Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 108, January 26, 1895
Author: Various
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 108, January 26, 1895" ***


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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 108.

JANUARY 26, 1895.

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THE COMYNS AND THE GOIN'S OF ARTHUR.

It was a pleasant sight, on the _première_ of _King Arthur_, to see
Mr. COMYNS CARR, poet, _littérateur_, art-critic, theatrical manager,
orator, journalist, dramatist, and not a few other things beside,
gravely bowing his acknowledgments as "_the_ Arthur of the piece" at
the Lyceum. Beshrew me, and by my halidome, he hath done his work with
so deft and cunning a hand as to puzzle not a little those who have
their GOETHE, their TENNYSON, and some of the most favourite plays of
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE at their fingers' ends, and who are also more or
less acquainted with Wagnerian trilogies.

We all know "KETTLE began it." Well, WAGNER begins this, in the
Prologue, with spirits and water, _i.e._, mere spirits getting along
swimmingly in a kind of Niebelungen lake-and-cavern scene. Not until
the curtain rose was any sort of attention paid to the music, which
might have therefore been the composition of NOAKES or STOKES, instead
of having been exquisitely written by King ARTHUR SULLIVAN.

Enter _King Arthur Irving_ and _Merlin_ ("Charles his friend"),
suggestive of _Macbeth_ and _Banquo_, to see Wagnerian water-witches
in _The Colleen Bawn's_ cave. Wagnerian water-witches, disturbed by
the approach of gentlemen, swim away to regain, presumably, their
bathing-machines. Then Charles-his-friend _Merlin_ undertakes the
part of a kind of half-converted _Mephistopheles_, and shows the
_Faust-King-Arthur_ a "living picture" of _Guinevere_ as _Marguerite_
in a vision. After this up comes a hand out of the water, bearing a
magnificently jewelled scabbard, in which, of course, is that blade of
the very first water, "_Excalibur_."

_Arthur_ accepts the sword with thanks, observing that "if necessary
he will use it to make any cuts the piece may require." More chorus
of water-sprites, and end of prologue. _Merlin_, or a spirit, ought to
have sung "_Voici le sabre_." This chance was lost.

The next scene is at Camelot, when in come a lot of knights in armour,
and the story begins in real earnest. Here is ELLEN TERRY, sweet and
majestic as the Burne-Jonesian _Queen Guinevere_, and here, too, is
FORBES-ROBERTSON as _Lancelot_, a part which he plays and looks to
perfection. The order has been given "All wigs abandon ye who enter
here," that is as far as the male principals are concerned; so they
all "keep their hair on," and thus HENRY IRVING in armour looks more
like the "Knight of the Woeful Countenance," or a moustachioless
_Don Quixote_, than the glorious Chairman of the Goodly Round Table
Company.

_Sir Lancelot_ is compelled by "circumstances over which he has no
control" to remain behind at court, all through the selfishness of
_King Arthur_ (so unlike him, too, for once!), who fancies the Round
Table will be a trifle dull when all his "blooming companions have
faded and gone," and so the unfortunate young knight has to say to the
Queen, as Mr. CHEVALIER'S Coster sings to his "lidy-love," "_I'm
bound to keep on lovin' yer! d'yer 'ear?_" and he is watched by
_Macbeth-Mordred_ (Mr. FRANK COOPER) and his be-witching mother _Lady
Macbeth-Morgan-le-Fay_ (Miss GENEVIEVE WARD).

[Illustration: _C-m-ns C-rr (rising to the occasion out of the mystic
mere)._ "Up I come with my little plot!"]

In Act Two, while _Ellen-Guinevere_ and girls are out a-maying in one
of the most lovely of "As You Like it" woodland scenes (with a fool in
the forest, too) ever beheld on any stage, _Lady Macbeth-Morgan_ and
_Macbeth-Mordred_ overhear the love-making of _Guinny_ and _Lancy_;
and in Act Three these "two clever ones," as poor _Affery_ was wont
to style _Flintwich_ and _Mrs. Clennam_, reveal the truth to
_Arthur-Othello_, who has taken from the hand of the suicided
_Ophelia-Elaine_ (Miss LENA ASHWELL) a note, which assists him in
discovering the wickedness of sly _Sir Lancy_ and the giddy _Guinny_.
_Sir Lancy_ cries, "Strike on!" and _King Henry Irving Arthur_ is just
"on strike" when he exclaims "I cannot kill thee," and _Excalibur_, a
notably sharp blade on occasion, fails him now. _Lancy_ is banished;
and takes it very quietly, going out like a lamb. _King Arthur_ and
all the knights go off to the wars, leaving _Guinevere_ in charge of
_Sir Macbeth-Mordred_ and _Mrs. Morgan-le-Fay_, female professor of
necromancy, table-turning-medium, "parties attended," &c.

In Act last _Guinevere_ is imprisoned in a tower, and is made love to
by that awfully Bad Knight, _Sir Mordred_, who seizes this chance of
playing _Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert_ to _Guinny's Rebecca_, only that
there is no window from which she can threaten to throw herself: and
so the wicked wooing comes to a rather tame conclusion. In the last
scene _Macbeth-Mordred_ and _Lady Morgan-Macbeth_ are now King and
Queen, and poor _Rebecca-Guinny_ is going to be burnt _à la Juive_,
when the herald's challenge is answered by a very Black Knight,
who keeps himself awfully dark, and who does not say, "I am RICHARD
C[OE]UR DE LION," but lifting his steel nose-protector (most useful
except when the Knight has a bad cold), reveals "The King!" Then comes
the fight--and ah, would that here one of the swords could have been
poisoned, and that _Mordred_, after slaying _Arthur_, should himself
have been stabbed to death by his own weapon, while at the same time
_Mrs. Morgan-le-Fay_ might have shouted, "See the Queen drinks to
_Arthur_," and then she could have drained a poisoned cup, and so
obtained her "_coup de grâce_."

But no! COMYNS CARR would have none of this. The wicked flourish.
Someone said that _Sir Lancelot_ was killed "without," but I don't
believe it. My private opinion is that the sly dog _Lancy_ sneaked out
quietly, waited for _Guinevere_, and then they both went off together,
to Boulogne, or Monte Carlo maybe; that _Morgan-le-Fay_ took to
walking in her sleep and washing out little sanguinary spots on her
hand; and that _Mordred_ got an engagement in the provinces to play
_Iago_; while all that the audience know of _King Arthur_ is that he
went off with three Queens of the Night (perhaps signifying that
he ventured on a water-party with only three sovereigns) in a
barge,--perhaps "the craft of _Merlin_" mentioned by TENNYSON,--to
some place down the river, where he was said to be interred, and at
whose grave kept guard the well-known "Waterbury Watch." However all
this is but surmise. One thing is certain--that _King Arthur_ is still
alive, very much alive, and, like Lord ARTHUR of _Pantomime Rehearsal_
fame, "going strong," at the Lyceum, for very many Arthurian nights to
come. _Le Roi Arthur est mort! Vive le Roi Arthur!_

Bravo, COMYNS! Well may he say to HENRY IRVING, "Eh, mon, whar's your
WULLIE SHAKSPEARE _noo?_"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE SWORD EXCALIBUR.

(_Scene from "King Arthur" up to date._)

_Sir Bedivere M-rl-y_ (_timidly, but politely_). "SHALL I THROW THE
SWORD INTO THE MERE?"

_King Arthur_ (_Sir W. V. H-rc-urt--disdainfully_). "'THROW THE SWORD
INTO THE MERE!' WHY, I HAVEN'T LOST THE SCABBARD YET, STOOPID!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SOMETHING LIKE A CHARACTER.

_Huntsman_ (_on being introduced to future Wife of M. F. H._). "PROUD
TO MAKE YOUR ACQUAINTANCE, MISS! KNOWN THE CAPTING, MISS, FOR NIGH
ON TEN SEASONS, AND NEVER SAW 'IM TURN 'IS 'EAD FROM HANYTHING AS
WAS JUMPABLE! KNOWS A 'OSS AND KNOWS A 'OUND! CAN RIDE ONE AND 'UNT
T'OTHER; AND IF THAT AIN'T AS MUCH AS CAN BE LOOKED FOR IN A 'USBAND,
MISS, WHY, I'LL BE JIGGERED!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SWORD EXCALIBUR.

_A Very Topsy-turvied Arthurian Legend Up-to-Date._

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

  King Arthur (_for this occasion_)      Sir W. H-RC-URT.
  The Bold Sir Bedivere                  Mr. J-HN M-RL-Y.
  Sir Gawain (_just to oblige_)          L-rd R-S-B-RY.
  Mordred                                Mr. JN. R-DM-ND.
  Sir Lancelot                           Mr. G----.

  Then, ere that last weird battle 'gainst the Lords,
  There came on ARTHUR, sleeping, in his chair,
  At Malwood--musing, by his own fireside,
  After much totting up of Trade Returns,
  And Navy Estimates--a whisper blown
  Along a wandering wind, and in his ear
  Went shrilling, "Hollow! hollow! Forfar! Brigg!
  Our small majority shall pass away!
  Farewell! There is thine Hampshire rest for thee,
  But I am blown about a wandering wind,
  And 'Follow! follow! follow!' day and night,
  The fighting factions of our army cry
  To me--their 'Leader!' And I cannot face
  Five ways at once, and it's a beastly bore!
  And if I could, how can I get a Bill
  Passed by the Lords?"
                And ARTHUR woke, and called,
  "Who spake? A dream! O light upon the wind,
  Thine, GAWAIN, was the voice--are these poor 'cries'
  Thine? Or doth that same army, growing wild,
  Mourn, wishing it had gone along with Me?"

  This heard the bold Sir BEDIVERE, and spake:
  "O me, my Chief! to pass whatever Bill,
  Upstairs, seems hopeless. Tory glamour clings
  To all high places like a darkening cloud
  For ever. Is it your intent to 'pass'
  (In Tennysonian sense), since your Bills won't?"

  And ARTHUR said: "Sir BEDIVERE, blue funk
  Sits ill upon a knight. GAWAIN is light--
  No one at least can say the same of _me!_"
  (BEDIVERE murmured, "_No_, by--Behemoth!")
  "I hear the steps of MORDRED in the West,
  And with him many of the people by rights,
  And thine, whom thou hast served, ungrateful grown,
  The idiots!--splitting up their ranks--and ours!
  But 'pass,' in Tennysonian sense? No fear!
  I shall arise and smash 'em as of old!"

  Then to King ARTHUR spoke Sir BEDIVERE:
  "Far other is this battle, our great test,
  Whereto we move, than when great LANCELOT
  (Now far cavorting in the snow at Cannes)
  Thrust his great rival from St. Stephen's seats,
  And shook him thro' the North. Ill doom is ours
  To war against our rivals, and each other.
  The chief who fights old followers fights himself,
  And they, old friends who loved us once, the stroke
  We strike at them is a back-stroke to us.
  Nay, even the stroke of your Excalibur
  Hath scarcely its old swashing force. Men say
  It shall not strike again,--men whisper so!--
  That she, the Lady of the Hibernian Lake,
  Awaiteth its return. Ah! you unsheath it!
  Say, must I take it--take Excalibur,
  And fling it far into the middle mere,
  Mark what occurs, and lightly bring you word?"

  Then spake King ARTHUR to Sir BEDIVERE:--
  "O sombre Little-faith, miscalled the Bold!
  _Not if I know it!_ 'Tis a beauteous blade--
  Broad, and bejewelled, and but lately gript
  By my long-waiting hand. I have it now,
  And if indeed I cast the brand away,
  Surely a craven donkey I shall be!
  What good should follow this, if this were done?
  What harm undone? By George! Sir BEDIVERE,
  'Twixt frivolling GAWAIN and too doleful you,
  I have a pretty pair of knightly pals,--
  Nay, I mean palfry'd knights!--to back me up.
  Is this the loyalty of the Table Round?
  Were MORDRED a worse traitor? or e'en he,
  The Midland Knight, who pushes for my place
  As he did for Sir LANCELOT'S? Oh, get out!
  What should my dauntless Derby henchmen say
  Should I, on Wednesday, show the feather white
  And say I'd chucked the sword Excalibur
  Away, unchallenged, in a fit of funk?
  I lose the sword? _I've not yet lost the scabbard!_
  Nay, I shall flash it flaming in their sight,
  And brandish it, and promise swashing blows
  Of the keen blade, as ofttimes heretofore.
  I'll outshine TENNYSON, out-hero IRVING!
  Trust me 'tis not yet time for that weird arm,
  'Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,'
  To emerge from out the misty middle-mere
  And snatch from Me the Sword Excalibur!"

    [_Freezes on to it._

       *       *       *       *       *

CERTAIN.--Mr. KATO, the new Japanese Minister to Great Britain, is
expected to be a success. On hearing his arguments, the observation
that will spring to Lord ROSEBERY'S lips will be, "KATO, thou
reasonest well."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A FRIENDLY WARNING.

_First Tramp._ "I WADNA ADVISE YE TAE GANG UP THERE!"

_Second Tramp._ "WHAT WYE? IS THERE A MUCKLE DOUG?"

_First Tramp._ "NO; BUT THERES A DANGER O' WARK!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THAT PRECIOUS DONKEY!

(_An Episode in the Life of A. Briefless, Junior, Esq.,
Barrister-at-Law, in Three Parts._)

PART III.--_The Apotheosis of the Picture._

Those who have done me the distinguished honour of reading the
story of my find of a genuine VON BÖOTZ (in my agitation last week I
referred erroneously to the great master as Old BOOTS) will remember
that I had got to the point where the picture I now so deeply prized
had been removed by the handy-man to be sold, no doubt, at a crushing
sacrifice. When put to it (as all my friends know) I am a man of an
iron will and a steel determination. There is no sacrifice I will not
make to carry a fixed plan into execution. It was this iron will and
steel determination that enabled me (somewhat late in life) to conquer
the apparently adamant intention of the Examiners at Lincoln's Inn and
get called to the Bar. At this crisis in my life's history the reserve
forces of my nature came to my assistance, and inspired me to hurry
without a moment's delay to the dwelling-place of WILKINS.

Before discovering that the VON BÖOTZ had been removed I had assumed
(as it is my wont after returning from Pump-Handle Court) my slippers.
Without waiting to amend my costume, without lingering to recover my
umbrella (now reclining in its stand, seemingly exchanging confidences
with my walking-stick), I started for Panorama Place, Nine Sisters
Road, Rixton Rise. The lady who has honoured me by accepting my
name had furnished me with this address--the abode of the
unconsciously-fugitive WILKINS. Without a moment's hesitation I hailed
and entered a four-wheeler.

"Panorama Place, Nine Sisters Road, Rixton Rise," I said in the tone
of the late Duke of WELLINGTON ordering the advance of the Guards at
Waterloo.

The cabman shook his head, then seemingly pondered, then looked at me.
"Is it near the 'Green Compasses'?" he asked, after a pause of intense
thought.

I have always considered Mr. WILKINS a model of sobriety. But then I
have only known him in the hours devoted to duty, to the sweeping
of kitchen chimneys, to the re-building of wash-houses, to the
re-papering of studies, to the removal of grand pianos from basement
to attic, and other little domestic offices. In his moments of
relaxation he may be a genial _viveur_, and in this character was more
likely than not to live in close proximity to the no doubt hospitable
tavern to which the driver had referred. So I answered my Jehu that
I thought it exceedingly possible that Mr. WILKINS did dwell near
the "Green Compasses." We started, and after a drive for which I was
charged (and in my opinion rightly charged) five-and-sixpence, arrived
safely at Panorama Place, Nine Sisters Road, Rixton Rise.

The shadow of anxiety that had followed me through what I may be
permitted to term my hackney peregrinations had passed away. I had
feared that when I had successfully tracked out Mr. WILKINS to his
suburban nest I should find him flown. But no, the eagle had not
lost the child, the handy man was still the possessor of my pictorial
treasure. At least so I presumed, as he smiled when I put to him the
all-important question, "Where is my VON BÖOTZ?"

"This is what I have done with him, Sir," said my house-renovator,
leading me gently into what I take must have been his study. The
apartment was furnished with two spades, a saw, two hammers, a pot of
glue, a model of a fire-engine, a couple of stools, and a sideboard.

"Look at this little lot, Sir," cried Mr. WILKINS, whipping off a
cloth, and exposing to view two earthenware flower-vases, and a small
model (in chalk) of an easily illuminated (there was a receptacle in
the interior large enough to contain a taper) cathedral.

"What are these?" I demanded, in a voice more or less suggestive of
thunder.

"That's what he gave me for the picture, and, asking your pardon,
Sir, I think I have done well with him. It was one of those Italian
image-men, who took a fancy to it. He offered at first only those
vases. Then he sprang to a statuette of GARIBALDI. But, after a deal
of discussion, I got him to chuck in Westminster Abbey, Sir, which, as
you see, can be lighted up magnificent."

For a moment I was struck speechless with sorrow and indignation. No
doubt the foreign hawker, having received an art education in Italy
(the renowned dwelling-place of the Muses), had recognised the value
of my picture, and had----. I paused in my train of thought, and
jumped from despair to joy. There, resting on a newly-renovated
perambulator, was my Old Master. I almost wept as I recognised my
nearly lost VON BÖOTZ.

"But there it is!" I hoarsely whispered, pointing to the picture.

"The canvas, yes Sir--the Italian chap only wanted the frame. He
called the donkey lot rubbish."

Again my iron will and steel determination came to the front. To
secure the canvas, charter another four-wheeler, and deposit myself
and my prize within the cab's depths was the work of not more than
five-and-twenty minutes. I drove as hurriedly as the congested traffic
would permit to the house of a well-known connoisseur. I sent up
my card, and was immediately admitted. The celebrated critic was a
perfect stranger to me.

"This must serve as an introduction," I said, and exposed my VON BÖOTZ
to view. The connoisseur inspected the canvas, the leaden sky, and
the villagers with languid interest. At last his gaze fell upon the
presentment of the donkey. His eyes sparkled, his cheeks flushed with
excitement; and although he was evidently attempting to master his
emotion, he almost shouted "Magnificent!"

"Are not the ears splendid?" I asked.

"Splendid? Glorious! Immortal!"

"Have you seen anything to equal the mane?"

"Never! Emphatically, never!"

And then the art connoisseur shook me by both hands. Then we once
more inspected the donkey's ears, and in our delight nearly rose and
floated from the floor in a sort of medieval saint-like ecstasy.

"You see it has one fault," my conscience made me say; "it has no
signature."

"A proof that it is a genuine VON BÖOTZ. The grand old forger never
signed anything except copies. As you know, he was scarcely ever
sober, and in his drunken moods used to write his name on any kind of
canvas at the rate of a tumbler of port a signature."

"And it is only right to add," I continued, in my character of Devil's
Advocate, and using a piece of information I had picked up from
APPLEBLOSSOM, Q.C., "that it is not in the least like a print which is
supposed to be a contemporaneous engraving."

"The best possible proof that it is an original. Old VON
BÖOTZ--glorious old scoundrel--never painted anything that was really
reproduced. He preferred to betray his public by signing the works of
subordinates. That's the reason why he is so scarce. Oh, those ears!"

And the art connoisseur and I returned to our medieval saint-like
ecstasy. I am almost certain that, carried away by our enthusiasm, we
floated from the carpet. After a while I thought it time to return
to what the Philistine (by the way, all things considered, a very
reasonable fellow) would call "business." I suggested that it was for
sale.

"No, my dear Sir," corrected the critic; "not for sale. The VON BÖOTZ
must be mine. You will not be so cruel as to deny me. I am the master
of tens of thousands--nay, I might say without exaggeration--hundreds
of thousands. If you will leave yourself in my hands, I think you will
find that I am a man of honour."

He sat down at a desk which I now noticed was made of ebony and
decorated with old gold and diamonds, and other precious stones. He
drew a cheque. Then he rose to give it to me. But as he passed the
picture it once more attracted his attention. He resumed his medieval
saint-like ecstasy for a second, and then returned to his desk.

"I must be honest," he murmured as he filled in the figures of another
cheque. Then he turned to me. "You must pardon me for giving you the
purchase-money in two drafts; but my first cheque exhausted my account
at one bank, and I had to draw upon my balance at another to supply
the necessary residue."

I nearly fainted when I read the amounts.

"Not a word," said the art connoisseur as he shook me by the hand.
"Although you have, I confess, half my fortune, I am richer than I was
when I met you. The VON BÖOTZ--_my_ VON BÖOTZ--is simply of priceless
value."

And so the picture that had been sent to the box-room and narrowly
escaped the uncultured clutch of the Italian image-man, had raised
me from comparative poverty to superlative affluence. I paid in the
cheques at my bankers, and a murmur went up from the clerks, and the
manager waylaid me at the door to press my hand. Then I drove to my
favourite stores and purchased a trifle in diamonds to present to
my wife. Fortunately, I had my chequebook with me, or otherwise my
deposit account would have been overdrawn by a thousand.

"To-morrow," I said to my better (from a spiritual, not a financial
point of view) seven-eights, "we will acquire the nine-hundred-ton
yacht, the best part of Norway, and the Palace at Venice. The latter
will cost a few more thousands than I care to spend. But I suppose the
foreign dukedom that comes with it in itself is almost worth the five
figures. To-morrow I must see if I cannot secure that Colonelcy of
Yeomanry. Then, if you like dear, we will take the six centre boxes in
the grand tier at Covent Garden for the season, and----"

"Oh, I am so happy!" almost wept the partner of my joys and sorrows;
"and to think that we should have sent the mine of all this prosperity
into the box-room!"

"Yes dear," I replied. "It was you, dear, who always wanted to be free
of it."

"I told you, sweet one," was the triumphant response, "to get rid of
it, and are you not now pleased that you took my advice?"

And I admitted I was.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: PAST AND PRESENT.

_Serious and much-Married Man._ "MY DEAR FRIEND, I _WAS_ ASTONISHED TO
HEAR OF _YOUR_ DINING AT MADAME TROISÉTOILES!--A 'WOMAN WITH A PAST,'
YOU KNOW!"

_The Friend_ (_Bachelor "unattached"_). "WELL, YOU SEE, OLD MAN, SHE'S
GOT A FIRST-RATE _CHEF_, SO IT ISN'T HER 'PAST,' BUT HER 'RE-PAST'
THAT _I_ CARE ABOUT."]

       *       *       *       *       *

IN PRAISE OF PENTONVILLE.

    ["The healthiest place in England is Pentonville
    Prison."--_Daily Graphic._]

  Is it sadey ye're falin' an' pale, me bhoy,
  Loike a sprat that has swallered a whale, me bhoy?
      The best thing Oi know
      Is a sixer or so
  On skilly an' wather in jail, me bhoy.
  Ye're free from all koinds o' temptations, lad,
  Ye can't overate on thim rations, lad,
      There's so much a-head
      O' skilly an' bread
  Accordin' to jail regulations, lad.

  They trate ye wid fatherly care, me bhoy,
  They tell ye o' what to beware, me bhoy,
      They tache ye to be
      Teetotal, ye see,
  For 'tis nothin' but wather is there, me bhoy.
  So, whin ye're beginnin' to fale, me lad,
  That ye've dhrunk enough whisky an' ale, me lad,
      The best of all ways
      To lengthen your days
  Is to spind a few wakes in the jail, me lad!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A TOAST.

_Mamma._ "TO-DAY'S OUR WEDDING-DAY, TOMMY. YOU SHOULD STAND UP AND
DRINK ALL OUR HEALTHS."

_Tommy_ (_rising to the occasion_). "CERTAINLY.
FATHER--MOTHER--AND"--(_pointing to himself_)--"THE RESULT!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE UNTAMED SHREW;

OR, WANTED A PETRUCHIO.

(_A Shakspearian Foreshadowing of the Situation in France._)

  Prophetic Swan! To picture in advance
  The future's pageantry of personage
  And scene was thine unique prerogative;
  So easily thy creations take the mould
  Of aftertimes and characters unborn.
  Paris to-day seems Padua, thy fair shrew,
  The tricksy termagant, "curst _Katharine_,"
  The Paduan _Xantippe_, prickly, perverse,
  Yet fascinating vixen, dons to-day
  A Gallic guise, and fumes in French, and flounces
  In skirts _à la République_.
                            What said _Gremio?_
  "_Your gifts are so good, here's none will hold you!_"
  And who may hold the fair Lutetian shrew?
  No man, "I wis," is "_half-way to her heart_
  _But if he were, doubt not her care should be_
  _To comb his noddle with a three-legg'd stool_,
  _And paint his face_, _and use him like a fool_."
  Here's _Katharine_--but where's _Petruchio?_

  "_What! shall I be appointed hours_, _as though_, _belike_
  _I knew not what to take_, _and what to leave_, _ha!_"
  There speaks the sweet-faced shrew, and takes to-day
  What she will leave to-morrow. Yet she shines
  In the description of _Hortensio_.
  "_With wealth enough_, _and young_, _and beauteous;_
  _Brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman;_
  _Her only fault (and that is faults enough)_
  _Is_, _that she is intolerably curst_,
  _And shrewd_, _and froward: so beyond all measure_,
  _That_, _were my state far worser than it is_,
  _I would not wed her for a mine of gold_."
  And yet there be good fellows in the world,
  'An a man could but haply light on them,
  Would take the veriest vixen "_with all faults_."
  And many a one hath said, or seemed to say,
  "_For I will board her_, _though she chide as loud_
  _As thunder_, _when the clouds in autumn crack_."
  But with what issue? Like _Hortensio_,
  His head is broken by the vixen's lute,
  Ere he hath time to teach her government
  Of frets or stops, or skilful fingering.
  How many, with _Hortensio_, might say,
  When asked if he could break her to the lute,--
  "_Why_, _no; for she hath broke the lute to me_.
  _I did but tell her_, _she mistook her frets_,
  _And bow'd her hand to teach her fingering;_
  _When with a most impatient devilish spirit_,
  'Frets, call you these?' _quoth she:_ 'I'll fume with them:'
  _And with that word_, _she struck me on the head_,
  _And through the instrument my pate made way;_
  _And there I stood amazed for a while_,
  _As on a pillory_, _looking through the lute:_
  _While she did call me_, _rascal fiddler_,
  _And twangling Jack; with twenty such vile terms_,
  _As she had studied to misuse me so_.

  Her masters have not learned true mastery,
  And he, her latest would-be teacher, turns
  Too prompt and pusillanimous a back
  Upon his wilful pupil, beaten off
  Quicker than buffeted _Hortensio_
  In poor, poltroonish, post-deserting flight;
  Leaving the lute whose harmonies his hand
  Should have bowed hers to, broken and unstrung,
  In the shrew's angry and outrageous grasp:
  See how the Gallic _Katharine_ in her fume,
  Flouting all mastery, flouncing uncontrolled
  In furious anger, flings the shattered lute,
  Unstrung, aside, as did the Paduan shrew,
  Spurning all government--till _Petruchio_ came!

  "_Come_, _come you wasp; i' faith you are too angry!_"
  So, in _Petruchio's_ words, say France's friends.
  Whilst foes and half-allies look doubtful on,
  From the chill Eastward or more genial North,
  Wondering what stable faith, in love or hate,
  May rest upon such shifting shrewishness.
  Where waits _Petruchio_, and will he come
  In purple velvet, or in soldier steel,
  Or simple, civic, hero-covering cloth,
  To tame this _Katharine_ of the Phrygian cap,
  And smiling, in the mocking calm of power,
  Say of the shrew, like him of Padua:--
  "_Think you a little din can daunt mine ears?_
  _Have I not in my time heard lion's roar?_
  _Have I not heard the sea_, _puff'd up with winds_,
  _Rage like an angry boar chafèd with sweat?_
  _Have I not heard great ordnance in the field_,
  _And heaven's artillery thunder in the skies?_
  _Have I not in a pitched battle heard_
  _Loud 'larums_, _neighing steeds_, _and trumpets' clang?_
  _And do you tell me of a woman's tongue;_
  _That gives not half so great a blow to th' ear_
  _As will a chestnut in a farmer's fire?_
  _Tush! tush! fear boys with bugbears_.--
              _I fear none!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

THE UNVEILING OF ISIS.

  There was a Vice-President, JUDGE,
  Who proved a big fraud _à la Sludge:_
      But good Mrs. BESANT
      Sighed "Let's keep things pleasant!"
  And _Punch, à la Burchell_, cried "Fudge!"
  "My dear ANNIE BESANT--or is it BES_ANT_?--
  Theosophy's trick, superstition and cant."
  To lift Isis's veil was a difficult task,
      But BLAVATSKY'S fox-nose
      Is not hard to expose,
  For that vulgar Isis wore only--a mask!

       *       *       *       *       *

  SHAKSPEARE FOR THE CURTAIN-LECTURED.

  --"The _rest_ is silence!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE UNTAMED SHREW; OR, WANTED A PETRUCHIO.

  "HER ONLY FAULT (AND THAT IS FAULTS ENOUGH)
  IS, THAT SHE IS INTOLERABLY CURST,
  AND SHREWD, AND FROWARD."--_Taming of the Shrew_, Act I., Scene 2.]

       *       *       *       *       *

TALL TALES OF SPORT AND ADVENTURE.

I.--THE PINK HIPPOPOTAMUS. (CONTINUED.)

Shortly after the great victory of the Dead Marshes, the British
Army, under the command of Sir BONAMY BATTLEHORN, took possession
of Balmuggur, the capital of the country, known far and wide as the
Diamond City of the Ranee. There was a faint show of resistance, but
after I had defeated in single combat six picked mollahs of the Royal
Guard, the disheartened garrison laid down its arms, and the place
surrendered at discretion. We had brought HADJU THÂR MEEBHOY with
us, although, in his perforated condition, it was a matter of some
difficulty to transport him. Still it would have been barbarous to
leave him behind to the tender mercies of the neighbouring peasantry,
and we resolved to attempt his conveyance to Balmuggur. Fortunately
we succeeded beyond our most sanguine hopes. I was able to render him
some slight services on the march, and, after the city had fallen, I
paid him daily visits, during which I conceived a sincere and lasting
friendship for the gallant fellow whose only fault, after all, had
been the notion that he could defeat one who has never yet given way
an inch before the hottest attack even of overwhelming numbers. It was
quite touching to see his swarthy face brighten into a smile when I
entered the room. He looked forward eagerly to my daily visit, and
often told me that the simple tales of my courage and daring with
which I entertained him were of more use to him than all the ointments
and bandages and medicines with which dear old TOBY O'GRADY used to
treat his wound. On his side the MEEBHOY, too, was confidential. Many
an hour have I spent with him listening to his stories of court plot
and palace intrigue in Balmuggur, dark episodes of passion and crime
and sudden death.

[Illustration: "I perceived the Ranee's Chamberlain."]

One morning I was sitting as usual by the MEEBHOY'S bedside. I had
just related to him my adventure with the Lord Mayor of Dublin,
whom, as readers of contemporary journals will remember, I had been
compelled to chastise for the unpardonable affront of calling me by my
Christian name at a public meeting, by kicking him bodily from end to
end of the Rotunda, breaking three chandeliers as he spun through the
air, and imprinting the shape of his back on the opposite wall, where
it may still be observed by the curious. This adventure, and the story
of my subsequent escape from the dungeons of the Dublin Mansion
House, have rarely failed to extort applause from those to whom I
have narrated them. But on this occasion the MEEBHOY was silent and
_distrait_. He lay for some time drumming in an absent-minded way
with his fingers on the front aluminium door of his wound (the famous
operation had by this time been successfully performed), and made no
comment whatever on the tale I had related to him. Then suddenly
he turned, looked me full in the face, and addressed me. "Harkye,
Sirrah," he observed, "your story has interested me strangely; but
there is that in my mind which demands an exit. Methinks that they
who hold governance here mistake me strangely. Because I am all but
corpsed, they think they can neglect this JOHNNY. The Ranee has but
once sent a stable-helper to inquire after me. Grammercy, but such
treatment is scurvy, and I mean to show the old witch that HADJU THÂR
knows what's what, and, by Jingo, he's going to have it all the time.
That's so." I have forgotten, I think, to mention that my friend had
learnt his English in Seringapatam from such examples as he could
lay his hands on in that remote island, and the result was a certain
patchiness of style, which did not, however, by any means, interfere
with the vigour and fluency of his diction.

"Do you suppose," I said, "that this slight is intentional? Really, I
cannot believe that the Ranee would willingly neglect so gallant and
devoted a servant."

"That shows me you little know the Queen of the Diamond City. Why,
blow me tight, she's as artful as a cartload of monkeys, and in
profundity of design and daring of execution, she'd give a man-eating
tiger two stone and a handsome beating over any course you care to
name. But I am resolved to be avenged. Never shall it be said that
the descendant of a thousand kings had the comether put on him by
a cinder-faced old omadhaun like that. See here now," he continued,
drawing me closer to him, while he glanced furtively round and sank
his voice to a whisper, "it's yourself I'm talking to. Hast heard of
the Pink Hippopotamus?"

"What!" I replied; "the sacred animal of the Seringapatamese, the
dweller in the inaccessible mountain fastness of Jam Tirnova, the
deathless guardian of the royal race of this island?"

"The same," he answered calmly; "no mortal foot, save those of his
priests, has ever yet approached him. The perils are manifold, the
attempt is well nigh desperate, but you're not the game chicken I take
you for if you don't accomplish his capture and discomfit the haughty
Ranee. Crikey, but I'd like to hear the old gal squeal when they tell
her her bloomin' hippo's got took. Blime if I wouldn't."

"But how shall I set about it, what steps ought I to take?"

"Is it steps you mane? What in thunder is the man wanting? Here, boy,
take these papers. I have set down in them clearly how the matter
may best be undertaken. Peruse them and learn them well. If you have
resource, courage and prudence, within a week the prize shall be
yours, and the insult offered to me shall be expiated."

With that he pressed a bundle of papers into my hand, and bade me
leave him.

As I left the tent I heard a scuffling of feet. I darted in the
direction in which I thought they had gone, and there sure enough,
running as if he wanted to break a hundred yards record, I perceived
the Ranee's Chamberlain. I set off after him, nothing loth to give an
example of my speed. Besides, if the old fellow had overheard us our
doom was sealed; it was necessary to capture and silence him. In ten
strides I was close up to him. In another moment I was near enough to
seize him. I stretched out my hand to do so, when suddenly he gave
two short yells, turned round in a swift pirouette, and, before I had
realised what had happened, landed me a tremendous kick full on the
chest. The force of the blow was terrible, and only my iron bones
could have withstood it. Seeing that I still advanced he made at me
again. This time, however, I was too quick for him. I seized him by
his uplifted ankle, and, regardless of his appeal for mercy, whirled
him three times round my head and flung him from me. His shoe remained
in my hand, but beyond that no trace of the miserable Chamberlain
has ever been discovered. He simply vanished from human knowledge as
completely as though his body had been resolved into its elements. It
is true that Professor SPOOKS of the University of Caffraria declared
that a new meteor had on that very day appeared in South Africa
travelling eastwards. His discovery was scoffed at by the scientific,
but for my own part I have sometimes thought that, with a telescope
of sufficient power, the learned Professor might have been able
to establish an identity between his supposed comet and the lost
Chamberlain of the Ranee.

Having thus dispatched my foe, I returned to my own quarters to study
the papers of the MEEBHOY.

As I entered my room a terrible sight met my eyes.

(_To be continued._)

       *       *       *       *       *

The Great Trott-ing Match.

    [ALBERT TROTT, in the latest representative cricket match
    between Mr. STODDART'S Eleven and All Australia, scored two
    "not out" innings of 38 and 72, and took eight wickets for 43
    runs.]

  GIFFEN'S boys were this time, we may say without banter,
    Eleven too many for stout "STODDART'S Lot";
  We oft read of matches as "won in a canter,"
    But this one was won, it would seem, by A. TROTT.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AN APPLIED PROVERB.

_Cabby._ "'ERE, I SAY! ONLY A BOB? WOT'S THIS?"

_Footman._ "WHY, YOU 'AVEN'T DROVE THE YOUNG LADY ACROSS THE SQUARE!"

_Cabby._ "THAT MAY BE. BUT IF 'A MISS IS AS GOOD AS A MILE,' SHE'S
EQUAL TO THREE MILES, AND OUGHT TO PAY MORE THAN DOUBLE FARE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER TO A DÉBUTANTE.

DEAREST GLADYS,--I have been compiling a sort of dictionary for you,
with a view to your second season. I send you a few selections from
it--with notes of advice.

_Art._ A subject of discussion; mild at tea-time, often heated after
dinner. [_Note._--Do not take sides. Mention that WHISTLER has
a picture in the Luxembourg, or say--with a smile or not, as the
occasion may suggest--that Sir FREDERIC is the President of the
Academy.]

_Altruism._ Boring some people about other people. [_Note._--Never
encourage VIEWS. They take up too much valuable time.]

_Beauty._ An expensive luxury.

_Boy._ If "dear," any effective man under forty. If "horrid,"
about twelve, and to be propitiated with nuts, knives and ships.
[_Note._--Do not offend him.]

_Blasphemy._ Any discussion on religion. [_Note._--Look shocked, but
not bored.]

_Coquetry._ A manner sometimes assumed by elderly ladies and very
young gentlemen.

_Cynicism._ Truthfulness.

_Duty._ Referred to by relations who wish to be disagreeable.
[_Note._--Change the subject.]

_Divorce._ The occasional result of friendship. [_Note._--But you must
not know anything about it. Read only the leading articles.]

_Eccentricity._ Talent.

_Etiquette._ Provincialism.

_Flirtation._ Once a favourite amusement, now dying out; but still
surviving at Clapham tennis-parties and Kensington subscription balls.

_Foreigners._ Often decorative; generally dangerous.

_Friendship._ The mutual dislike of people on intimate terms. Or, a
euphuism for love.

_Failure._ An entertainment to which one has not been invited.

_Goodness._ The conduct of one's mother.

_Hygiene._ Never bothering about one's health.

_Idiocy._ The opinions of those who differ from one.

_Justice._ Enthusiastic praise of oneself.

_Kleptomania._ Stealing things one doesn't want.

_Love._ A subject not without interest.

_Moonlight._ Depends on the other person.

_Marriage._ The avowed and justifiable object in life of young girls.
The avowed and justifiable terror of bachelors.

_Nature._ It has gone out of fashion, except in novels you must not
say you have read.

_Obviousness._ To be guarded against.

_Philosophy._ An innocent amusement.

_Palmistry._ Only if he is really very nice.

_Quarrel._ A proof of love, or of detestation.

_Quixotism._ Defending the absent-minded.

_Romance._ Friendship in London. [_Note._--Do not be so absurdly
credulous as to believe there is no such thing as Platonic affection.
It is extremely prevalent; in fact, there is hardly anything else.]

_Sincerity._ Rudeness.

_Toleration._ Culture. [_Note._--You may as well begin to be tolerant
at once, and save trouble. It is sure to come in time.]

_Ugliness._ Rather fashionable.

_Untidiness._ The picturesque way in which the other girl does her
hair.

_Vanity._ Self-knowledge.

_Wilfulness._ A desire to give pleasure to others.

_Youth._ Appreciated in middle-age.

_Zoological Gardens._ Of course not. Nobody goes there now. Besides,
you never know whom you may meet.

There, GLADYS, dear! Write soon, and let me know when you are coming
back to London. Sleeves are larger than ever, and chinchilla---- But I
daresay you have heard.

  Ever your affectionate friend,

  MARJORIE.

       *       *       *       *       *

"MY OLD DUTCH!"--See Exhibition of Old Masters' Works, Burlington
House.

       *       *       *       *       *

A RENCONTRE.

(_For investigation by the Psychical Society._)

  The way was long, the train was slow,
  As local trains are wont to go,
  A feeble ray of glimmering light
  Strove vainly with the darkling night,
  And scarce enabled me to see
  The features of my _vis-à-vis_.
  Pale was his brow: no paler grow
  The snowdrops lurking in the snow;
  Hollow his cheeks, and sunk his eyes
  That gazed on me in mournful wise.
  So strange a man I ne'er had seen,
  So wan a look, so weird a mien,
  And, as I eyed him, I confess
  A feeling of uncanniness
  Crept slowly over me and stole
  Into the marrow of my soul.
    Awhile we sped, nor spake a word;
  Nought but the droning wheels was heard;
  But as we journeyed on together,
    By tentative degrees we fell
  From observations on the weather
    To talk of other things as well.
  "I had a few hours off," said he;
  "So I just ran across to see
  The last inventions----I refer
  To Kensington Museum, Sir.
  You know it? What a grand display!
  A splendid exhibition, eh?
  I never saw so fine a show
  Of coffins anywhere, you know!
  And there is one that's simply sweet,
  With handles, knobs, and plate complete!"
  "A coffin!"--Cold a shudder ran
  Adown me as I eyed the man.
  "Aye, to be sure. What else?" he said.
  "The one that's just been patented.
  Why, my good Sir, I will engage
  It is the marvel of the age;
  For, mark you, they no longer use
  Your clumsy, antiquated screws,
  But just a simple catch and pin
  That may be managed _from within!_"
    He ceased, for we had reached a station
  That chanced to be his destination.
  "My home!" he murmured, with a sigh.
  "Home--home! Sweet home!--Good-night!--Good-bye!"
  "Good-night!" I answered; and my heart
  Leaped when I saw his form depart.
  But as we slowly glided past
  The spot where I had seen him last,
  Upon the station lamps, methought,
  The letters of a name I caught.
  I looked again.--My hair uprose,
  The very soul within me froze,
  For lo! upon the lamps was seen
  The curdling legend--KENSAL GREEN!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AT LITTLE PEDLINGTON.

_Jones._ "DO YOU USE _GAS?_"

_Village Operator._ "YES, SIR. BUT I MUCH PREFER _DAYLIGHT!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

SUGGESTIONS TO THE NIAGARA REAL ICE SKATING HALL MANAGER.--The floor
is perfect for skating, but, as there are many who do not skate,
why not have a "sliding roof"? and visitors to the latter not to be
charged full price, but admitted on a sliding scale. Nice to see Mr.
EDWARD SOLOMON, who, as conductor of the band, cuts a very pretty
figure. Dangerous, though, to the real ice, to have "Sol" so close to
it; that is, if there could be "melting moments."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LAUREATE SOCIETY.

The annual general meeting of the Amalgamated British Society for
the Supply of Laureates to the public was held yesterday. There was
a numerous attendance of authors and reviewers with a sprinkling of
publishers. Mr. GRANT ALLEN was moved to the chair. The Chairman in
presenting the report of the Directors regretted that he was unable to
congratulate the Society on having accomplished the primary object of
its existence, the filling up of the vacant laureateship. He himself,
he said, had done his best. He had discovered a new sun in the
firmament of poetry at least once a month, and had never hesitated to
publish the name of his selection in one of the reviews. He was still
willing to take seven to four about Mr. JOHN DAVIDSON and Mr. FRANCIS
THOMPSON, Mr. WILLIAM WATSON barred. The balance-sheet of the Society
did not show a very flourishing state of affairs. As assets they could
enter fifteen sonnets, twelve irregularly rhymed odes (one by Mr.
RICHARD LE GALLIENNE), twenty-four volumes of a strictly limited
edition issued from the Bodley Head, four tons of the Yellow Book, and
an unpublished selection of manuscript poems written by a victim to
_delirium tremens_ whose name he was not at liberty to mention. On the
other side, however, they had to face the fact that their expenses had
been heavy. It was becoming more and more costly and difficult to
feed the public on geniuses, and he was inclined to advise the
discontinuance of this branch of the Society's operations.

At this point some commotion was caused by Mr. LE GALLIENNE and
Mr. ARTHUR WAUGH, who rose simultaneously to protest against the
Chairman's remarks. Mr. LE GALLIENNE was so far carried away by his
agitation as to hurl a pamphlet at Mr. GRANT ALLEN'S head. In the
uproar which ensued, Mr. LE GALLIENNE could be heard ejaculating
"beautiful phrases," "richly-coloured musical sentences," "ideal and
transcendental," "nothing finer since LAMB," "all for eighteenpence,"
and "a genius who sleeps below the wood-pigeons." The pamphlet thus
discharged proved to be by a Mr. JOHN EGLINTON, and Mr. LE GALLIENNE
was removed in the custody of a police-inspector, who was described by
Mr. WAUGH as a Philistine.

When calm had been restored, Mr. ALFRED AUSTIN asked where he came
in. He had never allowed a birth, a wedding, or a death in the upper
circles of Royalty to pass unsung; and though he had been a constant
subscriber to the Society it didn't seem to have done him any good.
Besides, he had discovered Ireland last year. Mr. LEWIS MORRIS and
Mr. ERIC MACKAY made similar complaints. The latter offered to write
patriotic poems with plenty of rhymes in them against any other living
man. Would the meeting allow him to recite----?

At this point the Chairman interposed, and said that the Directors had
decided against recitations--a statement which provoked loud murmurs
of dissatisfaction. Eventually, Mr. LE GALLIENNE (who had returned,
disguised in proof-sheets), proposed a vote of thanks to Mr. JOHN
DAVIDSON, who proposed a vote of thanks to Mr. GRANT ALLEN, who
proposed a vote of thanks to Mr. FRANCIS THOMPSON, who proposed a vote
of thanks to Mr. ARTHUR WAUGH, who proposed a vote of thanks to Mr.
JOHN LANE, who proposed a vote of thanks to Mr. LE GALLIENNE. All
these having been unanimously passed, the meeting broke up.

       *       *       *       *       *

QUEER QUERIES.--WAR OF WORDS.--_À propos_ of Mr. PLOWDEN'S decision in
the "Flannelette case," can that worthy magistrate have foreseen some
of its effects? For instance, wanting to buy a sideboard, I went to a
furniture-dealer's, and saw one, apparently made of the best mahogany,
which took my fancy greatly. I casually asked of what wood it
was composed and was astonished to have the answer given me,
"Mahoganette," by the shop-walker. So I walked out of the shop. When
I _want_ painted deal I can inquire for that article. Again, I have
noticed during the last few days a great falling-off in my butter
(though not in its price). On my remonstrating, the seller frankly
admitted that the article was "butterette," not butter. "What does
'ette' mean?" I asked him. He said it meant "little," adding, with a
wink, that I should find "precious little butter, too." And this was
the case. What _are_ we coming to?--INDIGNANT.

       *       *       *       *       *

"OYSTER _BARS_."--The prohibitive price of natives and the typhoid
scare.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ANIMAL SPIRITS.

NO. I--FOOTBALL. "THE ZAMBESI SCORCHERS."]

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

The anonymous author of _"Spot," an Autobiography_ (HOULSTON AND SONS,
Paternoster Square), whoever he may be, has a remarkable insight into
dog-nature, so far, that is, as one who is not a dog, but a mere lover
of dogs, can judge. _Spot_ tells his own story in a straightforward,
honest, doggy style, which must commend him at once to the hearts
of his readers. His reflections, from the canine point of view, are
admirably just. He never cared for flowers. "How vapid," he says,
"is the scent of a rose, for instance, compared with that of an old
seasoned bone." The force of the remark must be appreciated by anyone
who has watched a dog exhuming with furtive labour a bone he had
buried a week before. A firm foe to cats, he yet makes an exception in
favour of his house-cat, as all civilised cat-destroying dogs do. The
bull-dog's greeting to him is, in itself, a revelation of character.
"Cheer up, youngster! Any good smells hereabouts?" says that
redoubtable animal; whereupon they saunter together round by the back
of the house, "passing few smells of any importance until we arrived
at the ashpit." But I cannot here quote at greater length from
his wise remarks. I can honestly advise all lovers of dogs (boys
especially) to read this wholesome, pleasant, clever little book.

  THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

       *       *       *       *       *

SLIGHT IMPROVEMENT.--France has "come to the Faure." That's good to
begin with, From a Republican to a "Bourgeois" Ministry is not much of
a step, but still it is a step, Faure-wards, or rather upwards, as a
conscientious, self-respecting Bourgeois can never be an anarchist.
LOUIS PHILIPPE was a "bourgeois king," and, after him, France "went
Nap" and returned to Imperialism. But where's the Imperialist ruler
now? Is the latest betting Faure to one on the Republic?

       *       *       *       *       *

BLACK MAGIC.

  We'd done the latest picture-shows,
    Had honoured some with our approval,
  Expressed a cultured scorn for those
    That merited a prompt removal.
  And then, to pass the time away,
    Disliking melodramas tragic,
  We chanced to go--oh, hapless day!--
    To see some "feats of modern magic."

  I don't deny the tricks were good,
    Nor could you easily see through them,
  And few of those who "understood
    Exactly how they're done," could do them.
  But when the wizard said he'd try
    To pass a watch to any distance,
  And find it in the audience--why
    Did I afford him my assistance?

  I thought to spoil the trick he'd planned,
    Nor did I even feel embittered
  When made before the crowd to stand,
    Although my fair companions tittered,
  But then the scoundrel in their view
    Remarked, "Is this your usual habit?"
  And from my pocket calmly drew
    The watch--_suspended from a rabbit!_

  The foolish people laughed and cheered,
    And as I fled in hasty fashion,
  My cousins even gaily jeered
    Instead of showing me compassion!
  I'd grant them almost any boon,
    But though they ask it, never that form
  Will grace, as on this afternoon,
    A vulgar necromancer's platform!

       *       *       *       *       *

RUMOUR.--As ruler of the domain where stands our great theatre and our
opera house, Sir DRUIOLANUS, it is reported, is to receive the special
distinction of K.C.G., which, in his case, is the Knight of Covent
Garden. _Bene meruit_.

       *       *       *       *       *

VIEWING A HARE.

(_And the Prospect of a Good Run_.)

The Dramatic Arthurs Society is having a nice time of it just now
with ARTHUR PINERO, ARTHUR JONES, ARTHUR LAW, ARTHUR ROBERTS, _King
Arthur_, at the Lyceum, and ARTHUR À BECKET at the Garrick Theatre,
where _Faded Flowers_, revived, are once again blooming. It is
a pretty piece, well played by Mr. ARTHUR BOURCHIER--_encore un
Arthur_--and Mrs. BOURCHIER, known to the public as Miss VIOLET
VANBRUGH. A little TERRY boy, aged nine, is in it, and Mr. BUIST
does his very Buist, or best. The occasion of the revival was the
resuscitation of _A Pair of Spectacles_, in which Mr. JOHN HARE is
better than ever; and, indeed, he has made it one of his very
best eccentric comedy parts. Again Mr. GROVES delights us with his
hardwareish impersonation of "the man from Sheffield," a very happy
thought on the part of the author-adapter, Mr. GRUNDY.

The occasion of the revival, too, was also noteworthy as being the
_début_ of another of the TERRY family, the _ingénue_ of the comedy
being played by Miss MABEL TERRY LEWIS, who certainly inherits no
small share of the TERRY Talent. Mr. GERALD DU MAURIER, too, is
excellent in a marvellously made-up small character part; and BERTIE
HARE--the heir of HARE--is very good as the youngster. Mr. HARE has
fitted on this "pair of spectacles" just in time; not to have done so
would have been shortsighted policy; and through them no doubt he sees
his way to a long and highly satisfactory run. These two revivals
Mr. HARE may consider not as "a pair of specs," but as "a couple of
certainties."

  PETER PROSIT.

       *       *       *       *       *

WHY IS THE MODERN FICTIONIST LIKE A DOG-FANCIER?--Because he is so
fond of short tails.

       *       *       *       *       *



Transcriber's Note

Page 46: _Friendship._ The mutual dislike of people on intimate terms.
Or, a euphuism for love.

The writer (Marjorie) would appear to have confused 'euphuism' and
'euphemism', perhaps deliberate on the part of the contributer.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 108, January 26, 1895" ***

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