PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 93.
DECEMBER 31, 1887
ANOTHER "BUTLER;" OR, A THORNE IN HIS SIDE.
[Illustration]
Taking for granted the improbabilities of Mr. AUTHOR JONES'S plot--which
seems to use up again the materials of _Aurora Floyd_, and one or
two other novels, including the _Danvers Jewels_--and a certain
maladroitness of construction, _Heart of Hearts_ is both interesting and
amusing. All the characters are distinctly outlined excepting
one, and this one, strange to say, is _James Robins_, the hero of the
piece, a part apparently written rather to suit Mr. THOMAS THORNE'S
peculiarities, than to exhibit any marked individuality of character.
_James Robins_, _Lady Clarissa Fitzralf's_ butler,--who is of course the
intimate friend of Mr. and Mrs. MERIVALE'S butler at Toole's Theatre
round the corner,--has secretly married his mistress's sister, and her
niece is openly to marry his mistress's son. Now, how about the
character of _James Robins?_ Is he honest? Hardly so. Is he sly?
Certainly. Is he crafty? It cannot be denied. Yet the sympathy of the
audience is with him. Why? Well, chiefly because he is played by Mr.
THORNE, and secondarily, because he is very fond of his brother's child,
whom he has brought up because his brother, having got into trouble and
been compelled to "do his time," has delivered her into his care. This
nice father returns, comes to see his child, and steals a ruby bracelet,
this ruby being the "heart of hearts." Whereupon one _Miss Latimer_, a
malicious schemer, fixes the theft on _Lucy Robins_. What more natural,
considering the name? The father, _Old Robins_, has stolen the jewel;
the daughter, _Lucy Robins_, has been accused of doing so. Quite a
robbin's family. Of course exculpation and explanation wind up the play,
though I regret to say I was compelled to leave before hearing how Mr.
AUTHUR JONES deals with that old reprobate Cock _Robins_, the parent
bird, who, in view of the future happiness of _Mary_ and _Ralph_, would
be about as presentable a father-in-law to have on the premises as that
old "unemployed" reprobate, _Eccles_, in _Caste_. I am sorry he wasn't
somehow disposed of, having of course previously confessed his guilt to
the bilious detective, _March_, and expired under the assumed name of
_Mister Masters_. By the way, AUTHUR JONES is not happy in nomenclature.
The dialogue is good throughout, even when it only indirectly developes
character or helps the action, and so is the acting. Mr. THORNE as
_James_ is admirable; representing the character as a man gifted
with an overpowering appreciation of the humorous side of every
situation,--including his own as a butler,--in which either accident or
design may place him. I do not believe that this was the author's
intention, but this is the impression made upon me by Mr. THORNE'S
acting, and I am sure it could not be better played. Miss KATE RORKE is
charmingly natural; Mr. LEONARD BOYNE is unequal, being better in the
last Act than the first. My sensitive ear having been struck by the
mellifluous accents of _Lucy_ and the Corkasian,--I think, though, it
may be Galwaisian,--tones of her lover, I could not help wondering why
the author, after the first few rehearsals, did not slightly alter the
dialect and lay the scene in Ireland. The play is well worth seeing, and
begins at the easy hour of 8·45. There should be _matinées_ of a new
operetta, entitled _The Two Butlers_, characters by J. L. TORNE and
THOMAS THOOLE.
* * * * *
CORNET AND PIANO.
AT A JUVENILE PARTY.
_Cornet._ Ready? Yes, _I'm_ ready--but I'm not going to begin before I'm
asked. If they want us to strike up, let 'em come and ask us, d'ye see?
_Piano._ Well, but there are all the children sitting about doing
nothing----
_C._ _Let_ 'em sit! They'll see you and me sittin' all the evenin',
strummin' and blowin' like nigger slaves, and a lot they'll care! Don't
you make no mistake, young Pianner, there ain't no sense in doin' more
than you're obliged--you'll get no credit for it, d'ye see? And don't
keep that programme all to yourself. Ah, one Swedish, one Sir Roger, and
a bloomin' Cotilliong--_they_'ll take two hours alone! We shan't work
this job off much before one, you see if we do. (_To Hostess._) Commence
now? By all means, Madam. Send us a little refreshment? Thank you,
Madam, we shall be exceedingly obliged to you. (_The refreshment
arrives._) Here's stuff to put liveliness in us, Mate--_Leminade!_
[_Puts jug under piano with intense disgust._
_P._ Well, I should think you'd lemon enough in you already.
_C._ I _'ate_ kids, there--and that's the truth of it! It makes me
downright sick to see 'em dressed out, and giving themselves the airs
and graces of grown-ups. (_To Small Child._) Yes, my little dear, it's a
worltz this time. (_To Pianist._) Strike up, young P. and O! (_A little
later._) I'm blest if I don't believe you're _enjoying_ this, Pianner,
settin' there with that sort of a dreamy grin on your pasty countinance!
_P._ And if I am, where's the harm of it?
_C._ It's easy to see you ain't bin at it long, or you wouldn't take
that interest in it. Much they thank you for takin' a interest, these
bloated children of a pampered aristocracy! Why, they don't mind you and
me more than the drugget under their feet. Even gutter kids have got
manners enough to thank the Italian as plays the orgin for 'em to dance
to. Are _we_ ever thanked? I arsk you.
_P._ The Italian plays for nothing. We don't.
_C._ There you go, redoocin' everything to coppers. You're arguin'
beside the question, you are. Ever see a well-dressed kid give a orgin a
penny without there was a monkey a-top of it? _I_ never did. If you
chained a monkey to your pianner now, they might condescend to look at
yer now and then--not unless.
_P._ Well, you can't deny they're a nice-looking set of children here.
Look at that one with the long hair, in the plush--like a little
Princess, she is.
_C._ And p'raps she ain't aware of it, either! Why, there's that little
sister o' yours, that's got hair just as long, ah, and 'ud look as
pretty too, if she'd a little more colour; but you can't have colour
without capital. It's 'igh-feeding does it all, and money wrung from the
working-classes, like you and me.
_P._ I don't know what _you_ call yourself. I'm a professional, and see
no shame in it.
_C._ You can be as purfessional as you please, but you needn't be
poor-spirited. Come on; pound away! Ain't you got a uglier worltz than
that?
AT SUPPER.
_C._ I must say I ardly expected this--after the leminade. But you're
eatin' nothin', young Pianner. (_To Servant._) Thank 'ee, my pretty
dear, you may leave that raised pie where it is; and do you think you
could get us another bottle o' Sham, now--for my young friend here? (_To
Pianist._ You needn't think you've made a conquest with that moony mug
of yours. She's only lookin' after you to make _me_ jealous, d'ye see? I
know these minxes' ways, bless you.)
_P. (with lofty bitterness)._ I've no wish to dispute it with you.
_C._ Ah, you've had _your_ eye on the governess all the evening. I saw
you!
_P. (blushing)._ You're talking folly, Cornet, and what's more, you know
it.
_C._ That's her playin' upstairs now. I know a governess's polker--all
tum-tum and no jump to it. Wouldn't you like to go up and help her, eh?
_P._ If I _am_ a wretch doomed to misery, it's not for you to remind me
of it, Cornet. It's not a friendly act, I'm blowed if it is!
_C._ You're a regular Tant--Tarantulus, you know, that's what you are!
You'll be goin' mad on your music-stool--"I saw her dancin' in the
'All"--that sort o' thing, hey?
_P. (with dignity.)_ It seems to me you've had quite enough of that
Champagne, and we've been down half-an-hour.
_C._ You don't 'pear to unnerstand that a Cornet's very mush thirstier
instrumen' than a iron-grand out o' tune--but you're a good young
feller--I li' a shentimental young chap. I'm a soft-arted ole fool
myshelf!
AFTER SUPPER.
_C. (with emotion.)_ Loo' at that now, ain't that a sight to make a man
o' you? All these brit appy young faces. I could play for 'em all
ni'--blesh their 'arts! Lor, what a rickety chair I'm on, and thish
bloomin' brash inshtrumen's gone and changed ends. Now then, quicken up,
let 'em 'ave it--you are a shulky young chap!
_P._ It is not sulks but misery. I swear to you, Cornet, that each
hammer I strike vibrates on my own heart-strings!
_C._ Then you can be innerpennant of a pianner.
_P._ I am young--but the young have their sorrows, I suppose. Is it
nothing to have to minister to others' gaiety with a bitter pang in
one's own breast?
_C._ Thash wha' comes o'shtickin' to the leminade!
A LITTLE LATER.
_P. (aghast)._ I say, what _are_ you about? You mustn't, you know!
_C. (smiling dreamily)._ It'sh all ri', dear boy! If a man fines he
can't breathe in 'sh bootsh--on'y loshical coursh 'fore him is to play
in socksh--d'ye see?
AT PARTING.
_The Cornet (to hostess, with benignant tenderness.)_ Goori', Madam,
Gobblesh you, I do' min' tellin' you, you've made me and the pianner
here, and ah, 'undreds of young innoshent arts very 'appy, Madam, you
may ta' that from _me_. I hope we've given complete satisfaction, 'm
sure we've had mosht pleasant shupper--I mean pleashant evenin'--_sho_
glad we came. And you mushn't ta' no notish my young fren, he'sh been
makin' lil too free with the leminade, d'ye see? _Goo_ ri! [_Exit
gracefully, and is picked up at bottom of Staircase by the Pianist._
* * * * *
[Illustration: TOBY'S GREETING.]
* * * * *
A NEW YEAR'S CARD.
_Library, House of Commons,
New Year's Eve._
HONOURED SIR,
I find in the Letter Bag a communication from that eminent statesman
GRANDOLPH. But I think it will keep for a week, and on this New Year's
Eve I will put in the Bag a letter of my own, addressed to him who, take
him for all in all, (as BACON wrote) is the most Eminent Man of the
century. No one, a cynic has said, is a hero to his own valet--meaning,
I suppose, that the closer a man is looked into the less profound his
valley appears. It has been my lot to sit at your feet for close upon
half-a-century, perched upon the pile of volumes which, oddly enough,
never grows an eighth-of-an-inch higher through the revolving years. You
have honoured me with your closest confidence. I have known your inmost
thoughts. I have often seen you, as you are weekly presented to an
admiring public, chuckling with finger to nose and brightened eye over
the inception of a joke, and I have observed you afterwards a little
depressed on reading it in the proof, struck with the conviction that it
was not quite so good as you thought. I am not your valet. But you are
truly my Hero.
It may be said that I am prejudiced by receipt of personal favours. You
took me literally out of the streets to be your daily companion, and, at
friendly though still humble distance, to consort with the Beauty and
Brilliance that throngs your court. But for you I might years ago have
followed the historic precedent, gone mad to serve my private ends, bit
some unwholesome person and died. But you took me by the paw, lifted me
into your company, placed me on the pedestal of your ever-increasing but
never-swelling bulk of volumes, whence it was an easy matter to step on
to the lower level of the floor of the House of Commons. The prestige of
your name was sufficient to secure for me the suffrages of one of the
most important and one of the most enlightened county constituencies of
this still undivided Empire.
As I sit here alone in this dimly-lighted chamber there glide along with
silent footfall an interminable procession of familiar faces and figures
that have passed through this room since I first took the oath and my
seat for Barkshire. DIZZY walks past, looking neither to the right nor
to the left, but conveying to the mind of the onlooker a curious
impression that he sees all round; and here comes kindly STAFFORD
NORTHCOTE and burly BERESFORD-HOPE, and TOM COLLINS, with the faded
umbrella he used to bring down through all the summer nights and
solemnly commit to the personal charge of the doorkeeper. And there goes
dear ISAAC BUTT, wringing his hands because of Major O'GORMAN'S revolt,
and W. P. ADAM, disappointed after his long fight which ended with
victory for his Party and something like a snub for himself. Here is
NEWDEGATE frowning at the scarlet drapery of a reading lamp; and behind
him, WHALLEY, wondering whether he was really in earnest when he
denounced him before the House of Commons as "a Jesuit in disguise."
Here, too, poor Lord HENRY LENNOX with his trousers turned up, and Sir
THOMAS MAY with a Peerage looming within hand's reach, and Captain
GOSSET steering his shapely legs towards his room to drink Apollinaris
and read up Hansard. All, all are gone, the old familiar faces, and the
New Year, which the bell-ringers are waiting to welcome in, is nothing
to them. Over there in the corner are the two chairs on which the form
of JOSEPH GILLIS reclined on the first all-night sitting that ever was,
when, the thing being fresh to Members, they were eager to stop up all
night, to walk round the recumbent form, dropping pokers and heavy
volumes with innocent attempt to disturb the slumberer. But JOSEPH
GILLIS slept, or seemed to sleep. He was giving the Saxon trouble, and
was not greatly inconvenienced himself.
I have taken down from the shelves two volumes among the most recent and
most prized addition to our Library, and, turning over the leaves, come
upon fresh testimony to my Honoured Sir's prescience. Turning over _John
Leech's Pictures of Life and Character_, garnered from the Collection of
_Mr. Punch_, I find under date twenty-five years back, women of all
degrees presented under cover of monstrous hoops. Everybody wore
crinoline in those days. It was the thing, the only possible thing, and
the average human mind could not grasp the idea of there being any other
way of arraying the female form. But the prophetic eye of one of the
most brilliant of _Mr. Punch's_ Young Men peered into the future and
beheld what was to come.[1] In the very midst of delineations of these
everyday monstrosities, fearful in the drawing-room, grotesquely
exaggerated in the kitchen, JOHN LEECH flashed forth a view of the
future. There are three sketches of girls, two in the eelskin dress that
marked the rebound from the hideous tyranny of crinoline, and the third
showing a style of dress that might have been sketched to-day in Bond
Street, not forgetting the upper rearward segment of the crinoline which
survives at this day to hint what has been. _Ex pede Herculem._ It
seemed at the date a monstrous idea, a nightmare fancy, peradventure a
joke. But _Mr. Punch's_ calm eye pierced the veil of the future, and
saw then, as he has always seen, what was to be.
[Footnote 1: There is a later example of this gift in the date of
another Young Man's letter.--ED.]
This, Sir, is only a solitary instance of your prescience cited in
accidentally turning over the collected pages that seem so familiar and
are still so fresh. I could quote indefinitely as I turn over the
leaves. But time is shorter than usual this evening. There is less than
an hour left of 1877. The procession I spoke of just now has passed out
and closed the doors. Under brighter and more inspiriting auspices comes
another group. May I present them to my honoured Master? EIGHTEEN
EIGHTY-EIGHT this is _Mr. Punch_ of whom you may have heard. _Mr.
Punch_, this is EIGHTEEN EIGTHY-EIGHT of whom I expect you will hear a
good deal. And here, happier in his possessions than _King Lear_, are
his four daughters--Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter. They come to
wish you a Happy New Year in which no one joins so heartily as your
humble friend and servitor,
TOBY, M.P.
* * * * *
[Illustration: WHAT OUR ARTIST HAS TO PUT UP WITH.
_Friendly Critic._ "HUMPH! A LITTLE _WOOLLY_ IN TEXTURE, ISN'T IT? OF
COURSE I DON'T MEAN THE _SHEEP_!"]
* * * * *
FROM A COUNTRY COUSIN.
MY DEAR MR. PUNCH,
I thank you for your advice. You were right when you told me to go and
see Mrs. BERNARD BEERE in _As in a Looking Glass_. Indeed, she does hold
the mirror up to "nature,"--which is in this instance what ZOLA calls
_la bête humaine_,--and in it is reflected the worn face, so weary of
wickedness and so hopeless of the future, of _Lena Despard_. The moral
of the story--for moral there is--is never out of date. If we can ever
retrace any of our steps in life, which I doubt, there are at all events
some false steps that never can be retraced. Our deeds become part and
parcel of ourselves, and we can no more rid ourselves of them than we
can jump off our shadows.
"Our deeds our angels are, or good or ill;
Our fatal shadows that walk with us still."
And yet _la bête humaine_, has not quite killed the soul of this
adventuress, for she is still capable of a real love, and of proving its
reality by an awful self-sacrifice. This is not a Christmas spirit, is
it? But you see I went before Christmas, and having done with tragedy, I
am looking forward to pantomimical stuff and nonsense. I had not read
the novel,--_you_ have, but considerately refrained from telling me the
plot,--so I enjoyed the performance without my memory compelling me to
compare it, for better or worse, with the original story.
I have never seen Mrs. BEERE play anything before this, nor have I seen
SARAH BERNHARDT, who, as you tell me, was in other pieces this lady's
model. A London Cousin of mine, who is a theatre-goer, and knows several
of the leading actors and actresses "at home," tells me that in this
piece the individuality of the actress is completely merged in the part,
and that it is only when she is saying something very cynical, that he
was reminded by a mannerism peculiar to this actress how bitter this
BEERE could be on occasion. It is a pity her name is BEERE, because when
I asked my cousin (do you know him--JOSEPH MILLER?) if, off the stage,
this lady was really thin and tall, he replied, "Yes--Mrs. BEERE was
never stout, and was never a half-and-half sort of actress."
And then, when I pressed him for serious answer, he said, "Well, she's
_Lena_ on the stage, as you see." What is one to do with a joker like
this, except go with him to a Pantomime, Burlesque, or Circus?
Yours, LITTLE PETERKIN.
P.S.--The Opéra Comique is not the Theatre for a _tragédienne_. Joe
says, "Yes it is--for Mrs. BEERE, because of the 'Op in it."
* * * * *
"DE DEUX SHOWS, UNE."
On Thursday night, Mr. WILSON BARRETT, brought out a new piece at the
Globe, and in Leicester Square, the Empire Variety Show was inaugurated.
The good-natured "Visible Prince," who is always ready to encourage Art
in any form, and willing to "open" anything from a Cathedral to an
Oyster, was present at this _première_ of the New Music Hall. Poor W. B!
"How long! How long!" By the way, it may be necessary to explain to some
simple persons, that _The Empire_ has nothing whatever to do with The
Imperial Institute.
* * * * *
A Christmas Tip.
"Tally ho! Yoicks, over there!" Which being translated, means go and see
the Sporting "Illustrations" at GERMAN REED'S--not "German" at all, for
you must always take this title _cum corney grano_, but "So English, you
know." And CORNEY GRAIN'S song afterwards, that marvellous duet between
Corney and Piano,--excellent!
* * * * *
There is now an Examination for everything. A man can't even become a
Bankrupt without passing an examination. Very hard this.
* * * * *
SOMETHING TO SWALLOW.--TOM TOPER says, "SHAKSPEARE'S plays were written
partly by SHAKSPEARE and partly by BACON. It was a 'split B. & S.'"
* * * * *
THE RECENT PRIZE-FIGHT.--What the French thought of it: an In-Seine
proceeding.
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
[Illustration]
I have just come across something on Modern Wiggism in the shape of an
amusing advertising book on the Wigs supplied to leading actors by the
theatrical perruquier FOX. "Nothing like leather," said the tanner; and
judging from the collection of illustrations and notices, it is, in Mr.
FOX'S opinion, more what is outside the head than what is in it, that
insures success on the Stage. The perruquier makes the wig, and the wig
makes the actor. There are portraits of various theatrical celebrities,
including one or two of Mr. TOOLE, in various wigs, whose presentments
in these pages may entitle the work to be called FOX'S _Book of
Martyrs_--willing martyrs, of course, and many of them after they've
strutted and fretted for several hours on the stage, quite ready to go
cheerfully to "The Steak."
Mr. FREDERICK BARNARD'S CHARACTER SKETCHES FROM DICKENS have been
republished. They are the work of a true artist; but he should have left
_Mr. Pickwick_ alone. Who cares for an artistic _Mr. Pickwick?_ No; let
him ever remain the burlesque eccentricity invented by Mr. SEYMOUR, and
founded on DICKENS'S creation. But Mr. BARNARD'S _Mrs. Gamp_ and _Bill
Sikes_ are both quite truly Dickensonian.
BARON DE BOOK WORMS.
* * * * *
NUGGETS IN NORTH WALES.
There is legends, and traditions told, and narratives, and tales,
Of wealth in mountain crannies, caves, and cells of ancient Wales.
The dens of dwarves and fairies, sprites and goblins, imps and elves,
Where they, like misers, look you, kept their treasures to themselves.
A cockatrice, a griffin, or a wivern watched the hoard,
In the coffers of the crystal rocks, and stone-strong chambers stored,
Breathed fire and flames, and ramped and raved in form to tear and rend,
And scratch and bite, and sting with tail, barbed arrow-like on end.
The lions and the eagles and the snakes together linked,
The cockatrices, wiverns, and their tribes is all extinct.
No dragons could PENDRAGON, if alive yet, find to slay,
And the dwarves, and fays, and fairies all alike have gone away.
Now GRIFFITHS is the Safe Man, and a griffin guards no more
The secret riches of the rocks--they lie concealed in ore;
The lodes and veins, and minerals, there's quantities untold
In the quarries and the crystals, and the quartzes, full of gold.
It is an El Dorado, found in Mawddach's happy vale;
It is Mr. PRITCHARD MORGAN'S, look you, no romancer's tale.
And mines besides Gwmfynydd mine 'tis like there's them that owns;
Peradventure Mr. JENKINS, Mr. EVANS, Mr. JONES.
North Wales will be a Golden Chersonesus, though the phrase
Is a little solecisms, indeed, suppose quartz-crushing pays.
And, moreover, in Welsh diggings what if nuggets there be found,
As large as leeks, and weighing from a scruple to a pound?
A Golden Age in Wales, look you, there's goodly ground to hope,
And a theme of song besides to give the Bards unbounded scope,
And prizes at Eistedfoddau for poetry and odes,
On the find of gold in the quartzes and the metal-veins and lodes.
* * * * *
SOCIAL ROMANCE.
_A "Fragment," extracted from the "Dim and Distant Future," as
imagined by Mr. Frederic Harrison._
It was a delightful summer evening, and East London was looking
its brightest. The eight hours of daily toil were over, and the crowds
of cheery-voiced and happy-faced working people were returning in
merry groups to their respective homes, scattered here and there
amid the splendid Co-operative Palaces that reared their decorated
fronts to meet the last golden glories of the setting sun, and break
the soft progress of the gentle evening breeze laden with the sweet
scents of the myriad flowers blooming freshly amid the verdant
_parterres_ and winding woodland walks by which they were divided
and surrounded. Here a rippling fountain made silvery music in
the air, while yonder the noisy brooklet could be traced cleaving
its headlong way to the lovely Thames flowing seaward tranquilly
beneath, its translucent surface being broken now and again only by
the leap from an occasional seventy-pound salmon revelling for very
joy in the highly hygienic quantity of the pure and crystal water in
which he was existing. Above was the faultless deep-blue glory
of an Italian sky. Beneath rare forest trees, amidst which the
graceful oleander and wild tamarisk flourished with all their native
strength, produced a grateful shade. So sparkling and smokeless
was the pervading atmosphere that merely to inhale it was a physical
pleasure. Sanitary and social science had indeed worked their
wonders here. East London had become to all those who dwelt amid
its fairy labyrinths a veritable earthly Paradise. And as he cast his
shapely but workmanlike frame with an elegant ease on to one of
the hundred comfortable lounges that at intervals fringed its green
swards throughout their entire length and breadth, no one in the full
flush of this glorious summer evening appreciated the fact more
keenly than did JEREMIAH HALFINCH.
"Ah! this is delicious!" he cried, with enthusiasm; "just a few
moments' rest here to solve this problem, and then--_pour me rendre
chez moi!_" He spoke with all the easy grace and perfect _ton_ of a
West-End _raconteur_, and as he opened his basket of tools and produced
from it a translation of a new work on German Philosophy, in
the pages of which he was speedily engrossed, it was impossible not
to be struck by his general appearance. His frame was that of an
Herculean Apollo, while his head, with its finely-chiselled features
and long tawny moustache, nobly set upon his shoulders, might have
belonged to a Captain in the Guards. There was in his eyes something
of the look of an intelligent Chief Justice, and whenever he
moved it was with all the commanding dignity of a Lord Mayor.
In short, it needed only a glance at JEREMIAH HALFINCH to set him
down for what he was,--a fair specimen of the average type of the
working-man of the day.
He was not, however, destined to be long in solving his philosophical
problem, a light step on the gravel-path caught his ear. He looked up.
"Ah! Miss BETSY JANE," he said, rising with a courtly grace as his eye
rested on the trim neatly dressed form of a girl of nineteen; "so you,
too, are enjoying the Elysian fragrance of this lovely evening?"
The fair girl blushed slightly. She was very lovely. Her golden hair
crowned her beautifully shaped brow in broad deep bands. Her mouth had
that indescribable sweetness that is often met with in those in whom a
marvellously active intelligence is united to a strongly poetic
temperament. Her eyes were like two exquisite saucers of liquid blue,
from whose sapphire depths light and laughter seemed to sparkle up
unbidden with every variation of her mobile and ever changing
countenance. Yet she was only a poor work-girl making her £2 16_s._
6_d._ a week, under the new scale of prices, by button-holeing.
"I am enjoying the evening, for who would not, Mr. HALFINCH?" she
answered, half demurely, with a pretty pout, "but I have just come from
my Hydrostatic Class, and was thinking of looking in at the Opera on my
way home. They are doing "_Tristan und Isolde_," and a little _Wagner_
is such a pleasant close to the day. Do not you think so?"
"Indeed I do," he answered eagerly, "and I will accompany you--that is,
if I may," he added, apologetically.
"If you _may_!" was the arch reply. In another minute they were
strolling leisurely along, side by side, towards the "Great Square of
Recreation," that was already scintillating in the distance, lit up with
the electric light as with the full blaze of day. As they were emerging
from the garden-path, they passed a small child. She was carrying a
little stone funereal urn, and she nodded to them. They stopped for a
moment.
"Why, POLLY, dear, what have you got there?" asked BETSY JANE, stooping
down to kiss the child.
"Oh! it's only Great Grandmother," went on the little speaker, volubly.
"I'm fetching her from the _Crematorium_. She was only _ashed_
yesterday, you know, and father says he would like to have her on the
parlour chimney-piece as soon as possible; and so I am bringing her
home."
"Well, my little woman," threw out HALFINCH, kindly. "Take care you
don't drop your Great Grandmother, that's all."
"Oh no! I can carry her well enough," was the prompt response; and
little POLLY was soon bounding away across the grass merrily, with her
ancestral burthen.
* * * * *
BETSY JANE and JEREMIAH HALFINCH had presented their passes at the door
of the Opera House, listened to an Act of WAGNER'S incomparable music,
and were now once more coming homewards. Their conversation had had a
wide range, touching at one moment on the Norse _Saga_, and at another
on the Binomial Theorem; now on the Philosophy of EPICTETUS, and now on
the latest speculations as to the basis of Nebular Matter. They were
deeply interested in their talk, and it was not till they were suddenly
arrested in their progress that they became aware that their path was
stopped by a Policeman who was kindly stooping over a little child who
was crying over something she had dropped.
"Oh! it is little POLLY; and she has let her Great Grandmother fall!"
cried BETSY JANE, much concerned.
"Yes, and I have spilled her; and father will be so cross!" added the
child in tears, pointing to the broken vase and to some white ash that
laid upon the gravel path.
"Never mind, my little woman, we will soon make it all right," answered
HALFINCH, at the same time taking an evening paper from his pocket, and
carefully collecting the broken fragments of the vase and its contents,
and making them up into a neat parcel. "There," he added, "he'll have to
get a new vase. But you may tell your father I think he'll find his
Grandmother all there. So wipe your eyes and get home as fast as you
can."
* * * * *
They watched the figure of the receding child.
"You don't have much work down this way nowadays?" inquired HALFINCH
amiably of the Policeman.
"Much work! Why, bless you, Sir, beyond occasionally running in an
Unemployed Sweater, we have none at all."
"Well, good night, Miss BETSY JANE," said HALFINCH.
"Good night, Mr. HALFINCH," responded the lovely girl.
Then they each turned to their brilliantly-lighted Co-operative Palace
homes. Silence soon fell upon the scene. Another happy East-End day had
come to its luxurious close.
* * * * *
NEW YEAR MEMS.
_Lord S-l-sb-ry._ Smother HOWARD VINCENT & CO.--at least in public. Give
private tip to HARTINGTON, BRIGHT, and GOSCHEN, to get me talked about
as a "second COBDEN."
_Mr. W. E. Gl-dst-ne._ _Mem._--Feel a little "chippy" this morning. Go
out axing. Send New Year's Card to DOPPING. Forgive and Forget. Write
fewer letters, make fewer speeches, avoid railway station oratory;
CH-MB-RL-N'S imitating me there. Shall have him next taking to chopping
trees in Prince's Gardens. _Mem._--Return to use of post-cards; shall
also give up writing magazine-articles and devote myself more to
commercial pursuits; there's a good deal to be done in chips if one
gives his mind to it. Why not leave Hawarden and reside at Chipping
Norton?
_Mr. B-lf-r._ Gingerly manipulate the "Crimes Act" across the Channel
for the next few weeks. _Mem._--Parliament opens Feb. 9th. Be careful
what I say or write about anybody. Consult Solicitor.
[Illustration: Special.]
_C. S. P-rn-ll._ Change my name and address next year, call myself
B-CKLE of the _Times._
_Mr. Ch-mb-rl-n._ Retire from "Fisheries'" as gracefully and as
soon as possible. As J-SSE C-LL-NGS would say, "Hook it." CODLING'S
the man.
_The Lord Ch-f J-st-ce of Engl-nd._ Shall begin New Year by
leaving off voice lozenges, or may be called a "Sucking Ch-f
J-st-ce." Shouldn't like this, and I know of one worldly journalist
who wouldn't hesitate to write it.
_The Right Hon. J. G. G-sch-n, M.P._ Think I shall go back to
the Liberal Party for a year at least; have tried them all round; find
the last rather worse than others. R-ND-LPH says I should by this
time be an authority on the principle of the "Theory of Exchanges."
_Sir W-ll-m H-rc-rt, M.P._ Shall begin to get up every morning
at seven during recess, and go out for walk in glades of New Forest
before breakfast. Find it a capital place to think out _impromptus_
for my speeches.
_Monsignor P-rs-co._ _Mem._--Keep myself to myself, and don't say
nothing to nobody.
_Archbishop Cr-ke._ Ask THOS. O'DW-ER of Limerick to dinner.
Cut National League on first opportunity.
_Archbishop B-ns-n._ Study the Calendar of State Papers, time of
HENRY THE EIGHTH, carefully. Get portrait of myself done in full
canonicals, with the two acolytes in scarlet skull-caps and cassocks,
as we appeared at Truro. Pretty subject: great scope for artist.
_Bishop of L-nd-n._ "Oblige B-NS-N." Ask ST-W-RT H-DL-M to
take me to the Alhambra. Try and get a copy of that now extinct
work, _Essays and Reviews_.
_Lord D-nr-v-n._ Must find out what I really mean by "Fair
Trade." Write to _Notes and Queries_, and see if I can't get a
definition somehow.
_Mr. O'Br-n._ Continue to pose as the "Martyr of Tullamore."
Meantime, endeavour to get supplied with still more fashionable
clothes. Why not a cheque suit, from America?
_Cardinal M-nn-ng._ Do something of everything. _Mem._--Buy
new Filter.
_The L-rd Ch-nc-ll-r._ Must really show some reason for my being
in this exalted position. Find comfortable quarters for a few of my
nephews, cousins, and sons-in-law who are still among "the
Unemployed."
_The Right Hon. J-hn Br-ght, M.P._ _Mem._--J-HN BR-GHT, Always
right. Politeness costs nothing. Get someone to give me a short
manual of this almost-lost art, like prize-fighting. The latter being
revived. Practise both.
_Mr. C. V-ll-rs St-nf-rd._ Inaugurate my Professorship in style.
Get to work, and show 'em I'm the best man to turn out a genuinely
successful first-class English Opera.
_Professor H-xl-y._ Study SP-RG-N'S Sermons for jokes and style,
and read some theology, with a view to carrying out the great
object of my life--smashing W. S. L-LLY.
_Mr. W. S. L-lly._ Write more _Chapters of History_. Devote five
minutes, one day when I have the leisure, to smashing H-XL-Y.
_Mr. Justice St-ph-n._ Read up everything. After doing this, at
last give my attention to the study of law. _Mem._--Who was "The
_Master of the Sentences_?" Must get his work, and revise some of
my own.
_Sir F. L-ght-n, P.R.A._ Commence getting up Academy Speech
for opening day. _Mem._--Read _Lemprière's Classical Dictionary_
for subject for big R.A. picture.
_Sir J. E. M-ll-s, R.A._ Knock off a few pictures for Illustrated
papers of Christmas, 1888. Any model with fair hair will do.
Write to P-RS' S--p people.
_W. P. Fr-th, R.A._ Write more Recollections. _Note._--Wish
I'd taken to this sort of thing earlier in life.
_Mr. L-b-ch-re, M.P._ Must get rid of BR-DL-GH; always been
rather a drag on me. Try and hit on some other popular notion as
good as _Truth's_ Christmas Toys. Keep Eye on "EDMUND."
_Mr. Edm-nd Y-t-s._ Write more Recollections and Experiences.
Call them _Moi-Mêmeries_. Keep eye on "HENRY."
_Mr. J. L. T-le._ Spend all my spare time in arranging jokes for
speeches. Note them down every morning when shaving. Send
an occasional letter to friend IRV-NG.
_H. Irv-ng._ Refuse title if offered. Tell friend T-LE to do the same.
_Mr. J. L. S-ll-v-n (Pugilist)._ Challenge somebody. "Excuse
my glove."
_Mr. J. Sm-th (Pugilist)._ Challenge S-LL-V-N, and fight him.
_Sir A. S-ll-v-n (Composer)._ Leave Society to the other S-LL-V-N.
Have had enough of it. Get back to my music. Give up G-LB-RT
as soon as possible.
_Mr. W. S. G-lb-rt._ Hang music. Write something or other
without it. As soon as possible, give up S-LL-V-N. Also dispense
with GR-SSM-TH.
_F. L-ckw-d, Q.C., M.P._ Renounce Law and Politics. Draw for _Punch_.
Ask H. F-RN-SS to give me a few lessons.
_Right Hon. D-vid R. Pl-nk-t, M.P._ Take a walk about London every
morning _at least_, with view to rivalling _Sam Weller_ in extent, if
not peculiarity, of my knowledge of this "Vast Metrolopus."
_Mrs. B-rn-rd B-re._ Look after the acting rights of _La Tosca_. Get as
good a play (if I can) as _As in the Looking-glass_, from the author of
the novel. Go to Paris, and see dear SARAH. Find a better theatre than
the Opéra Comique.
_Mr. S-ntl-y._ Learn "_The Vicar of Bray_," and "_Father O'Flynn_," as I
have not added many new songs of late years to my _répertoire_.
_Mr. S-ms R-v-s._ Keep all my notes for my Autobiography. What title?
_Apologia?_
_M-d-me P-tti._ Have "_Home, Sweet Home_," translated into foreign
languages, to give it an air of novelty. Leave Wales to the Welshers.
_Mr. A-g-st-s H-rr-s._ Commence Pantomime for 1888-89. Entertain
everybody. Send Life Pass for the Queen's Box, to the Assistant
Architect of the Metropolitan Board of Works. Must be presented at Court
this year. Should look well in Court suit.
_Dr. R-bs-n R-se._ Must invent something new in the diet line for New
Year; shall cut off claret and hot water and their dry toast. _Mem._--To
write article in _F-rtn-ghtly_ on "The Here and There of London Life,"
and point out the absolute necessity of consulting me on every subject.
Recommend (as something novel), taking soup after cheese. This advice
ought to increase my practice considerably.
_The Rev. Dr. P-rk-r._ Shall stay at home; at least, won't go again to
United States; too vast.
_Mr. B-s-nt._ Keep my name well before the public. Think New Novel, _All
Sorts of Mortiboys_, by Sir W-LT-R B-S-NT, Bart., would have good effect
with publishers. Get W-LS-N B-RR-TT to dramatise with me, of course.
Shall ask him not to act in it. Off to Africa, to get away from "London
blacks."
_Mr. N-rm-n L-cky-r._ Write _Magnum Opus_, on the action of Snowballs in
Space.
_Sir M-r-ll M-ck-nz-e._ Make careful study of the peculiar diseases
incident to "Rumour's lying throat"--especially in Germany.
_Ch-rm-n of M-ddl-s-x M-g-str-t-s._ Attend some Metropolitan
Music Hall every night of my life.
_Ed-t-r of P. M. G._ Get Stead-ier every day.
_Mr. Punch._ To wish a Happy New Year to everybody generally.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE PENNY READING.
(ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD.)
_Distinguished Amateur Vocalist (both Serious and Comic)._ "I CAN'T SAY
YOU HAVE A VERY APPRECIATIVE PUBLIC UP HERE! I NEVER SANG '_VILIKINS AND
HIS DINAH_' BETTER--BUT NOBODY LAUGHED A BIT!"
_Horrid Boy._ "OH, BUT THEY DID WHEN YOU SANG '_THE DEATH OF NELSON_.' I
SAW THEM!"]
* * * * *
THE INFANT PHENOMENON.
What will he play? Oh! young New Year,
Precocious power and baby skill
To Music's zealots are strangely dear;
The tiny fingers that thump and trill,
That sweep the keyboard with splendid speed,
Like rattling rain-drops, or fairy-feet,
Are sure of flattery's fullest meed,
And praise is sweet.
An early _début_, my little man!
The dimpled digits you swiftly spread
The sounding octaves can scarcely span,
The pedals hardly your toes can tread.
Yet here you are, and the public ear
Is all agog for the opening chords,
With breathless mingling of hope and fear,
Too deep for words.
The Future's Music before you stands,
Time at your elbow is prompt to turn.
'Twill tax the force of your infant hands,
Prodigies even have much to learn.
MOZART, or HOFFMANN, or LISZT, of course,
You may turn out in your own new line;
May give us freshly the fire and force
Of RUBINSTEIN.
The hour, young Hopeful, seems something scant
In present promise of Harmony;
Our leading music is militant.
Touch us a stave in a cheerful key!
We have abundance of crash and blare,
Drums and trumpets make angry noise;
Most of us long for a Lydian air,
O, best of boys!
Something Arcadian, manly-sweet,
Blending notes of the lyre and flute;
Pastoral Symphony gaily fleet,
Moaning chords in the minor mute.
Something stirring to lift the heart,
Something merry to move the toes;
Melody pure with a mirthful start
And a moving close.
Charges, marches, bugle-blasts,
Clarion-calls to the onset, tire;
Martial music a sadness casts,
Too long blown, e'en on hearts of fire.
Still the trumpet, and drop the drum!
Bid the fife for a moment cease!
Boy, we'll bless you if you'll but strum
The notes of Peace.
Wagner-worry of key and string
Has its power, and holds its place;
Touch to-day, boy, the chords that sing
Of love and gladness, of mirth and grace.
The future's Music you fain must play?
True! Yet turn ere a chord is struck.
A bumper, boy, to a brighter day!
Here's health and luck!
* * * * *
UNCOMMON.
Mr. PUNCH lately learned to his extreme astonishment and delight that he
is one of the independent Electors of the Ward of Farringdon Without. He
gathered this important information from the receipt of a highly
illustrated card from one of the numerous candidates to represent him in
that illustrious body the Court of Common Council, during the coming
year, soliciting the honour of his vote and interest.
The Candidate in question described at length his various qualifications
for the office he sought. He kindly informed _Mr. Punch_ that he was a
Citizen, a Loriner--whatever that mysterious occupation may mean--and a
People's Caterer, and any doubt that might have been entertained with
regard to the especial business for, which he catered was at once
removed by the perusal of the last line of his canvassing card, which,
after kindly informing Mr. Punch that he had no less than sixteen votes
at his disposal, finished with the remarkable request, "Kindly PLUMP for
your Little SAUSAGE MAKER!"
Naturally wondering why a little Sausage Maker should be considered as
so peculiarly eligible for the office of Common Councilman, that every
elector should plump for him, _Mr. Punch_ again examined the mysterious
card, and found on its back a graphic representation of a race for the
"Pork Sausage Derby," showing the Candidate, mounted on a decidedly
thoroughbred Pig, coming in an easy winner with the rest nowhere, amid
the chorus of the surrounding multitude.
Doubting whether a Large Tripe Dresser, or a Middle-sized Mutton-Pieman,
would not have equal claims upon his Plumper to that of a Little Sausage
Maker, _Mr. Punch_ decided to take no part in the Election for Common
Councilmen until the real meaning of the word "Common" is better
understood than it evidently is at present by some aspirants to the
Office in question.
[Illustration: THE INFANT PHENOMENON.
LITTLE 1888. "WHAT SHALL I PLAY?"
FATHER TIME. "THE 'MUSIC OF THE FUTURE,' MY DEAR, OF COURSE"!!!]
* * * * *
DOLL-CE DOMUM.
One of the prettiest and most seasonable sights we have seen for a long
while was the display of toys collected by the proprietor of _Truth_
from the readers of that entertaining periodical, exhibited in Willis's
Rooms before distribution amongst the children of our hospitals and
work-houses. The dolls (there were thousands and thousands of them)
seemed to be bidding the fashionable world adieu before entering, like
so many Sisters of Mercy, upon a mission of tender charity to the sick
poor. There was a private view on Sunday, a week before Christmas Day,
and those who examined the treasures revealing the glories of Regent
Street and the Lowther Arcade, could not help thinking "Mr. _Labouchere_
must have a heart as good as his head, and be a very kind man _au
fond_." We wonder whether that confirmed cynic, the proprietor of
_Truth_, would make the same admission?
* * * * *
The reasons given in the correspondence published in the _Times_ of last
Thursday for discharging Mr. HIGHTON from his offices in connection with
the Westminster Play seem to us inadequate. Instead of his work tending
to lower the tone of the performance, surely its effect would obviously
be to Highton it.
* * * * *
Of course SMITH and KILRAIN passed their Boxing-Day together.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "TO PUT IT BROADLY."
_Improvised Butler (to Distinguished Guest)._ "WILL YE TAKE ANNY MORE
DRINK, SOR?"]
* * * * *
ROBERT ON THE FRENCH TUNG.
[Illustration]
I begins to feel as how the older one gits the more a little bother
seems to worry him. There was a time when I could look bothers in the
face with the same carm look as I lissens to a gent when he tries to
perswade me as how as that port isn't '47 Port, but them times is gorn
I'm afeard, never to return.
My present bother came upon me amost like a moderate size thunderbolt,
and was summut in this way. The Manager of one of my best Hotels took me
into his privet room, one day larst week, and had sum werry sollem tork
with me. He was werry kind, and werry considerate, but he was also werry
furm, and what he said was summut like this:--
"You see, ROBERT," said he, "things is a changing in Hotels as is amost
all other things, and all things as is jest a leetle old fashoned and a
leetle rusty, as it were, must be jest pollished up a bit, and made a
little fresher like. Now take our Hotel, for xample. See what lots of
forren gents comes and stays here, and many on 'em so orful ignorant
that they carnt not hardly speak a word of Inglish! Well, if they arsks
one of our Hed Waiters a plain common question in French, which they all
on 'em seems to know how to tork, they natrally expecs a anser. Now,
what French do you know?"
I confess I was so taken aback at the suddenness of the question, that I
was amost speechless. But I pulled myself together, like a man and a Hed
Waiter, and said, "Not werry much, Sir, but when I was in Brussels two
years ago, witch, I bleeves is sumwheres in France, I lernt jest a few
words from the gassons at the Flarnders Hotel, witch I have treasured up
in fond memory, and may find usefool sumtimes." "Oh," said he, "I didn't
know you had travelled, so perhaps you will be able to manage."
I didn't think it worth while to tell him that I had only been in
Brussells two days, and that it rained all the time, as I was told it
amost always does there, hence so many Brussells Sprouts, but I at wunce
made up my mind to strike up a closer acquaintence with one of our yung
French Waiters to himprove myself in his tung, and himprove him in ours.
And I'm getting on quite wunderfool. Why, ony yesterday a forren gent
said to me, "Encore de Pulley, Gasson!" to which I at wunce replied, "Be
hanged! Mossoo," and took him some. I was a good deal emused at his
calling me a boy, but my young French friend told me as it was only
their way, and didn't mean no offense, so I forguv him. But wot a
langwidge! to encore a biled chicking as if it was a comick song! Of
course I sumtimes makes mistakes, who woodn't? Last Munday, for
instance, a forrener asked me for some raisins, and of course I took him
some and some armonds with 'em, but he larfed quite artily, and kindly
sed, "I sink as you calls 'em grapes," but wot ignorance, not to know
one from the other!
I find too, werry much to my discumfort and worry, that I am xpected to
bussel about jest as if I was the mere boy as the French gents calls me,
witch is of coarse so werry different to what I have for so many years
bin akustomed to in the dear, old, quiet, respecktable City, that I
sumtimes wunders whether I shall be able to stand it for long. Another
thing too as I misses terribly, is the hutter habsence of Toastes. No
loyal Toastes, nor no Army and Navy and Wolluntears, and no blushing
Churchman's helth, nor no Lord Mayor's helth, but dreckly as they've dun
their dinner away they goes to the Play or some such frivolus emusement,
insted of setting for ours and ours over their wine, and lissening
with rapshure to the long speaches, as full of wit as they is of
wisdom, which has made us what we are, the sollemest, and the most
respectablest, and the most diningoutest peeple in Urope, and the best
frends to the pore hardworking Waiters of any other nation.
What a glorious free-drinking race we must have bin in days gone by! How
one's respect rises up when one hears of a digneterry of the Church who
lived to the green old age of 80, becoz he always drunk a bottle of old
port every day of his life from his youth upwards. How artily I wish I
coud afford to foller his brillyant xampel! and so gain the profound
admiration of my fellow men, as he did. Why, to such a man his dinner
must have bin to him the one great object of his life, as it ort to be
to every reel Gentleman. My son WILLIAM, who is a good calculator, tells
me that this trewly reverend Diwine must have drunk a hole Pipe of Port
ewery two years of his life! What a time of it his rewerend Butler must
have had! ROBERT.
* * * * *
SWIVELLERIANISM.