Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, May 14, 1892
Author: Various
Language: English
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VOL. 102, MAY 14, 1892***


PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOL. 102

MAY 14, 1892



CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER.

NO. IX.--THE DUFFER DEER-STALKING.

I am in favour of Mr. BRYCE's Access to Mountains Bill, and of
Crofters who may be ambitious to cultivate the fertile slopes of all
the Bens in Scotland. In fact, I am in favour of anything that will,
or may, interfere with the tedious toil of Deer-stalking. Mr. BRYCE's
Bill, I am afraid, will do no good. People want Access to Mountains
when they cannot get it; when once they can, they will stay where the
beer is, and not go padding the wet and weary hoof through peat-hogs,
over rocks, and along stupid and fatiguing acclivities, rugged with
heather. Oh, preserve me from Deer-stalking; it is a sport of which I
cherish only the most sombre memories.

They may laugh, and say it was my own fault, all my misfortune on
the stalk, but a feeling reader will admit that I have merely been
unlucky. My first adventure, or misadventure if you like, was at
Cauldkail Castle, Lord GABERLUNZIE's place, which had been rented by
a man who made a fortune in patent corkscrews. The house was pretty
nearly empty, as everyone had gone south for the Leger, so it fell to
my lot to go out under the orders of the head stalker. He was a man
of six foot three, he walked like that giant of iron, TALUS his name
was, I think, who used to perambulate the shores of Crete, an early
mythical coast-guard. HUGH's step on the mountain was like that of the
red deer, and he had an eye like the eagle's of his native wastes.

[Illustration: "I had been bitten by an Adder."]

It was not pleasant, marching beside HUGH, and I was often anxious
to sit down and admire the scenery, if he would have let me. I
had no rifle of my own, but one was lent me, with all the latest
improvements, confound them! Well, we staggered through marshes, under
a blinding sun, and clambered up cliffs, and sneaked in the beds of
burns, and crawled through bogs on our stomachs. My only intervals
of repose were when HUGH lay down on his back, and explored the
surrounding regions with his field-glass. Even then I was not allowed
to smoke, and while I was baked to a blister with the sun, I was wet
through with black peat water. Never a deer could we see, or could
HUGH see, rather, for I am short-sighted, and cannot tell a stag from
a bracken bush.

At last HUGH, who was crawling some yards ahead, in an uninteresting
plain, broken by a few low round hillocks, beckoned to me to come on.
I writhed up to him, where he lay on the side of one of those mounds,
when he put the rifle in my hand, whispering "Shoot!"

"Shoot what?" said I, for my head was not yet above the crest of the
hillock. He only made a gesture, and getting my eye-glass above the
level, I saw quite a lot of deer, stags, and hinds, within fifty yards
of us. They were interested, apparently, in a party of shepherds,
walking on a road which crossed the moor at a distance, and had no
thoughts to spare for us. "Which am I to shoot?" I whispered.

"The big one, him between the two hinds to the left." I took deadly
aim, my heart beating audibly, like a rusty pump in a dry season.
My hands were shaking like aspen leaves, but I got the sight on him,
under his shoulder, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened, I pulled
the trigger of the second barrel. Nothing occurred. "Ye have the
safety-bolts in," whispered HUGH, and he accommodated that portion of
the machinery, which I do not understand. Was all this calculated to
set a man at his ease? I took aim afresh, pulled the trigger again.
Nothing! "Ye're on half-cock," whispered HUGH, adding some remark in
Gaelic, which, of course, I did not understand. Was it my fault? It
was not my own rifle, I repeat, and the hammers, at half-cock, looked
as high as those of my gun, full-cocked.

All this conversation had aroused the attention of the deer. Off they
scuttled at full speed, and I sent a couple of bullets vaguely after
them, in the direction of a small forest of horns which went tossing
down a glade. I don't think I hit anything, and HUGH, without making
any remark, took the rifle and strode off in a new direction. I was
nearly dead with fatigue, I was wishing Mr. BRYCE and the British
Tourist my share of Access to Mountains, when we reached the crown of
a bank above a burn, which commanded a view of an opposite slope. HUGH
wriggled up till his eyes were on a level with the crest, and got his
long glass out. After some interval of time, he wakened me, to say
that if I snored like that, I would not get a shot. Then he showed
me, or tried to show me, through the glass, a stag and three hinds,
far off to our right. I did not see them, I very seldom see anything
that people point out to me, but I thought it wise to humour him, and
professed my satisfaction. Was I to shoot at them? No, they were about
half a mile off, but, if I waited, they would feed up to us, so we
waited, HUGH nudging me at intervals to keep me awake. Meanwhile I was
practising aiming at a distant rock, about the place where I expected
to get my shot, as HUGH instructed me. I thought the wretched
rifle was at half-cock, and I aimed away, very conscientiously, for
practice. Presently the rifle went off with a bang, and I saw the
dust fly on the stone I had been practising at. It had not been
at half-cock, after all; warned by my earlier misfortunes, HUGH
had handed the rifle to me cocked. The stag and the hinds were in
wild retreat at a considerable distance. I had some difficulty in
explaining to HUGH, how this accident had occurred, nor did he seem
to share my satisfaction in having hit the stone, at all events.

We began a difficult march homewards, we were about thirteen miles
now from Cauldkail Castle. HUGH still, from habit, would sit down and
take a view through that glass of his. At last he shut it up, like
WELLINGTON at Waterloo, and said, "Maybe ye'll be having a chance yet,
Sir." He then began crawling up a slope of heather, I following, like
the Prophet's donkey. He reached the top, whence he signalled that
there was a shot, and passed the rifle to me, cocked this time. I took
it, put my hand down in the heather--felt something cold and slimy,
then something astonishingly sharp and painful, and jumped to my feet
with a yell! I had been bitten by an adder, that was all! Now, was
_that_ my fault? HUGH picked up the rifle, bowled over the stag, and
then, with some consideration, applied ammonia to my finger, and made
me swallow all the whiskey we had.

It was a long business, and Dr. MACTAVISH, who was brought from a
hamlet about thirty miles away, nearly gave me up. My arm was about
three feet in circumference, and I was very ill indeed. I have not
tried Deer-stalking again; and, as I said, I wish the British Tourist
joy of his Access to Mountains.

       *       *       *       *       *

EARLY SPRING.

[Illustration]

  Once more the North-east wind
    Chills all anew,
  And tips the redden'd nose
    With colder blue;
  Makes blackbirds hoarse as crows,
    And poets too.

  The town with nipping blasts
    How wildly blown;
  Around my hapless head
    Loose tiles are thrown,
  Slates, chimney-pots, and lead
    Of weight unknown.

  _My_ tile and chimney-pot
    Flies through the air.
  My eyes are full of dust,
    My head is bare,
  A state of things that must
    Soon make me swear!

  When thus in early Spring
    My joys are few,
  I'll warm myself at home
    With "Mountain Dew,"
  Or fly to Nice, or Rome,
    Or Timbuctoo.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A STUDIED INSULT.

_Box-Office Keeper at the Imperial Music-Hall_ (_to Farmer Murphy, who
is in Town for the Islington Horse Show_). "BOX OR TWO STALLS, SIR?"

_Murphy_. "WHAT THE DEV'L D'YE MANE? D'YE TAKE ME AN' THE MISSUS FOR A
PAIR O' PROIZE 'OSSES? OI'LL HAVE TWO SATES IN THE DHRESS CIRCLE, AND
LET 'EM BE AS DHRESSY AS POSSIBLE, MOIND!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

A BIRD OF PREY.

  The Laureate, seeking Love's last law,
  Finds "Nature red in tooth and claw
    With ravin"; fierce and ruthless.
  But Woman? Bard who so should sing
  Of her, the sweet soft-bosomed thing,
    Would he tabooed as truthless.

  Yet what is this she-creature, plumed
  And poised in air? Iris-illumed,
    She gleams, in borrowed glory,
  A portent of modernity,
  Out-marvelling strangest phantasy
    That chequered classic story.

  Fair-locked and winged. So HESIOD drew
  The legendary Harpy crew,
    The "Spoilers" of old fable;
  Maidens, yet monsters, woman-faced,
  With iron hearts that had disgraced
    The slaughterer of ABEL.

  Chimæra dire! The Sirens three,
  Ulysses shunned were such as she,
    Though robed in simpler raiment.
  Is there no modern Nemesis
  To deal out to such ghouls as this
    Just destiny's repayment?

  O modish Moloch of the air!
  The eagle swooping from his lair
    On bird-world's lesser creatures,
  Is spoiler less intent to slay
  Than this unsparing Bird of Prey,
    With Woman's form and features.

  Woman? We know her slavish thrall
  To the strange sway despotical
    Of that strong figment, Fashion;
  But is there nought in _this_ to move
  The being born for grace and love
    To shamed rebellious passion?

  'Tis a she-shape by Mode arrayed!
  The dove that coos in verdant shade,
    The lark that shrills in ether,
  The humming-bird with jewelled wings,--
  Ten thousand tiny songful things
    Have lent her plume and feather.

  They die in hordes that she may fly,
  A glittering horror, through the sky.
    Their voices, hushed in anguish,
  Find no soft echoes in her ears,
  Or the vile trade in pangs and fears
    Her whims support would languish.

  What cares she that those wings were torn
  From shuddering things, of plumage shorn
    To make _her_ plumes imposing?
  That when--for _her_--bird-mothers die,
  Their broods in long-drawn agony
    Their eyes--for _her_--are closing?

  What cares she that the woods, bereft
  Of feathered denizens, are left
    To swarming insect scourges?
  On Woman's heart, when once made hard
  By Fashion, Pity's gentlest bard
    Love's plea all vainly urges.

  A Harpy, she, a Bird of Prey,
  Who on her slaughtering skyey way,
    Beak-striketh and claw-clutcheth.
  But Ladies who own not her sway,
  _Will_ you not lift white hands to stay
  The shameless slaughter which to-day
    Your sex's honour toucheth?

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN.

(_AS SIR JAMES CRICHTON BROWNE SEEMS PROPHETICALLY TO SEE THEM._)

            Woman's world's a stage,
  And modern women will be ill-cast players;
  They'll have new exits and strange entrances,
  And one She will play many mannish parts,
  And these her Seven Ages. First the infant
  "Grinding" and "sapping" in its mother's arms,
  And then the pinched High-School girl, with packed satchel,
  And worn anæmic face, creeping like cripple
  Short-sightedly to school. Then the "free-lover,"
  Mouthing out IBSEN, or some cynic ballad
  Made against matrimony. Then a spouter,
  Full of long words and windy; a wire-puller,
  Jealous of office, fond of platform-posing,
  Seeking that bubble She-enfranchisement
  E'en with abusive mouth. Then County-Councillor,
  Her meagre bosom shrunk and harshly lined,
  Full of "land-laws" and "unearned increment";
  Or playing M.P. part. The sixth age shifts
  Into the withered sour She-pantaloon,
  With spectacles on nose and "Gamp" at side,
  Her azure hose, well-darned, a world too wide
  For her shrunk shanks; her once sweet woman's voice,
  Verjuiced to Virgin-vinegarishness,
  Grates harshly in its sound. Last scene of all,
  That ends this strange new-fangled history,
  Is sheer unwomanliness, mere sex-negation--
  Sans love, sans charm, sans grace, sans everything.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A BIRD OF PREY.]

[Despite the laudable endeavours of "The Society for the Protection
of Birds," the harpy Fashion appears still, and even increasingly,
to make endless holocausts of small fowl for the furnishing forth of
"feather trimmings" for the fair sex. We are told that to obtain the
delicate and beautiful spiral plume called the "Osprey," the old birds
"are killed off in scores, while employed in feeding their young, who
are left to starve to death in their nests by hundreds." Their dying
cries are described as "heartrending." But they evidently do not rend
the hearts of our fashionable ladies, or induce them to rend their
much-beplumed garments. Thirty thousand black partridges have been
killed in certain Indian provinces in a few days' time to supply the
European demand for their skins. One dealer in London is said to have
received, as a single consignment, 32,000 dead humming-birds, 80,000
aquatic birds, and 800,000 pairs of wings. We are told too that often
"after the birds are shot down, the wings are wrenched off during
life, and the mangled bird is left to die slowly of wounds, thirst,
and starvation."]

       *       *       *       *       *

ART IN THE CITY.

(_A SKETCH IN THE CORPORATION GALLERY AT THE GUILDHALL._)

    _The Gallery is crowded, and there is the peculiar buzz in the
    air that denotes popular interest and curiosity. The majority
    of the visitors are of the feminine sex, and appear to have
    come up from semi-detached villas in the less fashionable
    suburbs; but there is also a sprinkling of smart and Superior
    Persons, prosperous City Merchants, who regard pictures with
    respect, as a paying investment, young Commercial Men, whose
    feeling for Art is not precisely passionate, but who have
    turned in to pass the time, and because the Exhibition is
    gratuitous, earnest Youths with long hair, soft hats, and
    caped ulsters, &c., &c._

BEFORE DELAROCHE'S "DROWNED MARTYR."

[Illustration: "Earnest youths with long hair."]

_First Villa Resident_ (_appreciatively_). Such a _death-like_
expression, isn't it?

_Second Ditto, Ditto_. Yes, _indeed_! And _how_ beautifully her halo's
done!

_Third Ditto, Ditto_. Will those two men on the bank be the
executioners, should you think?

_Fourth Ditto, Ditto_ (_doubtfully_). It says in the Catalogue that
they're two Christians.

_An Intelligent Child_. Then why don't they jump in and pull her out,
Mother? [_The Child is reproved._

_A Languid Young Lady_. Is that intended for _Opheliah_?

    [_The rest regard her with shocked disapproval, mingled with
    pity, before passing on._

BEFORE HOLL'S "FATHERLESS FAMILY."

_First Matter-of-Fact Person_. They're just come back from the
funeral, I _expect_.

_Second Ditto, Ditto_. I shouldn't wonder. (_Feels bound to show that
she too can be observant._) Yes, they're all in mourning--even the
servant. Do you see the black ribbon in her cap? I _do_ like that.

_An Irrelevant Person_. It's just a _little_ melancholy, though, don't
you think?--which reminds me--_how_ much did you say that jet trimming
was a yard--nine pence three-farthings?

_Her Friend_. Nine pence halfpenny at the shop in St. Paul's
Churchyard. The child has her frock open at the top behind, you
see--evidently a _poor_ family!

_The I.P._ Yes, and the workbasket with the reels of cotton and all.
(_Looking suddenly down_.) Don't you call this a handsome carpet?

_A Frivolous Frenchman_ (_fresh from 'The Casual Ward' and 'The
Martyr' to his companion_). Tenez, mon cher, encore des choses gaies!

    [_He passes on with a shrug._]

_A Good Young Man with a train of three Maiden Aunts in tow_ (_halting
them before a picture of_ SIR J. NOEL PATON's). Now you ought to look
at this one.

    [_They inspect it with docility. It represents a Knight in
    armour riding through a forest and surrounded by seductive
    Wood-nymphs._

_First Maiden Aunt_. Is that a guitar one of those girls is playing,
or what?

_Second Ditto, Ditto_. A mandolin more likely; it looks like
mother-o'-pearl--is it supposed to be King ARTHUR, and are they
fairies or angels, ROBERT?

_The G.Y.M._ (_a little at sea himself_). "_Oskold and the
Ellé-maids_," the _title_ is.

_Third Aunt_. Scolding the Elements! _Who's_ scolding them, ROBERT?

_Robert_ (_in her ear_). "_Oskold and the Ellé_-maids!" it's a
_Scandinavian_ legend, Aunt TABITHA,

_Aunt Tabitha_ (_severely_). Then it's a pity they can't find better
subjects to paint, in _my_ opinion! (_They move on to_ Mr. PETTIE's
"_Musician_.") Dear me, that young man looks dreadfully poorly, to be
sure!

_Robert_ (_loudly_). He's not _poorly_, Aunt; he's a _Musician_--he's
supposed to be (_quoting from Catalogue_) "thinking out a composition,
imagining an orchestral effect, with the occasional help of an organ."

_First Aunt_. I see the organ plain enough--but where's the orchestral
effect?

_Robert_. Well, you _wouldn't_ see that, you know, he only _imagines_
it.

_Second Aunt_. Oh, yes, I _see_. Subject to _delusions_, poor man! I
_thought_ he looked as if he wanted someone to look after him.

_First Loyal Old Lady_ (_reading from Catalogue_). "No. 35. 'Lent by
Her Majesty the QUEEN.'"

_Second Ditto, Ditto_. Lent by HER MAJESTY, my dear! Oh, I don't want
to miss _that_--which is it--where?

    [_She prepares herself to regard it with a special and
    reverent interest._

AMONG THE PRE-RAPHAELITE PAINTERS.

_Matter-of-Fact Person_ (_to her Irrelevant Friend_). Here's a
Millais, you see. _Ophelia_ drowning herself.

_The Irrelevant Friend_ (_who doesn't approve of suicide_). Yes,
dear, very peculiar--but I don't quite _like_ it, I must say. Do you
remember whether I told SARAH to put out the fiddle-pattern forks and
the best cruetstand before I came away? Dear Mr. HOMERTON is coming in
to supper to-night, and I want everything to be _nice_ for him.

_The Good Young Man_. There's _Ophelia again_, you see. (_Searches
for an appropriate remark._) She--ah--evidently understood the art of
natation.

_First Aunt_. She looks almost too _comfortable_ in the water, _I_
think. Her mouth's open, as if she was singing.

_Second Aunt_ (_extenuatingly_). Yes--but those wild roses are very
naturally done--and so are her teeth.

_A Discriminating Person_. I like it all but the _figure_.

_A Well-informed Person_. There's the "_Dream of Dante_," d'ye see?
No mistaking the figure of DANTE. Here he is, down below, _having_ his
dream--that's the dream in that cloud--and up above you get the dream
done life-size--queer sort of idea, isn't it?

_A Ponderous Person_ (_finding himself in front of "The Vale of
Rest"_). Ha!--what are those two Nuns up to?

_His Companion_. Digging their own graves, I think.

_The Pond. P._ (_with a supreme mental effort_). Oh, _Cremation_, eh?

    [_Goes out, conceiving that he has sacrificed at the shrine of
    Art sufficiently for one afternoon._

_Young Discount_ (_to Young TURNOVER--before "Claudio and
Isabella"_). Something out of SHAKSPEARE here, you see.

_Young Turnover_. Yairss. (_Giving Claudio a perfunctory attention_.)
Wants his hair raking, don't he? Not much in _my_ line, this sort of
subject.

_Young Disc._ Nor yet mine--takes too much time making it _out_,
y'know. _This_ ain't bad--"_Venetian Washerwomen_"--is that the way
they get up linen over there?

_Young Turn._ (_who has "done" Italy_) Pretty much. (_By way of excuse
for them_.) They're very _al fresco_ out in those parts, y' know.
Here's a Market-place in Italy, next to it. Yes, that's just like they
are. They bring out all those old umbrellas and stalls and baskets
twice a-week, and clear 'em all off again next day, so that you'd
hardly know they'd _been_ there!

_Young Disc._ (_intelligently_). I see. After Yarmouth style.

_Young Turn._ Well, _something_ that way--only rather different
_style_, y' know.

BEFORE "THE HUGUENOT."

_An Appreciative Lady_. Ah! yes, it is wonderfully painted! _Isn't_ it
lovely the way that figured silk is done? You can hardly tell it isn't
real, and the plush coat he's wearing; such an exquisite shade of
violet, and the ivy-leaves, and the nasturtiums and the old red brick;
yes, it's _very_ beautiful--and _yet_, do you know, (_meditatively_) I
almost think it's prettier in the _engravings_!

BEFORE THE BURNE-JONESES.

_A Fiancé_. This is the "_Wheel of Fortune_," EMILY, you see.
(_Reads._) "Sad, but inexorable, the fateful figure turns the wheel.
The sceptred King, once uppermost, is now beneath his Slave ... while
beneath the King is seen the laurelled head of the Poet."

_His Fiancée_ (_who would be charming if she would not try--against
Nature--to be funny_.) It's a kind of giddy-go-round then, I
suppose; or is it BURNE-JONES's idea of a revolution--don't you
see--_revolving_?

_Fiancé_ (_who makes a practice--even already--of discouraging these
sallies_.) It's only an allegorical way of representing that the
Slave's turn has come to triumph.

_Fiancée_. Well, I don't see that he has much to _triumph_ about--he's
tied on like the rest of them, and it must be just as uncomfortable on
the top of that wheel as the bottom.

    [_Her Fiancé recognises that allegory is thrown away upon
    her, and proposes to take her into the Hall and show her Gog
    and Magog._

_A Niece_ (_to an Impenetrable Relative--whom she plants, like a heavy
piece of ordnance, in front of a particular canvas_). There, Aunt,
what do you think of _that_ now?

_The Aunt_ (_after solemnly staring at it with a conscientious effort
to take it in._) Well, my dear, I must say it--it's very 'ighly
varnished. [_She is taken home as hopeless._

       *       *       *       *       *

COURT CARDS.

A splendid hand is just now held by Mr. ARTHUR CHUDLEIGH, Sole Lessee
and Manager of the Court Theatre. Full of trumps, honours and odd
tricks. A perfect entertainment in three pieces. You pay your money
and you take your choice. You can come in at 8:15 and see _The
New Sub_, by SEYMOUR HICKS (Brayvo, 'ICKS! and may your success be
Hickstraordinary!) or at 9:15 for W.S. GILBERT's _Rosencrantz and
Guildenstern_, or at 10 for _A Pantomime Rehearsal_, which, as I
remarked long ago on seeing it for the first time, might last for ever
if only judiciously refreshed, say once in every three months, and on
this plan it might continue until it should be played in 1992 by the
great-great-grandchildren of the members of the present company.

There is one charming line in the bill--a bill which, on account of
its colour, must be "taken as red"--not to be missed by visitors. It
comes immediately after the cast of _The New Sub_; it is this,--"_The
Uniforms by Messrs. Nathan, Coventry Street_." It has a line all
to itself, which is, most appropriately, "a thin red line." Now the
officers in the programme are given as belonging to the "_----shire
Regiment_" i.e., Blankshire Regiment, but as they are all wearing the
Nathan uniform, why not describe them as officers of the Nathanshire
Regiment? Perhaps such a title might be more suggestive of Sheriff's
Officers than of those belonging to Her Majesty's Army; yet, as these
gallant _Dramatis Personæ_ are avowedly wearing NATHAN's uniform
(which may they never, never disgrace!) why should they not bear the
proud title of "The First Royal Coventry Street Costumiers"? Let those
most concerned see to it: our advice is gratis, and, at that price,
valuable.

[Illustration: TWO TRUMPS.

Brandon Thomas plays the King. Gertrude Queen-and-Kingston.]

9:15. _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern_. Excellent piece of genuine fun.
If Mr. W.S. GILBERT could be induced to add to it, I am sure it would
stand an extension of ten minutes to allow _Hamlet_ to return and have
a grand combat with the King, and then for all the characters to be
poisoned by mistake, and so to end happily.

To everyone who does not look upon SHAKSPEARE's work as "Holy Writ,"
the question must have occurred, why did the Divine WILLIAMS put his
excellent rules and regulations for play-actors into the mouth of a
noble amateur addressing distinguished members of "_the_ Profession"?
Imagine some royal or noble personage telling HENRY IRVING how to play
_Cardinal Wolsey_, or instructing Sir FREDERICK LEIGHTON in painting,
or telling J.L. TOOLE how to "get his laughs"! Probably actor and
artist would listen in courtier-like silence to the illustrious
lecturer, just as SHAKSPEARE makes his players behave when _Hamlet_ is
favouring them with his views on the histrionic art. In Mr. GILBERT's
skit the leading Player makes a neat retort, and completely shuts
up _Hamlet_,--who, being mad, deserves to be "shut up,"--much to
the delight of King and Court. But, the question remains, why did
SHAKSPEARE ever put this speech to the players in _Hamlet's_ mouth? My
theory is, that he did not want BURBAGE to play the part, but couldn't
help himself, and so, out of pure revenge, he introduced this speech
in which he makes BURBAGE himself condemn all his own faults. Later
on the _Queen_ describes _Hamlet_ as "fat and scant of breath," which
certainly was not the author's ideal Prince of Denmark; and this is
evidently interpolated as "a nasty one" for BURBAGE. At the Court
Theatre the skit is capitally played all round, though I confess I
should have preferred seeing _Hamlet_ made up as a sort of fat and
flabby _Chadband_ puffing and wheezing,--an expression, by the way,
that suggests another excellent performer in this part, namely,
Mr. HERMANN WHEEZIN', who might be induced to appear after a lot of
"puffin'."

[Illustration: An Awful Moment of Suspense. Mlles. May, Christine,
Ellaline, and Decima implore Lord Arthur Grossnez not to throw up the
part. He cannot refuse them; il _n'ose_ pas.]

Finally, _A Pantomime Rehearsal_ is still about the very funniest
thing to be seen in any London Theatre at the present time. The ladies
are, all of them, as the old gentleman in _Pink Dominoes_ used to
say, "Pretty dears!" They dance charmingly, especially Miss ELLALINE
TERRISS and Miss DECIMA MOORE, whose two duets and character-dances
are things of joy for ever. The representative of _Jack Deedes_,
Barrister-at-Law and Gifted Author, is LITTLE and good, and the
services of Mr. DRAYCOTT as the Lime-Light Comedian are invaluable.
WEEDON GROSSMITH and BRANDON THOMAS are better than ever: their
duet is immense, but their combat is too short. Why not introduce
a _Corsican Brothers_ duel? The music, by Mr. EDWARD JONES, is
thoroughly appropriate and very catching. By the way, one of the songs
most encored goes with the exquisitely sensible and touching refrain
of "Diddle doddle diddle chip chop cho choorial li lay," which was
enormously popular about thirty years ago when it was sung at EVANS's
by SAM COWELL, and by CHARLES YOUNG as _Dido_ on the stage of the
St. James's Theatre. Odd this! The air has been a bit altered, but I
thought that comic songs once out of date were dead and done for. The
success of this is proof to the contrary. Will "Ta-ra-ra-boom" achieve
a second success in 1922? Perhaps. A capital entertainment, which has
caught on at the Court, says

THE HUMBLE B. IN BOX.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: DRAWING-ROOM INANITIES.

_She_. "NO, DON'T SIT THERE, MR. SPLOSHER--THAT'S MY UGLY SIDE!"

_He_ (_wishing to please_). "WELL--A--REALLY--I DON'T SEE ANY
DIFFERENCE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"NOT AT HOME!"

(_A DUOLOGUE ON A DOORSTEP._)

    SCENE--_The G.O.M.'s front door. Two expectant callers,
    EIGHT-HOURS BILL and Miss SARAH SUFFRAGE, in sore
    disappointment and some disgust, interlocute_:--

_Mr. Bill_ (_sardonically_). _You_ too? Ah! he ain't no respecter of
          pussons, _he_ ain't!

_Miss Sarah_ (_tartly_). Well, this tries the temper of even a
          Suffrage she-saint.
    I _did_ think,--but there, you _cannot_ trust Men--even Grand Old Ones!

_Mr. Bill. Trust_? Them as do trust Party Leaders are gen'rally _sold_
          ones.
    It don't a mite matter _which_ side.

_Miss Sarah_.                       Well, as far as I see,
    The _other_ side shows the most signs, BILL, of favouring Me!
    I'm sure Mister BALFOUR was awfully civil and nice.

_Mr. Bill_. You won't trust Prince ARTHUR too far, if you'll take _my_
          advice.

_Miss Sarah_. Well, no,--but I _should_ like to pay out--the other. Ah,
          drat him!
    I'd comb his scant wool, the old fox, could I only get at him.
    _I_'d pamphlet the wily old word-spinner.

_Mr. Bill_.                                  Ah! I've no doubt;
    But wot can we do when his flunkey assures us he's out?

_Miss Sarah. We_'re out, anyhow.

_Mr. Bill_. Ah! you see you ain't never got _in_.
    But me, his old pardner and pal! It's a shame, and a sin!
    He's throwed lots of cold water of late. I am blowed if I likes
    His wobbleyfied views about Payment of Members, and Strikes.
    And then that HOOD bizness! Long rigmarole--cheered by the Tories!
    I fear it's all Ikybod now with our G.O.M.'s glories.

_Miss Suffrage_. I never _quite_ liked him--at heart. Mrs. FAWCETT,
          _she_ warned me.

_Mr. Bill_. Well, now, I _did_ love him! You see, he so buttered and
          yarned me;
    And now--he won't see me! O WILLYUM, I carn't understand it.

_Miss Suffrage_. I've asked him politely this time. P'raps next time
          I'll _demand_ it.
    Unsex me? Aha! I am willing to wager Stonehenge
    To a pebble, when canvassing's wanted, I'll have my revenge!

_Mr. Bill_. And though he seems cocksure the Gen'l Election he'll win,
    Maybe if he's _out_ to me always, _he_ may not get _in_! [_Exeunt._

_Grand Old Voice_ (_within_). Look nasty! Now have I done wisely this
          time--on reflection?
    One must be so careful--"in view of the General Election!"

       *       *       *       *       *

RECOLLECTIONS OF (COCKNEY) "ARABIAN" DAYS AND NIGHTS.

    [Mr. MONTAGU WILLIAMS, Q.C., is about to publish, in the
    pages of _Household Words_, a series of descriptive articles,
    embodying his more than Wellerishly "extensive and peculiar"
    knowledge of London, and entitled "Round London, Down East, Up
    West."]

  When the breeze of romance in my youth blew free,
  "A Welcome Guest" I was wont to see.
  It was a right good time with me,
    A joyful, book-devouring time.
  Far about London I was borne,
  From night to night, from morn to morn;
  From Street to Park, from Tower to Dock.
  I was conveyed "Twice Round the Clock."
  True Sala-ite was I and sworn,
  For it was in the golden prime
    Of graphic GEORGE AUGUSTUS:
  And now I find me revelling through
  A magazine of saffron hue,
  Called "_Sala's Journal_," and I swim
  Once more in London's rushing tide,
  Piloted as of old by him
  Through "London Up to Date." With pride,
    I own I have a goodly time,
    For still it seems the golden prime
      Of graphic GEORGE AUGUSTUS.

  But many another since my youth
  The streets of Babylon hath trod,
  With a statistic measuring-rod,
  Or philanthropic gauge. In sooth
  There was GEORGE SIMS, there is CHARLES BOOTH.
  We now search out the Social Truth;
    A goodly plan, in the old time
    Foreshadowed in the golden prime
      Of worthy HENRY MAYHEW.

  Now London Labour, London Poor,
  Occupy pen and pencil more
  Than Pictures in the Passing Show
  Of the Immense Metropolis.
  And few have knowledge such as his,
  (The great Q.C., the worthy Beak!)
  Of modern Babylon, high and low;
  And so shall I with interest seek
  These pages, full of interest,
  "_Round London, Down East, and Up West_."
    True picture of the present time,
    Drawn for us by the pencil prime
      Of good MONTAGU WILLIAMS!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "NOT AT HOME."

MISS SARAH SUFFRAGE (_indignantly_). "OH! '_OUT_' IS HE!"

EIGHT-HOURS BILL (_angrily_). "YUS!--AND HE WON'T GET '_IN_,' IF _I_
CAN, HELP IT!!"

    (Mr. GLADSTONE has lately published an unsympathetic Pamphlet
    on "Female Suffrage," and has declined to receive a Deputation
    on the "Eight Hours Day" question.)]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AN OVER-EXTENDED FRANCHISE.

(_The Radical Grocer has just been elected County Councillor._)

_My Lady_ (_to her pet protégée_). "PRAY WHOM DID YOUR HUSBAND VOTE
FOR?"

_Martha Stubbs_. "I DON'T KNOW, MY LADY."

_My Lady_. "BUT SURELY YOUR HUSBAND TOLD YOU?"

_Martha Stubbs_. "HE DOESN'T KNOW HIMSELF, MY LADY. HE'S SUCH A POOR
IGNORANT CREATURE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

BURNING WORDS.

(_FROM A WORKING MAN._)

    ["How many of you men would contribute to a Working Men's Fund
    the shilling you put on _Orme_, who, by the way, I am sorry
    to see was not poisoned to death."--_Mr. John Burns in the
    Park._]

  Look 'ere, JOHN, you stow it; you're nuts on the spoutin';
    I don't mind a man as can 'oller a bit;
  And if shillings are goin', I'd back you for shoutin',
    Though your game's an Aunt Sally, all miss and no 'it.
  But the blusterin' chap as keeps naggin' the boys on
    To fight and get beat all for nothing's an ass.
  And I'm certain o' this, that the wust kind o' poison
    Is the stuff as you fellers 'ave lots of--that's gas!

  What's _Orme_ done to you? _'E_ can't 'elp a cove bettin'.
    To get at 'im for that is a trifle too warm.
  And poisonin' racers ain't _my_ kind o' vettin'.
    I likes a good 'orse, so 'ere's 'ealth to old _Orme_.
  Take a bolus yourself, it might stop you from roarin';
    There's nothin' like tryin' these games on yourself!
  And I'll throw BENNY TILLETT and one or two more in,
    Just to lay the whole lot o' you up on the shelf.

  BEN TILLETT talks big of a mind that's a sewer;
    Well, 'e knows what it is, for I'll lay 'e's bin there.
  And _you_'d make a 'orse into cat'smeat on skewer.
    My eye, but just ain't you a nice-spoken pair!
  _I_ ain't goin' to foller you two like a shadder,
    Your 'eads is a darned sight too swelled up with brag.
  If you don't want to bust and go pop like a bladder,
    Why you'd best take my tip--put 'em both in a bag.

  So ta-ta, JOHN. I ain't the least wish to offend you,
    But plain words to fellers like you is the best.
  If they'd give me my way, why I'd jolly soon end you,
    Beard, blather and all; you're no more than a pest.
  I can fight and take knocks, and I'll stand by my folk, Sir,
    I'll 'elp them as 'elps me with whatever I earns;
  But I've this for your pipe, if you're wantin' a smoke, Sir,--
    I ain't one for poison, nor yet for JOHN BURNS!

       *       *       *       *       *

"MURDER IN JEST."--Is it not an extraordinary plea on behalf of a
person under sentence of death for murder, that, like IBSEN's heroine,
"she had never been able to take life in earnest?" Surely it should
be added that "when she took somebody else's life she did take it very
much in earnest."

       *       *       *       *       *

POPULAR SONGS RE-SUNG.

Writing of the brilliant Boanerges of the Liberal Party, the
_Times_ says:--"Sir WILLIAM is the strongest stimulant known to the
Gladstonian wire-pullers, and his appearance is always an indication
that the vital energies of the patient are low. It is well understood
that his proper place is by his own fireside, and that his true
function is to evolve epigrams and construct original systems of
finance in that calm retreat.... But whenever they feel particularly
downcast and unhappy, they break in upon his fecund meditations, and
get him to fire off a roystering speech."

This affectionate and admiring tribute from the Thunderer to its
old favourite contributor "HISTORICUS," is worthy of celebrating in
deathless verse. How well a dithyramb on the subject would go to a
certain popular tune! As thus:--

NO. VIII.--GET YOUR HARCOURT!

AIR--"_Get your Hair Cut_!"

  'Twould serve them right if never I came
    From my own fireside again!
  The way the "Thunderer" cuts me up
    Is vixenish--as vain.
  I was born an Opportunist,
    In a general sort of way,
  But it's really very impertinent
    For the _Times_ to grin and say:--

_Chorus._

  "Get your HARCOURT! Get your HARCOURT!"
    Oh! whenever I'm on spout,
    You can hear the Tories shout,
  "Get your HARCOURT! Get your HARCOURT!
  To cheer you when your spirits are down!"

  I started in the Buffo line.
    When things seem getting slack,
  I'm to the front, with lots of go.
    My critics may cry "Quack!"
  But quacking's not confined to _me_.
    I do extremely well,
  And the more "I give them physic," why
    The more they squirm and yell--

_Chorus._

  "Get your HARCOURT! Get your HARCOURT!"
    But they know my sparkling spout--
    Will help to turn them out.
  "Get your HARCOURT! Get your HARCOURT!"
  But I'll meet them when their sun goes down.

  To play the great "HISTORICUS" part,
    I years ago appeared.
  The Thunderers stage then knew my art,
    But now _that_ pitch is queered!
  They swear that I apostatised
    To follow W.G.,
  And patter about "Parnellite juice,"
    And holloa after me--

_Chorus._

  "Get your HARCOURT! Get your HARCOURT!"
    But, with quip, and jibe, and flout,
    I completely put them out.
  "Get your HARCOURT! Get your HARCOURT!"
  But I beat them, and their sun goes down!

  They try all sorts of "counters" to
    My slogging strokes--in vain.
  The "Thunderer" slates me every day,
    But still I slog again.
  Old W.G. in 'Ninety-Three
    May form a Cabinet;
  Then his first thought will be of Me,
    And all will cry (you bet!)--

_Chorus._

  "Get your HARCOURT! Get your HARCOURT!
    Whoever may stand out,
    Malwood's Squire must join, no doubt.
  Get your HARCOURT! Get your HARCOURT!"
  And _I'll_ mock them when their sun goes down!

       *       *       *       *       *

TO THE GRAND OLD TORY.

(_BY THE WIFE OF A DISSENTING CUMBRIAN WORKMAN_.)

  O WILLIAM, you have managed to offend.
    The Workmen, and the Women, and the Welsh.
  Beware, or you'll discover ere the end
    That the _three_ W.'s the great _one_ can squelch!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ENCOURAGING, VERY!

_Cockney Art-Teacher_ (_newly arrived and nervous--after a long
silence_). "IF YOU _SHOULD_ SEE A CHANCE O' DRORIN' ANYTHING
CORRECTLY--DO SO!!" [_Collapse of expectant Student._]

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons. Monday, May 2_.--"Would that midnight or Closure
would come!" murmured Prince ARTHUR just now, looking wearily up at
clock.

It is only eleven; still another hour; hard even for trained nerves.
For more than six hours been discussing Scotch Equivalent Grant.
CLARK's musical voice has floated through the House by the half hour.

[Illustration: "Curling himself up with delight."]

"A bagpipe with bronchitis nothing to it," says FARQUHARSON, curling
himself up with delight as he hears sounds that remind him of
his mountain home. HUNTER has relentlessly pursued the unhappy
LORD-ADVOCATE, and CALDWELL has thoroughly enjoyed himself. His life,
it will be remembered, was temporarily blighted by action of ROBERTSON
when he was Lord-Advocate. Got up, following CALDWELL in debate, and
dismissed a subject in a quarter of an hour's speech without reference
to oration hour-and-half long with which CALDWELL had delighted House.
Don't remember what the subject was, but never forget CALDWELL's
seething indignation, his righteous anger, his withering wrath.
ROBERTSON smiled in affected disregard; but very soon after he found
it convenient to withdraw from the focus of CALDWELL's eye, and take
refuge on the Scotch Bench. As for CALDWELL, he withdrew his support
from Ministers, tore up his ticket of membership as a Unionist, and
returned to the Gladstonian fold. A tragic story which SCOTT might
have worked up into three volumes had he been alive. He is not, but
CALDWELL is, and so are we--at least partially after this six hours'
talk round rates in Scotland, whether at ten shillings per head or
twelve shillings. At half past eleven human nature could stand it no
longer; progress reported although there still remained half-an-hour
available time.

_Business done_.--Scotch Members avenged Culloden.

[Illustration: "The Nose have it."]

_Tuesday_.--"Rather a mean thing for MARJORIBANKS to bolt in this way,
don't you think?" said CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN, walking out of House when
SINCLAIR showed signs of following CALDWELL. "Says he has some County
Council meeting in Scotland. Went off by train last night; promised
to be back on Thursday. We'll see. When he made that arrangement he
thought Scotch Bill would be through to-night; but it won't. Will
certainly go over to Thursday. So Master MARJORIBANKS will find
himself caught when he comes back. Meanwhile he's escaped to-day and
some hours of last night, which is something. As for me, I've stuck
to my post, and will very probably die at it. Go in and listen to
SINCLAIR, dear boy, following CALDWELL, succeeded by ESSLEMONT. with
CLARK in reserve. I think you'll enjoy yourself."

So I did; thoroughly pleasant afternoon from two o'clock to seven.
LORD-ADVOCATE visibly growing leaner in body, greyer in face.
CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN's usually genial temperament souring, as will
be observed from remarks quoted above. J.B. BALFOUR looking in from
Edinburgh professes thoroughly to enjoy the business. But then
he's fresh to it. Pretty large attendance of Members, but reserve
themselves solely for Division. When bell rings three hundred odd come
trooping in to follow the Whips into either lobby; then troop forth
again. Long JOHN O'CONNOR beams genially down on scene.

"Glad you're having this for a change," he says. "You grumble when
we Irish take the floor. Now the Scotch will oblige. Hope you'll like
Caledonian and CALDWELL better than Home Rule and Erin G. O'BRIEN."

"Yes, I do," I boldly answered. Only distraught between conflicting
charms of CALDWELL and SINCLAIR. There is a cold massivity about
SINCLAIR, a pointedness of profile, when he declares "the Nose have
it." But there is a loftiness about CALDWELL's tone, a subdued fire in
his manner when he is discussing the difference between a rate of ten
shillings and one of twelve, a withering indignation for all that is
false or truculent (in short, anything connected with the office of
Lord-Advocate) that strangely moves the listener. The very mystery
of his ordinary bearing weaves a spell of enchantment around him.
For days and weeks he will sit silent, watchful, with his eye on the
paralysed Scotch Law Officers. Then, suddenly, as in this debate
on the Equivalent Grant, he comes to the front, and pours forth an
apparently inexhaustible flood of argumentative oratory, delivered
with exhilarating animation. "Give me Peebles for pleasure," said
the loyal Lowlander home from a fortnight's jaunt in Paris. "Give me
CALDWELL for persuasive argument," says PLUNKET, himself a born orator
who has missed scarcely five minutes of this two days' debate.

[Illustration: CANDIDATE CATCHING.]

Curious how influence of the hour permeates and dominates everything,
even to the distant Lake Ny'yassa. Question asked when House met as to
how things were going on there under Commissioner JOHNSTON. No one at
all surprised when, in reply, LOWTHER referred to the "two powerful
Chiefs, JUMBE and MCPONDA." Should like to hear the views of the last
gentleman on the Scotch Equivalent Grant, its application to secondary
education in Scotland, and the probable ultimate destination of the
£25,000 allotted to parochial boards.

_Business done_.--More of the Scotch Equivalent Grant.

[Illustration: Effect of a great big D in the House.]

_Wednesday_.--May Day passed off quietly enough; but you can't have
air charged with electricity, and your back-cellars filled with
dynamite, without danger of explosion. Burst to-day in unlooked-for
place, in unexpected circumstances. HALDANE brought in Bill providing
that ratepayers should share with Duke of WESTMINSTER and other great
landowners benefit of unearned increment. Prospect alluring, but
debate not exhilarating. House nearly empty; ASQUITH delivering able
but not exciting speech in favour of Bill. Just sort of time and
circumstances when, in another place, Judge might be expected to fall
asleep on Bench. Citizen ROBERT GALNIGAD BONTINE CUNINGHAME GRAHAM,
sitting on Bench behind ASQUITH, listening like the rest of us to
his well-ordered argument. The Citizen a little tired with Sunday's
peregrination. Been walking about all day with stout stick in hand,
and blood-red handkerchief in pocket, ready for any emergency. At
favourable moment blood-red handkerchief would flash forth, tied on to
stick with timely twine, and there's your flag! Republic proclaimed;
Citizen GRAHAM first President, under title GALNIGAD I., and before
Secretary-of-State MATTHEWS quite knew where he was, he would be
viewing the scene from an elevated position pendant in Trafalgar
Square.

Chance had not come; GRAHAM still plain Citizen, in House of Commons
listening to commonplace proposals about unearned increment. This
evidently wouldn't do. Suddenly jumped up; shook fist at back of
ASQUITH's unoffending head, and, _à propos de bottes_, "wanted to know
about the swindling companies and their shareholders?"

ASQUITH really hadn't been saying anything about them; turning round
beheld Citizen GRAHAM glaring upon him, throwing about his arms as if
he were semaphore signalling to the rearguard of Republican Army.

"Order! Order!" cried SPEAKER, sternly.

"Oh, you can suspend me if you like," said Citizen GRAHAM, airily, as
if it were no hanging matter. Members angrily joined in cry of "Order!
Order!" SPEAKER promptly "named" the Citizen--not with his full list
of names, for time was pressing.

"Name away!" roared the Citizen, whom nothing could disconcert. HOME
SECRETARY having no fear of the lamppost before his eyes, formally
moved that the Citizen be suspended. GRAHAM snapped his fingers at
HOME SECRETARY. "Suspend away!" he shouted.

[Illustration: "Hair slowly uplifting."]

Members looked on aghast. ROWLANDS standing at the Bar, conscious of
his hair slowly uplifting. Belonged to the advanced guard himself;
but this going little too far. LUBBOCK, sitting near Citizen,
strategically attempted to change the conversation. "Did you ever," he
said, blandly, "notice how the queen bee, when she is--"

"Oh, you bee ----" said the Citizen, roughly shaking off the gentle
Bee-master.

SAM SMITH shudderingly covered his face with his hands. "I'm so
afraid," he whispered, "of the old A-dam coming out." And it did,
Citizen GRAHAM himself immediately after going out, stopping at the
Bar to shuffle through a few steps of the Carmagnole, and trumpet
defiance on his blood-red handkerchief.

After this, a mere flash of lightning through the low clouds of a dull
afternoon, ASQUITH went on with his speech, debate proceeded as if
nothing had happened, and HALDANE's Bill thrown out by 223 Votes
against 148. _Business done_.--Citizen GRAHAM suspended.

_Friday_.--House met to-day as it did yesterday and day before to
discuss Bills and Motions. But all the talk really turns upon date of
Dissolution, and what is likely to happen after a General Election.
SQUIRE OF MALWOOD serenely confident in the future.

"Yes," I said to him to-night, "it must be a great comfort to you to
reflect that when you come into office you will not have to beat about
for a programme. You've got your Newcastle platform, and I suppose a
Liberal Ministry will stand upon that."

"You remind me, dear TOBY," said the Squire, with a far-away look, "of
a story COLERIDGE brought home from his memorable visit to the United
States. On his way down to Chicago he went out on the platform of the
car to breathe the air and look at the scenery. 'Come off that,' said
the Conductor, following him, 'you can't stand on the platform.' 'My
good man,' said JOHN DUKE--you know his silver voice and his bland
manner--'what is a platform for, if not to stand on?' 'Platforms,'
said the Conductor, sententiously, 'are not made to stand on, they are
made to get in on.'"

_Business done_.--Miscellaneous.

       *       *       *       *       *

ON THE ROW AMONG THE ROMANCERS.

  Trust me, scribes who fight and jeer,
    From yon blue heavens above us bent,
  DICKENS and THACKERAY and SCOTT
    Smile at the grumbling Yankee gent.

  Howe'er it be, it seems to me
    A Novel needs but to be _good_;
  Romancer's more than Realist,
    And True Love's course than too much "Blood"!

       *       *       *       *       *

TOO CONSCIENTIOUS.--"As a protest against gambling in connection with
_Orme_," Mr. W. JOHNSTON, M.P., refused to attend a meeting at the
Duke of WESTMINSTER's "for the prevention of the demoralisation of the
uncivilised heathen races." Does Mr. W.J. include the Derby among the
"heathen races" in connection with _Orme_?

       *       *       *       *       *

QUITE APPROPRIATE.--"Acorse," says ROBERT, "it's the rite thing as
that the Orse Show at Hislington should be honnerd with the pressince
of the LORD MARE."

       *       *       *       *       *

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.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, May 14, 1892" ***

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