PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 104
January 7th, 1893.
LONDON:
PUBLISHED AT THE OFFICE, 85, FLEET STREET,
AND SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.
1893.
LONDON:
BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
SCENE—The Elysian Fields, a flower-gemmed bank, by a flowing stream, beneath the sylvan shade of unfading foliage.
Mr. Punch—who is free of all places, from Fleet Street to Parnassus—discovered, in Arcadian attire, attempting "numerous verse" on a subject of National importance—to wit, the approaching Royal Marriage.
Mr. Punch. Propt on this "bank of amaranth and moly,"
Beneath the shade of boughs unmelancholy,
I meditate on Æstas and on Hymen!
Pheugh! What a Summer! Torrid drought doth try men,—
And fields and farms; yet when our Royal May
Weds—in July—'tis fit that Phoebus stay
His fiery car to welcome her! By Jove,
That sounds Spenserian! Illustrious Love
Epithalamion demands, and lo!
We've no official Laureate, to let flow,
With Tennysonian dignity and sweetness,
Courtly congratulation. Dryden's neatness,
Even the gush of Nahum Tate or Pye
Are not available, so Punch must try
His unofficial pen. My tablets, Toby!
This heat's enough to give you hydrophoby!
Talk about Dog-days! Is that nectar iced?
Then just one gulp! It beats the highest priced
And creamiest champagne. Now, silence, Dog,
And let me give my lagging Muse a jog!
[Writes, with one eye on the portraits of the Duke of York and the Princess May, the other on the iced nectar-cup.
Humph! I do hope the happy Royal Pair
(Whose counterfeit presentments front me there,
Inspiring, in young manhood and frank beauty)
Will think their Laureate hath fulfilled his duty,
His labour of most loyal love, discreetly.
Compliments delicate, piled not sickly-sweetly,
Like washy Warton's, nor so loud thrasonical—
Like Glorious John's—that they sound half ironical!
'Tis hard indeed for loyal love to hit
The medium just 'twixt sentiment and wit——
[Toby barks, and a mellifluous voice soundeth, courteously intervenient, as two splendid Shades steal silently through the verdurous shadows.
First Voice. But you have hit it, never-missing-One!
Second Voice. For fulsome twaddle finds best check in Fun!
Mr. Punch (with respectful heartiness).
What! Sweet-voiced Chivalrous-souled Sidney!!
This is a joy! For heroes of your kidney
Punch hath a heartier homage, as he hopes,
Than the most thundering Swinburnian tropes
Could all express!
Spenser (smiling mildly).
Algernon's one of Us!
In fierce superlatives, and foam and fuss,
He deals o'ermuch, but proof lies in his page.
He 's of the true Parnassian lineage,
And should be Laureate—if he care to be so.
Sidney.
Would he but heed what Horace wrote to Piso!
"The singing-skill of god Apollo's giving"
Is his, however, and no lyrist living
Hath such a stretch of finger, or such tone.
Mr. Punch.
Faith, but he sings immortal Fames—your own,
My Philip, latest and not least—in strains
That thrill our nerves and mount into our brains.
If he would study less in Gosson's "School"
(That of "Abuse," o'er which you laid the rule
In your "Defence of Poesy"), and stay
Less in dim Orcus than Arcadia,
Then—well, I might have well been spared this task.
Spenser, you penned your own; now may I ask
Epithalamion-recipes from you?
Spenser (smiling).
Yes—when you need them! I was Laureate too!
There's enough inspiration in those faces
[Pointing to portraits of the Duke of York and the Princess May.
To bring the needful Muses, and the Graces,
All to your aid!
Mr. Punch.
By Jove! That "takes the cake."
You great Elizabethans had the knack
Of courtly compliment. Young George, fair May,
Shall have your mot upon their marriage day,
As a choice wedding gift, to pair with mine!
Spenser and Sidney (together). What's that?
Mr. Punch (politely).
One you may share, if you incline.
Tobias, hand the new-bound Oracle here!
Take it, brave Sidney, take it, Spenser dear!
It may enliven e'en this amaranth shore;
It is my new
"APPARENT FAILURE."
["The Private View was not a success.... The dresses which we noticed were very ordinary indeed."—"Art Notes" in a Ladies' Paper.]
Not a success—for every toilet there
Was commonplace and stupid, more or less;
A fact which clearly made the whole affair,
Not a success.
"Were not the pictures good?" Well, we confess
We know not, neither do we greatly care;
As writers for the fashionable Press,
Artistic knowledge falls not to our share;
We saw no novelties in hat or dress;
Therefore the Show is plainly, we declare,
"Not a success."
"LIGHT AND LEADING."
"Bang went Sax-pence!"—À propos of the New Coinage, the Pall Mall Gazette is our authority for saying, that "The design for the reverse of the half-crown has been prepared by Mr. Brock." Brock is a name hitherto associated in the popular mind with fireworks; and if the work be entrusted to this cunning artificer, he will make the New Coinage go off splendidly. He has, we believe, already submitted illuminated designs to the Queen.
The Kendals are announced to appear at the Avenue Theatre. They start with A White Lie. This is the truth. Free admissions will not be heard of, except when they give A Scrap of Paper. They are also going to produce a new play entitled, Prince Karatoff. The plot, to judge by the name, will be of interest to Vegetarians, as it is whispered that the hero, Prince Karatoff, falls in love with Princess Turnipon.
Curiously Appropriate Conjunction of Names.—On Friday last the Times published an important letter on a certain fishery. The fish was the Salmon, and the writer of the letter was Ffennell. We do not remember ever having seen Salmon on table without Ffennell, which is a fanciful way of spelling it. All information concerning Salmon may now be obtained from a "Ffennell source."
THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.
THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.
(Very Latest Version.)
["There is a grievance which has taken hold in the last few years, under which we are all groaning and complaining, without, as far as I can see, any present remedy. I allude to the shameful way in which our linen is destroyed and knocked about by the existing race of Washerwomen in the Metropolis."— M. J. G.'s Letter on "London Laundries," in the Daily Telegraph.]
With wristbands grubby and worn,
With collars ragged and frayed,
A man moaned over a shirt all rags,
Cursing the laundress trade.
"Scrub! Scrub! Scrub!
With lime for extracting the dirt;
With chemicals rot, and with wire-brushes rub!"—
That's the new Song of the Shirt.
Buy! Buy! Buy!
Though I'm but a poor Clerk, with scant "oof,"
Yet it's buy—buy—buy!
(My hosier's bills furnish full proof),
And it's O! to be a slave
To my Laundress, who's worse than a Turk.
I seldom look nice, and I never can save;
And this is woman's work!
Rub! Rub! Rub!
Till they're rugged at edge and at rim;
Scrub! Scrub! Scrub!
Till with scissors the cuffs I must trim.
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam;
And all the buttonholes gape, and the studs
Drop out in a golden stream.
O Men with sisters who wash,
With housewifely mothers or wives,
Who "do up" your linen, and don't "put it out,"
You lead endurable lives!
Wash—Starch—Iron!
That may mean home dampness and dirt;
But at least your collars won't chafe your neck,
And you'll boast a wearable shirt!
But why do I dream of soap,
Or of honest knuckle-bone?
Now most men's shirts come home in a shape
That's dreadfully like my own—
That's dismally like my own,
Unless a home laundry they keep;
Great Scott! that shirts should be so dear,
And chloride and wire so cheap!
Scrub! Scrub! Scrub!
The wire-brush never flags;
And what's the result? A collar that's rough,
And a front that's ever in rags!
That frayed-out wristband worries me sore,
It catches—and shows—the dirt.
And as for the collar!!!—I'll bet you a dollar
You've never one clean to your shirt.
Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of old country linen so sweet,
Wherein lavender was spread,
Which was dried on the grass at our feet!
For only one short week
To feel as I used to feel,
Before women washed with chloride of lime,
And scrubbed with brushes of steel!
Oh! but for one short week
Of the good old-fashioned wash,
Before a laundry meant utter rot,
Lime, wax, and such chemical bosh!
A little swearing would ease my heart,
At that ogress, false, inhuman;
So to the papers a line I'll drop,
On the Modern Washerwoman!
With fingers ready and fleet,
With features indignantly red,
A poor Clerk wrote of his linen in rags,
And this is what he said:—
"Stitch! Stitch! Stitch!
Yet I can't keep a decent shirt!
The thing has reached an unbearable pitch,
So—as an appeal to the poor and the rich—
I sing the new Song of the Shirt!"
EUPHEMISM.
Cab Tout (exasperated by the persistent attentions of Constable). "Look 'ere, ole Lightnin'-ketcher, w'ere the Missin' Word are yer shovin' us to?"
ROBERT ON THE GREAT QUESTION OF THE DAY.
Jolly old Crismus being cum round agen, as ushal, we had our Crismus-Heve supper, as ushal, and henjoyed owrselves till a rayther latish hour, as ushal. Upon cumpareing notes, we didn't find as we had werry much to complane about, the grand and nobel old wirtue of horsepitality perwailing much as ushal.
Howsumdever, upon cumparin notes a second time as to the most poplar subjecks of conwersashun at the warious Eleckshun Dinners, on Saint Tommas' Day, or the day when the hole of the Common Counselmen has to go to their Constittuents for to be elected—though what St. Tommas ewer had to do with it I never could dishcover, no more can Brown—we found as they was amost all on 'em a torkin about sum grate change, as a lot of outsiders called County Counsellors was a going for to try to get made; the werry principellist being, Brown said, that they might have occashonal use of the Manshun Ouse, and so give grand Dinners to the West-End Swells, and so get them to wote for their having jolly hansum allowences with which to pay for 'em! But quiet ole Joe, who's one of them rum fellers as don't say much, but thinks a deal, says, in his quiet way, as how as it's werry much wus than that, for, from what a werry ancient Deputty said, as he was a helping him to his jugged air, he had werry little dowt but that County Counsellors was acshally a going in for erbollishing the hold Copperashun altogether! if they can git the Goverment to be fools enuff for to promise to 'elp 'em. And then, from what he heard from others, they are a going to rob the nobel and Charytable Liwery Companys of all the money as they spends so nobly; and then, not contented with that, they are a going for to ask Parlyment to give them the command of all the sixteen thowsand Policemen as there is in the hole of London; and then, not content with that, they are a going for to erbolish all the eight Water Companys, and manage it all theirselves; and then, not content with that, they are a going to take all the Meet Markets, and the Fish Markets, includin Ancient Billingsgate, and the Fruit and Wegeral Markets; and then, just to fill up sum of their lezzur time, they are a going to erbolish the Thames Conserwaters, and manage the River theirselves; and then, as they think as them little trifles ain't quite enuff for 'em, they are a going to arsk to be aloud to take charge of all the Docks and Wharfs on the River! And then, as they will naterally want plenty of emusement after their ard work, they arsks to be aloud to take over the control of All the London Theaters!
I had a chat the other day with one of the Lord Mare's Footmen, as I allers likes to go to the werry hiest orthorities, and he finished by saying, most emfatically,—"Mr. Robert, I arsks you this simple quesshun—If it takes about two hunderd and thirty gents to keep the grand old Citty in the bootiful condishun as it allus is, and to keep us all in the helthy condishun as we allus is, and with the remarkabel fine happytites as we allus has, its size being ony one square mile, and our number ony about fifty thowsand sleepers, and about ten times as many, as cums ewery day to hearn their living, how is it possibel for a much smaller number of Gents, with werry littel hexperiens, to do the same with a plaice about a hunderd and twenty times as big, and with about five millions of peepel in it? And you may trust what I says, for I had it from our Chapling."
"Why," I says, boldly, "I says at once as I don't beleeve as it's posserbel for 'em to do a quorter of it."
"Rite you are, Mr. Robert!" says he. And so we parted.
Robert.
AT ANCIENT DRURY.
Druriolanus Magnificus has given us something gorgeous this year in "The Hall of a Million Mirrors," the tenth Scene of his Pantomime entitled Little Bo-Peep, Little Red Riding Hood, and Hop o' My Thumb, who are three very small people,—"small by degrees and beautifully less"—to make so big a Show. In the Hall of Mirrors appear all the well-known representatives of ancient Nursery Rhymes, and all the heroes and heroines of the universally familiar Fairy Stories. Down the Palace stairs they come, group after group, until the Stage, even of Old Drury, can hold no more, and there is scarcely room for them all to move, much less to indulge in any "kicking up ahind and afore," as was the wont of the Ancient Joseph, whose fame is hymned in Nigger Minstrelsy. A most brilliant scene, never to be forgotten!—that is, until next Pantomime Season, when Sir Druriolanus will, in all probability, show us something equally magnificent, and as perfect in design and colour.
There is such a galaxy of talent, specially of Music-hall talent, with the two Maries, Loftus and Lloyd, the Campbell of that ilk, comical Dan Leno (who looks so comically Thin O), and the amusing Brothers Griffiths, but without the donkey, and with no quadruped to equal him, though they do make beasts of themselves by appearing as wolves, who will not be kept from the door of Granny Green, Mr. John D'Auban, utterly unrecognisable. Besides these is a Variety Show of other Stars, including ever-graceful Emma D'Auban, and Miss Mabel Love, of the "skirts-so movement," both rightly reckoned in the programme as among "the Immortals." Only one fault can be found with the Pantomime, and that is, that there are too many brilliant Stars in it. They can't all of them, each and severally, get an opportunity of showing how he or she can shine in his or her own particular bright way; and so it happens that the earliest scenes, which are less crowded, are the best for fun, though in the latter, and specially in the one just preceding the transformation, there is some capital comic business, and "Little Tich" is at his best in his burlesque of the Skirt Dance. We wonder that this clever diminutive person has never appeared as "the Claimant par excellence." But perhaps his name is not "Tich" at all, and so, on his first appearance on the world's stage, he was not a "Tich-born."
The Extravaganza portion of the Pantomime—formerly styled the "Opening"—gave us great pleasure, and the two "Comic Scenes"—(what are all the preceding ones? Are Campbell, Leno, Williams, and "Little Tich," all tragedians?)—gave us Great Payne—yclept Harry Payne, the good old Conservative "Joey."
If the possibilities, "per variation et mutation" of gorgeous modern Pantomime, are exhausted—"which," as Euclid observes, "is impossible"—except we may "add a rider" (as the Clown in the Circle might observe) that Pantomime is, in itself, a reductio ad absurdum—then, perchance, Sir Druriolanus Magnificus may give us next Christmas a Shorter Opening, say ten Scenes, to be followed by six Harlequinade Scenes, treating, by way of "Review," all the leading topics of Ninety-Three. Nous verrons—at least, such is our hope. And so a Prosperous New Year to Sir Druriolanus, and all his works.
NOVEL, BUT NOT NEW.
(A Story of Romance in Town and Country.)
Scene I.—Publisher's Sanctum. Amateur Author discovered in consultation with Enterprising Publisher.
Enterprising Publisher. Yes, my dear Sir, I think, if you pay all the expenses, we can see our way to giving An Oppressed Ophelia a chance.
Amateur Author. You would not take a small risk?
Ent. Publisher. Why no, my dear Sir. I do not see how An Oppressed Ophelia can be made a safe investment without your entire assistance. Possibly we may treat about your next novel, which I understand you to say is called An English Hamlet, on other terms. In the meanwhile, let us hope that An Oppressed Ophelia will be successful.
[Exeunt Author and Publisher severally.
Scene II.—The Same. Three months have passed. Publisher and Author are discovered discussing the situation.
Author (gloomily). And so you say that An Oppressed Ophelia is a dead failure?
Publisher (more cheerfully). Yes, my dear Sir, but do not be distressed. Thanks to my foresight, and your acquiescence in a business-like arrangement, my firm has lost nothing by the transaction.
Author (dryly). That I can readily understand! Well, I suppose you have plenty of copies you can give back to me?
Publisher. Well, scarcely. You see the Londoners did not take up your book very warmly; but we have made an arrangement to dispose of the rest of the issue in the country at a considerable reduction.
Author. And An English Hamlet?
Publisher. We shall be glad to produce on the same terms!
[Exeunt Author and Publisher severally.
Scene III.—Interior of the Circulating Library at Slocum-Pogis-on-the-Stodge. Author and Female Librarian discovered.
Author. Well, if you haven't got the popular novels I have already mentioned, I will have a book by Rider Haggard, Stevenson, Meredith, or Rudyard Kipling.
Librarian.. All out, Sir. Won't you have something else?
Author. Well, an amusing volume of travels or recollections. Can you recommend one?
Librarian. We did have several books of that kind in the Season, Sir, but just now our stock is a little low.
Author (nettled). Why, I don't believe you have a book in the shop. You seem to be out of everything!
Librarian. Oh, yes, we have, Sir. Here, for instance, is one of this year's novels. It's called An Oppressed Ophelia.
Author (pleased). Oh, you have got that, have you?
Librarian. Got it! Why, the whole place is full of them! To tell you the truth, Sir, it came down by mistake. We ordered books by Black, Meredith, Stevenson, and the rest of them, and they sent us back, by accident, I suppose, a dozen copies of An Oppressed Ophelia. If you would like it, Sir, I will look you out a copy with some of the leaves cut.
Author (shortly). No, thankee, I've read it!
[Exit.
Librarian. Dear me, what an odd gentleman! He's the first as has read An Oppressed Ophelia, although I have had it in the shop these six months!
[Scene closes in upon her astonishment.
"SOME TALK OF ALEXANDER."
If my memory serves me faithfully, the above heading is a quotation from the first verse of "The British Grenadiers," and is peculiarly applicable just now to the Lessee of the St. James's Theatre, Mr. George Alexander, who has got a decided success in the original Comedy, written by Mr. R. C. Carton, entitled Liberty Hall, an excellent and a catching name, that perhaps might have been better bestowed on a larger picture. To play with "reserved force" until the passionate moment arrives, is all that Mr. Alexander has to do; but this he does admirably, never under-acting, never over-acting, always as natural as a quiet gentleman, of a peculiarly romantic turn of mind, yet with a keen but chastened appreciation of a practical joke, kept all to himself for five months, should be.
Had he been compelled by circumstances to sustain the alias, and to continue playing the part of a Burchell in Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield for one month longer, could he have done it? However, as the piece has "caught on," it may be that Mr. Alexander will have to play the part of Mr. Burchell alias Owen for even longer than half a year; and, as he selected the piece, and as he plays this part excellently, it is mainly Owin' to Alexander that the piece is payin.' Mr. Ben Webster is good as the somewhat gentlemanly-caddish mixture called The Hon. Gould Harringay. Mr. Nutcombe Gould, as a Family Solicitor, deeply interests everybody in the First Act; "and then," like Macbeth's "poor player,"—which Mr. N. G. isn't, far from it,—"is heard no more." Perhaps, during the Pantomime season, he might re-appear at the finish with a slight addition to his head-gear, as intimated in this little sketch of him, when he could observe confidentially to the audience, "Here we are again!" But this is only a hint, to the practical use of which, Mr. Gould, by the kind permission of Mr. Alexander, is heartily welcome.
Capital is Miss Fanny Coleman as the housekeeper and maid-of-all-work; and, in the small part of Todman's shop-boy, Master Richard Saker shows that, as Mr. Wardle said of Mr. Tupman, when he brought down the birds with his eyes shut, he is "an older hand at this than we thought for." If he works at his profession, he will show himself "a wise-Saker." Mr. Holles and Miss Ailsa Craig, in two very small but strongly-marked character-parts, add to the general efficiency of an exceptionally complete cast. Miss Maude Millett makes the indiscreet Amy Chilworth a very sweet person, but it is Miss Marion Terry who has in her hands the one strong dramatic situation at the end of the Third Act. It is a situation which, no matter what might have been the author's conception of it, depends for its effect solely and only on the actress; and Miss Marion Terry, as she sits, rises to the occasion. It is long since Mr. Righton has had such a part as that of Todman, the quaint little old-fashioned bookshop-keeper, and to this quite Dickensian character, the actor does thorough justice; as also does Mr. H. Vincent to the somewhat highly coloured blusterous part of Briginshaw. Mr. Alexander commences the new year well.
"Prosit!" chirps The Critic off the Hearth.
A MOAN OF MERRY CHRISTMAS.
(By Our Own Dismal Dyspeptic.)
Oh, Christmas is a season when this melancholy earth
Has to put on the appearance of ungovernable mirth—
a chuckle for your ordinary sigh,
And you give each other presents that you can't afford to buy—
When the little boys with snowballs are so shockingly unkind,
And improve on the occasion to attack you from behind—
When the mistletoe its terrors at the bashful person hurls,
And you have to kiss a number of unpleasant-looking girls!
Oh, Christmas is a season when the children make a row,
And you have to bear it patiently—although you don't know how—
When they will not let you slumber in your comfortable chair,
But crawl and tumble over you and ruffle up your hair—
When Tom and Dick are home from school with all their nasty tricks,
And have terrific combats with a pair of single-sticks—
When Auntie comes to stay with us, and always takes their parts.
And you smile a sickly smile, and murmur, "Bless their little hearts!"
Oh, Christmas is a season when the beef is very fat,
(And it turns me topsy-turvey at the simple thought of that!)—
When it seems as if your relatives could never eat enough,
And you have to look contented as you sit and watch them stuff—
When they give you Christmas pudding, and consider it a treat,
Though they know that you are feeling far too bilious to eat—
When the very house reverberates with tradesmen's constant knocks,
As they call in quick succession to demand a Christmas-box!
Oh, Christmas is a season, when I long to sit alone,
In some clean and quiet garret, I can really call my own;
Where no Christmas Cards can reach me with their idiotic rhymes—
Where I never hear of Harris, and his splendid Pantomimes.
Where the turkey and the goose would feel distinctly out of place,