PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 103.
August 6, 1892.
DRURIOLANUS IN (MUSIC) AULIS.
The Augustan Age is to be revived at the new Palace Theatre of Varieties, late CARTE's English Opera House, for two of the imperial name of AUGUSTUS are foremost among the Directors of this new enterprise—which word "enterprise" is preferable to "undertaking." Sir AUGUSTUS leads; and GEORGIUS AUGUSTUS follows in the cast as Second Director,—with or without song is not mentioned. In comparison with this transformation of an Opera House into a Theatre of Varieties, no political combination of any sort or kind, no change either in the Ministry or in our home or foreign policy, is so likely to cause trouble to The Empire; i.e., the Empire in Leicester Square.
"AFTER THE OP'RA IS OVER."
We understand that Sir AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS, in addition to his interest in Covent Garden, Drury Lane, the Royal English Opera House, and various enterprises in town, country, and abroad, is about to turn his attention to other matters. On dit that he is in treaty for St. Paul's Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, and the City Temple, for a series of Sunday Oratorios. It is also not improbable that he may become, for a short time, Lessee of Exeter Hall, Buckingham Palace, and the Banqueting-hall of Hampton Court, for a series of Popular Picture-Shows. No doubt he will bring from Russia a new and entire Cosmopolitan Opera Company, to give a performance on the top of the Monument. Should there be an overflow, the audience turned away will be accommodated with seats in the Duke of York's Column. He is said to be in negociation for novelties for next year's London Season in various parts of the globe. It is possible that he may bring over the entire "World's Show" from Chicago, to give a solitary performance on an eligible spot recently acquired for this purpose in the neighbourhood of Primrose Hill. It is not unlikely that he may re-erect the ancient Pyramids at the back of Olympia, if satisfactory arrangements can be made with the Egyptian Government. Looking to the future, it is asserted that he has undertaken to accept the stage-direction of the next European War with those nations bound together in the Treaty of the Triple Alliance. Further—DRURIOLANUS MAXIMUS is considering the transport to London of the North Pole, laying the Zoological Gardens under contribution for a service of bears to climb it. Sir DRURIOLANUS mustn't overdo it. He holds a handful of cards, but he is so good a prestidigitateur that he is pretty sure to transform them into trumps. Likewise Sir DRURIO knows how to perform on the Trump of Fame.
TOAST—We beg to propose the health of the liberal-minded purchaser of the Althorp Library, who intends to keep the books in a building open to all readers, adapting the toastmaster's phrase for the occasion, and giving, "Our Noble Shelves!"
LAYS OF MODERN HOME.
No. 4.—CHLOE'S APPROPRIATION CLAWS.
A ye who bless the wedded state
With tributes born of generous blindness,
Bemourn the fate that well may wait
Your gifted kindness.
My CHLOE's ultra-modern mind
Transforms your Dresden's grace and Chelsea's,
The toys for special use designed,
To something else's.
For CHLOE reads each weekly print,
Where Art's resource is blent with Scandal's,
Where decorative females hint
Their cure for Vandals.
Your large, expensive Wedgwood bowls,
She bids her "Lor!"-exclaiming waitress
To cram with large, expensive coals,
The pretty traitress!
On daintiest overmantel's ledge
She sets enshrined your prosy platter;
Your salt-cellars she stocks with veg-
etable matter.
And when the Summer comes (if hail
For once not hails the sunny swallows)
Our fenders hold your statues pale
Of chipped Apollos.
With out-of-fashion toilet sets,
Their sprigs of ringstands, bits of boxes,
She picturesques her cabinet's
Quaint heterodoxies.
My blue tobacco-jar she'll hoard
For party-nights, and on the basket
Whereon my manuscripts are stored
Will throne—a casket!
"Ingenious" CHLOE, sure, opines
Is Genius' proper derivation;
"Appropriate" with her defines
Appropriation.
Poor STREPHON, fond, bewildered wight!
He doubts, amazed by changes showy,
If CHLOE's own be STREPHON quite,
Or STREPHON's, CHLOE!
BIRDS OF A FEATHER.
["He (Mr. GLADSTONE) has not as yet even secured the spoil, but the Vultures are already gathered together."—Mr. Chamberlain at Birmingham.]
The Vultures, dear JOE? Nay, it needs no apology
To say you are out in your new ornithology.
The Vultures are carrion-birds, be it said;
And the Man and the Cause you detest are not dead!
Much as his decease was desired, he's alive,
And the Cause is no carcase. So, JOE, you must strive
To get nearer the truth. Shall we help you? All fowls
Are not Vultures. For instance, dear JOE, there are Owls,
(Like JESSE) and Ravens much given to croaking,
(in Ulster they're noisy, though some think they're joking),
Then Parrots are plentiful everywhere, JOE,
(They keep on repeating your chatter, you know,
As they did in the days when you railed about ransom;
But Parrots are never wise birds, JOE, though handsome);
Then Geese, Jays, and Daws; yet they're birds of a feather,
And they, my dear JOSEPH, are gathered together,
To hiss, squeal and peck at the Party they'd foil,
But who're like to secure—as you phrase it—"the spoil."
Yes, these be the birds most en évidence now;
And by Jingo, my JOE, they are raising a row.
They're full of cacophonous fuss, and loud spite;
And they don't take their licking as well as they might.
In fact, they're a rather contemptible crew;
And—well, of which species, dear JOSEPH, are you?
THE BEWILDERED TOURIST AND THE RIVAL SIRENS.
(A long way after Tennyson's "The Deserted House.")
"June and July have passed away,
Like a tide.
Doors are open, windows wide.
Why in stuffy London stay?"
Sing the Sirens (slyboots they!)
With a Tennysonian twang,
To the Tourist,
(Not the poorest
You may bet your bottom dollar,
Which those Sirens aim to "collar."
Demoiselles, excuse the slang!)
"All within is dark as night,
In Town's windows is no light,
And no caller at your door,
Swell or beggar, chum or bore!
Close the door, the shutters close,
Or thro' windows folks will see,
The nakedness and vacancy,
Of the dark deserted house!"
"Come away! no more of mirth
Is here, or merry-making sound.
The house is shut, and o'er the earth
Man roves upon the Regular Round
Come away! Life, Love, Trade, Thought,
Here no longer dwell;
Shopkeepers censorious
Sigh, "What swells would buy, they've bought.
They are off! No more we'll sell.
Would they could have stayed with us!"
"Come away!" So Sirens sing—
Sly, seducious, and skittish—
To the Tourist, wealthy, British,
When Society's on the wing,
Or should be, for "Foreign Parts."
British BULL mistrusts their arts.
"Come away!"
(One doth say),
"Our Emperor is quiet to-day!"
Cries another,
"Come, my brother,
"Avalanches down again!"
Sings a third, with beckoning fingers,
"Come, come, where the Cholera lingers."
While a fourth—is it her fun?—
With the wide blue eyes of Hope
(As though advertising Soap),
Shouts, with glee,
"Come with me,
Unto Norroway, o'er the foam,
Far from home,
Wait there to see
Our (invisible) Midnight Sun!"
BULL, the tweed-clad British Tourist,
Muses—"Home seems the securest,
On the whole. Why widely ramble,
Tramp, and climb, and spend, and gamble,
Face infection, dulness, danger,
All the woe that waits "the Stranger,"
And the Tourist (rich) environs,
At the call of foreign Sirens,
When home charmers, bright-eyed, active,
Offer "metal more attractive?"
Four such darlings who'll discover
O'er the seas? Shall I, their lover,
Still discard them for yon minxes,
Harpies with the eyes of "lynxes"?
ALBION dear, and CAMBRIA mild,
CALEDONIA stern and wild,
As your poet said, but pretty;
HIBEBNIA mavourneen, jetty-
Hair'd, and azure-eyed, I greet ye!
Darlings, I am charmed to meet ye.
Why go wandering o'er the foam,
Like a latter-day ULYSSES,
When warm charms and wooing-kisses
Of such Sirens Four wait me at home?"
UNLUCKY COMPLIMENT.
"L'HOMME PROPOSE—."
[Gentlemen are now coached "How to Propose.">[
They sat it out upon the stairs,
Those dear old stairs! Ah me; how many
A time they've cost, all unawares,
A pretty penny!
Why they were fools enough to go
To sit on stairs, and miss the fun,
Quite baffles me; but still, you know,
It has been done.
The lights were low—lights often are—
I deem the fact though worth the noting,
And strains of music from afar
Came softly floating.
So whilst she pondered what Mamma
Would think, the band commenced to play
The epidemical "Ta-ra-
ra-boom-de-ay!"
He gazed into her eyes (of blue),
Sighed once as if it hurt him badly,
Then told her how 'twas but too true
He loved her madly.
With highly creditable skill
He turned the well-worn platitude—
His own unworthiness until
You really could
Not but admire each word, each look.
His speech was quite unrivalled in its
Intensity—in fact it took
At least ten minutes.
A peroration full of flowers,
A moisture in his other eye,
And then a pause—it seemed of hours—
For her reply.
Her answer came. He thought of it,
It haunted him for long years after,
She simply burst into a fit
Of ribald laughter.
And certainly it was absurd,
She laughed till she could laugh no more;
She'd heard the same thing, to a word,
The day before.
Two tyros in the Art of Love,
Each ARABELLA's ardent suitor,
Unluckily were pupils of
The self-same tutor!
So, should you fail to understand
A maiden's answer, this may show
Why sometimes Man proposes and
The Girl says "No!"
SKIRTS AND FIGURES.—M. JACOBI, of the Alhambra, has composed a "Skirt-dance," which has recently appeared in the Figaro. That the skirts for which the Composer has written are brand-new, and require no mending, is evident from the fact that, from first to last, there is no "Skirt-sew"—in Italian, Scherzo—movement.
A ROLLICKING SHOW.
In the International Horticultural Exhibition is, as advertised, "the Kiosk of the Australian Irrigation Colonies (CHAFFEY Bros.)." What fun the CHAFFEY Brothers must make of everything in the Exhibition! As long as the other exhibitors don't mind the chaff of the CHAFFEY Brothers, all will be harmonious. No doubt, round their Kiosk there are crowds all day, in roars of laughter, at the chaffing perpetually going on. The travelling Cheap Jack, were he in the building, would have some difficulty to hold his own against even one of the CHAFFEY Brothers, but pitted against an unlimited number of CHAFFEY Brothers, for their number is not stated in the advertisement, the unfortunate Cheap Jack would not be let, off cheaply. Apart from BUFFALO BILL, whose Show with a variety of novelties, is still a very big attraction, and the other amusements, this exhibit of CHAFFEY Brothers engaged in chaff-cutting, must be about one of the most attractive things in the Horticultural. By the way, in this same advertisement, there is a mysterious announcement "Stand 48." Of course, if in addition to their entertainment, they "stand 48 "—though with this vintage we are not acquainted; perhaps it should be '84 Pommery,—then the Brothers are simply hors de concours, and competition would be hopeless.
THE VERY PLACE FOR THE NEXT SPARRING MATCH.—"Box Hill."
ON THE SANDS.
(A Sketch at Margate.)
Close under the Parade Watt a large circle has been formed, consisting chiefly of Women on chairs and camp-stools, with an inner ring of small children, who are all patiently awaiting the arrival of a troupe of Niggers. At the head of one of the flights of steps leading up to the Parade, a small and shrewish Child-nurse is endeavouring to detect and recapture a pair of prodigal younger Brothers, who have given her the slip.
Sarah (to herself). Wherever can them two plegs have got to? (Aloud; drawing a bow at a venture) ALBERT! 'ENERY! Come up 'ere this minnit. I see yer!
'Enery (under the steps—to Albert). I say—d'ye think she do?—'cos if—
Albert. Not she! Set tight. [They sit tight.]
Sarah (as before). 'ENERY! ALBERT! You've bin and 'alf killed little GEORGIE between yer!
'Enery (moved, to Albert). Did you 'ear that, BERT? It wasn't me upset him—was it now?
Albert (impenitent). 'Oo cares! The Niggers'll be back direckly.
Sarah. AL-BERT! 'ENERY! Your father's bin down 'ere once after you. You'll ketch it!
Albert (sotto voce). Not till Father ketches us, we shan't. Keep still, 'ENERY—we're all right under 'ere!
Sarah (more diplomatically). 'ENERY! ALBERT! Father's bin and left a 'ap'ny apiece for yer. Ain't yer comin' up for it? If yer don't want it, why, stay where you are, that's all!
Albert (to 'Enery). I knoo we 'adn't done nothin'. An' I'm goin' up to git that ap'ny, I am.
'Enery. So'm I. [They emerge, and ascend the steps—to be pounced upon immediately by the ingenious SARAH.
Sarah. 'Ap'ny, indeed! You won't git no 'apence 'ere, I can tell yer—so jest you come along 'ome with me!
[Exeunt ALBERT and 'ENERY, in captivity, as the Niggers enter the circle.
Bones. We shall commence this afternoon by 'olding our Grand Annual Weekly Singing Competition, for the Discouragement of Youthful Talent. Now then, which is the little gal to step out first and git a medal? (The Children giggle, but remain seated.) Not one? Now I arsk you—What is the use o' me comin' 'ere, throwin' away thousands and thousands of pounds on golden medals, if you won't take the trouble to stand up and sing for them? Oh, you'll make me so wild, I shall begin spittin' 'alf-sovereigns directly—I know I shall! (A little Girl in a sun-bonnet comes forward.) Ah, 'ere's a young lady who's bustin' with melody, I can see. Your name, my dear? Ladies and Gentleman, I have the pleasure to announce that Miss CONNIE COCKLE will now appear. Don't curtsey till the Orchestra gives the chord. (Chord from the harmonium—the Child advances, and curtsies with much aplomb.) Oh, lor! call that a curtsey—that's a cramp, that is! Do it all over again! (The Child obeys, disconcerted.) That's worse! I can see the s'rimps blushin' for yer inside their paper bags! Now see Me do it. (Bones executes a caricature of a curtsey, which the little Girl copies with terrible fidelity.) That's ladylike—that's genteel. Now sing out! (The Child sings the first verse of a popular Music-hall song, in a squeaky little voice.) Talk about nightingales! Come 'ere, and receive the reward for extinguished incapacity. On your knees! (The little Girl kneels before him while a tin medal is fastened upon her frock.) Rise, Sir CONNIE COCKLE! Oh, you lucky girl!
The Child returns, swelling with triumph, to her companions, several of whom come out, and go through the same performance, with more or less squeakiness and self-possession.
First Admiring Matron (in audience). I do like to see the children kep' out o' mischief like this, instead o' goin' paddling and messing about the sands!
Second Ad. Mat. Just what I say, my dear—they're amused and edjucated 'ow to beyave at the same time!
First Politician (with the "Standard"). No, but look here—when GLADSTONE was asked in the House whether he proposed to give the Dublin Parliament the control of the Police, what was his answer? Why....
The Niggers (striking up chorus). "Rum-tumty-diddly-umpty-doodah dey! Rum-tumty—diddly—um," was all that he could say! And the Members and the Speaker joined together in the lay. Of "Rum—tumty-diddly-umty doodah-dey!"
Second Pol. (with the "Star"). Well, and what more would you have 'ad him say? Come, now!
Alf. (who has had quite enough ale at dinner—to his fiancée). These Niggers ain't up to much, Loo. Can't sing for nuts!
Chorley (his friend—perfidiously). You'd better go in and show 'em how, old man. Me and Miss SERGE'll stay and see you take the shine out of 'em!
Alf. P'raps you think I can't. But, if I was to go upon the 'Alls now, I should make my fortune in no time! Loo's 'eard me when I've been in form, and she'll tell you—
Miss Serge. Well, I will say there's many a professional might learn a lesson from ALF—whether Mr. PERKINS believes it or not.
[Cuttingly, to "CHOH-LEY."
Chorley. Now reelly, Miss Loo, don't come down on a feller like that. I want to see him do you credit, that's all, and he couldn't 'ave a better opportunity to distinguish himself—now could he?
Miss Serge. I'm not preventing him. But I don't know—these niggers keep themselves very select, and they might object to it.
Alf. I'll soon square them. You keep your eye on me, and I'll make things a bit livelier! [He enters the Circle.
Miss Serge (admiringly). He has got a cheek, I must say! Look at him, dancing there along with those two Niggers—they don't hardly know what to make of him yet!
Chorley. Do you notice how they keep kicking him beyind on the sly like? I wonder he puts up with it!
Miss S. He'll be even with them presently—you see if he isn't.
[ALF attempts to twirl a tambourine on his finger, and lets it fall; derision from audience; Bones pats him on the head, and takes the tambourine away—at which ALF only smiles feebly.
Chorley. It's a pity he gets so 'ot dancing, and he don't seem to keep in step with the others.
Miss S. (secretly disappointed). He isn't used to doing the double-shuffle on sand, that's all.
The Conductor. Bones, I observe we have a recent addition to our Company. Perhaps he'll favour us with a solo. (Aside to Bones.) 'Oo is he? 'Oo let him in 'ere—you?
Bones. I dunno. I thought you did. Ain't he stood nothing?
Conductor. Not a brass farden!
Bones (outraged). All right, you leave him to me. (To ALF.) Kin it be? That necktie! them familiar coat-buttons! that paper-dicky! You are—you are my long-lost Convick Son, 'ome from Portland! Come to these legs! (He embraces ALF, and smothers him with kisses.) Oh, you've been and rubbed off some of your cheek on my complexion—you dirty boy! (He playfully "bashes" ALF's hat in.) Now show the comp'ny how pretty you can sing. (ALF attempts a Music-hall ditty, in which he, not unnaturally, breaks down.) It ain't my son's fault, Ladies and Gentlemen, it's all this little gal in front here, lookin' at him and makin' him shy! (To a small Child, severely.) You oughter know worse, you ought! (Clumps of sea-weed and paper-balls are thrown at ALF, who by this time is looking deplorably warm and foolish.) Oh, what a popilar fav'rite he is to be sure!
Charley (to Miss S.). Poor fellow, he ain't no match 'for those Niggers—not like he is now! Hadn't I better go to the rescue, Miss Loo?
Miss S. (pettishly). I'm sure I don't care what you do.
["CHORLEY" succeeds, after some persuasion, in removing the unfortunate ALF.
Alf. (rejoining his fiancée with a grimy face, a smashed hat, and a pathetic attempt at a grin). Well? I done it, you see!
Miss S. (crushingly). Yes, you have done it! And the best thing you can do now, is to go home and wash your face. I don't care to be seen about with a laughing-stock, I can assure you! I've had my dignity lowered quite enough as it is!
Alf. But look 'ere, my dear girl, I can't leave you here all by yourself, you know!
Miss S. I daresay Mr. PERKINS will take care of me.
[Mr. P. assents, with effusion.
Alf. (watching them move away—with bitterness). I wish all Niggers were put down by Act of Parliament, I do! Downright noosances—that's what they are!
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
Ulysses has been travelling again, and the record of his journeyings is set forth in The Modern Odyssey, which CASSELL & Co. publish in one volume, with some charming illustrations in callotype.
My Baronite notes a quaint disposition on the part of the old gentleman to begin at the very beginning. Thus, when he lands in New York, he furnishes a brief account of COLUMBUS, and how he came to discover America. The early history of Australia, and eke of China, are dealt with in the same instructive manner. This is all very well for ULYSSES, who comes fresh on the scene, and learns for the first time all about the Genoese, about Captain COOK, and how "a little more than a century ago eleven ships sailed from England," anchored in the Bay where now Sydney stands, and—strange to say!—did not find a populous city, but only green fields and a river running into the sea. Pour nous autres, age has somewhat withered the bloom of this story, and it might have been left peacefully slumbering in the Encyclopædias. But it can be skipped, and, for the rest, there will be found a swift succession of pictures of life and scenery in the Greater Britain that girdles the world. ULYSSES must have been much struck with the change since he first went a gipsying. But of that he discreetly says nothing.
BARON DE BOOK-WORMS & Co.
WE'VE GOT OUR LYNX EYE ON HIM!—In the Times' legal reports for Tuesday, July 26, 1892, Queen's Bench Division, Colonel FITZGEORGE sued a Mr. ROLLS CALVERT LINK. Mr. CANNOT defended LINK. But CANNOT Could Not do much for his client LINK, who did not appear. Evidently, "The Missing Link."
"COURT ON!"
The "Triple Bill" still going strong at the Court. The New Sub, a smartly-written little One-Act Play, by SEYMOUR HICKS, notable for good performance all round, but especially for the rendering of Mrs. Darlington, by Miss GERTRUDE KINGSTON, of Major Ensor, by BRANDON THOMAS, and of Second-Lieutenant Darlington, by Mr. ERNEST BERTRAM—uncommonly Earnest BERTRAM. The Scene is in a Hut at Shorncliffe. Hutcætera. If Lieutenant Crookendon's catch—phrase about "a funny world" were repeated just about five times less frequently than it is, the piece, the part, and the public would be distinctly gainers.
At 9:10, appears Faithful James, represented by Mr. WEEDON GROSSMITH. It is a finished and quietly droll performance. The author, Mr. B.C. STEPHENSON ("B.C." makes him quite a classic—date uncertain, so his plot may have been done in collaboration, with PLAUTUS or TERENCE) has reproduced from the French a neatly-constructed One-Act piece, in which are all the possibilities of a Three-Act Criterion or Palais Royal Farcical Comedy. So rapid is the action, all over in about forty-five minutes, and so much to the point of the plot is the dialogue, that an inattentive auditor would soon lose the thread of the argument, never to pick it up again anywhere. Miss ELLALINE TERRIS is just that very Mrs. Duncan. BRANDON THOMAS is a breezy, brusque, and Admirable Admiral; and Mr. DRAYCOTT a hearty husband, very much in love with his pretty little wife. Mr. LITTLE makes much, perhaps almost a Little too much, of his small but essentially important part,—they are all important parts,—and of Miss SYBIL GREY can be said "Nous savons Gré à Mlle. Sybil." Mr. SIDNEY WARDEN's Character Sketch of the young and rather raw German Waiter, is excellent; the Waiter being "raw," is not overdone. Not a dull second in the farce. Will our B.C. Author give us some of his adaptations from PLAUTUS, TERENCE (some good old Irish plots of course, in the writings of this author), and a few other ancients with whom he was, it is most probable, personally and intimately acquainted. To think that the Wandering Jew, who can only sign himself "A.D.", is "not in it" in point of time with our STEPHENSON "B.C."!
After this comes the Pantomime Rehearsal, which everybody should see, and which nearly everybody must have seen by this time. Success to the Triple Bill, which, in the political world, might mean Sir WILLIAM HARCOURT and WILLIAM GLADSTONE, the latter WILLIAM "counting two on a division."
EXACT.—"He is something in the Church," said Mrs. R., trying to describe the social position of a clerical friend of hers. "I forget what it is, but it's a something like 'Dromedary;' only, you needn't smile, of course I know it couldn't be that, as a Dromedary has two humps on his back. Or, stop!" she exclaimed, suddenly, "am I confusing him with a Minor Camel?"
