PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 103.
October 15, 1892.
'ARRY AT 'ARRYGATE.
(Second Letter.)
DEAR CHARLIE,—The post-mark, no doubt, will surprise you. I'm still at the "Crown,"
Though I said in my last—wot wos true—I was jest on the mizzle for town.
'Ad a letter from nunky, old man, with another small cheque. Good old nunk!
So I'm in for a fortnit' more sulphur and slosh, afore doing a bunk.
Ah! I've worked it, my pippin, I've worked it; gone in for hexcursions all round,
To Knaresborough, Bolton, and Fountains. You know, dear old pal, I'll be bound,
As hantiquities isn't my 'obby, and ruins don't fetch me, not much!
I can't see their "beauty," no more than the charms of some dowdy old Dutch.
A Castle, all chunnicks of stone, or a Habbey, much out of repair,
A skelinton Banquetting 'All, and a bit of a broken-down stair,
May appear most perticular "precious" to them as the picteresk cops;
But give me the sububs and stucco, smart villas, and spick-and-span shops.
"Up to date" is our siney quay non in these days. Fang der sickle, yer know.
Wich is French for the same, I persoom, and them phrases is now all the go.
Find 'em sprinkled all over the papers; in politics, fashion, or art,
If you carnt turn 'em slick round yer tongue, you ain't modern, or knowing, or smart.
Still a houting to Bolton ain't bad when the charry-bang's well loaded up
With swell seven-and-sixpence-a-headers. I felt like a tarrier-pup
On the scoop arter six weeks of kennel and drench in the 'ands of a vet;
I'd got free of the brimstoney flaviour and went it accordin', you bet!
'Ad a day at a village called Birstwith. The most tooralooralest scene,
'Oiler down among 'ills, dontcher know, ancient trees and a jolly big green.
Reglar old Rip-van-Winkleish spot, sech as CALDECOTT ought to ha' sketched.
Though I ain't noways nuts on the pastoral, even Yours Truly wos fetched.
Pooty sight and no error, old pal! 'Twos a grand "Aughticultural Show,"
So the "Progrum of Sports" told the public. Fruit, flowers, and live poultry, yer know.
Big markee and a range of old 'en-coops, sports, niggers, a smart local band,
Cottage gardemn', cheese, roosters, and races! Rum mix, but I gave it a 'and.
I do like to hencourage the joskins. One thing though, wos fiddle-de-dee,
They 'ad a "Refreshment Tent," CHARLIE. 'Oh my! Ginger-ale and weak tea!
Nothink stronger, old pal, s'elp me bob! Fancy me flopping down on a form
A-munching plum-putty, and lapping Bohea as wos not even warm!
This 'ere 'Arrygate's short of amusements. There's niggers and bands on the "Stray"
(Big lumpy old field in a 'ole, wich if properly managed might pay.)
Mysterious Minstrels with masks on, a bleating contralto in black,
With a orful tremoler, my pippin!—yus, these are the pick of the pack.
Bit sick of "Ta-ra-ra" and "Knocked 'em;" "Carissimar" gives me the 'ump,
For I 'ear it some six times per morning; and then there's a footy old pump
Blows staggery toons on a post-'orn for full arf a-hour each day,
To muster the mugs for a coach-drive. My heye and a bandbox, it's gay!
At the "Crown" we git up little barnies, to eke out the 'Arrygate lot,
For even the Spa's a bit samesome for six times a week when it's 'ot;
Though they do go it pooty permiskus with pickter-shows, concerts, and such;
Yus, I must say they ladles it out fair and free, for a sixpenny touch.
But even yer Fancy Dress Balls, and yer lectures by ANNIE BESANT,
All about Hastral Bodies and Hether, seems not always quite wot yer want
To wile away time arter dinner. So thanks to that gent—six-foot-four!—
Who fair cuts the record as Droring-Room M.C.—of course hammytoor.
Then we've conjurors, worblers, phrenologists! One 'ad a go at my chump.
'E touzled my 'air up tremenjus, and said I'd no hend of a bump
Of somethink he called "Happrybativeness." Feller meant well, I suppose,
But I didn't quite relish his smile, nor his rummy remarks on my nose.
When a tall gurl as pooty as paint, and with cheeks like a blush—rose in bloom,
'As 'er lamps all a-larf on yer face, and a giggle goes round the whole room,
'Tisn't nice to sit square on a chair, with a feller a-sharpening 'is wit
On your nob, and a rumpling your 'air till it's like a birch-broom in a fit!
One caper we 'ad, on the lawn, wos a spree and no error, old man.
They call it a "Soap-Bubble Tournyment." Soapsuds, a pipe, and a fan,
Four six—foot posts stuck in the ground with a tape run around—them's the "props,"
And lawn-tennis ain't in it for larks. Oh, the ladies did larf, though tip-tops!
Bit sniffy fust off. "Oh!" sez they, "wot a most hintellectual game!"
But I noticed that them as sneered most wos most anxious to win, all the same,
The gent he stands slap in the middle, and tries to blow bubbles like fun,
Wich his pardner fans over the tape; don't it jest keep the girls on the run!
Every bubble as crosses the tape afore busting counts one to that pair,
And the pair as counts most wins the prize. They are timed by a hegg-boiler. There!
It wos all a pantermime, CHARLIE, to see 'ow them gurls scooted round,
Jest like Japanese jugglers, a-fanning the bubbles, as would 'ug the ground.
Some gents wos fair frosts at the bizness; one good-'earted trim little toff
Would blow with the bowl wrong end uppards. His pardner went pink and flounced off.
He gurgled away like a babe with a pap-bottle, guggle—gug—gug!
And I 'eard 'er a-giving 'im beans as 'e mizzled, much down in the mug.
Owsomever, it ain't for amusements as 'Arrygate lays itself hout;
So, dear boy, it's for doses and douches; and there it scores freely, no doubt,
Wy, there's thirty-two Springs in the Bog Field—a place like a graveyard gone wrong—
Besides Starbeck, the Tewit, and others, all narsty, and most on 'em strong.
Since Sir SLINGSBY discovered the first one, now close on three cent'ries ago,
Wot a lush of mixed mineral muck these 'ere 'Arrygate Springs 'ave let flow!
Well, ere's bully for Brimstone, my bloater, and 'ooray for 'Arrygate air!
Wich 'as done me most good I don't know, and I'm scorched if I very much care!
I know 'Arrygate girls cop the biscuit for beauty. They've cheeks like the rose,
Their skin is jest strorberries and cream; it's the sulphur, dear boy, I suppose.
As for me, I look yaller as taller alongside 'em CHARLIE, wus luck!
I 'eard one call me saffron-faced sparrer, and jest as I thought 'er fair struck.
I'd nail 'em, in time, I've no doubt, when I once got the 'ang of their style.
There's a gal at the Montpellier Baths. Scissoree! 'ow I've tried for a smile,
When she tips me my tannersworth! Shucks! she's as orty and stiff as yer please.
Primrose Dames isn't in it for snubs with these arrygant 'Arrygatese!
But I reckon my "Douche" is now due. Doctor BLACK's that pertikler, old man.
These 'Arrygate doctors 'ave progrums—you've got to pan out to their plan.
Up early, two swigs afore breakfust, and tubs when they tell yer's the rule.
Well, the feller as flies to a Sawbones, and don't toe the line is a fool.
Reglar Doctor-Shop, 'Arrygate is; see their photos all over the town.
Mine is doing me dollups of good; I'm quite peckish, and jest a bit brown.
I'm making the most of my time, and a-laying in all I can carry.
So 'ere ends this budget of brimstone and baths from your sulphur-soaked
'ARRY.
A FROG HE WOULD A-ROWING GO!
A Sad Song of the International Boat Race.
(With Mr. Punch's cordial Compliments to the victorious French Eight.) AIR—"A Frog he would a-Wooing go."
A FROGGIE would a-rowing go,
Heigho for Rowing!
To see if Big BULLIE could lick him or no;
With his boating form that's all gammon and spinach.
Heigho for British Rowing!
So off he set with his boating-cap,
Heigho for Rowing!
And swore at Big BULL he would just have a slap!
Which BULL declared was all gammon and spinach!
Heigho for British Rowing!
"Pray, Mr. BULL, will you race with me?"
Heigho for Rowing!
Says BULL, "If you like, but 'tis fiddle-de-dee!
For FROG against BULL is all gammon and spinach."
Heigho for British Rowing!
When they came to Andresy upon the Seine,
Heigho for Rowing!
Big BULL pulled his hardest, but pulled in vain,
For he found his boasts were all gammon and spinach.
Heigho for British Rowing!
For in spite of the brag, and the bounce, and the chaff,
Heigho for Rowing!
The FROG beat the BULL by a length and a half,
With your MOSSOP and JAMES, licked by BOUDIN and CUZIN,
Heigho, says R.C. LEHMANN!
"Pray, Mr. BULL, do you relish the spin?"
Heigho for Rowing!
(Said FROGGIE.) "And were you cocksure you would win,
With your forty-one strokes all sheer gammon and spinach?"
Heigho for British Rowing!
"Humph! Regular take-down!" said Big Mr. BULL—
Heigho for Rowing!
"But, FROGGIE or not, by the lord you can pull,
With your much-decried 'hang,'—'twas all gammon and spinach!
Heigho for British Rowing!"
"Ha! Ha!" cried the FROG, "the old fable, thought true"—
Heigho for Rowing!
"Is out of date now. I'm as big, BULL, as you,
As an oarsman, which is not all gammon and spinach!"
Heigho for British Rowing.
So that in the end (for the present), you see,
Heigho for Rowing!
Of the race between Big BULL and Little FROGGIE.
BULL's fame, in a boat, seems all gammon and spinach.
Heigho for British Rowing!
LOOKING AHEAD.
Miss Golightly (the Friend of the Family, and to whom Sir Percy (the elder) has proposed). "OF COURSE I'M AWFULLY OBLIGED, SIR PERCY—BUT, SAY NOW, DON'T YOU THINK THERE WOULD BE SOME DANGER OF MY FALLING IN LOVE WITH YOUR ELDEST SON?"
MR. CHAUNCEY DEPEW, the well-known American lawyer, wonders why on earth the British Government has not long ago given Home Rule to Ireland. He encourages Mr. G.'s Ministry to do their best in this direction, and chaunce-y it. We're always delighted to welcome Mr. CHAUNCEY DEPEW in England, so let him come over with a Depewtation to Mr. G. on the subject.
EQUESTRIAN FRUIT.—At the Horticultural Show the Baroness BURDETT-COUTTS exhibited a "Cob of ADAM's Early Maize." No particulars are given. Was it 14'1 and a weight-carrier? Being ADAM's, it must be about the oldest in the world. "Maize" may be a misprint for "Mews." Next time the Baroness must send a pear.
PROBABLE DEDUCTION.—A pertinacious Salvation Army Captain was worrying a Scotch farmer, whom he had met in the train, with perpetual inquiries as to whether "he had been born again of Water and the Spirit?" At last, McSANDY replied, "Aweel, I dinna reetly ken how that may be, but my good old feyther and mither took their toddy releegiously every nicht, the noo."
THE AUSTRO-GERMAN OFFICER'S VADE-MECUM.
Q. You have heard of the Ride from Berlin to Vienna, and vice versâ?
A. Yes; and of the mishaps that befell many of the competitors.
Q. You mean their horses?
A. What applies to the one applies to the other.
Q. Some of the poor steeds died on the journey?
A. I daresay—of course, it was hard work.
Q. And you have read that, even when the poor horses were fainting and refusing food, the riders still went on?
A. Of course. The riders had magnificent pluck and nerve.
Q. What, to observe the anguish of their chargers without emotion?
A. No! The idea! I mean they had pluck and nerve in spite of all discouragement to push on to the winning-post.
Q. And what do you think this breaking down of the horses proved?
A. That, after all, the creatures were brutes—only brutes!
Q. Does not the suffering of these brutes suggest—
A. That the riders were brutes too?—Ah!
[No further question put, the Answerer having mastered the subject.
IN EXCELSIS.—No better example of the methods employed by Vivisectionists could be given than was presented at the Church Congress last week, where in debate on this subject they were all engaged in cutting up one another. The Bishop of EDINBURGH, denouncing the morality of the Bishop of MANCHESTER and of Bishop BARRY, was a rare sight. His Lordship said that the morality of these two Bishops was "up in a balloon." Well, surely this is morality of the most elevated description. These Bishops are not "in partibus," but in nubibus.
IN WATER COLOURS.—The East London Waterworks Company had a very successful meeting the other day. Inter alia the Chairman said, that "the Waltham Well is a complete success." Ergo let Well alone. That from this source they still supplied "36 gallons per head." The heads must be uncommonly hard to stand all this water on the brain. A dividend of eight per cent. is, after all, a very pleasant draught.
"GREEN THE GUIDE."
(A Sketch on a "Royal Blue" Car at Jersey.)
On the Car is, among others, an Elderly Gentleman, in a tall hat, with a quantity of wraps; a Stout Shopkeeper, with a stouter Wife; a Serious Commercial Traveller, and a couple of young "Shop-ladies"; a Morose Young Man, who has "got out of bed the wrong side" that morning, and another, who has begun his potations rather early, and is in the muzzily talkative mood. The Car is one of a long string of similar vehicles, and is proceeding at a rapid rate along one of the winding roads.
The Muzzy Man. Frivolous, am I? Well, we came 'ere to be frivolous—to a certain extent. Am I out of the way in anything I've said? Because I woke this morning with a dry month, and I don't mind saying I've had a little drop o' brandy since.
His Neighbour. You might let people find out that for themselves, I should think!
The Muzzy M. No—I like to be honest and straightforward, I do. I don't want to be out of the way, you understand.
The Shopkeeper's Wife (to her Neighbour). This is a pretty part of the road we're on now—but, lor! there's nothing 'ere to come up to the Isle of Man. Douglas, now—that is a nice place, with all them Music Halls! And the scenery—why, I'm sure I felt sometimes as if I must stop, just to look at it!
The Muzzy Man. I consider scenery we're coming to most beautiful I've seen for—for miles around. [He goes to sleep.
The Shopkeeper (to the Elderly G., who is shifting and turning about uneasily). Lost anything, Sir?
The E.G. No—thank you, no. I was looking to see whether GREEN the Guide was on the car. (Shouts of laughter are heard from the car behind.) Ah, that's GREEN the Guide! I wish he'd come on our oar—very amusing fellow, Sir—capital company!
The Morose M. (to the Young Lady 'on his Left) Who's GREEN the Guide?
The Y.L. Oh, don't you know? He comes with the cars and makes jokes and all that. I hope he'll come to us.
The Mor. M. I don't. I can do that sort of thing for myself if I want to, I hope. [With a scowl.
The Y.L. Well, there's no harm in hoping!
The Serious Comm. T. (to his neighbour—one of the Shop-ladies). So you come from Birmingham? Dear me, now. I used to be there very often on business at one time. Do you know the Rev. Mr. PODGER there? A good old gentleman, he is. I used to attend his Chapel regular—most improving discourses he used to give us. I am fond of a good Sermon, aren't you? &c.
[He imagines—not altogether correctly—that he is producing an agreeable impression.
A Young Man in a Frock-coat, Canvas-shoes, and Cloth-cap. Scarborough? Yes, I've been there—but I don't care about it much. You have to dress such a lot there, y' know, and I like to come out just as I am!
[The conversation, notwithstanding its brilliancy, is beginning to flag—when the car is boarded by a stalwart good-looking man, carrying a banjo, and wearing a leather shoulder-belt with "GREEN the Guide" in brass letters upon it; the Elderly Gentleman, and most of the Ladies welcome him with effusion, while the Younger Men appear to resent his appearance.
The Mor. M. (sotto voce). If he's going to play that old instrument of torture, I shall howl, that's all!
Green the Guide (in a deep baritone voice). Well, Ladies and Gentlemen, I congratulate you upon having a fine day for our excursion. My glass went up three feet this morning.
The Morose Man (aggressively). Was there whiskey inside it?
Green the Guide. No, Sir, it would have gone down suddenly if there had been. (The Elderly G. asks for a song.) I shall be delighted to entertain you to the best of my ability. What would you like to have?
The Mor. M. None of your songs—give us an imitation—of a deaf and dumb man.
Green the G. (with perfect good-humour). I shall be happy to do the deaf man, Sir,—if you'll help me by doing the dumb. (The Mor. M. begins to feel that he had better leave GREEN the Guide alone.) Well, Ladies and Gentlemen, I'll sing you a good old-fashioned hunting-song, and I'll ask you to join me in the Chorus.
[He sings "We'll all go out hunting to-day!"
The Mor. M. (after the First Verse). The beggar don't sing so badly. I will say that for him! (After the Third.) Capital voice he has! Rattling good Chorus, too! "Join the glad throng that goes laughing along, and we'll all go a-hunting to-day!" (At the end.) Bravo! encore! encore!
[His good-humour is suddenly and miraculously restored.
Green the G. (in a tone of instruction). You will notice that the thistle is very abundant just here, Ladies and Gentlemen. The reason of that, is that some years ago a vessel was wrecked on this part of the coast which was sailing from Scotland with a cargo of thistledown. (Outcry of incredulity.) If you don't believe me, ask the Coachman.
The Coachman (stolidly). It's a fact, Gentlemen, I assure you.
G. the G. The soil of Jersey is remarkably productive; if you plant a sixpence, it will come up a shilling in no time. The cabbages on this island grow to an extraordinary height, frequently attaining twenty feet—(outcry)—yes, if you measure up one side, and down the other. (They pass a couple of sheep on a slope.) The finest flock of sheep in the island. The dark one is not black, only a little sunburnt. The house you see on that hill over there was formerly slept in by CHARLES THE SECOND. He left a pair of slippers behind him—which have since grown into top-boots. There you see the only windmill in this part of the island—there used to be three, but it was found there was not enough wind for them all. From here you have a clear view of the coast of France; and, when the wind is blowing in this direction, you have an excellent opportunity of acquiring the French accent in all its purity. (This string of somewhat hoary chestnuts meets with a success beyond their intrinsic merits, the Morose Man being as much entertained as anybody.) On your right is an inland lake of fresh water—
The Muzzy Man (waking up with sudden interest). Can you drink it with perfect impunity?
G. the G. Depends how far you are accustomed to it as a beverage, Sir. (The car stops at an hotel.) We stop here two hours, Ladies and Gentlemen, to enable you to lunch, and examine the caves afterwards. You can leave anything you like on the cars except five-pound notes—and they might get blown away!
On the Way Home.
The Shopkeeper's Wife (to her Husband). Ah, TOM, it's just as well you stayed behind—you'd never have got through those caves! You wouldn't believe I could ha' done it unless you'd seen me—clambering down iron ladders, and jumping on to rocks, and squeezing through tunnels, and then up a cliff like the side of a house. I do wish you could ha' seen me, TOM!
Tom (philosophically). Ah, well, I was very comfortable where I was, settin' in the hotel room there, smoking my pipe. GREEN the Guide gave us, "Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep," in first-rate style—he is a singer, and no mistake!
His Wife. Lor, I wish I'd known he was going to sing—I'd ha' stayed too! But here he is, waiting by the road for us—I do hope he's going to sing again!
Green the G. (mounting the car). I fear I am an unwelcome visitor.
The Eld. G. (graciously). It would be the first time in your life then, GREEN!
G. the G. Well, the fact is, I come to levy a little contribution on behalf of myself and the Coachman. Times are hard, Gentlemen, and both of us have large families to support. If you don't believe me, ask the Coachman. (The Elderly G. explains that his wrappings prevent him from getting at his purse just then, while the others contribute with more or less readiness and liberality.) Many thanks. Ladies and Gentlemen, on behalf of myself and the Coachman, and to express my sense of your generosity, I will sing you the great Jersey National Song, composed by myself, before leaving. (He sings a ditty with the following spirited Chorus):—
There the streets are paved with granite. So neat and clean
And lots of pretty, witty girls, are always to be seen!
With the brave old Mi-litia, Our foes to defy!
And there they grow the Cabba-ges—Ten feet high!
(All together, Gentlemen, please!) Yes, there they grow the Cabbages, there they grow the Cabbages, there they grow the Cabbages—Ten feet high!
Thank you, Gentlemen, I've sung that song a number of times, and I never remember hearing the chorus better sung. If you don't believe me, ask the Coachman.
Coachman. I've never 'eard it better sung, Ladies and Gentlemen, I assure you.
[GREEN the Guide descends in a blaze of popularity, and the "Royal Blue" rolls on in excellent spirits.
POLITICAL TRAINING.
Monday.—Read Mr. CHAMBERLAIN's remarks on abstinence from bodily exercise. Sold my bicycle, and gave away all my rackets, bats, &c. Resolved to follow the latest system. Shall doubtless, by these means, reach Mr. C.'s high position as a statesman and orator. Went out in a Bath-chair. Five minutes after starting, man said he was not accustomed to drag so heavy an invalid, and must rest a little. Tried a speech—my maiden one—on the Disadvantages of Bodily Exercise. He listened respectfully, and, when at last I had finished, said he quite agreed with me, and that the fare was seven shillings.
Tuesday.—Have decided that exercise in a Bath-chair is quite superfluous. Resolved to take exercise, for the future, in a hammock, just outside the garden-door. Must practise speech-making to the gardener. Good idea—Orchids. Asked him what he thought about the new Orchid. Miserable fool answered, "Awkud, zur? Dunno waht thaht be." I said that was "awkud," and had to laugh at the highly original side-splitter myself, as he never saw it.
Wednesday.—Must really give up this long walk to the garden-door. Shall never become a great statesman unless I do. Resolved to take exercise in arm-chair in library. The children's governess came in to fetch a book. Addressed her at some length on Free Education. Afterwards, thought this subject was somewhat ill-chosen, as her salary is so small.
Thursday.—Really cannot stand this walking up and down stairs. Shall remain for the future in my bed-room and take exercise on sofa by fireside, as I feel chilly. Page came in with coals. Reminded me of Policy of Scuttle. Spoke of this at some length, and woke him up with difficulty when I had finished. Felt rather unwell.
Friday.—Dressing and undressing is certainly needless fatigue, and evidently causes this headache and general seediness. Shall take exercise in bed. Felt worse. Female relatives anxious, and insist on medical attendance. Assured them I was following the best system, and answered their persistent demands by a short address on Home Rule.
Saturday.—Felt so bad at five this morning, that Doctor was fetched. Tried feebly to address him on the Eight Hours' Question, when he said he never had any time to think how long he worked. Explained my new system to him. He said I should myself want a new system to stand such a course of treatment. Then he pulled me out of bed, and insisted on my walking ten miles as soon as I was dressed. Felt much better. Shall abandon politics and become a farmer, having just heard of an infallible system for growing wheat profitably.
THE "RESTORATION" PERIOD.—Will the Chairmen of the L.C. & D. and the S.E. Lines unite their forces? After the meeting on this subject last week, Sir EDWARD will have lots of reason to listen to. But apart from every consideration of mal de mer, and "From Calais to Dover," as the poet sings "'Tis soonest over," there is not anywhere a better, and we, who have suffered as greatly as the much-enduring Ulysses, venture to assert not anywhere as good a luncheon as at the "Restauration" (well it deserves the title!) of the Calais Station. Every patriotic travelling Englishman must be delighted to think that some few centuries ago we gave up Calais. Had it been nowadays in English hands, why it might even now be possessed of a "Refreshment Room" no better than—any on our side of the Channel, for there is no necessity to particularise. From Dover to Calais is the shortest and best restorative'd route for the traveller, whether ill or well, at sea.
MOTTOES for the new Lord MAYOR. "Nil obstet," "Nil fortius," and, from HORACE, "Nil amplius oro." This, in answer to thousands of correspondents, is our last word on the subject; so after this (except on the 9th of November), we say—nil.
SUCH A "LIGHT OPERA!"
"Christmas is comin'!"
The McClown of McClown dancing.
The Reel Hit of the Opera.
Had Sir ARTHUR written the music for The Mountebanks, and Sir BRIAN DE BOIS GILBERT the book of Haddon Hall, both might have been big successes So, however, it was not to be, and Sir ARTHUR chose this book by Mr. GRUNDY, which labours under the disadvantages of being original, and of not owing almost everything to a French source. It isn't every day of the week that Mr. GRUNDY tumbles upon A Pair of Spectacles in a volume of French plays. The period to which the very slight and uninteresting story of Haddon Hall belongs is just before the Restoration, but the dialogue of "the book" is spiced with modern slang, both "up to date" (the date being this present year of Grace, not sixteen hundred and sixty) and out of date. The "out-of-date" slang, which is, "I've got 'em on"—alluding to the Scotchman's trousers—has by far the best of it, as it comes at the end of the piece, and enjoys the honour of having been set to music by the variously-gifted Composer: so that "I've got 'em on," with its enthusiastically treble-encored whiskey fling, capitally danced by Miss NITA COLE as Nance, with Mr. DENNY as The McCrankie, may be considered as the real hit of the evening, having in itself about as much to do with whatever there is of the plot as would have the entrance of Mr. JOEY GRIMALDI, in full Clown's costume, with "Here we are again!" Of the music, as there was very little to catch and take away, one had to leave it. Of course this seriously comic or comically serious Opera is drawing—["Music," observes Mr. WAGG, parenthetically, "cannot be drawing">[—and will continue to do so for some little time, long enough at all events to reimburse Mr. D'OYLY CARTE for his more than usually lavish outlay on the mise-en-scène.
In the Second Act, the mechanical change from the exterior of Haddon Hall to the interior, must be reckoned as among the most effective transformations ever seen on any stage. It would be still more so if the time occupied in making it were reduced one-half, and the storm in the orchestra, and the lightning seen through black gauze on stage were omitted. The lightning frightens nobody, only amuses a few, and in itself is no very great attraction. Even if these flashes were a very striking performance; no danger to the audience need be apprehended from it, seeing that Mr. CELLIER is in front as "Conductor." Perhaps Mr. D'OYLY CARTE, noticing that Mr. GRUNDY calls his piece "a light Opera," thought that, as it wasn't quite up to this description, it would be as well if the required "light'ning" were brought in somewhere, and so he introduced it here. If this be so, it is about the only flash of genius in the performance.
POST-PRANDIAL PESSIMISTS.
First Decadent (M.A. Oxon.). "AFTER ALL, SMYTHE, WHAT WOULD LIFE BE WITHOUT COFFEE?"
Second Decadent (B.A. Camb.). "TRUE, JEOHNES, TRUE! AND YET, AFTER ALL, WHAT IS LIFE WITH COFFEE?"
"CROSSING THE BAR."
IN MEMORIAM.
Alfred Lord Tennyson.
Born, August 5, 1809. Died, October 6, 1892.
"TALIESSEN is our fullest throat of song."—The Holy Grail.
Our fullest throat of song is silent, hushed
In Autumn, when the songless woods are still,
And with October's boding hectic flushed
Slowly the year disrobes. A passionate thrill
Of strange proud sorrow pulses through the land,
His land, his England, which he loved so well:
And brows bend low, as slow from strand to strand
The Poet's passing bell
Sends forth its solemn note, and every heart
Chills, and sad tears to many an eyelid start.
Sad tears in sooth! And yet not wholly so.
Exquisite echoes of his own swan-song
Forbid mere murmuring mournfulness; the glow
Of its great hope illumes us. Sleep, thou strong
Full tide, as over the unmeaning bar
Fares this unfaltering darer of the deep,
Beaconed by a Great Light, the pilot-star
Of valiant souls, who keep
Through the long strife of thought-life free from scathe
The luminous guidance of the larger faith.
No sadness of farewell? Great Singer, crowned
With lustrous laurel, facing that far light,
In whose white radiance dark seems whelmed and drowned,
And death a passing shade, of meaning slight;
Sunset, and evening star, and that clear call,
The twilight shadow, and the evening bell,
Bring naught of gloom for thee. Whate'er befall
Thou must indeed fare well.
But we—we have but memories now, and love