The Project Gutenberg eBook, Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 102, June 11, 1892, by Various, Edited by F. C. Burnand

PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 102.

June 11, 1892.

A DAY AT ANTWERP.

(By the "Vacuus Viator.")

In the Place Verte.—"The traveller," according to Bædeker, "should at once direct his steps to the Cathedral." Not going to be bullied by Bædeker! Shall assert my independence by directing steps somewhere else first. Carillon tinkling fitfully up in tower. Like an elderly ghost with failing memory, trying to play every tune she ever knew all at once on a cracked, old spinnet. Fancy I detect fragment of "The Heavens are Telling," tripped up by the "Old Hundredth," and falling over "Haydn's Surprise." Ghost tries back, and just as she seems about to arrive at something definite—suddenly gives it up as hopeless. To Church of St. Paulus, to see the Calvary. Small but highly intelligent Belgian Boy, who speaks English, insists on volunteering services. (Why aren't our street-boys taught French and German in Board Schools?—make all the difference to foreigners in London.) Boy takes me up avenue of heroic-sized scriptural statues, introduces me to "Moïse," "Dahvit mit de 'arp," and others. Kind of him—but I wish he would go. Offer him twopence. Boy declines with indignation. Young Belgium evidently high-minded and sensitive. He informs me that, in a certain church he refers to as "Sin Yack," there are "RUBENS' peecture—moch fine," and plainly proposes to conduct me thither. Mustn't hurt his feelings again—so accept. Boy clumps on ahead, down alleys, and through back-streets, and round corners, looking round severely at intervals to see that I am not giving him the slip. Nice friendly little fellow—but despotic. Don't seem to be much nearer; "Sin Yack" evidently a saint of retiring disposition.... At last. Boy points him out triumphantly. Thank him, with apologies for taking him so much out of his way. Boy demands two francs. Hint, as delicately as possible, that I consider this estimate of the value of his time and society somewhat high. Boy peremptory. Give him fifty centimes. Boy abusive; follows me with uncomplimentary remarks. I can not go about Antwerp all day with a hostile boy harassing my rear like this! So undignified. However, shall find sanctuary with "Sin Yack." Every door closed. Boy at a distance—chuckling, I am afraid. Shall walk on—not hurrying, but briskly. Boy gone at last—thank goodness!—with Parthian yelp of "Rosbif!"

In the Cathedral.—Being shown round by Sacristan, in company with two respectable young Britons. "You shee dot oltarbiece, gentlemens," says Sacristan, "paint by RUBENS, in seexteen day, for seexteen hondert florin." Whereupon both Britons make a kind of "cluck" with their tongues. "Dat vos von hondert florin efery day he vas paint," explains the Sacristan. Britons do this division sum in their heads, check it as correct, and evidently feel increased respect for RUBENS as capable-for an artist—of driving a good bargain. "RUBENS baint him ven he vas seexteen," which younger Briton considers "very creditable to him, too!" They inspect the High Altar, with more clucks, and inform one another, with the air of Protestants who are above prejudice, that it's a marvellous piece o' work, though, mind yer! Sacristan points out holes underneath choir-stalls. "De organ is blay over dere, and de mooshique he com out hier troo de 'oles, so all be beoples vas vender vere de schounds com from!" First Briton remarks to me that "That's a rum start, and no mistake." I agree that it is a rum start. I shall find myself clucking presently, I know! "Haf you scheen yed de bortraits of GLATSHTONE and Lort BAGONSFELDT?" Sacristan asks us "... 'No?' then I show you." He leads us up to the finial of one of the stalls, which is carved in the figure of a monk. "Is not dat de Ole Grandt Man himself?" he asks, triumphantly. Second Briton agrees "It's a wonderful likeness, reelly." His Companion admits "They've got old GLADSTONE there to a t"—but adds that "come to that, it might do for either of 'em." "Lort BAGONSFELDT" is opposite, but, as Sacristan observes, would be more like "if dey only vas gif him a leedle gurl on de vorehead." Next we are taken to the Retro-Choir and shown the "mosh gurious and peautiful bainting in de ole Cathedrale. Schtand yust hier, Gentelmens, now you see him. Beoples say, 'Oh, yais, ve know, yust a marble-garvings—a baw releff!' I dell you, nodings of de kindt. All so flat as a biece of vite baper—com close op. Vat you tink? Vonderful, hey?" Britons deeply impressed by this and other wonders, and inform Sacristan that their own Cathedrals "ain't in it." "Look at the value of the things they've got 'ere, you know," they say to me, clucking, and then depart, after asking Sacristan the nearest way to the Zoo.

At Table d'hôte.—Fellow-countrymen to the fore; both my immediate neighbours English, but neither shows any inclination to converse. Rather glad of it; afternoon of Museums and Galleries instructive—but exhausting. Usual Chatty Clergyman at end of table, talking Guide-book intelligently; wife next him, ruminating in silence and dismally contemplating artificial plant in a plated pot in front of her. It is a depressing object—but why look at it? Horror of two Sportsmen opposite on being offered snipe. "Snipe now—Great Scott!" they exclaim, "And ain't they high too?" One helps himself to some, with a sense that being on the Continent makes all the difference. But even his courage fails on being offered stewed apricots with it. Close by a couple of Americans; a dry middle-aged man, and a talkative young fellow who informs him he was at Harvard. Elder man listens to him with a grim and wooden forbearance. "Ez fur languages," the younger man is saying. "I'd undertake to learn any language inside of six months. Fur enstance, I got up Trigonometry in two. You'll tell me that isn't a language, and that's so, but take Latin now, I'd learn Latin—to write and speak—in a year, Italian I'd learn in a fortnight—with constant study, you understand. Then there's German. Well. I cann't read German—not in their German text, I cann't, and I don't speak it with fluency, but I can ask my way in it, and order anything I want, and I reckon that's about as much as a man requires to know of any language. Will you take a glass of wine outer my bottle? I've another coming along." Elder man declines stiffly, on plea that he is almost a teetotaller. "Well, maybe you're wise," says the Harvard man, "but I've discovered a thing that'll put you all right in the morning when you've eaten or drunk more'n's good for you overnight. I'll tell you what that thing is. It's just persly—plain ordinary simple persly. You eat a bunch o' fresh persly first thing you get up, and it don't matter what you've taken, you'll feel just as bright!" Elder man, who has been cutting up his chicken into very small pieces, looks up and says solemnly, "You may consider yourself vurry fortunate in being able to correct the errors you allude to by a means which is at once so efficacious and so innocent." After which he subsides into his salad. Harvard man shut up.

In the Fumoir.—Two drearily undecided men trying to make up their minds where to go next. Shall they stay at Antwerp for a day or two, or go over to Brussels, or go back to Calais and stay there, or what? "Calais is on their way home, anyhow," says one, and the other, without attempting to deny this, thinks "there may be more to see at Brussels." "Not more than there is here," says his friend: "all these places much about the same." "Well," says the first, yawning, "shall we stay where we are?" "Just as you please," says the other. "No; but what would you rather do?" ... "Me? oh, I'm entirely in your hands!" First man, who has had Green Chartreuse with his coffee and seems snappish, annoyed at this, and says, "it's dam nonsense going on like that." "Oh," says the second, "then you leave it to me—is that it?" "Haven't I been saying so all along!" growls the other. Second Undecided Man silent for a time, evidently forcing himself to come to a decision of some sort. At last he looks up with relief. "Well," he says, very slowly, "what do you think about it?" Whereupon they begin all over again. This indecision is catching—leave them.

In the Street—about 11:30 P.M.—Back from Variety Theatre. Hotel doors closed. Have rung several times—no result at present. Curious impression that I shall be hauled up before a Dean or somebody for this to-morrow and fined or gated. Wish they'd let me in—chilly out here. Is there a night-porter? If not—awkward. Carillon again from Cathedral tower. Ghost has managed to recollect a whole tune at last, picking it out with one finger. Seem to have heard it before—what the Dickens is it? Recognise it as the "Mandolinata in E." Remember the VOKES Family dancing to it long ago in the Drury Lane Pantomime. Not exactly the tune one would expect to meet in a Cathedral.... Unbolting behind doors. Nervous feeling. Half inclined to assure Porter penitently that this shall not occur again. Wish him good-night instead—pleasantly. Porter grunts—unpleasantly. Depressing to be grunted at the last thing at night. To bed, chastened.

THE MOAN OF THE MUSIC-HALL MUSE.

[It is hinted that the vogue of the tremendously successful but tyrannously ubiquitous "Ta-ra-ra-Boom-de-ay!" is beginning, at last, to wane.]

She museth upon "the Boom that waneth every day," and wondering what she shall "star" with next, breaketh forth into familiar strains:—

AIR—"What will you do, Love?"

What shall I do now? My song was going

Like a tide flowing, all Booms beyond;

What shall I do, though, when critics hide it,

And cads deride it who're now so fond?

"Ta-ra-ra" chiding, "Boom-de-ay" deriding!—

Nought is abiding—that's sadly true!

I'll pray for another Sensation Notion.

With deep emotion—that's what I'll do!

(Gazes mournfully at her unstrung harp, and, smitten by another reminiscence, sings plaintively):—

AIR—"The harp that once through Tara(ra)'s Halls."

The harp that once through Music Halls

Sheer maddening rapture shed,

Now hangs as mute on willow-walls

As though that Boom were dead.

So dims the pride of former days,

So fame's fine thrill is o'er,

And throngs who once yelled high with praise,

Now find the Boom a bore.

No more to toffs and totties bright

Thy tones, "Ta-ra-ra" swell.

The gloom that hailed my turn to-night

Sad tales of "staleness" tell.

The Chorus now will seldom wake,

The old mad cheers who gives?

And LOTTIE some new ground must break

To prove that still she lives.

She harketh back to the old strain:—

What would you do now if distant tidings,

Thy fame's confidings should undermine,—

Of some "Star" abiding 'neath other skies,

In the public eyes yet more bright than thine?

Oh, name it not! 'Twould bring shade and shame

On my new-made name, and it can't be true.

This far fame of mine, did some rival share it,

I could not bear it—what would I do?

What would you do, now, if home returning,

With anger burning at the fickle crew,

You found the prospect of another Boom,

To dispel your gloom—ah! what would you do?

Why then by Ta-Ra, I'd bless the morrow

And banish sorrow, and raise my "screw."

I'd re-string this Harp hung no more on the willow,

And with tears my pillow no more bedew.

TO BE, OR NOT TO BE—DISCOVERED!

SCENE—A Borough. TIME—Within measurable distance of the General Election. Enter BROWN and JONES.

Brown. Well JONES, I am glad to hear that you purpose standing for Parliament. You are a first-class man, and the House will be all the better for having your assistance.

Jones. You are mistaken, my dear BROWN. I did intend to stand for Parliament, but since the Archbishop has published his letter, I have determined to retire from the contest.

Brown. What nonsense! Why I, as you know, have been in the House for years and I assure you I have never met a more suitable man for the place. Why, my dear JONES, you are absolutely cut out for Parliament—absolutely cut out for it!

Jones (sadly). I wish I could think so. But alas, no, after the Archbishop's letter, I must, I will give it up.

Brown. Have you not made the question of the Criminal Code your own?

Jones. Yes, but I must admit (and I make the admission with shame) that years ago at school I was rightly accused of stealing apples.

Brown. And was the accusation believed—were you punished?

Jones (struggling with his emotion). Alas! it was, and I received (from the Bench) a severe reprimand. It brings the red blood into my cheeks—a severe reprimand!

Brown. Then you know all about the Libel Acts,—you are up in a slander?

Jones (bitterly). And should I not be? Do you not know that I was once fined ten shillings and costs for saying that a drunken cook was intoxicated!

Brown. Surely there was not much harm in that?

Jones. It was immoral to call the cook intoxicated, and the Archbishop says, "that persons previously condemned on grounds of immorality of all kinds are not proper legislators." Under the circumstances I have detailed, I should not be a proper legislator!

Brown. But look at me! Here am I living a free life, doing exactly what I please, and deserving the censure of the Bench five times a week! I will undertake to say that you are three times as good a fellow as I am; yet I am as certain of my seat as possible.

Jones (sadly). But there is a gulf between us—the gulf that divides not-entirely-conscious innocence and half-imaginary vice. You are safe, and I am not.

Brown. I don't see why! Why am I safe? Or rather let me mend the question—why do you think your chance of being elected so small?

Jones. Because, my dear BROWN, I have been found out!

[Scene closes in upon conventional virtue perfunctorily triumphant.

A BLIZZARD FROM THE NORTH.

["The plea of the existence of such custom, or habit, or practice of copying as is set up can no more be supported when challenged than the highwayman's plea of the custom of Hounslow Heath."—Justice North's Judgment in the Copyright Action "Walter v. Steinkopff.">[

So "Stand and deliver!" will not quite do

In the year eighteen hundred and ninety-two;

And if you are caught on the Queen's highway,

With a something for which you've omitted to pay,

No use to try putting in—under your breath—

The plea of the custom of Hounslow-Heath!

Thanks to the Times and to Justice NORTH!

The highway—of-News—may be clearer henceforth

Of robber daring and footpad sly.

To stop a coach, or to fake a cly,

Boldly to lift or astutely sneak,

Will expose a prig to the bobby's tweak,

And he shall not shelter himself beneath

The plea of the custom of Hounslow Heath.

Autolycus now must buy his wares,

And not with his neighbours go (gratis) shares.

"Thou shalt not steal—not even brains,"

Says Justice NORTH, and his rule remains.

Thanks to the Justice, thanks to the Times!

Plain new definitions of ancient crimes

Are needful now when robbers unsheath

The old plea of the custom of Hounslow Heath!

OUR SAL VOLATILE; OR, A WRIGGLER SARPINT OF OLD NILE.

CLÉOPÂTRE, quittant la Seine,

Ici tu viens en souveraine,

Where "Britons never will be slaves,"

And "BRITANNIA rules the waves."

(Ritournelle égoïste et vaine!)

THE GRAND OLD GEORGIE PORGIE.

GEORGIE-PORGIE, GRAND BUT SLY,

KISSED THE GIRLS TO RAISE A CRY;

WHEN THE GIRLS CAME OUT TO PLAY,

GEORGIE-PORGIE RAN AWAY!

DEFINITION OF "STUFF AND NONSENSE."—A Junior urging a ridiculous plea.

THE WINNER OF THE DERBY.—Hugo in future is to be remembered as "Victor Hugo."

OPERA-GOER'S DIARY.

Monday.—GOUNOD's Roméo et Juliette. Les deux frères ("Brothers of Corse"), JEAN and EDOUARD, excellent respectively as Romeo and Friar Laurent. EDWARD looked the reverend, kind-hearted, but eccentric herbalist to the life, singing splendidly. But Brother JOHN, in black wig, black moustache, and with pallid face, look so unhealthy a Romeo that his appearance must have first excited Juliet's pity, which we all know is akin to love. My advice to JOHNNIE DE RESZKÉ is to "lighten the part," and "do it on his head,"—which, being summed up, means flaxen-haired wig and light moustache. Juliette Eames charming. Nurse Bauermeister too young. Tybalt Montariol, when killed, must not lie "toes up" too close to Curtain. Friendly members of Capulet faction rescued his legs, otherwise these members must have suffered. M. DUFRICHE, as Mercutio, mistaken for EDOUARD DE RESZKÉ. Subsequent appearance of the real Simon Pure as The Friar only complicates matters, but death of Mercutio settles it. The survivor is EDOUARD DE RESZKÉ. Mr. ALEC MARSH, late of English Comic Opera, appears as the Duke of Verona, and everyone admires his Grace.

Tuesday.—Orféo. Everyone talking of to-morrow's Derby. Bets "taken and Orf-"eo.

Wednesday.—Derby Day Night—celebrated by performance of Philemon and Cavalleria. Both favourites. But in honour of the winner Hugo, the Opera ought to have been the Hugo-nots.

Thursday.—Lohengrin. Rentrée of Madame NORDICA as Elsa, who couldn't be bettered by anybody Elser. Lohengrin is "The Johnnie of the Opera," i.e., JOHNNIE DE RESZKÉ. First-rate: no longer does he appear in dark hair as in Romeo; but as a Knight light, suitable to the time of year.

Friday.—Il Vascello Fantasma, which is the Flying Dutchman with MAGGIE MACINTIRE Mac-in-tirely restored to us as the charming Senta—quite an Eighty-per-Senta—of attraction. Awful appearance of Phantom Ship! Evidently straight from Dead Sea. Racing conversation in all parts of house. "Ancient Mariners," or "Old Epsom Salts," talking about Flying Dutchman's year, 1849,

Saturday.—Progress reported generally. MELBA very good. Miss EAMES being absent, we miss EAMES. House counted out by midnight. DRURIOLANUS satisfied with Derby Week.

THE WELSHERS AT THE MANSHUN HOUSE.

We've ad the Welshers ere, and did they injy theirselves? Didn't they jest! And wosn't they all jest perlite to us Waiters, as all true gents allus is, and didn't they amost shout theirselves hoarse when the LORD MARE got up to perpose the fust Toast! But not qwite, oh no, not by no means, or they woodn't have bin abel to sing what they calls their Nashnal Hanthem so bewtifoolly that they made the werry tears cum into my old eyes! One on 'em kindly told me as they calls it, "Him glad to find Ada," which means, "The Land of my Fathers"! and a werry nice name too, tho I don't quite see why they shoud leave out their pore Mothers, but it's the ushal way of the world, out of site out of mind! but they makes up for it by calling the Land of their Fathers, their Mother country, so it comes all rite in the end.

The same kind Gent told me he oped they would sing their favrit song, "Ah, hide her nose!" commonly called "Poor MARY ANN!" so I should think indeed.

I didn't see, in looking down the long list of Gests, no gent by the name of TAFFY, at which I was summut serprized.

I heard a gent interdoosed as the Edditer of "the General Gimrig," which I takes to be a Raddicle Paper. I didn't at all no afore what a wunderfooll harrystokratic place little Wales is. Why we had about a duzen Nobbelmen inclewding a reel Dook, and as if that wosn't rayther a staggerer, we had no less than four reel Bishups with Harchdeecuns to match, about thirty Members of Parlement, and quite a brood of Welch Mares.

I suttenly thort as I had had a werry fair sampel of Welch enthusyasm and Welch loyalty when I herd them jine in singin our Nashnal Anthem; but lor it was nothin to their recepshun of the LORD MARE when he guv 'em the Toast of the hevening, "Wales!" Why they sprung to their feet, Bishups, and Harchdeecuns, and Dook, and Nobbelmen, and M.P.'s and all, and shouted and cheerd and emtied their glasses, and then gave three such cheers as made the hold All ring again! Which I wished as the Prinse of WALES was there to heer 'em.

BROWN and me had our nice quiet larf together at the ushal bit of fun. When sum werry ellerkent gent was a makin a speach as was rayther too long for them as wanted to heer the lovely Welch mewsic, they began for to hammer on the table with our bewtifool silver spoons and reel cut glasses, meaning to say, "That's about enuff," but the pore delewded Horrator thort it meant, "Keep it up, my boy; it's splendid!" So he kep it up till two of our best glasses was broke, and then he kindly sat down looking the werry pictur of happiness. It reminded me of a simlar little delushun as we practises early in the year. "Waiter," says sum hungry Gent, "bring me sum more Whitebait," and I takes him sum more Sprats, and he is quite content! As our Grate Poet says, "Where hignorance makes you 'appy, remane as you are"! Upon the whole, I wentures to think as the Welch Nashnal Bankwet, given by Lord Mare EVANS, was about the most sucksessful as I have ewer assisted at during my menny years of such pleasant xperiences. I finishes by saying, I should werry much like to see a reel Irish Lord Mare try his hand in the same Nashnal way.

ROBERT.

A TIP-TOP TIPSTER.

[In some spirited verses that appeared in the Sportsman, on the morning of Derby Day, Mr. JOHN TREW-HAY, alone amongst the prophets, selected Sir Hugo as the winner.]

Ye Gods, what a Prophet! We thought 'twas his fun,

For the horse that he picked stood at fifty to one,

And we all felt inclined in our pride to say, "You go

To Bath and be blowed!" when he plumped for Sir Hugo.

But henceforth we shall know, though the bookies may laugh,

That this HAY means a harvest, and cannot mean chaff.

Though it lies on the turf, there's no sportsman can rue

That he trusted such HAY when he knew it was TREW!

"RESIGNATION OF AN ALDERMAN."—He had had two basins of Turtle. He asked for yet another. "All gone, Sir; Turtle off!" was the Waiter's answer. The Alderman said not a word; he smiled a sickly smile. There was no help for it, or "no helping of it," as he truthfully put it. He would do his best with the remainder of the menu. The resignation of the Alderman was indeed a sight to touch the heart even of ROBERT the City Waiter.

BRER FOX AND OLE MAN CROW.

(A Fable somewhat in the fashion of "Uncle Remus," but with applications nearer home.)

Ole Man Crow he wuz settin' on der rail,

Brer Fox he up en he sez, sezee,

"Dis yer's a sight dat yo' otter see!"

En he show him der tip of his (Ulster) tail.

"Eve'y gent otter have a lick at dis yer,

So's ter know w'at's w'at; en yer needn't fear!"

"Oho! Oho!"

Sez Ole Man Crow.

"But der Irish butter I've a notion dat I know!"

Brer Fox he boast, and Brer Fox he bounce,

But Ole Man Crow heft his weight to an ounce.

"Wat, tote me round der Orange-grove?"

Sez Ole Man Crow, sezee;

"Tooby sho dat's kyind, but I radder not rove

Wer der oranges are flyin' kinder free;

Wer One-eyed RILEY en Slipshot SAM

Sorter lam one ernudder ker-blunk, ker-blam!

Tree stan' high, but honey mighty sweet—

Watch dem bees wid stingers on der feet!

Make a bow ter de Buzzard, en den ter de Crow,

Takes a limber-toe'd gemman for ter jump Jim Crow!"

Den Brer Fox snortle en Brer Fox frown.

Sezee, "You're settin dar sorter keerless-like," sezee.

"But yer better come down,

Der is foes a broozin' roun'

W'at will give yer wus den butter in der North Countree.

You'll get mixed wid der Tar-Baby ef inter der North yo' pitch,

For der North ain't gwinter cave in, radder die in der las' ditch!"

Den Ole Man Crow up en sez, sezee,

"You been runnin' roun' a long time, en a-sassin' atter me;

But I speck you done come to de end er de row.

You wun't frighten me not wuth a cent.," sez Ole Man Crow.

"I ain't gwine nowhere skasely; I'll be busy near dis rail.

You wun't tempt me wid de butter—or der powder—on yo' tail.

Good-bye, Brer Fox, take keer yo' cloze,

For dis is de way de worril goes;

Some goes up en some goes down.

You'll get ter de bottom all safe en soun'!

I'll watch yo' 'strategy' wid int'rest, now en den,

En—well, I'll try ter look, des as frightened as I ken!"

The House of Lords Committee of Privileges decided that Captain FORESTER's action in the Barnard Peerage case was a Vane attempt. "The chance," said the Times, "of such a prize as Raby Castle, with £60,000 a-year, is likely to tempt a man to think his arguments and claims are better than they really are." Raby Castle on the brain would soon become a sort of Rabies.

HAMLET IN HALF AN HOUR.

(Prepared for the Halls in compliance with the suggestions of Mr. Plunket's Committee.)

SCENE—An open space outside Elsinore. View of the Palace and the Battlements. HAMLET discovered talking to the Ghost.

Ham. And is it really within thy power to show me illustrations to the story that has so much interested me?

Ghost. It is! Behold!

[He waves his bâton and a rock becomes transparent, displaying a tableau of the play-scene in "Hamlet."]

Ham. Ah, how well do I remember the occasion! It was after I had met thee, and thou hadst told me the sad story of thy decease by my Uncle. And then I contrived this device to catch the conscience of the King! Thou art sleeping calmly, and a cloaked figure is pouring poison—real poison—into thy ear! and look, the King is greatly disturbed! Ah, how it all comes back to me! (The rock resumes its normal condition.) And canst thou show me more?

Ghost. Ay, and I will! Behold!

[He waves his bâton, and another rock discovers a tableau representing the Burial of OPHELIA.

Ham. (deeply interested). Why, these must be the maimed rites that were all that was given to my poor lost love—the lady I desired to visit a nunnery—to OPHELIA. And see there are the comic Grave-diggers. Show me more. Show me more!

[The vision fades away like its predecessor.

Ghost. I would, did not the decision of statute law limit the time. And now I must away. But mind, my son—six principal characters, and no more! Thou wilt remember!

Ham. Ay, marry; and yes, I will! (The Ghost disappears.) And so I have to meet LAERTES at a fencing-bout. I will!

Trumpets. Enter King, Queen, LAERTES, OSRIC and Court.

King. HAMLET, all hail! I wish thee joy! May'st thou be the victor at to-day's trial of skill!

Ghost (heard from below). Remember! Six principal characters. He and thou and I are three. Three! Six, and no more!

Hamlet (aside). Peace, perturbed spirit!

Laertes (approaching). My good Lord, I wish thee well, for I do love thee.

Ghost (from below). Four! Remember—Four! Six, and no more! and mind the time goes apace. Ten minutes of the thirty gone!

Hamlet (aside). Peace, perturbed spirit! (Aloud.) The foils!

Osric (approaching). My Lord, the weapons!

Ghost (as before). He maketh five! Beware! Six, and no more!

Ham. (aside). Rest, perturbed spirit! (Aloud.) I will take this one!

[HAMLET and LAERTES take the foils and salute.

King. Now will I drink to HAMLET after the first bout. OSRIC, be ready to give him a cup when he is tired! Mind me well. (Aside.) The cup of which HAMLET shall drink contains poison. Ha! ha! ha! A time will come! I triumph!

[HAMLET and LAERTES fence and drop their foils.

Osric.—Let me return them, good Sirs!

[He gives the weapons in such a fashion that they are exchanged.

King. Now will I drink to HAMLET. Give him the other cup.

Ham. Nay, your pardon. Sire. I am fat and scant of breath, but I will crush a cup with thee, later!

Queen. Give me the cup. I will drink to thee, HAMLET! [Drinks.

Ghost (as before). I hear the well-remembered voice of thy mother, boy! That makes six. The limit's reached!

Ham. (aside). Rest, perturbed spirit! (Aloud.) And now, good LAERTES, I am at thy service.

[They fight. HAMLET is wounded.

Osric. A hit, a hit, a palpable hit!

Ham. (annoyed). I am hurt, and by thee!

[Fights fiercely and wounds LAERTES.

Queen. Oh! I am poisoned! [Dies.

Ham. What, treachery! Ah, thou brute!

[Rushes up and kills King with his foil.

Laertes. I am dying! Forgive me, HAMLET. It was the doing of the King. [Dies.

Ghost (as before). Twenty and nine minutes have expired! The time is all but up!

Ham. (aside, with difficulty). Rest, perturbed spirit! Farewell, farewell, a long farewell to all my—

Ghost (as before). Ring down! The time is up!

(Quick Curtain)

A GENTLE EGOTIST.

"INNINGS DECLARED CLOSED."

SCENE—Grounds of the St. Stephen's C.C. SALISBURY (Captain) and BALFOUR (Champion Bat) at Wickets. The latter has just despatched the ball to the boundary for "another four," eliciting "applause all round the ring," as the (Cricket) saying is.

Captain. Well hit, my dear ARTHUR!

Champion Bat (modestly). Ah! bit of a fluke.

Captain. Come, come! Cricket swagger may merit rebuke,

But take your fair kudos; don't run yourself down.

Wicket-Keeper (aside). Bah! that's his old trick. At the ball he will frown,

And fumble the bat as though funk, or don't care,

Filled his soul; but when slogging's the game he's all there.

Mere posing, not playing the game,—yet he scores!

I wonder how WILL likes the ring's frantic roars

At their flashy young favourite?

Bowler (aside). Humph! he lays on!

I did hope, with that ball, that his wicket was gone.

'Twas a curly one, one of my regular old sort.

Good batting and bowling, that's true Cricket sport,

As CLARKE, Grand Old Trundler, declared was the case

When he bowled and PILCH batted.

Champion Bat (aside). Just twig HARCOURT's face!

Thought he'd had me ere now. Can't you hear his "How's that?"—

If I gave him a chance?

Captain. He's a fine slogging bat,

But behind the sticks—humph! Well, let's see, lad, your score

Wants but eight of the "century." Ninety-two more

Towards your "average," ARTHUR! The Cricketer's Bard

Will be rhyming your doings!

Champion Bat. An awful "reward"!

But shall we play on?

Captain (thoughtfully). Well, now, what do you think?

From fighting it out to the end I don't shrink,

But time's running short; we stand well for a win:

They say that their eager desire's to go in.

Perhaps if they got their desire they'd be posed.

Suppose we declare that our innings is closed?

[Left considering it.

"PROBABLE STARTERS."

The Gentleman who sits on a pin with its business-end uppermost.