PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 146.
JANUARY 7, 1914.
[Illustration: "THE MONARCH OF THE GLEN:" A NEW _LAND-SEER_.]
* * * * *
_AMENDE DÉSHONORABLE_.
Heavily dragged the night; the Year
Was passing, and the clock's slow tick
Boomed its sad message to my ear
And made me pretty sick.
"You have been slack," I told myself, "and weak;
You have done foolishly, from wilful choice;
Sloth and procrastination--" Here my voice
Broke in a squeak.
And deep repentance welled in me
As I mused darkly on my sin;
Yea, Conscience stung me, like a bee
That gets her barb well in.
"Next year," I swore, in this compunctious mood,
"I will be energetic, virtuous, kind;
Unflinching I will face the awful grind
Of being good."
I paused, half troubled by a thought--
Were my proposals too sublime?
Vowed I more deeply than I ought?
I glanced to see the time.
It was 12.10 A.M. At once a thrill,
A wave of manful resolution, sped
Through all my being. "Yes," I bravely said;
"_Next_ year I will!"
* * * * *
A PLAY OF FEATURES.
[Being Sir GEORGE ALEXANDER'S production of _The Attack_ at
the St. James's.]
SCENE--Alexandre Mérital's _house_.
ACT I.
_Daniel Mérital_. My father is a wonderful man. Leader of the Social
Party in the Chamber of Deputies, noted among his colleagues for his
absolute integrity, supported by the millionaire newspaper proprietor,
Frépeau, whose motives, between ourselves, are not altogether above--
Oh, are you there, Father? I didn't see you. I'm just off to play
tennis. [_Exit_.
_Enter_ Renée de Rould.
_Renée_. Mr. Mérital, may I speak to you a moment?
_Georges Alexandre Mérital (with, characteristic suavity_). Certainly.
_Renée_, I love you. Will you marry me?
_Mérital (surprised_). Well, really--this is--I--you--we--er, he,
she, they--Frankly, you embarrass me. (_Apologetically_) This is my
embarrassed face.
_Renée_. But I thought you loved me. Don't you?
_Mérital_. No. That is to say, yes. Or rather--
_Renée (tearfully_). I w-wish you could make it plainer whether you
d-do love me and are pretending you don't, or you d-don't love me and
are pretending you do. It's v-very unsettling for a young girl not to
know.
_Sir GEORGES ALEXANDRE (surprised and a little hurt_). Can't you tell
from my face?
_Miss MARTHA HEDMAN_. This is my first appearance in England, Sir
GEORGES.
_Sir GEORGES_. True. I was forgetting. Well, when you have been with
us a little longer, you will know that this is my face when I adore
anyone very much, but, owing to an unfortunate episode in my past
life, am forced to hide my love.
_Renée (alarmed_). Your past _wife_ isn't alive somewhere?
_Mérital_. Oh no, not that sort of thing at all. (_Embracing her
carefully_.) I will marry you, Renée, but run along now because my
friend Frépeau is coming, and he probably wants to talk business.
[_Exit_ Renée.
_Enter_ Frépeau.
_Frépeau (excitedly_). Mérital, you are in danger. A scandalous libel
is being circulated about you.
_Mérital (calmly_). Pooh! Faugh!
_Frépeau_. It is said that thirty years ago (Alexandre's _nose
twitches_), when you were in a solicitor's office (Alexandre's _jaw
drops_), you stole ninepence from the stamp drawer (Alexandre's
_eyeballs roll_). Of course it is a lie?
_Mérital (with a great effort obtaining command of his features
again_). Of course.
CURTAIN.