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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari Volume 98, January 4, 1890
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari Volume 98, January 4, 1890" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.

VOLUME 98, JANUARY 4, 1890***


VOL. 98

JANUARY 4, 1890

[Illustration: PUNCH
VOL 98]

Published at the Office, 85, Fleet Street,
and Sold by All Booksellers.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Preface]

It was a Midsummer Night, and Mr. PUNCH in his _sanctum_ dreamed a
Dream! To adapt the Laureate's lay:--

  He read, before his eyelids dropt their shade,
      The _Lusiads_ of CAMOENS, long ago
  Sung by the Lusitanian bard, who made
      Great GAMA'S glories glow.

It was the wondrous tale of STANLEY which had turned the Sage's
attention to the pages of the great Epic of Commerce.

He had read:--

  "Afric behold! alas, what altered view!
  Her lands uncultured, and her sons untrue;
  Ungraced with all that sweetens human life,
  Savage and fierce, they roam in brutal strife;
  Eager they grasp the gifts which culture yields,
  Yet naked roam their own neglected fields."

And though even Africa has considerably changed since the year of grace
1497, when "daring GAMA" went "incessant labouring round the stormy
Cape," Mr. PUNCH thought of that great gloom-shrouded Equatorial Forest
and its secular savage dwarf-denizens, and mused how much there was yet
for our modern GAMAS to do in the Dark Continent.

Mr. PUNCH found himself in the lovely "Isle of Venus," the delicious
floral Paradise which the Queen of Love, "the guardian goddess of the
Lusian race," created "amid the bosom of the watery waste," as "a place
of glad repast and sweet repose," for the tired home-returning GAMA and
his companions.

"Of 'glad repast,'" said a familiar voice, "there is plenty and to
spare; but for the 'sweet repose,' 'tis not to be found in this 'Isle of

"Mr. STANLEY, I presume?" said the Sage.

"You _cannot_ presume," rejoined H. M. neatly. "But some of these
gregarious dinner-givers _do_, and sometimes,--yes, sometimes I'm afraid
I let them see that I'm aware of it."

"As fame-preoccupied, country-loving GAMA, wearied of the 'feasts,
interludes, and chivalrous entertainments,' with which 'the taste of
that age demonstrated the joy of Portugal,' might perchance have snubbed
some too importunate Don. 'The compliments of the Court and the shouts
of the streets were irksome to him,' says the chronicle."

"SALISBURY is not quite a Prince HENRY apparently," remarked the modern
GAMA. "He and his father JOHN did not find the discoveries and
acquisitions of their heroic compatriot 'embarrassing.' 'The arts and
valour of the Portuguese had now made a great impression on the minds of
the Africans. The King of CONGO, a dominion of great extent, sent the
sons of some of his principal officers to be instructed in arts and
religion.' This was four hundred years ago! And now the Portuguese can
be safely snubbed and sat upon, even by a SALISBURY! But if your prudent
Premier doesn't 'stiffen his back' a bit, with regard to the tougher and
tentative Teuton, 'the arts and valour' of the Britishers will not make
as great an impression on the minds of the Africans as your ill-used
East African Company could desire."

"Don't be _too_ downhearted, HENRY," smiled the Sage. "Much dining-out
doth breed dyspepsia, and atrabilious views are apt to be a _leetle_

"Right, _Mr. Punch!_" said a musical but somewhat mournful voice, that
of the great but ill-starred LUIS DE CAMOENS himself. "I wrote much of
my _Lusiadas_ in Africa.

  "'One hand the pen, and one the sword employed.'

"_My_ reward was banishment, imprisonment, poverty, neglect, and a
miserable death in an almshouse. 'Soon after, however,' says the record,
'many epitaphs honoured his memory: the greatness of his merit was
universally confessed, and his _Lusiad_ was translated into various
languages.' 'The whirligig of time brings its revenges,' as your own
illustrious Singer saith. How think you myself and my friend VASCO de
GAMA here look upon the fallen state of our beloved native land? In vain
he ventured for her. In vain I warningly sang:--

  "'Chill'd by my nation's cold neglect, thy fires
  Glow bold no more, and all thy rage expires.
  Shall haughty Gaul or sterner Albion boast
  That all the Lusian fame in thee is lost!'"

Mr. PUNCH bowed low to the illustrious Poet and the indomitable
Explorer. "Greatness," said he, courteously, "claims reverence, and
misfortune respect. Your countrymen, Gentlemen, have been rather angry
with me of late. But 'sterner Albion' may be proud indeed if she
produces such men as GAMA to perform heroic deeds, and such poets as
CAMOENS to sing them." The stately Shades saluted. "I wonder," said
GAMA, "who will be the Laureate of the later Ulysses, and which of your
singers will write the _Epic of Africa?_"

"I fear," said Mr. PUNCH, "that at present they are too busy smiting the
Socialistic big drum, or tickling their sonorous native tongue into
tinkling triolets. In this Island of Venus----"

"I beg pardon," interrupted STANLEY, with a sardonic smile. "This Island
of _Menus_, you mean, Mr. PUNCH!"

Mr. PUNCH looked around. The Acidalian roses and myrtles, the purple
lotos and the snowy thorn, the yellow pod-flowers and the waving palms,
the vermeil apples and the primrosed banks, of CAMOENS' somewhat
zone-confounding vision, had indeed vanished, and in their stead seemed
to wave snowy _serviettes_, to flow champagne-streams, to glitter
goblets, and to glow orchid-laden _épergnes_.

"Humph!" said the Sage. "The prose of the _Restaurateur_--which by the
way sounds as if I were alluding to the literature of the
Restauration,--hath insensibly superseded the poesy of the peerless
Portuguese. Well, Gentlemen, in vain may 'sterner Albion' glory in the
profusion of wealth and the pomp of 'glad repast,' unless also she
breeds heroes to adventure and poets to celebrate. As you sang, my

  "'The King or hero to the Muse unjust,
  Sinks as the nameless slave, extinct in dust.'

"For the present, STANLEY'S arm and Mr. PUNCH'S pen suffice to save the
State from such abasement. But let our timid Premiers and our
temporising Press remember the glories of GAMA and CAMOENS, and the fate
of ungrateful and indolent Lusitania!"

"The Pen of Mr. PUNCH!" cried CAMOENS. "Ah, long have the valiant VASCO
and myself desired to peruse its sparkling and patriotic outpourings.".

"And you, my STANLEY," proceeded Mr. PUNCH, "said to the banqueting
Fishmongers, 'I am an omnivorous reader whenever an opportunity presents
itself.' It presents itself here and now. Take, Illustrious Trio, the
greatest gift that even PUNCH can bestow upon you, to wit his

"Ninety-Eighth Volume!"


       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *



Have for a considerable time past been "eating dinners," preparatory to
being "called" to the Bar. Understand now what people mean when they
talk of a "_Digest_ of the Law."

Find myself (on dining for the first time this Term) in a mess with a
highly-intelligent native of India, another man up from Oxford, and an
African law-student. Latter black and curly, but good-natured. Says
there is a great demand for English-made barristers on the Gambia, and
he's going to supply the demand.

Have wild and momentary idea of going to the Gambia myself.

"Why," I ask this enterprising negro, "why don't English
barristers--white ones, I mean--go and practise there?" Feel that
reference to colour is not felicitous; still, difficult to express the
idea otherwise.

African doesn't mind. Shows all his teeth in a broad grin, and says,
"Inglis men die, die like flies, on the Gambia."

Curious to see the Hindoo law-student looking contemptuously at African
ditto. Hindoo a shrewd fellow. Talks English perfectly. Rather given to
gesticulate. Waves his arms, and incidentally knocks over a bottle of
the claret--at twelve shillings a dozen--which the Inn kindly supplies
to wash down the mutton and baked potatoes at our two-shilling meal.
Hindoo laughs. Tells me, confidentially, that he has practised as a
"Vakeel" (whatever that is) in some small country town in Bengal. Why
has he come over here? Oh, to be called. Will get more work and more
pay, when a full-fledged barrister. Gather that there are rival
"Vakeels" in Bengal whom he wants to cut out. He intends "cutting
out"--to India--directly he _is_ called.

Oxford man tells me in a whisper that "he believes he's a Baboo."
Indeed! Don't feel much wiser for the information.

African getting jealous of Baboo's fluent talk. Rather a sportive negro,
it appears. Says he goes to theatre nearly every night. Has a regular
and rather festive programme for each day.

"Lecture, morning," he says; "afternoon, walk in Park, sometimes ride.
Night, theatre or music-hall." He grins like an amiable gargoyle. In his
own country African law-student must be quite a lady-killer--a sort of
Gambia masher.

Incidentally mention to Hindoo difficulty of law of Real Property,
especially "Rule in SHELLEY'S Case."

It seems Hindoo understands matter perfectly. Begins to explain the
"Rule in SHELLEY'S Case." Does it by aid of two salt-cellars (to
represent the parties) and a few knives (to represent collateral

African masher more jealous. Laughs at Baboo's explanation. He and Baboo
exchange glances of hatred. African, who is carving, brandishes knife.
Is he going to plunge it into heart of Baboo just as he's got through
his explanation? Looks like it, as the shilling claret seems to have got
into place where we may suppose African's brain to be. However, dinner
ends without a catastrophe.

After attending the usual amount of legal lectures, the "Final" Exam.

Get through the papers pretty well. Thank goodness, no question asked so
far about that "Rule in SHELLEY'S Case," which is my "_Pons Asinorum_!"
It's a "rule" to which I take great exception.

There's a "_Vivâ Voce_" to come, however. Hate _vivâ voce._ Two
examiners sit at end of Hall--students called up in batches of
half-a-dozen at a time. Very nervous work. Find, when my turn comes,
that the intelligent Baboo is in the same lot! Appears to like the
position. From his manner I should judge that he'd been doing nothing
all his life but being examined by fifties in a cave, like this.

Examiner who tackles me has an eye-glass.

"Now, Mr. JOYNSON," he remarks, putting it up to survey me better, "if
you were a trustee, &c., &c., _what would you do?_"

Flattered at the supposition. Answer in a way which seems to partly
satisfy Examiner, who passes on to next man with a new question. In a
minute or two my turn comes round again.

"Now, Mr. JOYNSON," Examiner again observes cheerfully, "let me ask you
quite an elementary question in Real Property. Just give me a brief, a
very brief, explanation of what you understand by the Rule in SHELLEY'S

But I don't understand anything by it! It's a piece of hopeless legal
gibberish to me. I stammer out some attempt at an answer, and see Baboo
looking at me with a pitying, almost reproachful, glance. "Didn't I," he
seems to say, "explain it all to you once at dinner? Do you really mean
to say that you've forgotten the way in which I arranged the
salt-cellars and the table-knives, and how I turned the whole case
inside out for your benefit?"

I admit the offence. Examiner seems surprised at my ignorance--informs
me that "it's as easy as A.B.C." It may be--to him and the Baboo.

Baboo, being asked the same question, at once explains the whole matter,
this time without the aid of the salt-cellars and cutlery.

A few days later go to look at result of examination. Result, for me--a

Walking away dejectedly--("homeward the Plough-man wends his legal
way"--as GRAY sympathetically put it)--meet African law-student, who
grins insanely. _He_ doesn't sympathise in my defeat. Shows his fine set
of ivories and says:--

"Me failed too. Me go back Gambia. You come back with me!"

Tell him I'm not "called" yet: certainly not called to Gambia.

"Then come to Alhambra!" he suggests, as a sort of alternative to a
visit to the tropics.

African student evidently still a masher. Decline his invitation with
thanks. Wouldn't be seen with him at a theatre for worlds! Depressed.
Don't even look in at Gaiety Bar. No Gaiety for _me_--and no "Bar"
either, it seems.

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


(_Not by Dr. Watts._)

  How doth the busy Jerry Builder
    Improve his shining hoard,
  And gather money, basely earned,
    From every opening Board!

  How skilfully he scamps his "shells"!
    How deftly spreads his sludge!
  And labours to defend his sells
    By special-pleading fudge!

  With what serene, well-practised skill,
    He "squares" Surveyors too!
  For Jobbery finds some baseness still
    For venal hands to do.

  Whether for work or healthful play
    His buildings will not last.
  May he be called some day, some day,
    To strict account at last!

       *       *       *       *       *

PARLIAMENTARY INTELLIGENCE.--According to the announcement in the
_Gazette_, the SPEAKER will take the Chair in the House of Commons on
Tuesday, the 11th of February, when the new Session opens. But, as a
matter of fact, _The Speaker_ will be on the book-stalls on Saturday
next, the 4th of January, entering upon what promises to be a useful and
prolonged Session. Thereafter _The Speaker_ will take the book-stall
once a week regularly, there being Saturday sittings throughout the
year. _The Speaker_ will, of course, be on the side of Law and "Order!

       *       *       *       *       *


_A Cool Collation of Several Bards._

  I would I had not met you, Sweet,
     I wish you had been far away
  From where, in Upper Wimpole Street,
     We two foregather'd yesterday.
  Somewhere in that unlovely street
     Summer's lost beauty, hid away,
  Woke at the music of your feet,
     And sought the little girl in grey.
  Around your head the sunbeams play--
     Home to the depths of your deep eyes
  Soft shadows of the woodland stray,
  Then sparkle with a quick surprise,
  As when the branch-entangled skies
  Shake from the depths of woodland stream,
  Awhile in laughing circles gleam,
  Then spread to heaven's peace again.
  Amber and gold, and feathery grey,
  You suited well the Autumn day,
  The muffled sun, the misty air,
  The weather like a sleepy pear.
  And yet I wish that you had been
  Afar, beside the sounding main,
  Or swaying daintily the rein
  Of mettled courser on the green,
  So I had passed, and passed unseen.

  For I arose, from dreams of thee,
  So late that morn, my matin tea
  Was cold as mutton two days cooked;
  As in the looking-glass I looked,
  Methought the razor need not wreak
  Its wonted vengeance on my cheek,
  Nor clear the shadow from my chin
  Till to the City I had been.
  Thus, horrid with a nascent beard,
  By chance through Wimpole Street I steered,
  Trusting therein to shun contempt
  Of who abhor a man unkempt.
  For like a mother-bird, who's caught
  The cant of modern woman's thought,
  My restless tie refused to sit,
  And restless fingers vainly sought
  To soothe the silkworm's stubborn toil.
  But only did its candour soil,
  And suffered none the less from it.
  For all my neck, and head no less,
  Owned to a vague unquietness,
  As when the vagrant spiderlet
  Has spread at large her filmy net
  To catch the moonbeams, wavering white,
  At the front gate on Autumn night.

  Then suddenly the sombre way
  Rock'd like the darkness struck by day,
  The endless houses reel'd from sight,
  And all romance and all delight
  Came thronging in a glorious crowd.
  So, when the drums are beating loud,
  The mob comes sweeping down the Mall,
  Far heralding the bear-skins tall.
  Glorious in golden clothing comes
  The great drum-major with his drums
  And sun-smit brass of trumpets; then
  The scarlet wall of marching men,
  Midmost of which great Mavors sets
  The colours girt with bayonets.
  Yes, there were you--and there was I,
  Unshaved, and with erratic tie,
  And for that once I yearn'd to shun
  My social system's central sun.
  How could a sloven slave express
  The frank, the manly tenderness
  That wraps you round from common thought,
  And does not ask that you should know
  The love that consecrates you so.
  No; furtive, awkward, restless, cold,
  I basely seemed to set at naught
  That sudden bliss, undreamt, unsought.
  What must she think, my girl of gold?
  I dare not ask; and baffled wit
  Droops--till sweet hopes begin to flit--
  Like butterflies that brave the cold--
  Perhaps she didn't notice it.

       *       *       *       *       *



_He._ "_NOTHING!_"

_She._ "EGOTIST!"]

       *       *       *       *       *


DEAR MR. PUNCH,--It was not a very happy thought to send me to the Globe
Theatre at this festive season of the year to witness the representation
of a piece, called by the management, for some reason or other, "a
_faërie_ comedy." Now, I like a Burlesque, and I am fond of a Pantomime,
but a mixture of blank verse and tom-foolery is rather too much for me,
especially when that mixture is not redeemed by a plot of any interest.
Nothing can be more absurd than the story (save the mark!) told in this
particularly uninteresting play. It appears that a "Duke!" of Athens
married the Queen of the Amazons, and during the nuptial rejoicings
ordered the daughter of one of his subjects to "die the death" unless
she transferred her affections from her own true love to a gentleman of
her father's choice. The gentleman of her father's choice was beloved in
his turn by a school friend of his would-not-be betrothed, and the play
which lasted from eight until nearly midnight, was devoted to setting
this simple (in more senses than one) _imbroglio_ right. By a clumsy
device, _Oberon_ King of the Fairies bewitched the two pairs of lovers
during their sleep in a wood, so that one lady had two admirers and the
other none. All that was needed to bring the piece to a conclusion was
to have another exercise of magic when the couples paired off, of
course, in a manner calculated to give satisfaction to their friends and
relations. This was the entire plot. There was now and again some
attempts to turn amateur theatricals into feeble ridicule by the
introduction of a party of village histrions, who were allowed to
"clown" to their heart's content; and _voilà tout_!

The mounting is excellent. Nothing better than "a Wood near Athens,"
painted by Mr. HEMSLEY, has been seen since Professor HERKOMER startled
the world with his representation of village life at Bushey. The music,
too (chiefly from the works of MENDELSSOHN), is always charming, and
frequently appropriate. Moreover, Mr. BENSON, no doubt feeling that his
author required every possible support, has introduced a number of
pretty dances, executed by comely maidens of ages varying from seven to
(say) seven-and-twenty.

Of course, such a play required very ordinary acting. Mr. BENSON was, on
the whole, a gentlemanly _Lysander_, Mr. OTHO STUART a dignified
_Oberon_, and Mr. STEPHEN PHILLIPS quite the best of the village
histrions. Miss GRACE GERALDINE was also fanciful in the _rôle_ of a
sort of gnome. But, allowing for the music, and the scenery, and the
acting, the piece itself was unquestionably dull. And now, having given
you my unbiassed opinion, I beg to sign myself,


P.S.--I am told that the author of _A Midsummer's Dream_ wrote a number
of other plays of considerable merit. This I challenge, the more
especially as those who swear by Mr. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE candidly admit
that his name is a deterrent rather than an attraction on a play-bill.

       *       *       *       *       *

    1890 ALMANACK FOR FUNNY DOGS.--Evidently "Whitty Curs'

       *       *       *       *       *



_A Musical Spectacular and Sensational Interlude._ (_Dedicated
respectfully to Mr. McDougall and the L. C. C._)


The Music-hall Dramatist, like SHAKSPEARE, has a right to take his
material from any source that may seem good to him. _Mr. Punch_,
therefore, makes no secret of the fact, that he has based the following
piece upon the well-known poem of "_The Purloiner_," by the Sisters JANE
and ANN TAYLOR, who were _not_, as might be too hastily concluded, "Song
and Dance Duettists," but two estimable ladies, who composed
"cautionary" verses for the young, and whose works are a perfect mine of
wealth for Moral Dramatists. In this dramatic version the Author has
tried to infuse something of the old Greek sense of an overruling
destiny, without detriment to prevailing ideas of moral responsibility.
Those who have the misfortune to be born with a propensity for illicit
jam, may learn from our Drama the terrible results of failing to
overcome it early in life.


_Jam-loving Joe._ By that renowned Melodramatic Serio-Comic, Miss CONNIE

_Joe's Mother_ (_the very part for_ Mrs. BANCROFT _if she can only be
induced to make her re-appearance_).

_John, a Gardener._ By the great Pink-eyed Unmusical Zulu.

_Jim-Jam, the Fermentation Fiend._ By Mr. BEERBOHM TREE (_who has kindly
consented to undertake the part_).

_Chorus of Plum and Pear Gatherers, from the Savoy_ (_by kind permission
of_ Mr. D'OYLY CARTE).

SCENE.--_The Store-room at sunset, with view of exterior of Jam
Cupboard, and orchard in distance._

_Enter_ JOE.

"As JOE was at play, Near the cupboard one day, When he thought no one
saw him but himself."--_Vide Poem._

  _Joe_ (_dreamily_). 'Tis passing strange that I so partial am
                      To playing in the neighbourhood of Jam!

[_Here_ Miss CURDLER _will introduce her great humorous Satirical
Medley, illustrative of the Sports of Childhood, and entitled, "Some
Little Gymes we all of us 'ave Plied;" after which, Enter_ JOE'S
_Mother, followed by_ JOHN _and the Chorus, with baskets, ladders, &c.,
for gathering fruit._

"His Mother and JOHN, To the garden had gone, To gather ripe
pears and ripe plums."--_Poem._

  _Joe's Mother_ (_with forced cheerfulness_)--

  Let's hope, my friends, to find our pears and plums,
  Unharmed by wopses, and untouched by wums.

[_Chorus signify assent in the usual manner by holding up the right


      Fruit when gathered ripe, is wholesome--
        Otherwise if eaten green.
      Once I knew a boy who stole some--
  [_With a glance at_ JOE, who turns aside to conceal his
      His internal pangs were keen!

  _Chorus_ (_virtuously_). 'Tis the doom of all who're mean,
      Their internal pangs are keen!

_Joe's Mother_ (_aside_). By what misgivings is a mother
      I'll keep my eye on JOSEPH in the orchard.
              [_She invites him with a gesture to follow._

  _Joe_ (_earnestly_). Nay, Mother, here I'll stay till you
                                   have done.
      Temptation it is ever best to shun!

  _Joe's M._ So laudable his wish, I would not cross it--
      (_Mysteriously._) He knows not there are jam-pots in yon

  _Chorus._ Away we go tripping,
                 From boughs to be stripping
                 Each pear, plum, and pippin
                   Pomona supplies!

                 When homeward we've brought 'em,
                 Those products of Autumn,
                 We'll carefully sort 'em
                         (_One of our old Music-hall rhymes_),
                   According to size! [_Repeat as they caper out._

[JOE'S Mother, _after one fond, lingering look behind, follows: the
voices are heard more and more faintly in the distance. Stage darkens;
the last ray of sunset illumines key of jam-cupboard door._

  _Joe._ At last I am alone! Suppose I tried
  That cupboard--just to see what's kept inside?
      [_Seems drawn towards it by some fatal fascination._
  There _might_ be Guava jelly, and a plummy cake,
  For such a prize I'd laugh to scorn a stomach-ache!
      [_Laughs a stomach-ache to scorn._
  And yet (_hesitating_) who knows?--a pill?... perchance--a powder!
  (_Desperately_). What then? To scorn I'll laugh them--even louder!

[_Fetches chair and unlocks cupboard. Doors fall open with loud clang,
revealing Interior of Jam Closet_ (_painted by_ HAWES CRAVEN). JOE
_mounts chair to explore shelves. Vide poem, "How sorry I am, He ate
raspberry jam, And currants that stood on the shelf!"_

  _Joe_ (_speaking with mouth full, and back to audience_).
  'Tis raspberry--of all the jams my favourite;
  I'll clear the pot, whate'er I have to pay for it!
  And finish up with currants from this shelf....
  Who'll ever see me?

  _The Demon of the Jam Closet_ (_rising slowly from an immense pot of
  preserves_). None--except Myself!

[_The cupboard is lit up by an infernal glare_ (_courteously lent by the
Lyceum Management from "Faust" properties_); _weird music;_ JOE _turns
slowly and confronts the Demon with awestruck eyes;_ N.B.--_Great
opportunity for powerful acting here._

  _The Demon_ (_with a bland sneer_). Pray don't mind _me_--I will await
  your leisure.

  _Joe_ (_automatically_). Of your acquaintance, Sir, I've not the
  Who _are_ you? Wherefore have you intervened?

  _The Demon_ (_quietly_). My name is "Jim-Jam"; occupation--fiend.

  _Joe_ (_cowering limply on his chair_). O Mr. Fiend, I _know_ it's
                                          very wrong of me!

  _Demon_ (_politely_). Don't mention it--but please to come "along of"

  _Joe_ (_imploringly_). Do let me off this once,--ha! you're relenting,
                         You smile----

  _Demon_ (_grimly_). 'Tis nothing but my jam fermenting!
    [_Catches_ JOE'S _ankle, and assists him to descend._

  _Joe._ You'll drive me mad!

  _Demon_ (_carelessly_). I _may_--before I've done with you!

  _Joe._ What do you want?

  _Demon_ (_darkly_). To have a little fun with you!
                      Of fiendish humour now I'll give a specimen.

[_Chases him round and round Stage, and proceeds to smear him hideously
with jam._

  _Joe_ (_piteously_). Oh, don't! I feel _so_ sticky. _What_ a mess
                         I'm in!

  _Demon_ (_with affected sympathy_). That _is_ the worst of jam--it's
                                        apt to stain you.
  [_To_ JOE, _as he frantically endeavours to remove the traces of his
  I see you're busy--so I'll not detain you!

[_Vanishes down star-trap with a diabolical laugh. Cupboard-doors close
with a clang; all lights down._ JOE _stands gazing blankly for some
moments, and then drags himself off Stage. His Mother and_ JOHN, _with
Pear- and Plum-gatherers bearing laden baskets, appear at doors at back
of Scene, in faint light of torches._

_Re-enter Joe_ (_bearing a candle and wringing his hands_). Out, jammed
spot! What--will these hands _never_ be clean? Here's the smell of the
raspberry jam still! All the powders of Gregory cannot unsweeten this
little hand.... (_Moaning._) Oh, oh, oh!

[_This passage has been accused of bearing too close a resemblance to
one in a popular Stage Play; if so, the coincidence is purely
accidental, as the Dramatist is not in the habit of reading such profane

  _Joe's Mother._ Ah! what an icy dread my heart benumbs!
                  See--stains on all his fingers, _and_ his thumbs!

"What JOE was about, His Mother found out, When she look'd at his
fingers and thumbs."--_Poem again._

  Nay, JOSEPH--'tis your mother ... speak to her!

_Joe_ (_tonelessly, as before_). Lady, I know you not (_touches lower
part of waistcoat_); but, prithee, undo this button. I think I have jam
in all my veins, and I would fain sleep. When I am gone, lay me in a
plain white jelly-pot, with a parchment cover, and on the label
write----but come nearer, I have a secret for your ear alone ... there
are strange things in some cupboards! Demons should keep in the
dust-bin. (_With a ghastly smile._) I know not what ails me, but I am
not feeling at all well.

[JOE'S Mother _stands a few steps from him, with her hands twisted in
her hair, and stares at him in speechless terror._

_Joe_ (_to the Chorus_). I would shake hands with you all, were not my
fingers so sticky. We eat marmalade, but we know not what it is made of.
Hush! if JIM-JAM comes again, tell him that I am not at home.

_All_ (_with conviction_). Some shock has turned his brine!

_Joe_ (_sitting down on floor, and weaving straws in his hair_). My
curse upon him that invented jam. Let us all play Tibbits.

[_Laughs vacantly: all gather round him, shaking their heads, his_
Mother _falls fainting at his feet, as Curtain falls upon a strong and
moral, though undeniably gloomy dénoûment._

       *       *       *       *       *


MESSRS. GILBERT AND SULLIVAN'S _Gondoliers_ deserves to rank immediately
after _The Mikado_ and _Pinafore_ bracketed. The _mise-en-scène_ is in
every way about as perfect as it is possible to be. Every writer of
_libretti_, every dramatist and every composer, must envy the Two
Savoyards, their rare opportunities of putting their own work on their
own stage, and being like the two Kings in this piece, jointly and
equally monarchs of all they survey, though, unlike these two
potentates, they are not their subjects' servants, and have only to
consider what is best for the success of their piece, and to have it
carried out, whatever it is, literally regardless of expense. And what
does their work amount to? Simply a Two-Act Opera, to play
two-hours-and-a-half, for the production of which they have practically
a whole year at their disposal. They can go as near commanding success
as is given to mortal dramatist and composer, and for any comparative
failure they can have no one to blame but themselves, the pair of them.

[Illustration: "Once upon a time there were two Kings."]

Whatever the piece may be, it is always a pleasure to see how thoroughly
the old hands at the Savoy enter into "the fun of the thing," and, as in
the case of Miss JESSIE BOND and Mr. RUTLAND BARRINGTON, absolutely
carry the audience with them by sheer exuberance of spirits.

Mr. RUTLAND BARRINGTON possesses a ready wit and keen appreciation of
humour; and, as this is true also of Miss JESSIE BOND, the couple, being
thoroughly in their element with such parts as _The Gondoliers_ provide
for them, legitimately graft their own fun on the plentiful stock
already supplied by the author, and are literally the life and soul of
the piece.

On the night I was there a Miss NORAH PHYLLIS took Miss ULMAR'S part of
_Gianetta_, and played it, at short notice, admirably. She struck me as
bearing a marked facial resemblance to Miss FORTESQUE, and is a decided
acquisition. Mr. DENNY, as the Grand Inquisitor (a part that recalls the
Lord High Chancellor of the ex-Savoyard, GEORGE GROSSMITH, now
entertaining "on his own hook"), doesn't seem to be a born Savoyard,
_non nascitur_ and _non fit_ at present. Good he is, of course, but
there's no spontaneity about him. However, for an eccentric comedian
merely to do exactly what he is told, and nothing more, yet to do that,
little or much, well, is a performance that would meet with _Hamlet's_
approbation, and Mr. GILBERT'S. Mr. FRANK WYATT, as "the new boy" at the
Savoy School, doesn't, as yet, seem quite happy; but it cannot be
expected that he should feel "quite at home," when he has only recently
arrived at a new school.

Miss BRANDRAM is a thorough Savoyard; _nihil tetigit quod non ornavit_,
and her embroidery of a part which it is fair to suppose was written to
suit her, is done in her own quaint and quiet fashion.

A fantastically and humorous peculiarly Gilbertian idea is the
comparison between a visit to the dentist's, and an interview with the
questioners by the rack, suggested by the Grand Inquisitor Don ALHAMBRA
who says that the nurse is waiting in the torture-chamber, but that
there is no hurry for him to go and examine her, as she is all right and
"has all the illustrated papers."

[Illustration: Rutland Pooh-Bah-rington, after signing his
re-engagement, takes his Bond, and sings, "Again we come to the Savoy."]

There are ever so many good things in the Opera, but the best of all,
for genuinely humorous inspiration of words, music and acting, is the
quartette in the Second Act, "In a contemplative fashion." It is
excellent. Thank goodness, _encores_ are disencouraged, except where
there can be "No possible sort of doubt, No possible doubt whatever"
(also a capital song in this piece) as to the unanimity of the
enthusiasm. There is nothing in the music that catches the ear on a
first hearing as did "_The Three Little Maids_," or "_I've got a Song to
Sing O!_" but it is all charming, and the masterly orchestration in its
fulness and variety is something that the least technically educated can
appreciate and enjoy. The piece is so brilliant to eye and ear, that
there is never a dull moment on the stage or off it. It is just one of
those simple _Bab-Ballady_ stories which, depending for its success not
on any startling surprise in the plot, but on general excellence, may,
especially on account of the music, be safely put down on the
play-goer's list for "a second hearing."


[Illustration: George Grossmith on his own Hook.]

       *       *       *       *       *


From _The Morning Post_, last week, we learn that the Russian Imperial
Academy of Arts, has passed a law prohibiting Jews to become members of
its artistic body. By the Nose of _Mr. Punch_, but this is too bad, and
too bigoted for any century, let alone the "so-called Nineteenth." If
such a rule, or rather such an exception, could have been possible in
England within the last twenty years, what a discouragement it would
have been for all the Royal Academicians, who would thereby _have lost
Hart!_ Dear good old SOLOMON! He was a poor HART that often rejoiced,
and if he was not the best painter in the world, he was just about the
worst punster. We hope to hear that our Royal Academicians, with their
large-hearted and golden-tongued President at their head, will send a
friendly expostulation to their Russian Brothers in oil, and obtain the
abrogation of this unreasonable legislation, which is one effect of an
anti-semitic cyclone, fit only for the _Jew-ventus Mundi_, but not for
the world at its maturity.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "DOT AND GO ONE"--no, see _Dot_, and go several times
    again to see our JOHNNIE TOOLE at his own Theatre,
    before he leaves for the Antipodes. The good old farce
    of _Toole in the Pigskin_ is well-mounted, and is, of
    course, one of the pieces on which he will rely, as
    especially appropriate to Horse-tralia.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: FRESH TO THE COUNTRY.


_Butcher's Boy_ (_a recent importation from London_). "YES, MUM. I JIST

       *       *       *       *       *


  Off! Yes; but inexperienced feet,
  With pace that's fast and a style that's neat,
    At first can scarcely be expected
  O'er frozen waters to glide and fleet.

  "_Have them on, Sir?_" Old Time was there,
  With the shining steels and the ready chair.
    His latest pupil is passing yonder,
  No more the ice-locked waters to dare.

  _His_ feet are tired and his knees are stiff,
  _His_ breath comes low in a wheezy whiff.
    He'll now "lay up," like a worn-out wherry.
  'Tis yours to start like a new-launched skiff.

  How many a novice that Skate-man old
  Has helped to onset alert and bold!
    How many a veteran worn seen vanish,
  Aching with effort and pinched with cold!

  And you, young novice, 'tis now your turn
  Your skates to try and your steps to learn.
    You long to fly like the skimming swallow,
  To brave the breathless "scurry" you burn.

  He knows, he knows, your aged guide!
  The screws are fixed, and the straps are tied,
    And he looks sharp out for the shambling stagger,
  The elbows wobbling, the knees too wide.

  But boyhood's hopeful, and youth has pluck;
  And now, when scarcely your steel hath struck
    The slithery ice in your first bold venture,
  _Punch_, friendly watcher, will wish you luck!

  He too has seen some novices start,
  And knows, however you play your part,
    The "outside edge," and attendant perils,
  Will tax your sinews and test your heart.

  But most on the ice does the old saw hold--
  "Be bold, be bold, but be not _too_ bold!"
    Though there's many a rotten patch marked "Danger!"
  Young hearts are warm if the weather be cold.

  Bravo, youngster! Steady! Strike out!
  Caution, yes, but not palsying doubt.
    Courage! and you--ere your course you finish--
  May beat "Fish" SMART at a flying bout!

       *       *       *       *       *


  How werry warious is the reasons why
    We welcoms Crismus with a ringing cheer!
  The Skoolboy nos his hollidays is nigh,
    And treats the hale stout Porter to sum Beer.

  The Cook and Ousemaid smiles upon the Baker,
    Who takes his little fee without no blush,
  Likewise upon the Butcher and Shoo Maker
    Who makes their calls dispite the Sno or Slush.

  The Dustman cums a crying out for "Dust,"
    But nos full well that isn't wot he seeks,
  And gits his well-earned shilling with the fust,
    And smiles on Mary as his thanks he speaks.

  The Groser smart, as likewise his Green Brother,
    In their best close cums with a modest ring,
  And having got their orders, one and tother,
    Smilingly asks for jest one other thing.

  The Postman's dubbel nock cums to each door,
    Whether he has a Letter got or no,
  The stingy Master thinks his call a bore,
    And gives his paltry shilling werry slow.

  The jowial Waiter shows unwonted joy!
    And hails his Crismus with becoming glee!
  Knowing full well _his_ plezzurs newer cloy,
    Who gets from ewery Gest a dubble fee!

  Why are not all men like the jowial Waiter,
    Allers content with what kind Fortune brings,
  Whether it's Turtel Soop or a meer tater,
    He sets a pattern to Lord Mares and Kings.

  Then let us all while Crismus time we're keeping,
    Whether we barsks in fortune's smile or frown,
  Be thankful for the harwest we are reaping,
    And give a thort to them whose luck is down.


       *       *       *       *       *

    HISTORICAL PARALLELS.--Two Directories. The French
    _Directoire_ was a short-lived stopgap of not unmixed
    benefit to France, but our English Directory, yclept
    KELLY'S, for 1890, directorily, or indirectorily,
    supplies all our wants, comes always "as a boon and a
    blessing to men," and is within a decade of becoming a
    hale and hearty centenarian. _Vivat_ KELLY!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE START]

       *       *       *       *       *


"Très volontiers," repartit le démon.

"Vous aimez les tableaux changeans: je veux vous contenter."

_Le Diable Boiteux._



  Down through the night we drifted slow, the rays
  From London's countless gas-jets starred the haze
      O'er which we darkly hovered.
  Broad loomed the bulk of WREN'S colossal dome
  Through the grey mist, which, like a sea of foam,
      The sleeping city covered.

  "The year," the Shadow murmured, "nears its close.
  Lo! how they swarm in slumber, friends and foes,
      Kindred and utter strangers,
  The millions of this Babylon, stretched beneath
  The shroud of night, and drawing peaceful breath,
      Unstirred by dreads and dangers."

  "But not by dreams," I answered, "Canst reveal,
  O Shade, the vagrant thoughts that throng and steal
      About these countless pillows?
  Or are these sleeping souls as shut to thee
  As is the unsounded silence of the sea
      To those who brave its billows?"

  "Dreams?" smiled the Shadow. "What I see right well
  Your eyes may not behold. Yet can I tell
      Their import as unravelled
  By subtler sense, whilst through these souls they pass!
  What said the demon to _Don Cléophas_
      As o'er Madrid they travelled?

  "Such dreams as haunt us near the glimmering morn
  Shadow forth truth; these through the Gates of Horn
      Find passage to the sleeper.
  Prophetic? Nay! But sense therein may read
  The heart's desire, in pangs of love or greed;
      What divination deeper?

  "Yon Statesman, struggling in the nightmare's grip,
  Fears he has let Time's scanty forelock slip,
      And lost a great occasion
  Of self-advancement. How that mouth's a-writhe
  With hate, on platforms oft so blandly blithe
     In golden-tongued persuasion!

  "He, blindly blundering, as through baffling mist,
  Is a professional philanthropist,
      Rosy-gilled, genial, hearty.
  A mouthing Friend of Man. He dreams he's deep
  In jungles of self-interest, where creep
      Sleuth-hounds of creed and party.

  "That sleek-browed sleeper? 'Tis the Great Pooh-pooh,
  The 'Mugwump' of the _Weekly Whillaloo_,
      A most superior creature;
  Too high for pity and too cold for wrath;
  The pride of dawdlers on the Higher Path
      Suffuses every feature.

  "Contemptuous, he, of clamorous party strife,
  And all the hot activities of life;
      But most the Politician
  He mocks--for 'meanness.' How the prig would gasp
  If shown the slime-trail of that wriggling asp
      In his own haunts Elysian!

  "He dreams Creation, cleared of vulgar noise,
  Is dedicate to calm æsthetic joys,
      That he is limply lolling
  Amidst the lilies that toil not nor spin,
  Given quite to dandy scorn, and dainty sin,
      And languor, and 'log-rolling.'

  "The head which on that lace-trimmed pillow lies
  Is fair as Psyche's. Yes, those snow-veiled eyes
      Look Dian-pure and saintly.
  Sure no Aholibah could own those lips,
  Through whose soft lusciousness the bland breath slips
      So fragrantly and faintly.

  "That up-curved arm which bears the silken knot
  Of dusky hair, is it more free from blot
      Than is her soul who slumbers?
  Her visions? Of 'desirable young men,'
  Who crowd round her like swine round Circe's pen
      In ever-swelling numbers.

  "Of Love? Nay, but of lovers. Love's a lean
  And impecunious urchin; lovers mean
      Gifts, worship, triumph--Money!
  The Golden Apple is the fruit to witch
  Our modern Atalantas. To be rich,
      Live on life's milk and honey;

  "Stir crowds, charm royalties,--these are the things
  Psyche most cares for, not her radiant wings
      Or Cupid's shy caresses.
  She dreams of conquests that a world applauds,
  Or a Stage-wardrobe with a thousand gauds,
      And half-a-hundred dresses.

  "Not so, that other sleeper, stretched at length,
  A spectre stripped of charm and shorn of strength,
      In yon dismantled chamber.
  Dreams she of girlhood's couch, the lavender
  Of country sheets, a roof where pigeons whirr
      And creamy roses clamber?

  "Of him the red-faced swain whose rounded eyes
  Dwelt on her charms in moony ecstacies?
      Of pride, of shame, of sorrow?
  Nay, of what now seems Nature's crowning good;
  Hunger-wrought dreams are hers of food--food--food.
      She'll wake from them to-morrow;

  "Wake fiercely famishing, savagely sick,
  The animal in man is quick, so quick
      To stir and claim full forage.
  Let famine parch the hero's pallid lips,
  Pinch Beauty's breast, then watch the swift eclipse
      Of virtue, sweetness, courage!

  "Cynical? Sense leaves that to callow youth
  And callous age; plain picturing of the truth
      Seems cynical,--to folly.
  Friend, the true cynic is the shallow mime
  Who paints humanity devoid of crime,
      And life supremely 'jolly,'

  "See such an one, in scented sheets a-loll!
  Rich fare and rosy wine have lapped his soul
      In a _bon-vivant's_ slumbers.
  His pen lies there, the ink is scarcely dry
  With which he sketched the smug philosophy
      Of Cant and Christmas Numbers.

  "He dreams of--holly, home, exuberant hearts,
  Picturesque poverty, the toys and tarts
      Of childhood's hope?--No, verily!
  'Tis a dream-world of pleasure, power, and pelf,
  Visions of the apocalypse of Self,
      O'er which his soul laughs merrily."

  "Enough!" I cried. "The morning's earliest gleams
  Will soon dissolve this pageantry of dreams.
      The New Year's at our portals.
  Unselfishness, and purity, and hope,
  Dawn with it through the dream-world's cloudy cope,
      Even on slumbering mortals."

  "Granted," the Shadow answered. "Poppy-Land
  Is not _all_ Appetite and Humbug bland.
      Myriads of night-capped noddles
  We must leave unexplored. Their owners oft
  Are saints austere, or sympathisers soft,
      Truth's types and Virtue's models!"

(_To be continued._)

       *       *       *       *       *


PREPARING TO MEET AN EPIDEMIC.--If you sit all day in your great coat,
muffled up to the eyes in a woollen comforter and with your feet in
constantly replenished mustard and hot water, as you propose, you will
certainly be prepared, when it makes its appearance, to encounter the
attack of the Russian Epidemic Influenza, that you so much dread. Your
idea of taking a dose of some advertised Patent Medicine every other
hour, as a preventive, is by no means a bad one, and your resolution to
shut yourself up in your house, see no friends, open no letters, read no
newspapers, and live entirely on tinned meats for three months, might
possibly secure you from the chances of an attack; but on the whole we
should rather advise you to carry out your plan of leaving the country
altogether and seeking a temporary asylum in South Central Africa until
you are assured that the contagion has blown over, as the preferable
one. Anyhow you might try it. Meanwhile, certainly drench your clothes
with disinfectants, fill your hat with cotton wool steeped in spirits of
camphor, and if you meet any friends in the street, prevent them
addressing you, by keeping them at arm's-length with your walking-stick,
or, better still, if you have it with you, your opened umbrella. They
may or they may not understand your motive, and when they do, though
they may not respect you for your conduct, it is just possible that they
may not seriously resent it. Your precautionary measures, if
scrupulously carried out, should certainly ensure your safety. Put them
in hand at once, and be sure you let us hear from you next Spring
informing us, on the whole, how you have got on.

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


  THE BARON'S Booking-Office is still decked about with holly,
  For the Season that at any rate's conventionally "jolly,"
  Is by no means wholly over, and the very hard-worked Baron
  Feels rather like a sort of tired-out literary Charon,
  With an over-laden ferry-boat, and passengers too numerous.
  For seasonable "novelties"--and "notions" quaint and humorous
  Still crowd on him, and claim his constant critical attention,
  Some may escape his notice, but a few more he must mention
  MARCUS WARD'S are good as usual, and his "Christmas Cheque Book"'s funny;
  Though rather a sardonic "sell" to parties short of money.
  CASTELL BROTHERS' Cards are charming, but the words "Printed in Germany,"
  The patriotic Baron irk, or may he turn a Merman! He
  Can't see why pictured prettiness should be beyond _home_-printing.
  He doesn't want to dogmatise, but really can't help _hinting!_
  _Scout's Head_, by LANGBRIDGE, boys will like. JEROME K. JEROME'S
  Which BERNARD PARTRIDGE illustrates, might tickle e'en the sage land
  Of Puritan Philistia at Clapham-Rise or Barnsbury.
  And now let us the memory of Christmas Cards and yarns bury
  In a right bowl of stingo, in the which the Baron cheerily
  Drinks to his readers heartily, sincerely, and Happy-New-Year-ily!

Once upon a time Mr. LEWIS CARROLL wrote a marvellously grotesque,
fantastic, and humorous book called _Alice in Wonderland_, and on
another occasion he wrote _Through the Looking-Glass_, in which _Alice_
reappeared, and then the spring of Mr. LEWIS CARROLL'S fanciful humour
apparently dried up, for he has done nothing since worth mentioning in
the same breath with his two first works; and if his writings have been
by comparison watery, unlike water, they have never risen by inherent
quality to their original level. Of his latest book, called _Sylvie and
Bruno_, I can make neither head nor tale. It seems a muddle of all
sorts, including a little bit of Bible thrown in. It will be bought,
because LEWIS CARROLL'S name is to it, and it will be enjoyed for the
sake of Mr. FURNISS'S excellent illustrations, but for no other reason,
that I can see. I feel inclined to carol to CARROLL, "O don't you
remember sweet ALICE?" and, if so, please be good enough to wake her up
again, if you can.

M. FRÉDERIC MAYER'S International Almanack takes my breath away. It is
overwhelmingly international. Most useful to the International
Theatre-goer, as there are plans of all the principal theatres in
Europe, with the seats numbered, so that you have only to wire (answer
paid) to the Théâtre Français for _fauteuil d'orchestre_ Number 20, to
Drury Lane in the same way, to the Operahaus, Berlin ("Open Haus" sounds
so internationally hospitable) for _Parquet_ Number 200 (so as to get a
good view), to the Wallner Theater, Berlin, for something of the same
sort, or to La Scala, Milan, for the sixth _Sedie d'orchestra_ on the
left (as the numbers are not given--why?) and you'll be accommodated.
Then with ease the internationalist can learn when the Moon is full,
_Pleine Lune_, _Vollmond_, _Luna Piena_ and _Luna Ilena_ in five
languages. The Italian, the Spaniard, the French, the Englishman, the
German and the Dutchman can find out all about the different
watering-places of Europe, each one in his own native tongue, and all
about "the Court of Arches" in London and Madrid. There is the Jewish
and also the Mahommedan Calendar, but I see nothing about the Greek
Kalends. I am not quite sure that the Bulgarians will be quite
satisfied, and I should say, that the Aborigines of Central Africa will
have a distinct grievance, which M. FRÉDERIC MAYER will rectify after an
interview with Mr. STANLEY. It's a wonderful production, and as it gives
postal rates and cab-fares in ever so many languages, it will be of
great practical value to the traveller. But no list of cab-fares is
perfect without a model row with the driver in eight languages,
including some bad language and directions as to the shortest route to
the nearest police court.

Our good Doctor ROOSE _in urbe_, has just published a _brochure_,
dealing with the origin, treatment, and prevention (for there is
apparently no cure) of the fell disease to which, and for a multitude of
whose victims, Father DAMIEN died a martyr. If in the Doctor's treatment
of this subject after his own peculiar fashion _à la_ ROOSE, he can help
to alleviate present suffering and materially assist the crusade now
being undertaken against this common enemy, he will have contributed his
share of energy in starting 1890 hopefully.

Those who suffer from indigestion at this festive season, and wish to
intensify the effects of the malady, will do well to read a new book
entitled _Master of his Fate_, by J. MACLAREN COBBAN, who, if he does
not write well, that is, judging his style from a hypercritical purist's
point of view, yet contrives to interest you with a story almost as
sensational as that of _Hyde and Jekyl_. The _Master of his Fate_ might
have had for its second title, _Or, The Accomplished Modern Vampire_,
the hero being a sort of a vampire, but not one of the good old school.


       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "THE SERVANTS."

_Lady Patroness_ (_Registry Office of Charitable Society_). "AND WHY ARE


       *       *       *       *       *



SCENE.--_The Theatre of the provincial town of Blankbury. A company of
Amateurs, the "Thespian Wanderers," are rehearsing the well-known Comedy
of "Heads or Tails?" Amongst them are our friends_ BUCKSTONE BOLDERO,
may note_ Colonel THOMAS CLUMK, _an ex-military Amateur, who devotes
more time to acting small parts and talking big about them than he ever
did to soldiering. Then there is_ ANDREW JARP, _a portly and elderly
partner in a considerable firm of Solicitors, and an actor who, by long
practice, has grown perfect in the part of a Family Butler. His office
is in the City, and he drives down to it every morning in a private
brougham, fitted with a looking-glass, by the help of which he studies
the air and deportment characteristic of a modern Seneschal. He is a man
of few words, off as well as on the stage; but his eyes flash fury if he
hears his favourite Art derided by the scoffer._ HORATIO SPUFFIL _is
also in the cast. He has dabbled in literature, but has lately abandoned
such frivolity, and been elected a Member of the London County Council.
A few rising Amateur Supers complete the male portion of the cast. The
Ladies' parts are played by professional Actresses, of the Theatres
Royal generally, who happen to be, as they pleasantly express it in
their advertisements in the "Era," "resting"_--Miss DOROTHY SHUTTLE,
Miss AMELIA SLIMPER, _who are new to the Amateurs,_ and KITTY LARKINGS,
_who has "assisted" the "Thespian Wanderers" before._ BOLDERO _is Stage
Manager. The Stage is occupied by_ SPINKS (_as_ Colonel DEBENHAM, _a
retired Indian Officer_), GUSHBY (_as_ TOM TILBURY, _a comic Country
Squire_), _and_ DOROTHY SHUTTLE (_as_ BELINDA, _Nurserymaid in the
family of_ Lord _and_ Lady SHORTHORN, _represented respectively by_

_Boldero_ (_from the front of the house_). Stop a moment! You know we
really must settle what we are to do about those two children that
_Belinda's_ got to wheel on in the double perambulator. I asked the
Duchess of MIDDLESEX to lend us her twins for a couple of nights, but
she writes to say they've just got the measles. Isn't there any one here
who can help us? [_The three Ladies titter._

_Gushby_ (_in whose breast the leading part played by_ SPINKS _still
rankles_). Why not let SPINKS do it? He's always wanting to "double"
parts, and here's a splendid chance for him.

_Spinks_ (_coldly_). That's _very_ funny--really _very_ funny, GUSHBY.
It's a pity "Colonel DEBENHAM" (_alluding to his own rôle in the
comedy_) isn't a _clown's_ part. I'd give it up to you right off, if it
was. Ha, ha! (_bitterly_).

_Colonel Clumk_. There's a man in my old regiment who's got two
red-haired brats; but he wants ten shillings a night for 'em.

_Boldero._ That's pretty stiff. However, I'll inspect them to-morrow.
Let's get on a bit now. Come, SPINKS!

_Spinks._ Where were we? (_With an air of intense annoyance._) These
constant interruptions put one off so. Oh, yes, I remember. (_Resumes
rehearsing the part of_ "Colonel DEBENHAM.") "Nursemaid, take those
squalling infants away. I'm surprised at Lady SHORTHORN permitting them
in the drawing-room. Wheel them away at once--at once, I say; or I'll
make curry-powder of the lot of you!"

_Miss Dorothy Shuttle_ (_as_ "BELINDA"). "Well, I'm sure; I never was so
spoken to afore. (_To her imaginary children._) Did the horrid man scold
them, then, pretty dears? (_To_ DEBENHAM.) You a Colonel? You ain't fit
to be a General in the Salvation Army. Imperence!" [_Exit, wheeling
an imaginary perambulator._

_Boldero_ (_enthusiastically_). Excellent! That couldn't have been done
better. When we get the perambulator and the babies, it's bound to go.
(Miss DOROTHY SHUTTLE _is much pleased, and foresees several stalls
being taken on the occasion of her next benefit._) Now, then (_to_
SPINKS, _who thinks it a mistake that a Stage Manager should stop to
praise anybody, with one exception, of course, at rehearsal_), SPINKS,
hurry up a bit, hurry up!

_Spinks._ My dear BOLDERO, I'm perfectly ready to begin as soon as ever
the talking stops. I know my cues, I fancy; but it's quite hopeless to
get on if _everybody_ wants to talk at the same moment. (_Resumes his
part as_ "Colonel DEBENHAM," _shaking his fist at the departing_
BELINDA.) "Impertinent minx! (_Turns furiously on_ GUSHBY, _who is on
the stage in the character of_ TILBURY, _the comic Squire._) And you,
Sir, what in the name of fifty thousand jackasses, do you mean by
standing there grinning from ear to ear like a buck nigger? But I'll not
stand it any longer, Sir, not for a moment. D'ye hear, you miserable
turnip-faced bumpkin, d'ye hear?" (_Carried away by histrionic
enthusiasm_, SPINKS _brings his fist down violently on the precise spot
where a table ought to be, but is not, standing. As a natural result, he
hits himself with much force on his leg. The others laugh, and the
Ladies turn away giggling, feeling that they ought to be sympathetic.
The unfortunate_ SPINKS _hurts himself considerably, and is furious.
Coming, as it were, right out of the part, and being temporarily himself
again, only in a rage, he addresses the Stage Manager._) Upon my soul,
BOLDERO, this is perfectly infamous. How often have I begged you to get
that table placed there _at all costs_, and time after time you forget
it. I know what it is; you want to make me ridiculous. But you'll be
d---- (_suddenly remembers that ladies are present, and substitutes a
milder expletive_)--confoundedly sorry for yourself when you find I'm
too lame to act, and the whole of your precious piece will be ruined.
You'll none of you get notices worth twopence from the critics.
[_Limps up and down the Stage._

_Miss Amelia Slimper_ (_rather a novice, and anxious to make useful
acquaintances among the distinguished Amateurs--to_ Miss KITTY,
_whispering_). Are they very keen about notices?

_Miss Kitty_ (_experienced in Amateurs_). Keen! I should think they
were. They talk about nothing else when it's over.

_Boldero_ (_peaceably_). Well, SPINKS, you know you smashed two tables
last week, and I thought we agreed to rehearse without one. But I'll see
it's there next time. Now then, JARP! Where's JARP? This is his
entrance. Where the deuce is he? (_Enter_ JARP _as_ "Mr. BINNS, _Butler
to_ Lord SHORTHORN"). Dear me, JARP, what have you been up to?

_Jarp_ (_vexed_). What have I been up to? I'll tell you. I've been
learning my part, and it would be a good thing if everybody were to
follow my example, instead of talking all day.

_Boldero._ JARP, don't be sarcastic. It doesn't suit you. Let's see if
you know your part, after all this.

JARP (_as_ BINNS, _without moving a muscle_). "'Er Ladyship's
compliments, Colonel DEBENHAM, and she would like to see you."

_Spinks_ (_as_ DEBENHAM). "Very well. Tell her I'll come."

_Jarp_ (_as_ BINNS). "Yes, Sir."

[_Exit_ JARP _as_ BINNS, _but immediately becomes_ JARP, _and complains
to the young Ladies that these fellows never will rehearse properly. The
professional Ladies sympathise with him, and admit that it is very
provoking, and_ Miss AMELIA _takes the opportunity of expressing her
confident opinion that he_, JARP, _will play his part admirably, and
only wonders that he hasn't got more to do. Then somehow the
conversation wanders towards professional matters, and the probability
of_ Miss AMELIA _being engaged next season at a fashionable London
Theatre, &c., &c._

_Miss Dorothy_ (_aside, in a whisper, to_ Miss KITTY, _alluding to_
JARP'S _recent exit_). Is that all he's got to say?

_Miss Kitty_ (_in same tone to_ Miss DOROTHY). Not quite. He says, "'Er
Ladyship is served!" in the next Act. A part like that takes a deal of

[_The rehearsal proceeds._ SPUFFIL _does wonders as "a young man about
town";_ Colonel CLUMK _performs the part of a Country Clergyman in a
manner suggestive rather of a Drill-sergeant than a Vicar._ BOLDERO
_having praised_ SPINKS, _is pronounced by the latter to be
unapproachable as_ Lord SHORTHORN. _In the Third Act_, HALL _sings his
song about_ "the Boy in Buttons." _On the previous day, he had had a
difference with_ SPINKS _and_ BOLDERO.

_Boldero._ I think that song's out of place. What say you, SPINKS?

_Spinks._ Well, it does sound just a trifle vulgar.

_Boldero._ Yes. I think we shall have to cut it, HALL. It'll do for next
year just as well. You can make it fit any piece?

_Hall_ (_pale, but determined_). If that song goes, I go too. Oh, yes,
SPINKS, it's all very well for you to be so blessed polite to BOLDERO,
but you didn't seem to think much of his acting (_observes_ SPUFFIL
_smiling_) no, nor of SPUFFIL'S either, when you spoke to me yesterday:
and as for GUSHBY, why we all know what GUSHBY is.

[_All join in the fight, which continues for ten minutes._

_Boldero_ (_looking at his watch_). Good heavens! we shall miss our
train, and I've promised to look in on IRVING to-night. He'd never
forgive me if I didn't turn up.

[_Smiles of quiet intelligence appear on the faces of the other
Amateurs, accompanied with a few winks, which like "laughter in Court,"
are "immediately suppressed." Exeunt omnes, severally, each pleased with
himself, and more or less disgusted with everybody else._

_Miss Amelia_ (_to_ KITTY). What a funny lot! Are they like that every

_Miss Kitty._ Yes, always. But (_confidentially_) they do come out
strong for a "ben."

[_They retire to their lodgings for a little quiet tea and a rest._

       *       *       *       *       *



Surely AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS has triumphed and beaten the record! For the
last nine years it has been the cry, "There never was so good a
Pantomime as _this_ one," and now again the shout is repeated. _Jack and
the Beanstalk_ is the eleventh of the series, and the best. "How it is
done?" only AUGUSTUS can answer. The Annual (no longer, alas! written by
the gentle and genial E. L. B.) has an excellent book. It contains
something of all sorts. Now we have SHAKSPEARE'S fairy-land with
_Oberon_, _Titania_, and _Puck_, then HARRY NICHOLL'S Royal Palace with
Market Place, with a number of the most promising of her pupils (of all
ages too, from the tiny child to the "ceased-growing-a-long-while-ago")
then Mrs. SIMPSON'S Back Garden, with Mr. GEORGE CONQUEST junior as a
giant, Mr. DAN LENO as a widow, and the Brothers GRIFFITHS as the Cow
Company Limited, and lastly, controlling the whole, we have Mr. AUGUSTUS
HARRIS who is seen at his very best when we reach the Giant's Library
and the realms of Olympus.

And this Pantomime is not only beautiful but amusing. It has two grand
processions, but this year, by good stage-management, neither is
tedious. The Shakspearean Heroines do a little play-acting between
whiles, and the gods and goddesses, or rather their attendants,
manoeuvre before the eye becomes weary of watching their approach. For
instance, Mars has scarcely time to swagger down to the foot-lights in
the most appropriate and approved fashion, before he finds himself
called upon to stand near a private box on the prompt side, to be well
out of the way of his dancing terpsichorean satellites. _Lady Macbeth_
has hardly "taken the daggers" before _King Lear_ (Mr. LORRAINE) is
bringing a furtive tear to the eyes of all beholders (_one_ tear is
sufficient at Christmastide) by his touching pantomime in the presence
of his three fair daughters.

Then, too, Mr. HARRY PAYNE has _his_ chance, and makes the most of it.
It was quite pleasant to see the Clown on Boxing-Night, and those who
left the theatre mindful of trains that will not delay the hours fixed
for their departure, must have determined (if they were wise people) to
come again to witness the remainder of the performances. Then those who
liked acrobats had the Leopold Troupe, and a strong man who lifted up a
horse (but did not have his own name, or the name of his charger, on the
programme) to delight them. And it was also a pleasing reflection to
remember that the entertainment was the result of solid hard work,
combined with excellent judgment and taste. Paterfamilias could say to
Young Hopeful home for the holidays, "See here, my lad, the lessee of
our National Theatre could never have caused us so much thorough
enjoyment had he not worked with a will that you will do well to imitate
when you return to Dr. SWISHTALES' Academy at the conclusion of the
Christmas vacation." And so all can cry with genuine enthusiasm:--"_Ave_,

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed
Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be
returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope,
Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.

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