Part 1

* * * * *

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 108.

JANUARY 26, 1895.

* * * * *

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).

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?_"

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

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."

* * * * *

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

* * * * *

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!

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE UNTAMED SHREW;

OR, WANTED A PETRUCHIO.

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