PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 99.
August 2, 1890.
[Illustration: A "SCENE" IN THE HIGHLANDS.
_Ill-used Husband_ (_under the Bed_). "AYE! YE MAY CRACK ME, AND
YE MAY THRASH ME, BUT YE CANNA BREAK MY MANLY SPERRIT. I'LL NA COME
OOT!!"]
* * * * *
PUNCH TO THE SECOND BATTALION.
"Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?"--JUVENAL.
You're off, boys, to Bermuda
(_Like_ "the Bermoothes," "vexed").
The Guards rebel? _Proh pudor!_
What next--and next--and next?
Who'll guard the Guards, if they guard not
The fame they should revere?
Fie on the row, row, row, row,
Of the British Grenadier!
Your _Punch_ is sorry for you,
And for these lads "in quod;"
But Discipline's a parent
That _must_ not spare the rod.
May you right soon redeem your name,
And no more may _Punch_ hear
Of the row, row, row, row, row, row,
Of the British Grenadier!
_If_ you have been o'er-worried
By ultra-Martinet;
Into unwisdom hurried,
Be sure Bull won't forget.
But England's Redcoats must _not_ ape
The Hyde Park howl, that's clear;
So no more row, row, row, row,
From the British Grenadier!
* * * * *
ROBERT'S AMERICAN ACQUAINTANCE.
My akwaintance among eminent selebraties seems to be rapidly
encreasing. Within what _Amlet_ calls a week, a little week, after my
larst intervue with the emenent young Swell as amost lost his art to
the pretty Bridesmade, I have been onored with the most cordial notice
of a werry emenent Amerrycane, who cums to Lundon wunce ewery year,
and makes a good long stay, and allus cums to one or other of our
Grand Otels. He says he's taken quite a fansy to me, and for this most
singler reason. He says as I'm the ony Englishman as he has ewer known
who can allus giv a answer rite off to ewery question as he arsks
me! So much so, that he says as how as I ort to be apinted the Guide,
Feelosofer, and Frend of ewery one of the many Wisiters as we allus
has a staying here!
Well, all I can say is, that if I affords the heminent Amerrycane
jest about harf the fun and emusement as he does me, I must be a much
cleverer feller than I ewer thort myself, or than my better harf
ewer told me as I was. Ah, wouldn't he jest make her stare a bit if
she herd sum of his most owdacious sayings. Why, he acshally says,
that the hole system of marrying for life is all a mistake, and not
consistent with our changable nature! And that we ort to take our
Wives on lease, as we does our houses, wiz., for sewen or fourteen
years, and that in a great majority of cases they woud both be preshus
glad when the end of the lease came! And he tries werry hard to make
me bleeve, tho in course he doesn't succeed, that in one part of
his grate and staggering Country, ewerybody does jest as he likes
in these rayther himportant matters, and has jest as many Wives as
he can afford to keep, and that the King of that place has about a
dozen of 'em! Ah, if you wants to hear a Teel downright staggerer as
nobody carnt posserbly bleeve, don't "ask the Pleaceman," but arsk an
Amerrycane!
He wanted werry much to go to Brighton, and see our new Grand
Metropole Otel opened last Satterday; so I spoke to our most
gentlemanly Manager, and he gave him a ticket that took him down
first-class, and brort him back, and took him into the Otel, and
supplied him with heverythink as art coud wish for, or supply, and
as much Shampane as he could posserbly drink--and, when there ain't
nothink to pay for it, it's reelly estonishing what a quantity a
gennelman can dispose of--; and the way in which he afterwards told
me as he showed his grattitude for what he called a reel first-class
heavening's enjoyment was, to engage a delicious little sweet of
apartments for a fortnite, so we shall see him no more for that length
of time. He told me as he had seen all the great Otels of Urope
and Amerrykey, but he was obligated to confess, in his own emphatic
langwidge, that the Brighton Metropole "licked all creation!" I didn't
quite understand him, but I've no doubt it was intended as rayther
complimentary. He rayther staggered me by asking what it cost, but I
was reddy with my anser, and boldly said, jest exaoly a quarter of a
million.
He told me that, in his own grand country, he was ginerally regarded
as a werry truthful man, which, of course, I was pleased to hear, for
sum of his statements was that staggering as wood have made me dowt
it in a feller-countryman. For hinstance, he acshally tried to make
me bleeve that his Country is about 20 times as big as ours! Well, in
course, common politeness made me pretend to bleeve him, speshally
as he's remarkable liberal to me, as most of his countrymen is, but
I coudn't help thinking as it woud have been wiser of him if he had
made his werry long Bow jest a leetle shorter. He's a remarkabel
fine-looking gennelman, and his manners quite comes up to my
description. ROBERT.
* * * * *
A LYRIC FOR LOWESTOFT.
[Mr. HENRY IRVING is studying for his new piece at Lowestoft.]
[Illustration]
Henry Irving, will the Master feel the fierce and bracing breeze,
As you wander by the margin of the restless Eastern seas?
Save the seagull slowly swirling none shall hear the tale of woe,
Learn how dark the life that ended in the fatal "Kelpie's Flow."
'Mid the murmur of the ocean you will tell how _Edgar_ felt
When his _Lucy_ broke her troth-plight, and he flung down _Craigengelt_,
Fitting place for actor's study, all that long and lonely shore;
Yonder point methinks as Wolf's Crag should be known for evermore.
Henceforth will the place be haunted when the midnight hour draws nigh:
Men shall see the Master standing stern against the stormy sky.
Faint, impalpable as shadow from the cloudland, _Lucy_ there
Shall keep tryst; the moon's effulgence not more golden than her hair.
And, in coming nights of Autumn, when the vast Lyceum rings
With reverberating plaudits, and the town thy praises sings,
Memories of the sands at Lowestoft shall be with you ere you sleep;
In your ears once more shall echo diapason of the deep.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A DREAM OF UNFAIRLY-TREATED WOMEN.
(_A Long Way After the Laureate._)]
I read, before my eyelids dropt their shade,
A leader on weak women and their woe,
In toil and industry, in art and trade,
In this hard world below.
And for awhile the thought of the sad part
Played by them and of Fate's ill-balanced scales,
Moistened mine eyelids, and made ache mine heart,
Remembering these strange tales
Of woman's miseries in every land,
I saw wherever poverty draws breath
Woman and anguish walking hand in hand,
The dreary road to death.
Those pallid sempstresses of HOOD'S great song
Peopled the hollow dark, not now alone,
And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong,
And grief's sad monotone,
From hearts, like flints, beaten by tyrant hoofs;
And I saw crowds in sombre sweating-dens,
With reeking walls and dank and dripping roofs--
Fit scarce for styes or pens.
Death at home's sin-stained threshold; honour's fall
Dislodging from her throne love's household pet,
And wan-faced purity a tyrant's thrall,
With wild eyes sorrow-wet.
And unsexed women facing heated blasts
And Tophet fumes, and fluttering tongues of fire;
And virtue staked on most unholy casts,
And honour sold for hire:
Squadrons and troops of girls of brazen air,
Tramping the tainted city to and fro,
With feverish flauntings veiling chill despair
And deeply-centred woe.
So shape chased shape. I saw a neat-garbed nurse,
Wan with excessive work; and, bowed with toil,
A shop-girl sickly, of the primal curse
Each looked the helpless spoil.
Anon I saw a lady, at night's fall
Stiller than chiseled marble, standing there;
A daughter of compassion, slender, tall,
And delicately fair.
Her weariness with shame and with surprise
My spirit shocked: she turning on my face
The heavy glances of unrested eyes,
Spoke mildly in her place.
"I have long duties; ask thou not my name
Some say I fret at a fair destiny.
Many I have to tend; to make my claim
Some venture: we shall see."
"I trust, good lady, that in a fair field,
The case 'twixt you and tyranny will be tried,"
I said; then turning promptly I appealed
To one who stood beside.
She said, "Poor pay, and plenteous fines, and worse,
Made me rebel amidst my mates' applause.
To insubordination I'm averse,
But have I not good cause?
"We are cut off from hope in our hard place,
Sweet factory? Ah, well, _our_ sweets are few.
We strike for justice. Man might show some grace,
I think, Sir; do not you?"
Turning I saw, ranging a flowery pile,
One sitting in an entry dark and cold;
A girl with hectic cheeks, and hollow smile;
Wired roses there she sold,
Or strove to sell; but often on her ear
The harrying voice of stern policedom struck,
And chased her from her vantage, till a tear
Fell at her "wretched luck."
Again I saw a wan domestic drudge
Scuttering across a smug suburban lawn;
Tired with the nightly watch, the morning trudge,
The toil at early dawn.
And then a frail and thin-clad governess,
Hurrying to daily misery through the rain.
Toiling, with scanty food, and scanty dress,
Long hours for little gain.
Anon a spectral shop-girl creeping back
To her dull garret-home through the chill night,
Bowed, heart-sick, spirit-crushed, poor ill-paid hack
Of harsh commercial might!
These I beheld, the world's sad woman-throng,
Work-ridden vassals of its Mammon-god,
Their destiny to creep and drudge along,
And kiss grief's chastening rod.
And then I saw a spirit surface-fair,
A Mænad-masked betrayer, base, impure,
But with sin's glittering garb, and radiant air,
Gay laugh, and golden lure.
It smiled, it beckoned--whither? To the abyss!
But of that throng how many may be drawn
By the gay glamour and the siren kiss
To where sin's soul-gulfs yawn?
How many? No response my vision gave.
Make answer, if ye may, ye lords of gain!
Make answer, if ye know, ye chiders grave
Of late revolt, and vain!
Dream of _Fair_ Women? Nay, for work and want
Mar maiden comeliness and matron grace.
Let sober judgment, clear of gush and cant,
The bitter problem face!
* * * * *
ERIN AVENGED.--The Irish champions, HAMILTON, PIM, and STOKER, have
won the "All-England" (it _should_ be All-Irish) Tennis Championship,
both Single and Double, beating the hitherto invincible Brothers
RENSHAW, and other lesser Lights of the Lawn. And now at Bisley the
Irish Team have, for the third time in succession, won the Elcho
Challenge Shield. The old caveat will have to be changed into "No
_non_-Irish need apply!"
* * * * *
QUITE THE NEWEST SONGS.--"_Over the Sparkling Serpentine_." By the
author and composer of "_Across the Still Lagoon_." "_Five Men in a
Cab_." By the ditto ditto of "_Three Men in a Boat_;" "_Hates Copper
Nightmare_" to follow "_Love's Golden Dream_;" and the "_General's
Dustpan_;" also, shortly; a companion song to the popular "_Admiral's
Broom_."
* * * * *
"A GATHERING OF THE CLAN."--According to _Debrett_, the Earl of
CLANCARTY (by the way, the Patent of Nobility granted to this family
in 1793, is consequently not a hundred years old) bears on his arms "A
Sun in splendour." The authority is too good to imagine for a moment
that this can be a misprint!
* * * * *
WEEK BY WEEK.
_Monday_.--Colney Hatch Hussars' Annual private Introspection. Balloon
rises at Chelsea. Sets to partners after midnight.
_Tuesday_.--Beadle of Burlington Arcade's Copper Wedding Festivities
commence. Kangaroo Shooting in Fleet Street begins.
_Wednesday_.--_Mr. Punch_ up and out with the lark. Afternoon
Fireworks on the Stock Exchange. Hippopotamus-washing in the
Serpentine commences.
_Thursday_.--Billiard Championship contest in the Pool below London
Bridge. Cannons supplied by the Tower. Anniversary Festivity to
celebrate the Discovery of cheap Ginger Beer by the Chinese B.C. 3700.
_Friday_.--Opening of the "Wash and Brush you up" Company's Automatic
Machine, by Prince HENRY of BATTENBERG. Total Eclipse of the Moon,
invisible at Herne Bay and Pekin.
_Saturday_.--Tinned Oyster Season commences. Fancy Dress Ball at
Bedlam. Close time for Hyænas in Belgrave Square.
* * * * *
The Austrian Inventor, who has just designed his ship of a mile in
length that is to travel through the water at eighty-seven miles an
hour, and cross the Atlantic in something under a day and a half, is,
I am told, only waiting the requisite capital to enable him at once
to set about carrying his project into effect. Each vessel will be
provided with an Opera House a Cathedral, including a Bishop, who
will be one of the ship's salaried officers; a Circus, Cricket-ground,
Cemetery, Race-course, Gambling-saloon, and a couple of lines of
Electric Tram-cars. The total charge for board and transit will
be only 10s. 6d. a day, which will bring the fare to New York
to something like 16s. As it is calculated that at least 100,000
passengers will cross the Atlantic on each journey, the financial
aspect of the whole concern seems sound. As I said before, the only
difficulty is the capital. Surely some enterprising Croesus who has
thirty millions lying idle in the Two-and-a-half per Cents, might look
at the matter.
* * * * *
"A SPORTING TIPSTER" writes:--"Perhaps you are not aware that _the_
feature of next Season's Foot-ball will be the arrival of a strong
team of the Kajawee Cannibal Islanders, a ferocious race, who have
been instructed in the game by a celebrated Midland half-back. As in
practice they invariably, instead of a foot-ball, use a fresh human
head, and in a scrimmage leave half their number dead on the field, by
having recourse to the 'Kogo' or 'Spine Splitting Stroke,' introduced
from a local athletic game, some excitement will no doubt be
manifested in sporting circles when they meet the Clapham Rovers, as,
I believe, it is arranged they shall do at the Oval, early in November
next."
* * * * *
Hats of the style of the earliest portion of the Saxon Heptarchy
will _not_, after all, be seen in the Row during this Season, though
several male leaders of fashion are stated to have given orders for
them on an approved model.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A WASTED EPIGRAM.
"WHERE IS THE EVENING _GAZETTE_, WAITER?'
"PLEASE, SIR, IT'S NOT YET _SEWN_."
"_SOWN_, SIR! IT OUGHT TO HAVE _COME UP_!"]
* * * * *
MINE AND THINE.
[In a recent case, a promoter of Gold Mining Companies
was asked if any of his Companies had ever paid a penny of
dividend. His answer was, "You cannot know much about gold
mines to ask such a question." He admitted, however, that he
himself had made some £50 000 out of them. "This," he said,
"is not profit; it is the realisation of property."]
Take a patch of land in Africa and multiply by ten,
Then extract a ton of metal from an ounce or two of sand;
Write a roseate prospectus with a magnifying pen,
Making deserts flow with honey in a rich and smiling land.
Take some crumbs of truth, and spread them with a covering of bosh,
And conceal them in a pie-crust labelled "Promises to pay";
Hide away all dirty linen, or remove it home to wash,
And then begin the process which the wise ones call "Convey."
Next collect a band of brothers, all inspired by one desire.
To subserve the public interest, single-hearted men and true;
Stuff with shares, and thus permit them in your kindness to acquire,
At a price, the vendor's property,--the vendor being you.
Then, since _you_ must make a profit, call the public to your aid;
Let them give you all their money, which they think they only lend:
And of course you mustn't tell them, till the fools have safely paid,
Mines were made for sinking money, not for raising dividend.
And the clergy bring their savings, the widows bring their store,
And they push to reach your presence, and they jostle and they fall,
And at last they pile their money in a heap before your door;
And, just to make them happy, you accept and keep it all.
So you make your mine by begging--(modern miners never dig),--
And you float a gorgeous Company. The shares go spinning up;
But you never "rig the market." (What an awkward word is "rig"!)
And you drain success in bumpers from an overflowing cup.
Then one day the thing gets shaky, and it goes from bad to worse,
And the public grasps a shadow where it tried to hold a share;
And in vain the country clergy most unclerically curse,
_You_ have "realised your property," and end a millionnaire.
* * * * *
COMING SEA-SCRAPES AT CHELSEA.
(_DRAWN BY AN INSIDER._)
MR. PUNCH, SIR,
That the sister Service should also have its turn at Chelsea I
reckon I can understand, and the Show ought to be popular; but if
the Admiralty want to make a further "exhibition" of themselves, they
won't have to go very far a-field for material. Here are one or two
exhibits that come to hand at once. First, there's those big guns
which it ain't safe to fire nohow, and which, if you do load with half
a charge, crack, bend, and get sent back to be "ringed" up, whatever
that means, and are not safe, even for a salute, ever afterwards.
Then, in another case, they might show a foot or two of that blessed
boiler-piping which is always leaking, or splitting, or bursting, just
when it shouldn't. In a third they might display a chop that had been
cooked from lying exposed in one of those famous stokeholes where
the poor beggars of sailors are expected to pass their time without
getting roasted too. Then there might be, as a sort of prize puzzle,
a plan of these here recent manoeuvres, with the Umpire's opinion
of the whole blessed jumble tacked on to it. Then, to enliven the
proceedings. Lord GEORGE might take his turn with the rest of the
Admiralty Board, and give us, every half hour or so, a figure or two
of the Hornpipe, just to let the public see that they have got some
sort of nautical "go" about them to warrant them in drawing their big
screw. Bless you, _Mr. Punch_, there's lots to make an Exhibition of
at Chelsea next year if you come to calculate. Leastways that's the
opinion of your humble servant and admirer,
A TAX-PAYING LANDLUBBER.
* * * * *
ON GUARDS!
THE BAD FORM OF THE PAST.
[Illustration]
There he stood in his evening dress, with a half-smoked cigarette
between his lips. He had been knocking about Piccadilly all day,
had dined at the Junior, looked in at the Opera, and finished at the
Steak. He seemed a civilian of civilians. The most casual observer
would have declared that he could never have seen the inside of a
barrack-yard. So no surprise was expressed when the question was asked
him.
"What am I?" he repeated, languidly, and then he replied, with a yawn,
"Can't you see, old Chappie? Why, an Officer in the Guards!"
THE GOOD FORM OF THE FUTURE.
There he stood in his neat, serviceable undress uniform, with a cigar
between his lips. He had abandoned the swagger frogged coat and silk
sash for the unpretending patrol jacket of his brethren in the Line.
He had been hard at work all day in barracks, inspecting meals,
visiting the hospital, attending parades. He had paid his company
personally, had seen every man, and found that there were no
complaints. He had attended a mess meeting, and had dined at mess,
playing a rubber afterwards (sixpenny points) in the ante-room.
He knew as much about the internal economy of the Battalion as the
Colonel, the Adjutant, or the Sergeant-Major. He seemed a soldier of
soldiers. The most casual observer would have declared that he was
acquainted with every inch of the barrack-yard. So general surprise
was expressed when the question was asked him.
"What am I?" he repeated, briskly; and then he replied, with a smile,
"Can't you see, stupid? Why, an Officer in the Guards!"
* * * * *
VOCES POPULI.
AT A GARDEN-PARTY.
SCENE--_A London Lawn. A Band in a costume half-way between
the uniforms of a stage hussar and a circus groom, is
performing under a tree. Guests discovered slowly pacing the
turf, or standing and sitting about in groups._
_Mrs. Maynard Gery_ (_to her Brother-in-law--who is thoroughly aware
of her little weaknesses_). Oh, PHIL,--you know everybody--_do_ tell
me! Who is that common-looking, little man with the scrubby beard, and
the very yellow gloves--how does he come to be _here_?
_Phil_. Where? Oh, I see him. Well--have you read _Sabrina's Uncle's
Other Niece?_
_Mrs. M.G._ No--_ought_ I to have? I never even heard of it!
_Phil_. Really? I wonder at that--tremendous hit--you must order
it--though I doubt if you'll be able to get it.
_Mrs. M.G._ Oh, I shall _insist_ on having it. And _he_ wrote it?
Really, PHIL, now I come to look at him, there's something rather
striking about his face. Did you say _Sabrina's Niece's Other
Aunt_--or what?
_Phil_. _Sabrina's Uncle's Other Niece_ was what I _said_--not that it
signifies.
_Mrs. M.G._ Oh, but I always attach the greatest importance to names,
myself. And do you know him?
_Phil_. What, TABLETT? Oh, yes--decent little chap; not much to say
for himself, you know.
_Mrs. M.G._ I don't mind _that_ when a man is _clever_--do you think
you could bring him up and introduce him?
_Phil_. Oh, I _could_--but I won't answer for your not being
disappointed in him.
_Mrs. M.G._ I have never been disappointed in any genius
_yet_--perhaps, because I don't expect too much--so go, dear boy; he
may be surrounded unless you get hold of him soon. [_PHIL obeys_.
_Phil_ (_accosting the Scrubby Man_). Well, TABLETT, old fellow, how
are things going with you? _Sabrina_ flourishing?
_Mr. Tablett_ (_enthusiastically_). It's a tremendous hit, my boy;
orders coming in so fast they don't know how to execute 'em--there's a
fortune in it, as I always told you!
_Phil_. Capital!--but you've such luck. By the way, my sister-in-law
is most anxious to know you.
_Mr. T._ (_flattered_). Very kind of her. I shall be delighted. I was
just thinking I felt quite a stranger here.
_Phil_. Come along then, and I'll introduce you. If she asks you
to her parties by any chance, mind you go--sure to meet a lot of
interesting people.
_Mr. T._ (_pulling up his collar_). Just what I enjoy--meeting
interesting people--the only society worth cultivating, to my mind,
Sir. Give me _intellect_--it's of more value than wealth!
[_They go in search of Mrs. M.G._
_First Lady on Chair_. Look at the dear Vicar, getting that poor
Lady PAWPERSE an ice. What a very spiritual expression he has, to be
sure--really quite apostolic!
_Second Lady_. We are not in his parish, but I have always heard him
spoken of as a most excellent man.
_First Lady_. Excellent! My dear, that man is a perfect _Saint_! I
don't believe he knows what it is to have a single worldly thought!
And such trials as he has to bear, too! With that _dreadful_ wife of
his!
_Second Lady_. That's the wife, isn't it?--the dowdy little woman, all
alone, over there? Dear me, what _could_ he have married her for?
_First Lady_. Oh, for her _money_, of course, my dear!
_Mrs. Pattallons_ (_to Mrs. ST. MARTIN SOMERVILLE_). Why, it really
_is_ you! I absolutely didn't know you at first. I was just thinking,
"Now who _is_ that young and lovely person coming along the path?" You
see--I came out without my glasses to-day, which accounts for it!
_Mr. Chuck_ (_meeting a youthful Matron and Child_). Ah, Mrs. SHARPE,
how de do! _I'm_ all right. Hullo, TOTO, how are _you_, eh, young
lady?
_Toto_ (_primly_). I'm very well indeed, thank you. (_With sudden
interest_). How's the idiot? Have you seen him lately?
_Mr. C._ (_mystified_). The idiot, eh? Why, fact is, I don't _know_
any idiot!--give you my word!
_Toto_ (_impatiently_). Yes, you _do_--_you_ know. The one Mummy says
you're next door to--you must see him _sometimes_! You _did_ say Mr.
CHUCK was next door to an idiot, didn't you, Mummy?
[_Tableau._
_Mrs. Prattleton_. Let me see--_did_ we have a fine Summer in '87?
Yes, of course--I always remember the weather by the clothes we wore,
and that June and July we wore scarcely anything--some filmy stuff
that belonged to one's ancestress, don't you know. _Such_ fun! By the
way, what has become of Lucy?
_Mrs. St. Patticker_. Oh, I've quite lost sight of her lately--you
see she's so perfectly happy now, that she's ceased to be in the least
interesting!
_Mrs. Hussiffe_ (_to Mr. DE MURE_). Perhaps _you_ can tell me of a
good coal merchant? The people who supply me now are perfect _fiends_,
and I really must go somewhere else.
_Mr. De Mure_. Then I'm afraid you must be rather difficult to please.
Mr. TABLETT _has been introduced to_ Mrs. MAYNARD GERY--_with
the following result_.
_Mrs. M.G._ (_enthusiastically_). I'm so delighted to make your
acquaintance. When my brother-in-law told me who you were,
I positively very nearly shrieked. I am such an admirer of
your--(_thinks she won't commit herself to the whole title--and
so compounds_)--your delightful _Sabrina_!
_Mr. T._ Most gratified to hear it, I'm sure, I'm told there's a
growing demand for it.
_Mrs. M.G._ Such a hopeful sign--when one was beginning quite to
despair of the public taste!
_Mr. T._ Well, I've always said--So long as you give the Public a
really first-rate article, and are prepared to spend any amount of
money on _pushing_ it, you know, you're sure to see a handsome return
for your outlay--in the long run. And you see, I've had this carefully
analysed, by competent judges--
_Mrs. M.G._ Ah, but _you_ can feel independent of criticism, can't
you?
_Mr. T._ Oh, I defy anyone to find anything unwholesome in it--it's as
suitable for the most delicate child as it is for adults--nothing to
irritate the most sensitive--
_Mrs. M.G._ Ah, you mean certain critics are so thin-skinned--they are
indeed!
_Mr. T._ (_warming to his subject_). But the beauty of this particular
composition is that it causes absolutely _no_ unpleasantness or
inconvenience afterwards. In some cases, indeed, it acts like a charm.
I've known of two cases of long-standing erysipelas it has completely
cured.
_Mrs. M.G._ (_rather at sea_). How gratifying that must be. But that
is the magic of all truly great work, it is such an _anodyne_--it
takes people so completely out of themselves--doesn't it?
_Mr. T._ It takes anything of that sort out of _them_, Ma'am. It's the
finest discovery of the age, no household will be without it in a few
months--though perhaps I say it who shouldn't.
_Mrs. M.G._ (_still more astonished_). Oh, but I _like_ to hear you.
I'm so tired of hearing people pretending to disparage what they have
done, it's such a _pose_, and I hate posing. Real genius is _never_
modest. (_If he had been more retiring, she would have, of course,
reversed this axiom_.) I _wish_ you would come and see me on one of
my Tuesdays, Mr. TABLETT, I should feel so honoured, and I think you
would meet some congenial spirits--do look in some evening--I will
send you a card if I may--let me see--could you come and lunch next
Sunday? I've got a little man coming who was very nearly eaten up by
cannibals. I think _he_ would interest you.
_Mr. T._ I shall be proud to meet him. Er--did they eat _much_ of him?
_Mrs. M.G._ (_who privately thinks this rather vulgar_). How _witty_
you are! That's quite worthy of a--_Sabrina_, really! Then you _will_
come? So glad. And now I mustn't keep you from your other admirers any
longer. [_She dismisses him_.
LATER.
_Mrs. M.G._ (_to her Brother-in-law_). How _could_ you say that dear
Mr. TABLETT was _dull_, PHIL? I found him perfectly charming--so
original and unconventional! He's promised to come to me. By the way,
_what_ did you say the name of his book was?
_Phil_. I never said he had written a book.
_Mrs. M.G._ PHIL--you _did_!--_Sabrina's Other--Something_. Why, I've
been _praising_ it to him, entirely on your recommendation.
_Phil_. No, no--_your_ mistake. I only asked you if you'd read
_Sabrina's Uncle's Other Niece_, and, as I made up the title on the
spur of the moment, I should have been rather surprised if you had.
_He_ never wrote a line in his life.
_Mrs. M.G._ How _abominable_ of you! But surely he's famous for
_something_? He talks like it. [_With reviving hope_.
_Phil_. Oh, yes, he's the inventor and patentee of the new "Sabrina"
Soap--he says he'll make a fortune over it.
_Mrs. M.G._ But he hasn't even done _that_ yet! PHIL, I'll _never_
forgive you for letting me make such an idiot of myself. What _am_
I to do now? I _can't_ have him coming to me--he's really too
impossible!
_Phil_. Do? Oh, order some of the soap, and wash your hands of him, I
suppose--not that he isn't a good deal more presentable than some of
your lions, after all's said and done!
[_Mrs. M.G., before she takes her leave, contrives to inform
Mr. TABLETT, with her prettiest penitence, that she has only
just recollected that her luncheon party is put off, and that
her Tuesdays are over for the Season. Directly she returns to
Town, she promises to let him hear from her; in the meantime,
he is not to think of troubling himself to call. So there is
no harm done, after all_.
* * * * *
THE OPERA-GOER'S DIARY.
(_LAST WEEK OF OPERA._)
[Illustration: Hamlet Personally Conducted.]
_Monday_.--_Hamlet_. Music by AMBROISE THOMAS, and _libretto_ by
Messieurs CARRÉ and BARBIER, who seem to have read _Hamlet_ once
through, after which they wrote down as a _libretto_ what they
remembered, of the story. It would be difficult to mention any Opera
less dramatic than this. The question arises at once, adapting the
immortal phrase of JAMES LE SIFFLEUR, "Why lug in _Hamlet_?" Why
not have called it _Ophelia_? Whatever interest there may be in the
Opera--and there is very little--is centred entirely in _Ophelia_.
The _Ghost_ is utterly purposeless, but of distinguished appearance
as a robust spectre, marching in at one gate, and out at another, or
hiding behind a sofa, and popping up suddenly, in order to frighten
an equally purposeless _Hamlet._ Like father, like son. M. LASSALLE
is a fine, substantial, baritonial _Hamlet_, who is always posturing,
weeping, calling out _ma mère_, and blubbering on the ample matronly
bosom of his mother, Madame RICHARD ("O RICHARD! _O ma Reine_!")
like a big, blubbering, overgrown schoolboy. Were I inclined to
disquisitionise, I should say that Messieurs CARRÉ and BARBIER have
actually realised SHAKSPEARE's own description of his jelly-fleshed
hero, whose mind is as shaky as his well-covered body. _Hamlet_
was--as SHAKSPEARE took care to emphasise--"fat, and scant of
breath"--which was the physical description of the actor who first
impersonated the leading _rôle_ of this play; and the French author's
idea of _Hamlet_ was, accordingly, a fat youth, very much out of
condition, home from Wittenberg College, in consequence of his
father's recent decease.
[Illustration: Hamlet is out of it in the last Act. Why wasn't he
brought into the Ballet?]
Some of the lighter musical portions of the Opera are charming, and
the Chorus at the end of Act I, might have been written by OFFENBACH.
But what is there of the story? Nothing. The King is not killed: the
Queen isn't poisoned: _Polonius_ is not stabbed behind the arras,
having been, perhaps, killed before the Opera commenced, since his
name appears in the book but not in the programme, and the only person
on the stage that I could possibly associate with that dear old
Lord Chamberlain was M. MIRANDA, who had donned a white beard and a
different robe from what he had been previously wearing as _Horatio_
in the First and Second Acts, in order to enter and lead the King
away, in an interpolated and ineffective scene which was not in the
book. A very hard-working Opera for the principals, and a thankless
task. _Hamlet's_ drinking song fine, and finely sung. But the whole
point of the Opera is in the last Act, where there is a _ballet_ that
has nothing to do with the piece, but pretty to see little PALLADINO
in short white skirts, dancing merrily in a forest glade, among the
happy peasantry, to whom comes _Ophelia_, mad as several hatters,
and after a lunatic scene, charming, both musically and dramatically,
throws herself into the water, and dies singing.
Here is a suggestion for the effective compression and reduction
of the Opera, and if my plan be accepted, DRURIOLANUS will earn the
eternal gratitude of those who would like to hear all that is good in
it, and to skip, as PALLADINO does, the rest. Thus:--
ACT I.--_Enter_ HAMLET. _Solo. Exit. Enter_ OPHELIA. _Solo. Re-enter_
HAMLET. OPHELIA _and_ HAMLET _love-duet. Exit_ OPHELIA. HAMLET'S
_Friends come in, and he sings them a Drinking Song with Chorus. All
join in Chorus and Dance. Curtain_.
[Illustration: An awkward moment for Hamlet. Row with his Mother and
Ophelia.]