, although the Court has retired, you must keep order. (A murmur.) What, my authority defied! Gendarmes, do your duty! (The Gendarmes suppress Crowd.) M. l'Abbé, a word with you. (The Abbé approaches Usher respectfully.) I am told by the Nurse of Mademoiselle Suzanne that Madame Laroque is dying. Can you kindly let me see the Doctor who has the case in hand?

M. L'Abbé (glad of something to say). Certainly, Monsieur. The Doctor is one of my intimate friends, and will be proud of an introduction.

[Retires, in search of the Medical Man.

Usher. Thank you! (is given a letter by Mr. Beerbohm Tree, who has reappeared as his own Shadow). Well, Sirrah, what do you want?

Mr. Tree's Shadow (clearing his throat). Urrerrer! Take that to Mr. Fernandez over yonder, and wake him up with it! Urrerrerrer!

[Exit.

Usher. With pleasure; but (smiling) what a quaint noise! (Approaching Mr. Fernandez.) Monsieur, allow me to offer you my snuff-box—it is heartily at your service. (Mr. Fernandez accepts the courtesy with effusion.) And now, my old friend, take this packet, which I fancy is from your wife. I hope Madame is well? (Mr. Fernandez smilingly bows and eats a sandwich.) I am delighted to hear it. (Sternly to Mr. Tree, who has entered in another disguise.) Well, Monsieur, and what do you want with me?

Mr. Tree in another disguise (seizing the opportunity of showing his well-known versatility). I am the Doctor who is attending Madame Laroque! She is very ill! Believe me, Usher—— (Makes a pathetic speech in a new voice with appropriate gesticulation, finishing with these words), and if he dies, she will die also!

Usher (who has been weeping). Sad! sad! sad! Ah! Monsieur, you have a hand of silver——

Mr. Tree (in the other disguise). And a heart of gold!

[Exit.

Usher (wiping his eyes). Dear me his story has affected me strangely! But, I must dissemble! Let not the hollow heartless crowd see my emotion! I must laugh and joke, although my heart may be breaking! (Suddenly.) I will tell a good story to Mr. Fernandez who, I notice, is deeply concerned at the news contained in the letter he has just received from his wife—that news may be the revelation of her own miserable past! (Approaching the Counsel for the Defence.) Ah, my old and valued friend, let me cheer you up with an amusing anecdote. You must know that once upon a time a man was seated before the kitchen-fire watching a leg of mutton! His dog was seated near him!

Mr. Fernandez (in an undertone—as himself). Go away!

Usher (ignoring the interruption). The dog seized the mutton, and the man cast the stool after him—thus it was said that two legs, finding four legs had stolen one leg, threw after him three legs! Ha! ha! ha! You will see two legs—the man—four legs, the dog—one leg, the mutton—and three legs, the stool! A quaint conceit! A quaint—ha! ha! ha!—a quaint conceit indeed!

Mr. Fernandez (as before, but more so). Go away!

[Mr. Kemble here returns, and the Usher resumes his ordinary manner. Scene concluded according to Mr. Buchanan's version.

Wishing you the compliments of the season (in which Northbutt joins),

I remain, dear Mr. Punch,
Yours truly,

A Briefless, Junior.

Pump-handle Court, Temple, 20th Jan., 1890.

WHAT OUR ARTIST HAS TO PUT UP WITH.

"It's very odd—but I can't get rid of my Pictures. The House is full of them!"

"Can't you get your Grocer to give 'em away with a Pound of Tea, or something?"

THE OLD, OLD STORY.

"It is reported from Gibraltar, that the 110-ton guns of the Benbow, have developed defects similar to those recently developed in the Victoria."—Naval Intelligence.

There was a hoodwinked Man

Who, in buying his big guns,

Very often by the nose was deftly led, led, led.

For when he fired them first

They did everything but burst,

Though guaranteed by Whitehall's Naval head, head, head!

So when by foes defied

At length in action tried

'Tis found that they won't fire a single shot, shot, shot.

Let us hope, at any rate,

Though the Nemesis come late,

That some party who's to blame will get it hot, hot, hot!

How Jean François Millet Would Have treated the Influenza.

VOCES POPULI.

AT THE TUDOR EXHIBITION.

In the Central Hall.

The usual Jocose 'Arry (who has come here, with 'Arriet, for no very obvious reason, as they neither of them know or care about any history but their own).

Well, I s'pose as we are 'ere, we'd better go in a buster for a book o'the words, eh? (To Commissionnaire.) What are yer doin' them c'rect guides at, ole man? A shillin'? Not me! 'Ere, 'Arriet, we'll make it out for ourselves.

A Young Man (who has dropped in for five minutes—"just to say he's been, don't you know"). 'Jove—my Aunt! Nip out before she spots me ... Stop, though, suppose she has spotted me? Never can tell with gig-lamps ... better not risk it.

[Is "spotted" while hesitating.

His Aunt. I didn't recognise you till just this moment, John, my boy. I was just wishing I had someone to read out all the extracts in the Catalogue for me; now we can go round together.

[John affects a dutiful delight at this suggestion, and wonders mentally if he can get away in time to go to afternoon tea with those pretty Chesterton Girls.

An Uncle (who has taken Master Tommy out for the afternoon). This is the way to make your English History real to you, my boy!

[Tommy, who had cherished hopes of Covent Garden Circus, privately thinks that English History is a sufficiently unpleasant reality as it is, and conceives a bitter prejudice against the entire Tudor Period on the spot.

The Intelligent Person. Ha! armour of the period, you see! (Feels bound to make an intelligent remark.) 'Stonishing how the whole art of war has been transformed since then, eh? Now—to me—(as if he was conscious of being singular in this respect)—to me, all this is most interesting. Coming as I do, fresh from Froude——

His Companion (a Flippant Person). Don't speak so loud. If they know you've come in here fresh, you'll get turned out!

Patronising Persons (inspecting magnificent suit of russet and gilt armour). 'Pon my word, no idea they turned out such good work in those times—very creditable to them, really.

Before the Portraits.

The Uncle. Now, Tommy, you remember what became of Katherine of Aragon, I'm sure? No, no—tut—tut—she wasn't executed! I'm afraid you're getting rather rusty with these long holidays. Remind me to speak to your mother about setting you a chapter or so of history to read every day when we get home, will you?

Tommy (to himself). It is hard lines on a chap having a Sneak for an Uncle! Catch me swotting to please him!

'Arry. There's old 'Enery the Eighth, you see—that's 'im right enough; him as 'ad all those wives, and cut every one of their 'eds off!

'Arriet (admiringly). Ah, I knew we shouldn't want a Catalogue.

The Int. P. Wonderfully Holbein's caught the character of the man—the—er—curious compound of obstinacy, violence, and good-humour, sensuality, and—and so on. No mistaking a Holbein—you can tell him at once by the extraordinary finish of all the accessories. Now look at that girdle—isn't that Holbein all over?

Flippant P. Not quite all over, old fellow. Catalogue says it's painted by Paris Bordone.

The Int. P. Possibly—but it's Holbein's manner, and, looking at these portraits, you see at once how right Froude's estimate was of the King.

F. P. Does Froude say how he got that nasty one on the side of his nose?

A Visitor. Looks overfed, don't he?

Second V. (sympathetically). Oh, he did himself very well; you can see that.

The Aunt. Wait a bit, John—don't read so fast. I haven't made out the middle background yet. And where's the figure of St. Michael rising above the gilt tent, lined with fleurs-de-lis on a blue ground? Would this be Guisnes, or Ardres, now? Oh, Ardres on the right—so that's Ardres—yes, yes; and now tell me what it says about the two gold fountains, and that dragon up in the sky.

[John calculates that, at this rate, he has a very poor chance of getting away before the Gallery closes.

The Patronising Persons. 'Um! Holbein again, you see—very curious their ideas of painting in those days. Ah, well, Art has made great progress since then—like everything else!

Miss Fisher. So that's the beautiful Queen Mary! I wonder if it is really true that people have got better-looking since those days?

[Glances appealingly at Phlegmatic Fiancé.

Her Phlegmatic Fiancé. I wonder.

Miss F. You hardly ever see such small hands now, do you? With those lovely long fingers, too!

The Phl. F. No, never.

Miss F. Perhaps people in some other century will wonder how anybody ever saw anything to admire in us?

The Phl. F. Shouldn't be surprised.

[Miss F. does wish secretly that Charles had more conversation.

The Aunt. John, just find out who No. 222 is.

John. (sulkily). Sir George Penruddocke, Knight.

His Aunt (with enthusiasm). Of course—how interesting this is, isn't it?—seeing all these celebrated persons exactly as they were in life! Now read who he was, John, please.

The Int. Person. Froude tells a curious incident about——

Flippant P. I tell you what it is, old chap, if you read so much history, you'll end by believing it!

The Int. P. (pausing before the Shakspeare portraits.) "He was not for an age, but for all time."

The Fl. P. I suppose that's why they've painted none of them alike.

A Person with a talent for Comparison. Mary, come here a moment. Do look at this—"Elizabeth, Lady Hoby"—did you ever see such a likeness?

Mary. Well, dear, I don't quite——

The Person with &c. It's her living image! Do you mean to say you really don't recognise it?—Why, Cook, of course!

Mary. Ah! (apologetically)—but I've never seen her dressed to go out, you know.

The Uncle. "No. 13, Sir Rowland Hill, Lord Mayor, died 1561"——

Tommy (anxious to escape the threatened chapters if possible). I know about him, Uncle, he invented postage stamps!

Over the Cases.

First Patronising P. "A Tooth of Queen Katherine Parr." Dear me! very quaint.

Second P. P. (tolerantly). And not at all a bad tooth, either.

'Arriet (comes to a case containing a hat labelled as formerly belonging to Henry the Eighth). 'Arry, look 'ere; fancy a king going about in a thing like that—pink with a green feather! Why, I wouldn't be seen in it myself!

'Arry. Ah, but that was ole 'Enery all over, that was; he wasn't one for show. He liked a quiet, unassumin' style of 'at, he did. "None of yer loud pot 'ats for Me!" he'd tell the Royal 'atters; "find me a tile as won't attract people's notice, or you won't want a tile yerselves in another minute!" An' you may take yer oath they served him pretty sharp, too!

'Arriet (giggling). It's a pity they didn't ask you to write their Catalogue for 'em.

The Aunt. John, you're not really looking at that needlework—it's Queen Elizabeth's own work, John. Only look how wonderfully fine the stitches are. Ah, she was a truly great woman! I could spend hours over this case alone. What, closing are they, already? We must have another day at this together, John—just you and I.

John. Yes, Aunt. And now—(thinks there is just time to call on the Chestertons, if he goes soon)—can I get you a cab, or put you into a 'bus, or anything?

His Aunt. Not just yet; you must take me somewhere where I can get a bun and a cup of tea first, and then we can go over the Catalogue together, and mark all the things we missed, you know.

[John resigns himself to the inevitable rather than offend his wealthy relative; the Intelligent Person comes out, saying he has had "an intellectual treat," and intends to "run through Froude again" that evening. 'Arry and 'Arriet depart to the "Ocean Wave" at Hengler's. Gallery gradually clears as Scene closes in.

FOR THE SAKE OF THE EMPIRE.

The Empire of Melpomene and Terpsichore.

Since the Shah spent a pleasant evening in the Theatre of Varieties North of Leicester Square (and if it comes to that, long before) the Empire has been a notable place of entertainment. At the present moment there is an exceptionally strong programme. Two ballets, both extremely good. The first, "The Paris Exhibition," pleasingly recalls the glories and expenses of last year so inseparably connected with the Cairo street dancing and the Tour Eiffel. The second, "A Dream of Wealth," is interesting amongst other matters for proving conclusively that the Demon of Avarice (conscientiously impersonated by Signor Luigi Albertieri), is a singularly gentlemanly creature, and not nearly so black as he would conventionally be painted. The story of the divertissement by Madame Katti Lanner, if rather obscure, is still thoroughly enjoyable. It would seem that a miser with a comic but sound-hearted clerk, after an altercation with some well-fed representatives of "the most distrissful" tenantry that ever yet were seen, makes the acquaintance of "an apparition," and dreams that he is the tenant of his own jewel-casket. In his sleep he is present at a ballet replete with silver and gold and precious stones, to say nothing of shapely limbs and pretty faces, and makes great friends with the "apparition," who shows him much graceful courtesy, with the assistance of one of her acquaintances, that singularly gentlemanly creature, the Demon of Avarice. That all ends happily goes without saying.

But perhaps the feature of the Empire Theatre of Varieties (a title justified by the programme—a document, by the way, for which a uniform charge of two pence should be made, instead of "anything you please, Sir," subsequently translatable into at least sixpence) is the realisation, by Miss Amy Roselle, of The Woman and the Law, written by Mr. Clement Scott. The accomplished actress, in a simple black dress, in front of a scene suggestive of (say) an unused ball-room in the Vatican, holds her audience in her grasp. In spite of the smoke of the stalls, the levity of the lounge, and the general incongruity of her surroundings, Miss Roselle scores nightly a distinct success. Lastly, Mlle. Vanoni, returning to the scene of her former triumphs, once again delights all beholders by the sprightliness of her singing and dancing. No reason to fear the disruption of the Empire at present.

KICKED!

(By the Foot of Clara Groomley.)
Chapter I.

I had come back from India. I was in Southampton. Only a few months before I had been teaching whist to the natives on the banks of the Ganges, and I had made my fortune out of the Indian rubber. I wonder if they remember the great Sahib who always had seven trumps and only one other suit. Tailoring is in its infancy over there, and the natives frequently had no suit at all. I had not placed my money in the Ganges banks, because they are notoriously unsafe. I had brought it with me to Southampton. I was rich, but solitary. Yet I was a dashing young fellow, especially in my printed conversation. When it rained, I said "dee." Just smack your lips over the delightful wickedness of it, and then proceed.

She looked charming.

There was nothing to do. I couldn't go to Ryde, although the waiter assured me it was a pleasant trip. Neither did I care to go for a walk. The situation was at a dead-lock, and I said so.

"Well," said the waiter, "there's the quay."

So I went to the quay. I heard a sweet young voice remark, "What a shocking bad hat!" I fell in love with her at once. She was with a governess—obviously French—who remonstrated.