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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98, February 8, 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, Vol. 98, February 8, 1890" ***

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

VOL. 98, FEBRUARY 8, 1890***


VOL. 98.

FEBRUARY 8, 1890.

[Illustration: ]


    "Très volontiers," repartit le démon. "Vous aimez les tableaux
    changeans: je veux vous contenter."

_Le Diable Boiteux._


  "A Late Symposium! Yet they're not engaged
  In compotations. Argument hath raged
    Four hours by the dial;
  But zealotry of party, creed, or clique
  Marks not the clock, whilst of polemic pique
    There's one unvoided vial."

  So smiled the Shade. Dusk coat and gleaming head,
  Viewed from above, before my gaze outspread
    Like a black sea bespotted
  With bare pink peaks of coral isles; all eyes
  Were fixed on one who reeled out rhapsodies
    In diction double-shotted.

  A long and lofty room, with pillars cold,
  And spacious walls of chocolate and gold;
    The solid sombre glory
  Of tint oppressive and of tasteless shine,
  Dear to the modern British Philistine,
    Saint, sceptic, Whig, or Tory.

  "No Samson-strength of intellect or taste
  Shall bow the pillars of this temple chaste
    Of ugliness and unction.
  What is't they argue lengthily and late?
  The flame of patriot passion for the State
    Fires this polemic function.

  "A caitiff Government has done a thing
  To make its guardian-angel droop her wing
    In sickened indignation:
  That is, has striven to strengthen its redoubts,
  Perfidious 'Ins,' to foil the eager 'Outs.'
    Hence endless execration.

  "Hence all Wire-pullerdom is up in arms;
  With clarion-toned excursions and alarms
    The rival camp is ringing.
  Hence perky commoners and pompous peers,
  'Midst vehement applause and volleying cheers,
    Stale platitudes are stringing.

  "The British Public--some five hundred strong--
  Is here to 'strangle a Gigantic Wrong,'--
    So MARABOUT is saying.
  Watch his wide waistcoat and his wandering eyes,
  His stamping boots of Brobdingnagian size,
    Clenched hands, and shoulders swaying.

  "A great Machine-man, MARABOUT! He dotes
  On programmes hectographed and Party votes.
    For all his pasty pallor
  And shifty glance, he has the mob's regard,
  And he is deemed by council, club, and ward
    A mighty man of valour.

  "A purchased henchman to a Star of State?
  Perhaps. But here he'll pose and perorate,
    A Brutus vain and voluble.
  And who, like MARABOUT, with vocal flux
  Of formulas, can settle every _crux_
    That wisdom finds insoluble?

  "'Hear! hear!' That shibboleth of shallow souls
  Around his ears in clamorous cadence rolls;
    He swells, he glows, he twinkles;
  The sapient Chairman wags his snowy pate,
  Whilst cynic triumph, cautious yet elate,
    Lurks laughing in his wrinkles.

  "And there sits honest zeal, absorbed, intent,
  And cheerfully credulous. MARABOUT has bent
    To the Commercial Dagon
  He publicly derides; but many here
  Will toast 'his genuine grit, his manly cheer,'
    Over a friendly flagon.

  "Look on him later! There he snugly sits
  With his rich patron. Were it war of wits
    That wakes their crackling chuckles,
  They scarce were heartier. It would strangely shock
  MARABOUT'S worshippers to hear him mock
    The 'mob' to which he truckles.

  "Truckles in platform speech. In club-room chat
  With WAGSTAFF, shrewd wire-puller, flushed and fat,
    Or DODD, the rich dry-salter,
  You'd hear how supply he can shift and twist,
  How BRUTUS with 'the base Monopolist'
    Can calmly plot and palter,"

  "Whilst MARABOUTS abound, O Shade," I cried,
  "What wonder men are 'Mugwumps?'" Then my guide
    Laughed low. "The æsthetic villa
  Finds Shopdom's zeal on its fine senses jar;
  Yet the Mugwumps Charybdis stands not far
    From the Machine-man's Scylla.

  "Culture derides the Caucus for its heat,
  Its hate--its absence of the Light and Sweet,
    So jays might flout the vulture.
  Partisan bitterness and purblind haste?
  Come, view the haunts of dilettante Taste,
    The coteries of Culture!

  "Here _Savants_ wrangle o'er a fossil bone,
  CHAMPER, with curling lip and caustic tone,
    At RUDDIMAN is railing.
  CHAMPER knows everything, from PLATO'S text
  To Protoplasm; yet his soul is vext,
    His cheeks with spite are paling.

  "Why? Because RUDDIMAN, the rude, robust,
  Has pierced with logic's vigorous vulgar thrust
    The shield of icy polish.
  CHAMPER, in print, is hot on party-hate,
  Here his one aim is in the rough debate
    His rival to demolish.

  "Sweet Reasonableness? Another host
  Of sages see! The habits of the Ghost,
    The Astral Body's action,
  Absorb them, eager. Does more furious fire
  The councils of the Caucusites inspire,
    Or light the feuds of faction?

  "And there? They argue out with toil intense
  A 'cosmic' poet's esoteric sense,
    Of which a world, unwitting,
  Recks nothing. Yet how terribly they'd trounce
  Parliament's pettifogging, and denounce
    'Political hair-splitting'!"

  "O Shade, the difference is but small, one dreads.
  Betwixt logomachists at loggerheads,
    Whether their theme be bonnets
  Or British interests. Zealot ardour burns
  Scarce fiercer o'er Electoral Returns
    Than over SHAKSPEARE'S Sonnets.

  "At MARABOUT the Mugwump sniffs and sneers;
  Gregarious 'votes of thanks' and sheepish 'cheers'
    Stir him to satire scornful.
  But when sleek Culture apes, irate and loud,
  The follies of the Caucus and the Crowd,
    The spectacle is mournful."

  "True!" smiled the Shade. "Yon supercilious sage,
  With patent prejudice and petty rage,
    Penning a tart jobation
  On practised Statesmen, must as much amuse
  As Statesmen-sciolists venting vapid views
    On rocks and revelation."

  (_To be continued._)

       *       *       *       *       *


  A was the Anger evinced far and wide;
  B was the Boat-train delayed by the tide;
  C was the Chairman who found nothing wrong;
  D was the Driver who sang the same song;
  E was the Engine that stuck on the way;
  F stood for Folkestone, reached late every day;
  G was the Grumble to which this gave rise;
  H was the Hubbub Directors despise;
  I was the Ink over vain letters used;
  J were the Junctions which some one abused;
  K was the Kick "Protest" got for its crimes;
  L were the Letters it wrote to the _Times_;
  M was the Meeting that probed the affair;
  N was the Nothing that came of the scare;
  O was the Overdue train on its way;
  P was the Patience that bore the delay;
  Q was the Question which struck everyone;
  R the Reply which could satisfy none;
  S was the Station where passengers wait;
  T was the Time that they're bound to be late;
  U was the Up-train an hour overdue;
  V was the Vagueness its movements pursue;
  W stood for time's general Waste;
  X for Ex-press that could never make haste;
  Y for the Wherefore and Why of this wrong;
  And Z for the Zanies who stand it so long!

       *       *       *       *       *

STARTLING FOR GOURMETS.--"_Bisques_ disallowed." But it only refers to a
new rule of the Lawn Tennis Association; so "_Bisque d'écrevisses_" will
still be preserved to us among the _embarras de richesse_--(_i.e._ the
trouble caused subsequently by the richness,--_free trans._)--of a
thoroughgoing French dinner.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: ]

_Le Brav' Général tootles_:--

  Heroes bold owe much to bold songs.
  What's that? "Cannot sing the old songs"?
  Pooh! 'Tis a Britannic ditty.
  Truth, though, in it,--more's the pity!
  "_En revenant de la Revue._"
  People tire of that--too true!
  I must give them something new.
    Played out, Frenchmen? _Pas de danger!_
    Whilst you've still your _Brav'_ BOULANGER!

  Do they think BOULANGER "mizzles,"
  After all his recent "fizzles"?
  (Most expressive slang, the Yankee!)
  _Pas si bête_, my friends. No thank ye!
  Came a cropper? Very true!
  But I remount--my hobby's new,
  So's my trumpet. Rooey-too!
    France go softly? _Pas de danger!_
    Whilst she has her _Brav'_ BOULANGER!

  Cannot say her looks quite flatter.
  Rather scornful. What's the matter?
  Have you lost your recent fancy
  For me and my charger prancy?
  Turn those eyes this way, now _do_!
  Mark my hobby,--not a screw!
  Listen to my _chanson_ new!
    BISMARCK flout you? _Pas de danger!_
    _He's_ afraid of _Brav'_ BOULANGER.

  Of your smile be not so chary!
  The sixteenth of February
  Probably will prove my care is
  The especial charge of Paris.
  Then you'll know that I am true.
  "_En revenant de la Revue_;"
  Stick to me, I'll stick to you.
    Part with you, sweet? _Pas de danger!_
    Not the game of _Brav'_ BOULANGER!

       *       *       *       *       *


  Captain SHARP, of the Newhaven steamer, _Paris, you_'re no craven;
    Grim and growling was the gale that you from your dead reckoning
  And, but for your brave behaving, she might never have made haven,
    But have foundered in mid-Channel, or been wrecked on a lee-shore.
  With your paddle-floats unfeathered, wonder was it that you weathered
    Such a storm as that of Sunday, which upset our nerves on land,
  Though in fire-side comfort tethered. How it blew, and blared,
      and blethered!
    All your passengers, my Captain, say your pluck and skill were
  Much to men like you is owing, when wild storms around are blowing,
    As they seem to have been doing since the opening of the year:
  Howling, hailing, sleeting, snowing; but for captains calm and
    Passage of our angry Channel were indeed a task of fear.
  Well, you brought them safely through it, when not every man could do
    And your passengers, my Captain, are inspired with gratitude.
  Therefore, _Mr. Punch_ thus thanks you, and right readily enranks you,
    As a hero on the record of our briny island brood.
  Verily the choice of "_Paris_" in this case proved right; and rare is
    Fitness between name and nature such as that _you_ illustrate.
  Captain SHARP! A proper _nomen_, and it proved a prosperous omen
    To your passengers, whom _Punch_ must on their luck congratulate.

       *       *       *       *       *

ON BOARD THE CHANNEL STEAMER "PARIS" (_Night of Saturday, January 25,
1890_).--"SHARP'S the word!"

       *       *       *       *       *




       *       *       *       *       *


The title of the second chapter of _The Days of the Dandies_, in
_Blackwood_, is calculated to excite curiosity,--it is, "Some Great
Beauties, and some Social Celebrities." After reading the article, I
think it would have been styled more correctly, "A Few Great Beauties."
However, it is discursively amusing and interesting. There is much truth
in the paper on Modern Mannish Maidens. I hold that no number of a
Magazine is perfect without a tale of mystery and wonder, or a
ghost-story of some sort. I hope I have not overlooked one of these in
any Magazine for this month that I have seen. Last month there was a
good one in _Macmillan_, and another in _Belgravia_. I forget their
titles, unfortunately, and have mislaid the Magazines. But
_After-thoughts_, in this month's _Macmillan_, is well worth perusal.

[Illustration: ]

My faithful "Co." has been looking through the works of reference. He
complains that _Dod's Peerage, Baronetage, and Knighthood for 1890_ is
carelessly edited. He notes, as a sample, that Sir HENRY LELAND
HARRISON, who is said to have been born in 1857, is declared to have
entered the Indian Civil Service in 1860, when he was only three years
old--a manifest absurdity. As _Mr. Punch_ himself pointed out this
_bêtise_ in _Dod's &c., &c., for 1889_, it should have been corrected in
the new edition. "If this sort of thing continues," says the faithful
"Co.," "_Dod_ will be known as _Dodder_, or even _Dodderer_!" Sir
BERNARD BURKE'S _Genealogical and Heraldic Dictionary of the Peerage and
Baronetage_ is, in every sense, a noble volume, and seems to have been
compiled with the greatest care and accuracy. KELLY'S _Post Office
Directory_, of course, is a necessity to every man of letters.
_Whitaker's Almanack for 1890_ seems larger than usual, and better than
ever. WEBSTER'S _Royal Red Book_, and GARDINER'S _Royal Blue Book_, it
goes without saying, are both written by men of address. _The Century
Atlas and Gazetteer_ is a book amongst a hundred. Finally, the _Era
Almanack for 1890_, conducted by EDWARD LEDGER, is, as usual, full of
information concerning things theatrical--some of it gay, some of it
sad. "Replies to Questions by Actors and Actresses" is the liveliest
contribution in the little volume. The Obituary contains the name of
"EDWARD LITT LEMAN BLANCHARD," dramatist, novellist, and journalist, who
died on the 4th of September, 1889. It is hard to realise the _Era
Almanack_ without the excellent contributions of poor "E. L. B.!"

"Co." furnishes some other notes in a livelier strain:--

_Matthew Prior._ (KEGAN PAUL.) If you are asked to go out in this
abominable weather, shelter yourself under the wing of Mr. AUSTIN
DOBSON, and plead a prior engagement. (Ha! Ha!) You will find the
engagement both prior and profitable. Mr. DOBSON'S introductory essay is
not only exhaustive, but in the highest degree interesting, and his
selection from the poems has been made with great taste and rare

_In the Garden of Dreams._ The lack of poets of the softer sex has been
recently a subject of remark. Lady-novelists we have in super-abundance,
of lady-dramatists we have more than enough, of lady-journalists we have
legions--but lady-poets we have but few. Possibly, they flourish more on
the other side of the Atlantic. At any rate we have a good example of
the American Muse in the latest volume by Mrs. LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.
This little book is full of grace, its versification is melodious, and
has the genuine poetic ring about it, which is as rare as it is
acceptable. It can scarcely fail to find favour with English readers.


       *       *       *       *       *


DEAR MR. PUNCH,--The Camel is reported to be greatly instrumental in the
spread of cholera. This is evidently the Bacterian Camel, whose
humps--or is it hump?--have long been such a terror to those who really
don't care a bit how many humps an animal has.

Yours faithfully, HUMPHRY CAMPBELL.

       *       *       *       *       *

To THOSE WHO GET THEIR LIVING BY DYEING.--"Sweet Auburn!" exclaimed a
ruddy, aureate-haired lady of uncertain age,--anything, in fact, after
fifty,--"'Sweet Auburn!'" she repeated, musingly, "What does 'Sweet
Auburn' come from?" "Well," replied her husband, regarding her
_coiffure_ with an air of uncertainty, "I'm not quite sure, but I think
'Sweet Auburn' should be GRAY."

       *       *       *       *       *



_A Melodramatic Didactic Vaudeville, suggested by "The Wooden Doll and
the Wax Doll." By the Misses Jane and Ann Taylor._



_Blanchidine_,} By the celebrated SISTERS STILTON, the Champion
_Brunette_.   }      Duettists and Clog-dancers.

_Fanny Furbelow._ By MISS SYLVIA SEALSKIN (_by kind permission of
                      the Gaiety Management_).

_Frank Manly._ By MR. HENRY NEVILLE.

SCENE--_A Sunny Glade in Kensington Gardens, between the Serpentine
and Round Pond_.

_Enter_ BLANCHIDINE _and_ BRUNETTE, _with their arms thrown
    affectionately around one another_. BLANCHIDINE _is carrying a large
    and expressionless wooden doll_.

            _Duet and Step-dance._

  _Bl._ Oh, I do adore BRUNETTE! (_Dances._) Tippity-tappity,
      tappity-tippity, tippity-tappity, tip-tap!

  _Br_. BLANCHIDINE'S the sweetest pet! (_Dances._) Tippity-tappity, &c.

_Together._ When the sun is high,
            We come out to ply,
            Nobody is nigh,
            All is mirth and j'y!

            With a pairosol,
            We'll protect our doll,
            Make a mossy bed
            For her wooden head!

    [_Combination step-dance, during which both watch their feet with an
    air of detached and slightly amused interest, as if they belonged to
    some other persons._

    Clickity-clack, clickity-clack, clickity, clickity, clickity-clack;
      clackity-clickity, clickity-clackity, clackity-clickity-_clack_!

            [_Repeat ad. lib._

  _Bl._ (_apologetically to Audience_). Her taste in dress is rather
          plain! (_Dances._) Tippity-tappity, &c.

  _Br._ (_in pitying aside_). It _is_ a pity she's so vain!
                 (_Dances._) Tippity-tappity, &c.

  _Bl._ 'Tis a shime to smoile,
        But she's shocking stoyle,
        It is quite a troyal,
        Still--she mikes a foil!

        _Br._ Often I've a job
        To suppress a sob,
        She is such a snob,
        When she meets a nob!      [_Step-dance as before._

    [_N.B.--In consideration of the well-known difficulty that most
    popular variety-artists experience in the metrical delivery of
    decasyllabic couplets, the lines which follow have been written as
    they will most probably be spoken._

  _Bl._ (_looking off with alarm_). Why, here comes FANNY FURBELOW, a
    new frock from Paris in! She'll find me with BRUNETTE--it's too

  _To Brunette._ BRUNETTE, my love, I know _such_ a pretty game we'll
    play at--
  Poor TIMBURINA'S ill, and the seaside she ought to stay at.
  (The Serpentine's the seaside, let's pretend,)
  And _you_ shall take her there--(_hypocritically_)--you're such a

  _Br._ (_with simplicity_). Oh, yes, that _will_ be splendid,
  And then we can go and have a dip in a bathing-machine!

            [BLAN. _resigns the wooden doll to_ BRUN., _who skips off
             with it_, L., _as_ FANNY FURBELOW _enters_, R., _carrying a
             magnificent wax doll_.

  _Fanny_ (_languidly_). Ah, howdy do--_isn't_ this heat too frightful?
  And so you're quite alone?

  _Bl._ (_nervously_). Oh, _quite_--oh yes, I always am alone, when
  there's nobody with me.

            [_This is a little specimen of the Lady's humorous "gag," at
              which she is justly considered a proficient._

  _Fanny_ (_drawling_).        Delightful!
  When I was wondering, only a little while ago,
  If I should meet a creature that I know;
  Allow me--my new doll, the LADY MINNIE!

            _[Introducing doll._

  _Bl._ (_rapturously_). Oh, what a perfect love!

  _Fanny_.     She ought to be--for a guinea!
  Here, you may nurse her for a little while.
  Be careful, for her frock's the latest style.

            [_Gives_ BLAN. _the wax doll_.

  She's the best wax, and has three changes of clothing--
  For those cheap wooden dolls I've quite a loathing.

  _Bl._ (_hastily_). Oh, so have _I_--they're not to be endured!

      _Re-enter_ BRUNETTE _with the wooden doll, which she tries to
        press upon_ BLANCHIDINE, _much to the latter's confusion_.

  _Br._ I've brought poor TIMBURINA back, completely cured!
  Why, aren't you pleased? Your face is looking so cloudy!

  _F._ (_haughtily_). Is she a friend of _yours_--this little dowdy?

            [_Slow music._

  _Bl._ (_after an internal struggle_). Oh, no, what an idea! Why, I
  don't even know her by name! Some vulgar child ...

            [_Lets the wax doll fall unregarded on the gravel._

  _Br._ (_indignantly_). Oh, what a horrid shame!
  I see _now_ why you sent us to the Serpentine!

  _Bl._ (_heartlessly_). There's no occasion to flare up like turpentine.

  _Br._ (_ungrammatically_). I'm _not_! Disown your doll, and thrust me,
          too, aside,
  The one thing left for both of us is--suicide!
  Yes, TIMBURINA, us no more she cherishes--
  _(Bitterly.)_ Well, the Round Pond a handy place to perish is!

            [_Rushes off stage with wooden doll._

  _Bl._ (_making a feeble attempt to follow_). Come back, BRUNETTE; don't
      leave me thus, in charity!

  _F._ (_with contempt_). Well, I'll be off--since you seem to prefer

  _Bl._ No, stay--but--ah, she said--what if she _meant_ it?

  _F._ Not she! And, if she did, _we_ can't prevent it.

  _Bl._ (_relieved_). That's true--we'll play, and think no more about

  _F._ (_sarcastically_). We may _just_ manage to get on without her!
      So come--(_perceives doll lying face upwards on path_)--you odious
        girl, what have you done?
      Left LADY MINNIE lying in the blazing sun!
      'Twas done on purpose--oh, you _thing_ perfidious!      [_Stamps._
      You _knew_ she'd melt, and get completely hideous!
      Don't answer _me_, Miss--I wish we'd never met.
      You're only fit for persons like BRUNETTE!

            [_Picks up doll, and exit in passion._

      _Grand Sensation Descriptive Soliloquy, by_ BLANCHIDINE, _to
      Melodramatic Music._

  _Bl._ Gone! Ah, I am rightly punished! What would I not give now to
  have homely little BRUNETTE, and dear old wooden-headed TIMBURINA back
  again! _She_ wouldn't melt in the sun.... Where are they now? Great
  Heavens! that threat--that rash resolve ... I remember all! 'Twas in
  the direction of the Pond they vanished. (_Peeping anxiously between
  trees._) Are they still in sight?... Yes, I see them! BRUNETTE has
  reached the water's edge.... What is she purposing! Now she kneels on
  the rough gravel; she is making TIMBURINA kneel too! How calm and
  resolute they both appear! (_Shuddering._) I dare not look
  further--but, ah, I must--_I must!_... Horror! I saw her boots flash
  for an instant in the bright sunlight; and now the ripples have
  closed, smiling over her little black stockings!... Help!--save her,
  somebody!--help!... Joy! a gentleman has appeared on the scene--how
  handsome, how brave he looks! He has taken in the situation at a
  glance! With quiet composure he removes his coat--oh, _don't_ trouble
  about folding it up!--and why, _why_ remove your gloves, when there is
  not a moment to be lost? Now, with many injunctions, he entrusts his
  watch to a bystander, who retires, overcome by emotion. And now--oh,
  gallant, heroic soul!--now he is sending his toy terrier into the
  seething water! (_Straining eagerly forward._) Ah, the dog paddles
  bravely out--he has reached the spot ... oh, he has passed it!--he is
  trying to catch a duck! Dog, dog, _is_ this a time for pursuing ducks?
  At last he understands--he dives ... he brings up--agony! a small tin
  cup! Again ... _this_ time, surely--what, only an old pot-hat!... Oh,
  this dog is a fool! And still the Round Pond holds its dread secret!
  Once more ... yes--no, yes, it _is_ TIMBURINA! Thank Heaven, she yet
  breathes! But BRUNETTE? Can she have stuck in the mud at the bottom?
  Ha, she, too, is rescued--saved--ha-ha-ha!--saved, saved, saved!

            [_Swoons hysterically, amid deafening applause._

    _Enter_ FRANK MANLY, _supporting_ BRUNETTE, _who carries_ TIMBURINA.

  _Bl._ (_wildly_). What, do I see you safe, beloved BRUNETTE?

  _Br._ Yes, thanks to his courage, I'm not even _wet_!

  _Frank_ (_modestly_). Nay, spare your compliments. To rescue Beauty,
  When in distress, is every hero's duty!

  _Bl._ BRUNETTE, forgive--I'm cured of all my folly!

  _Br._ (_heartily_). Of course I will, my dear, and so will dolly!

            [_Grand Trio and Step-dance, with "tippity-tappity," and
            "clickity-clack" refrain as finale._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "THE NEW GERMAN RIFLE."


"The Regulations for the employment of the new German Infantry Rifle
have just been published. With regard to the capabilities of the new
rifle, the Regulations assert, that in this arm the German Infantry
possesses a weapon standing fully abreast of the time with a range such
as was heretofore held to be impossible of attainment."--_Standard, Jan.

       *       *       *       *       *


COMMEMORATION BIRTHDAY CONCERT.--The programme you are preparing, after
the fashion set the other evening in St. James's Hall, at an
entertainment organised in honour of the birthday of the poet BURNS, for
the purpose of paying a similar tribute to the memory of his great
fellow-countryman, Sir WALTER SCOTT, certainly promises well. As you
very truly point out that, as at the Concert which you are taking as
your model, though the name of BURNS was tacked on to nearly every item
in the programme, as if he had been responsible for the words, music and
all, it did not seem limited to the Poet's work alone, you might
certainly allow yourself the latitude you propose in arranging your own
scheme. The fact that, at the Burns Celebration, M. NACHEZ played his
own Hungarian dances, the connection between which and the Poet's
birthday is not, at first sight, entirely obvious, and that another
gentleman, with equal appropriateness, favoured the company with "_The
Death of Nelson_," on the trombone, seems certainly to give you a
warrant for the introduction you contemplate making, in commemoration of
Sir WALTER, of the Chinese Chopstick Mazurka, and the Woora-woora
Cannibal Islanders side-knife and sledge-hammer war-dance. It may of
course be possible, in a remote way, to introduce them, as you suggest,
into _Old Mortality_, but we should think you would be nearer the mark
with that other item of your programme, that associates _Jem Baggs_ with
_The Lay of the Last Minstrel_. Your idea of accepting and utilising the
offer of the GIRALFI family to introduce their Drawing-room
Entertainment into your programme seems excellent, and has certainly as
much in common with the Birthday of Sir WALTER SCOTT as the "_Death of
Nelson_," on the trombone, has with that of the distinguished Novelist's
great brother Poet. There is no reason, as you further point out, why
you should not organise a whole Series of Commemorative Birthday
Entertainments, as you think of doing, on the same plan, and with
you mention, to begin upon, you ought to have no difficulty in working
in the solo on the big drum, the performance of the Learned Hyæna, the
Japanese Twenty-feet Bayonet-jump, and the other equally appropriate
attractions with which you are already in communication. Anyhow, begin
with Sir WALTER SCOTT, following the St. James's Hall lead, and let us
hear how you get on.

       * * *

STRIKING WEDDING PRESENTS.--As you seem to think that a list of the
presents made to your young friends who are about to be married will in
all probability be published in some of the Society papers, "with the
names of the donors," we think, on the whole, we would advise you _not_
to give them, as you seem rather inclined to do, those three hundred
weight of cheap sardines of which you became possessed through a seizure
of your agents for arrears of rent. You might certainly present them
with the disabled omnibus horse that came into your hands on the same
occasion. Horses are sometimes given as wedding presents. There were
four down in a list of gifts at a fashionable marriage only last week.
But, of course, it would not suit your purpose to appear as the donor of
a "damaged" creature. We think, perhaps, it would be wiser to accept the
five pounds offered you through the veterinary surgeon you mention, and
lay out the money, as you suggest, in sixteen hundred Japanese fans. If
it falls through, and you find the horse still on your hands, there is
no need to mention its association with the omnibus. "Mr. JOHN
JOHNSON--a riding horse," doesn't read badly. We almost think this is
better than the fans. Think it over.

       *       *       *       *       *


One day last week, after a struggle for life, Her Majesty's Theatre was
shut up, five hundred persons, so it was stated, lost employment, and
the _Cinderella_ family, proud sisters and all, nay, even the gallant
Prince himself, were turned adrift. Smiling, at the helm of the Drury
Lane Ship, stands AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS, who sees, not unmoved, the wreck
of "Her Majesty's Opposition," and murmurs to himself as _Jack and the
Beanstalk_ continues its successful course, "This is, indeed, the
survival of the fittest," and, charitably, DRURIOLANUS sends out a
life-boat entitled "Benefit Performance" to the rescue of the
shipwrecked crew. _Ave Cæsar_!

From this disaster there results a moral, "which, when found," it would
be as well to "make a note of." It is this: as evidently London will
not, or cannot, support two Pantomimes, several Circuses, and a Show
like BARNUM'S, all through one winter, why try the experiment?
especially when the _luxe_ of Pantomime, fostered by DRURIOLANUS, is so
enormous, that any competitor must be forced into ruinous and even
reckless extravagance, in order to enter into anything like rivalry with
The Imperator who "holds the field" for Pantomime, just as he holds "The
Garden" for Opera, against all comers.

These rival establishments only do harm to one another, spoil the public
by indulging their taste for magnificent spectacle, increasing in
gorgeousness every year, until true Pantomime will be overlaid with
jewelled armour, crushed under velvet and gold, and be lying helpless
under the weight of its own gorgeosity. We should question whether the
Olympian BARNUM has done much good for himself, seeing how gigantic the
expenses must be; and certainly he can't have done good to the theatres.
As to Shows, "The more the merrier" does not hold good. "The fewer the
better" is nearer the mark in every sense, and perhaps the experience of
this season may suggest even to DRURIOLANUS to give the public still
more fun for their money (and there is plenty of genuine fun in _Jack
and the Beanstalk_), with less show, in less time, and at consequently
less expense to himself, and with, therefore, bigger profits. We shall

       *       *       *       *       *


    "Mr. GLADSTONE desires that ALL LETTERS, &c., should be addressed to
    him at 10, St. James's Square, London."--_Standard, Jan. 25._

Why should "all letters" be addressed to Mr. GLADSTONE? Isn't anybody
else to have any? How about Valentine's Day? Will "_all letters_" be
addressed to him then? If so--then the above Illustration conveys only a
feeble idea of the result.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: FELINE AMENITIES.

_Fair Hostess_ (_to Mrs. Masham, who is looking her very best_).

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *



_Anxious Old (Legal) Nurses loquitur_:--

  Ah! he's ready now, thanks be!
  But a plaguier child than he
  I am sure we Nusses three
                      Never dressed.
  But at last we have got through;
  Well-curled hair, and sash of blue!
  Yes, we rather think he'll do,
                      Heaven be blessed!

  Ah! the awful time it took!
  Never mind; by hook or crook
  We have togged him trimly. Look!
                      There he stands!
  His long wailings nearly hushed,
  Buttoned, pinned, oiled, combed and brushed,
  And his tight glove-fingers crushed
                      On his hands.

  Does us credit, don't you think?
  How the chit would writhe and shrink,
  Get his garments in a kink
                      Every way!
  Awful handful, hot and heady,
  Shuffling round, ne'er standing steady,
  Feared we'd never get him ready
                      For the day.

  Mr. SPEAKER'S Party,--yes!
  Hope he'll be a great success;
  His clean face and natty dress
                        _Ought_ to please.
  But there'll be no end of eyes
  On his buttons, hooks, and ties;
  Prompt to chaff and criticise,
                      Tear and tease.

  There'll be many an Irish boy
  Who will find it his chief joy
  To upset and to annoy
                      The young Turk;
  And, with no particular call,
  Try to make him squeal and squall,
  Disarrange him, after all
                      Our hard work.

  Not to mention other lads,
  Regular rowdy little Rads,
  Full of ill-conditioned fads,
                      And mean spite;
  Who will pinch and pull the hair
  Of our charge who's standing there,
  After all our patient care
                      Right and tight.

  For we know they don't like _us_,
  And they're sure to scold and cuss
  The tired three, and raise a fuss
                      And a pother
  About Hopeful here. Heigho!
  But he's ready, dears, to go.
  Ah! they little little know
                      All our bother!

  On our hands heaven knows how long
  We have had him. 'Twould be wrong
  To indulge in language strong;
                      But how hearty
  Is our joy that we have done!
  There now, REPPY, off you run!
  Only hope you'll have good fun
                      At the Party!

       *       *       *       *       *


Delighted to hear that our friend CHARLES HALL, A.D.C., Trin. Coll.
Cam., and Q.C., is likely to be made a Judge. Where will he sit?
Admiralty, Probate, and Divorce Court, where wreckage cases of ships and
married lives are heard? Health to the Judge that shall be, with a song
and chorus, if you please, Gentlemen, to the ancient air of "_Samuel
Hall_," revived for this occasion only:--

  His name it is CHARLES HALL,
                    A.D.C. and Q.C.,
  His name it is CHARLES HALL.
  In cases great and small
  He's shone out since his call,
                    All agree.

  In Court of Admiral_tee_
                    Did he drudge, (_bis_)
  In Court of Admiraltee,
  'Bout lights and wrecks,--will he
  Henceforth be less at sea
                    As a Judge?


(_To quite another tune, i.e., the refrain of_ GEORGE GROSSMITH'S _song,
"How I became an Actor."_)

  And each of his friends makes this remark,
        (Retort he may with "Fudge!")
  "Now wasn't I the first to say, you're sure
        Some day to be a Judge!"

It will be a touching spectacle, as, indeed, it always is to the
reflective mind, to see the new Judge sitting among the wrecks, like
"Marius among the Ruins." Fine subject for Sir FREDERICK, P.R.A., in the
next Academy Exhibition.

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *


(_By the Foot of Clara Groomley._)


Nothing done! The whole Detective force of London, having nothing better
to do, were placed at my disposal, and, after three weeks' search, they
found a girl called SMITH; but it was the wrong one. My darling is
_blonde_, and this was a dark, almost a black, SMITH. I came back to
Ryde in a passion and a third-class carriage. I find from Mademoiselle
that Miss SMITH has not yet returned.

[Illustration: ]

JAMES seemed pleased to see me, but he noticed that in my anxiety and
preoccupation I had forgotten to have my hat ironed. The hotel is quite
full, and I am to sleep in the Haunted Room to-night.

       * * *

I am not a hysterical man, and this is not a neurotic story. It is, as a
matter of fact, the same old rot to which the shilling shockers have
made us accustomed. I cannot account in any way for my experiences last
night in the Haunted Room, but they certainly were not due to
nervousness. I had not been asleep long before I had a most curious and
vivid dream. I felt that I was not in the hotel, and that at the same
time I was not out of it. I had a curious sense of being everywhere in
general, and nowhere in particular.

I saw before me a gorgeously furnished room. On the tiger-skin rug
before the fire was a basket with a crewel-worked chair-back spread over
it. _What was in the basket?_ Again and again I asked myself that
question. I felt like a long-division sum, and a cold shiver went down
my quotient.

In one corner of the room stood a man of about thirty, with a handsome,
wicked face. One hand rested on the drawer of a writing-table. Slowly he
drew from it a folded paper, and read, in a harsh, raucous voice:--

"'To cleaning and repairing one----' No, that's not it."

He selected another paper. Ah, it was the right one this time!

"'Memorandum of Aunt JANE'S Will.' 'All property to go to ALICE SMITH,
unless Aunt JANE'S poodle, _Tommy Atkins_, dies before ALICE SMITH comes
of age. In which case, it all goes to me.' I remember making that note
when the will was read. And now"--he glanced at the covered
basket--"_Tommy_'s kicked the bucket. Well, he stood in my way. Who's to
know? But there must be no _post-mortem_, no 'vet' fetched in. Happy
thought--I'll have the brute stuffed." He knelt down by the side of the
basket, and slowly drew back the covering. "Ah!" he said--"it's cruel

Did he refer to the chair-back? or did he refer to the way in which, for
the sake of gain, an honest dog had been MURDERED? For there before my
eyes lay the dead poodle, _Tommy Atkins_!

"ALICE loses all her money," he continued, "but that doesn't matter. She
tells me that she's picked up no end of a swell down at Ryde, and he may
marry her. The question is--will he?" Once more I felt like a division
sum. I yearned to call out loudly, and answer with a decided negative;
but no words came. My strength was gone. I was utterly worked out, and
there was no remainder.

When I came to myself, I found JAMES, the waiter, standing by my bedside
with a gentleman whom I did not know. JAMES introduced him to me as a
Mr. ALKALOID, a photographer who was stopping in the hotel. Mr. ALKALOID
had been woken up by a wild shriek for a decided negative, and had
rushed down to see if he could do a little business. "Take you by the
electric light," he said; "just as you are,"--I was in my night-dress
and the old, old hat, the rim of which had been slightly
sprained,--"perfectly painless process, and money returned if not
satisfactory." I thanked him warmly, and apologised for having disturbed

I went to London on the following day. I felt it my positive duty to
explain that I should always regard ALICE SMITH as a sister, but nothing

I had quite forgotten that I did not know the house where ALICE SMITH
lived, and the poodle dog lay dead.

(_Here ends the Narrative of_ CYRIL MUSH.)

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE SUMMONS TO DUTY.

(_Design for a Parliamentary Cartoon, illustrating the Life of a Country

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "EXCLUSIVE DEALING."

_Irish Landlord_ (_boycotted_). "PAT, MY MAN, I'M IN NO END OF A HURRY.

_Pat_ (_Nationalist, but needy_). "OCH SHURE, IT'S MORE THAN ME LOIFE IS

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: Change for a Tenor. Wilfred of Huntington is succeeded by
that Man of Mark--Tapley.]

Take it all in all, _Marjorie_ at the Prince of Wales' is a very
satisfactory production. The subject is English, the music is English,
and the "book" is English too. So when we applaud the new Opera, we have
the satisfaction of knowing that our cheers are given in the cause of
native talent triumphant. This is appropriate to the "time" of the play
(the commencement of the thirteenth century), which is the very epoch
when the Saxons were beginning to hold their own in the teeth of their
Norman conquerors. But leaving patriotism out of the question (a matter
which, it is to be feared, is not likely to influence Stalls, Pit, and
Gallery materially for a very lengthened period), the Opera _quâ_ Opera
is a very good one. The company is strong--so strong, that it hears the
loss of an accomplished songstress like Miss HUNTINGTON without severely
suffering. It is true that an excellent substitute for the lady has been
found in that tenor with the cheerful name, Mr. MARK TAPLEY, whose notes
are certainly worth their weight in gold; but leaving the
representatives of _Wilfred_ "outside the competition," the remainder of
the _Dramatis Personæ_ are excellent. They work well together, and
consequently the _ensemble_ is in the highest degree pleasing.

Assistance of rather a graver character than usually associated with
comic opera is naturally afforded by Mr. HAYDYN COFFIN. Miss PHYLLIS
BROUGHTON is introduced not only to sing but to dance, and performs the
latter accomplishment with a grace not to be surpassed, and only to be
equalled by Miss KATE VAUGHAN. Mr. ASHLEY, now happily returned to the
melodious paths from which he strayed to play in pieces of the calibre
of _Pink Dominoes_, seems quite at home in the character of _Sir
Simon_--not "the Cellarer," but rather, "the sold one." Mr. MONKHOUSE,
whose name and personality go to prove that a cowl does not preclude its
occasional occupation by a wag, is most amusing as _Gosric_. Mr. ALBERT
JAMES is a lively jester, whose quips and cranks might have been of
considerable value to Mr. JOSEPH MILLER when that literary droll was
engaged in compiling his comic classic. Miss D'ARVILLE and Madame AMADI
both work with a will, and find a way to public favour. The dresses are
in excellent taste, and the scenery capital.

That the _mise en scène_ is perfect, goes without saying, as this Opera
has been produced by that past master of stage-direction, the one and
only AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS. The dialogue is sufficiently pointed--not too
pointed, but pointed enough. It does not require a knowledge of the
niceties of the law, the regulations of the British army, or a keen
appreciation of the subtlest subtleties of logic to fully understand it.
It is amusing, and provocative of innocent laughter, which, after all,
seems to be a sufficient recommendation for words spoken within the
walls of a play-house. The music is full of melody--"quite killing," as
a young lady wittily observed, on noticing that the name of the Composer
was SLAUGHTER. So _Marjorie_ may be fairly said not only to have
deserved success, but (it is satisfactory to be able to add) also to
have attained it.


       *       *       *       *       *



[Illustration: ]

As you approach the historic home of the great English Statesman who is
to be your host to-day, you become conscious of the fact that there are
two Hawarden Castles. Moreover, as young HERBERT pleasantly remarks a
little later in the day, "You must draw a Hawarden-fast line between the
two." One, standing on a hill dominating a far-reaching tract of level
country, was already so old in the time of EDWARD THE FIRST that it was
found necessary to rebuild it. Looking through your Domesday Book (which
you always carry with you on these excursions), you find the mansion
referred to under the style of Haordine. This, antiquarians assume, is
the Saxonised form of the earlier British _Y Garthddin_, which, being
translated, means "The hill-fort on the projecting ridge."

When WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR came over, bringing with him a following the
numerical proportions of which increase as the years roll by, he found
the Fort on the Hill held by EDWARD of Mercia, and deemed it convenient
to leave it in his possession. The Castle played its part in English
history down to the time, now 130 years gone by, when it came into the
hands of Sir JOHN GLYNN, and thence through long descent became an
inheritance of the gracious lady who, with cambric cap-strings streaming
in the free air of the Marches, joins your host in welcoming you.

It is, however, not on the steps of the old castle of which Prince
LLEWELLYN was once lord that you are thus received. By the side of the
old ruin has grown up another Hawarden Castle, a roomy mansion,
statelily stuccoed, with sham turrets run up, buttresses, embrasures,
portholes, and portcullises, putting to shame the rugged, looped and
windowless ruin that still stands on the projecting ridge. This dates
only from the beginning of the century, and, looking upon it, your face
glows with honest pride, as you think how much better the generation
near your own made for itself dwelling-houses compared with the earlier

Whilst you stand musing on these things you are conscious of a whishing
sound, and a breath of swiftly moving cool air wantonly strikes your
cheek. You look up and behold! there is your host, axe in hand,
playfully performing a number of passes over your unconscious head. His
dress is designed admirably to suit the exercise. Coat and waistcoat are
doffed; the immortal collars are turned down, displaying the columnar
throat and the brawny chest; the snow-white shirt-sleeves are turned up
to the elbow, disclosing biceps that SAMSON would envy and SANDOW covet.
His braces are looped on either side of his supple hips, and his right
hand grasps the axe which, a moment ago had been performing over your
head a series of evolutions which, remarkable for the strength and
agility displayed, were, perhaps, scarcely desirable for daily

"Don't be frightened, TOBY M.P.," said the full rich voice so familiar
in the House of Commons; "it's our wild woodsman's way of welcoming the
coming guest. What do you think of my costume? Seen it before? Ah!
_yes_, the photographs. _Carte de visite style_, _10s. 6d._ a dozen;
Cabinet size, a guinea. I have been photographed several times as you
will observe."

And, indeed, as your host leads you along the stately passages, through
the storied rooms, you find his photograph everywhere. The tables are
covered with them, showing your host in all attitudes and costumes.
"Yes," he says, with a sigh, "I think I have marched up to the camera's
mouth as often as most men of my years."

Ascending the rustic staircase which leads from the garden, WILLIAM
EWART GLADSTONE takes you past the library into the drawing-room, in the
upper parts of the leaded windows of which are inserted panels of rare
old glass, cunningly obtained by melting superfluous Welsh ale bottles.
He leads you to a table, as round as that at which a famous Conference
was held, and points to a little ivory painting. It shows a chubby
little boy some two years of age, with rather large head and broad
shoulders, sitting at the knee of a young nymph approaching her fifth
year. On her knee is a book, and the chubby boy, with dark hair falling
low over his forehead, his great brown eyes staring frankly at you,
points with his finger to a passage. When you learn that this is a
portrait of your host and his sister taken in the year 1811, you
naturally come to the conclusion that the young lady has, for party
purposes, been misquoting some passages in her brother's speech, and
that he, having produced an authorised record of his address, is
triumphantly pointing to the text in controversion of her statement.

Your host, chopping grimly at the furniture as he passes along--here
dexterously severing the leg of a Chippendale chair, and there hacking a
piece off a Louis Quatorze couch--leads the way to an annexe he has just
built for the reception of his treasured books. From the outside this
excrescence on the Castle has but a poverty-stricken look. It is, to
tell the truth, made of corrugated iron. But that is a cloak that
cunningly covers an interior of rare beauty and rich design. Arras of
cloth of gold hangs loosely on the walls, whilst here and there, on the
far-reaching floor, gleams the low light of a faded Turkey carpet. Open
tables, covered with broad cloths of crimson velvet, embroidered and
fringed with gold, carry innumerable Blue Books. On marble tables,
supported on carved and gilded frames, stand priceless vases, filled
with rare flowers. In crystal flagons you detect the sheen of amber
light (which may be sherry wine), whilst the ear is lulled with the
sound of fountains dispensing perfumes as of Araby. In an alcove,
chastely draped with violent violet velvet, the grey apes swing, and the
peacocks preen, on fretted pillar and jewelled screen. Horologes, to
chime the hours, and even the quarters, uprise from tables of
ebony-and-mother-of-pearl. Cabinets from Ind and Venice, of filligree
gold and silver, enclose complete sets of _Hansard's Parliamentary
Debates_; whilst lamps of silver, suspended from pendant pinnacles in
the fretted ceiling, shed a soft light over the varied mass of colour.

Casting himself down lightly by a cabinet worked with Dutch beads
interspersed with seed-pearls, and toying with the gnarled handle of the
axe, the Right Hon. WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE tells you the story of his
life. At the outset you are a little puzzled to gather where exactly he
was born. At first you think it was in Scotland. Anon some town in
England claims the honour. Then Wales is incidentally mentioned, and
next the tearful voice of Erin claims her son. But, as the story goes
forward with long majestic stride, these difficulties fade in the
glamour of the Old Man's eloquence, and when you awake and find your
host has not yet got beyond the second course--the fish, as it were, of
the intellectual banquet--you say you will call again.

Mention of the three courses naturally suggests dinner, and as you
evidently enjoy the monopoly of the mental association, you take your
leave, perhaps regretting that among his wild woodsman accessories your
host does not seem to include the midday chop.

       *       *       *       *       *

GOLD-TIPPED cigarettes seem just now to be "the swagger thing." "Ah!"
Master TOMMY sighed, as he set off for school with only five shillings
in his pocket, in consequence of all his dearest--and nearest--relatives
being laid up with the prevailing epidemic, "Ah, how I should like to be
one of those cigarettes, and then I should be tipped with gold."

       *       *       *       *       *

    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

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