Part 1

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 108. JUNE 29, 1895.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

OPERATIC NOTES.

_Monday._--Tannhäuserites disappointed. Signor VIGNAS indisposed. _Tannhäuser's_ understudy _Faust_ put up. House good. Performance better. PLANÇON,--once _Jupiter_ now _Mephistopheles_, the extremes meeting in one singer,--excellent. MELBA quite the German Fräulein. BEVIGNANI, C. B., _i.e._, "Conducting Beautifully," in the chair.

_Tuesday._--Many other attractions, yet heart is true to Opera. M. VICTOR MAUREL, as _Iago_, adds another leaf to his victor's wreath of Laurel. MAGGIE MACINTYRE makes distinct advance, and sings, "O Willow, we have missed you" most melodiously. TAM AGNO as _Misther O'Tello_, the Irish darky singer, uncommonly powerful. RICHARD GREEN, _Montano_, greener than ever: quite fresh. PERCY MORDY a good _Roderigo Randomo_. The highly Pole-ish'd OLITZKA a fair representative of _Emilia_. And this cast, with Merry MANCINELLI manipulating musicians, makes the Opera a delight to the _fine fleur_ of the Covent Gardenian Hot House.

_Wednesday._--House crammed to see and hear ADELINA PATTI as _Rosina_ in the ever delightful _Barbiere di Siviglia_. ROSSINI for ever! "Whar's your WULLIE WAGNER noo?" PATTI'S acting worth a third of the money; her singing makes up t'other two-thirds. "Bonus" to audience in "_Home, Sweet Home_." Wrapt attention! Here we are all of us out for the night, so to speak, in silks and satins and jewels rare, and with feathers and diamonds and all our war paint on, off afterwards to routs, balls and supper-parties, and yet all hushed, conscience-stricken as it were, in the midst of our gaiety, by sweet voice warbling so distinctly "Home! Home! Home! Sweet Home! Wherever (including the Opera Covent Garden) we wander (and we can't wander when our attention is riveted on _la Diva_) there is no-oh-o-o place like Ho-ome!" And then, second verse finished, a storm of rapturous applause bursts over the singer! Yes! those are our sentiments. "Home! Home!" by all means. Only--excuse us--we "_won't_ go Home Sweet Home till morning, till daylight doth appear." But why, ADELINA _mia_, didst thou sing at the end of the Opera that remarkably anti-climaxious waltz of TI-TO-TUM MATTEI'S? TI-TO-TUM all very well in his way, but not a ROSSINI. And then you sang it from a paper in your hand as though doing penance in a music sheet? A mistake, ADELINA, don't do it again, spin your TI-TO-TUM at a concert, but not in ROSSINI'S _Barbiere_. BERTHA BAUERMEISTER obtained a rapturous encore, but shook her finger at the audience as who would say "too late! too late!" So BEVIGNANI bowed, and on we went again merrily. PINI-CORSI good as pantaloon _Bartolo_. ANCONA a capital _Figaro_, looking like one of _Cruikshank's_ comic characters. 'ABRY MUNDY, fine _Basilio_ done in Italian oils; M. BONNARD, light and airy French count, more of larker than lover. All Home-Sweet-Home-ing (or elsewhere) about midnight, many being detained by the singers at the Opera from getting to the SPEAKER'S "at Home," Sweet Home.

_Thursday._--_Pagliacci_, with Miss PAULINE JORAN appearing as _Nedda_, and playing it in first-rate style. "Gee up! _Nedda!_" _Query._ PINI-CORSI good as _Tonio_? _Answer._ 'CORSI was. T'others not much, but Opera still charming. Yet this evening's programme too trying for emotional persons. _Pagliacci_, tragedy; _Cavalleria Rusticana_ tragedy also; tragedy from beginning to end; even the celebrated _mezzo_ very like a wail! Not kind of DRURIOLANUS to afflict us thus. Madame BELLINCIONI, "the original _Santuzza_," admirable. Honours easy between Madame CALVÉ and BELLINCIONI. The latter played it first abroad; but the former had the start of her _here_. In some of the action peculiarly characteristic of the type, BELLINCIONI wins, not by a neck, but by two hands. CALVÉ more striking (hands down) in her jealous agony. Signor VALENTINE FIGARO ANCONA excellent as _Alfio_; the situation when VIGNAS, going strong as _Turiddu_, catches _Alfio's_ ear, in order, as he says in Sicilian, "Tu-rid-u of his presence" by subsequently killing him, more dramatic than ever. GIULIA RAVOGLI admirable as quite the gay _Lola_ of the Sicilian Seven Dials. After _intermezzo_ Bowing BEVIGNANI declines _encore_.

_Friday._--Child _Harold_ allowed to sit up late for another night. Composer COWEN ought to sing, "I love my ALBANI with an A, because she's Admirable." _Harold_ improveth on representation. _William Malet_ played by RICHARD GREEN. Nice of the librettist, Sir EDWARD MALET, to keep the memory of his ancestor Green. It must make singers rather nervous to have the composer _vis-à-vis_ conducting his own work; as WAGSTAFF observes, "in this instance it must have the effect of Cowin' them." 'Nother week gone.

* * * * *

A SIESTA.

How sleepy I feel! It is this beastly influenza cold and headache. The best thing to do for a headache is to have a little doze and sleep it off. Not a very easy thing to do in a big Paris hotel in the afternoon. However, it is quiet enough in my room, looking on to the courtyard, away from the noises of the Boulevard.

Just dropping off. Crash! Only someone shutting a door. That is not an unusual sound. In these big hotels no one closes a door, no one glides along a passage, no one speaks in a soft voice, but everyone bangs, and stamps, and shouts. If it is a woman, she screams. Another crash! The man in the next room just come in. That's the Frenchman with the awful cough. No one but a Frenchman could have a cough like that. Lie and listen to his cough for some time. Various other doors banged. But at last sink into unconsciousness. Good Heavens! What's happened now? Oh, it's the American trunks being dragged out of the room on the other side. Well, at any rate I shall not hear the American voices now through that miserable door of communication, which, locked and bolted ever so carefully, does not keep out sounds. But there is someone talking there now. Of course the new comers. It must be two people. No, twenty people. By Jove, they are Germans! And there's the Frenchman's cough again. I shall never get to sleep. Yet somehow the sounds get confused, I fancy the Germans are coughing and the Frenchman is saying "_Ja, ja, ja,_" and then----

There, now I am awake again. Why, there's someone knocking at the door. "_Pardon, monsieur, avez-vous reçu votre linge?_" "_Mais, oui, je l'ai reçu hier._" "_Pardon, monsieur, il y a des faux-cols._" "_Non, je les ai reçus tous._" "_Mais, monsieur----_" "_Mais qu'est-ce que vous me chantez là? Laissez-moi tranquille._" "_Mais, monsieur, le monsieur en face m'a dit que monsieur a reçu des faux-cols que monsieur----_" Confound the collars! Get up, let in the _garçon_, examine my collars and the collars of the _monsieur en face_, who is just packing up, rectify the mistake of the washerwoman, and am again alone. Now is it worth going to sleep or not? Will try once more.

What's that? "MARIE!" It's someone shouting outside my door. How fond they are of shouting outside my door! "MARIE! _De l'eau chaude._" I hope she won't think it's for me, or she'll wake me up if at last I get a chance of dropping off. Then silence. Positively, absolute silence. The coughing Frenchman must have been suffocated; the Germans--no, nothing could stop the Germans from talking, only they have gone out of hearing. And the _femme de chambre_ has hurried off to fetch that hot water for somebody, and the _garçon_ is not banging his broom about in this _couloir_, and there is no baggage coming or going, and no door crashing; and, in the midst of profound peace, I think drowsily of quiet country afternoons, when one hears only the humming of the bees, and the whispering of the aspens, and then, and then----Hullo! What's up now? There's someone else knocking. My last chance gone. My head is aching more than ever. "_Eh bien?_" "_C'est l'eau chaude que vous avez commandée, Monsieur._"

* * * * *

THE ADVERTISEMENT FIEND.

(_Written in the Train by an Irate Traveller._)

["The English landscape is being transformed into a dumping-ground for catchpenny eyesores."--_See the "Nineteenth Century" for June._]

For Soap and Pill each English slope and hill Is now a background, and the cry is, "Still They come;" these public nuisances, that mar The fair earth's face, like some unsightly scar. Who possibly can care, I ask, to learn That Juno Soap Saves Washing, or to turn A gaze disgusted on some blatant board, By which the devious tourist is implored To try the Lightning Pill that never fails To spot the Spot, or cure whatever ails? JOHN BULL, his missus and the kids, I hope, Do not entirely live on pills and soap. And yet you'd surely think so, when you've scanned The nostrum-signs that so adorn our land! Oh! heavily I'd tax 'em, if I might! And keep the landscape clear. Am I not right?

[_Terminus. Exit, fuming._

* * * * *

SOCIETY'S NEXT CRAZE.

(_As foreseen by Mr. Punch's Second-sighted Clairvoyant._)

_It is the summer of 1896--or possibly '97. The scene is a road skirting Victoria Park, Bethnal Green, which Society's leaders have recently discovered and appointed as the_ rendez-vous _for the Season, and where it is now the correct thing for all really smart people to indulge, between certain prescribed hours, in sports and pastimes that have hitherto been more characteristic of the masses than the classes. The only permissible mount now is the donkey, which must be ridden close to the tail, and referred to as a "moke." A crowd of well-turned-out spectators arrives from the West End every morning about eleven to watch the brilliant parade of "Mokestrians" (as the Society journalist will already have decided to call them). Some drive slowly up and down on coster-barrows, attended by cockaded and disgusted grooms. About twelve, they break up into light luncheon parties; after which they play democratic games for half an hour or so, and drive home on drags._

_Mr. Woodby-Innett_ (_to the_ Donkey Proprietor). Kept a moke for me? I told you I should be wantin' one every mornin' now.

_The Donkey Proprietor_ (_after consulting engagement-book_). I've not got it down on my list, Sir. Very sorry, but the Countess of CUMBERBACK has just booked the last for the 'ole of this week. Might let you 'ave one by-and-by, if Sir HASCOT GOODWOOD brings his in punctual, but I can't promise it.

_Mr. Woodby-Inn._ That's no good; no point in ridin' after the right time. (_To himself, as he turns away._) Nuisance! Not that I'm so keen about a moke. Not a patch on a bike!--though it don't do to say so. Only if I'd known this, I'd have turned up in a tall hat and frock coat; and then I could have taken a turn on the steam-circus. Wonder if it would be any sort of form shyin' at cocoa-nuts in tweeds and a straw hat. Must ask some chap who knows. More puzzlin' what to put on this year than ever!

_Lady Ranela Hurlingham_ (_breathlessly to_ Donkey Proprietor). That's mine, isn't it? Will you please put me up, and _promise_ me you'll keep close behind and make him run. (_Suppliantly._) You will, _won't_ you?

_The Donkey Proprietor_ (_with a due sense of his own value_). Well, I dessay I can come along presently, Lady 'URLINGHAM, and fetch 'im a whack or two; jest now I can't, having engaged to come and 'old the Marshiness of 'AMMERCLOTH'S on _'er_ moke; but there, you orter be able to git along well enough by yourself now--_you_ ought!

_Captain Sonbyrne_ (_just home on leave from India--to_ Mrs. CHESHAM-LOWNDES). Rather an odd sort of idea this--I mean, coming all the way out here to ride a lot of donkeys, eh?

_Mrs. Chesham-Lowndes._ It used to be rather amusing a month ago, before they all got used to riding so near the tail; but now they're all so good at it, don't you know.

_Capt. Sonb._ I went down to Battersea Park yesterday to see the bicyclists. Not a soul there, give you my word!

_Mrs. C.-L._ No; there _wouldn't_ be _this_ season. You see, all sorts and conditions of people began to take it up, and it got too fearfully common. And now moke-riding has quite cut it out.

_Capt. Sonb._ But why ride donkeys when you can get gees?

_Mrs. C.-L._ Oh, well, they're democratic, and cheap, and all that, don't you know. And one really can't be _seen_ on a horse this year--in town, at least. In the country it don't matter so much.

_First Mokestrian_ (_to second ditto_). Hullo, old chap, so _you_'ve taken to a moke at last, eh? How are you gettin' on?

_Second Mokestrian._ Pretty well. I can sit on his tail all right now, but I can't get into the way of keepin' my heels off the ground yet, it's so beastly difficult.

_Fragments from Spectators._ That's rather a smart barrow, Lady BARINRAYNE'S drivin' to-day.... Who's the fellow with her, with the paper feather in his pot-hat? Bad style, _I_ call it.... That's Lord FREDDY FUGLEMAN--best dressed man in London. You'll see everybody turnin' up in a paper feather in a day or two.... Lot of men seem to be using a short clay as a cigarette-holder now, don't they?... Yes, RODDIE RIPPINGILL introduced the idea last week, and it seems to have caught on. [_&c., &c._]

AFTER LUNCHEON; AT THE STEAM-CIRCUS, AND OTHER SPORTS.

_Scraps of Small-talk._ No end sorry, Lady GWENDOLIN; been tryin' to get you a scent-squirt everywhere; but they're all gone; such a run on 'em for Ascot, don't you know.... Thanks; it doesn't matter; only dear Lady BUCKRAM has just thrown some red ochre down the back of my neck, and ALGY VERE came and shot out a coloured paper thing right in my face, and I shouldn't like to seem uncivil.... Suppose I shall see you at Lady BRABAZON'S "Kiss in the Ring" at Bethnal Green to-morrow afternoon?... I believe she _did_ send us cards, but we promised to look in at a friendly lead the Duchess of DILLWATER is giving at such a dear little public she's discovered in Whitechapel, so we may be rather late.... You'll keep a handkerchief-throw for me if you _do_ come on, won't you?... It will have to be an _extra_, then, I'm afraid.... Are you goin' to Lord BALMISYDE'S eight o'clock breakfast to-morrow? _So_ glad; I hear he's engaged five coffee-stalls, and we're all to stand up and eat saveloys and trotters and thick bread and butter.... Oh, I wanted to ask you, my girls have got an invitation to a hoky-poky party the VAVASOURS are giving after the moke-ridin' next Thursday, and I'm told it's quite wrong to eat hoky-poky with a spoon--do you know how that is?... The only _correct_ way, CAROLINE, is to lick it out of the glass, which requires practice before it can be _attempted_ in public. But I hear there's quite a pleasant boy-professor somewhere in the Mile End Road who teaches it in a single lesson; he's _very_ moderate; his terms are only half a guinea, which includes the hoky-poky. I'll send you his address if I can find it.... Thanks _so_ much; the dear girls _will_ be so grateful to you.... I _do_ think it's _quite_ too bad of Lady GERALDINE GRABBER, she goes and sticks her card on the only decent wooden horse in the steam-circus and says she's engaged it for the whole time, though she hardly ever takes a round! And so many girls standing out who can ride without getting in the _least_ giddy!... Rathah a boundah, that fellow, if you ask me; I've _seen_ him pullin' a swing boat in brown boots and ridin'-breeches!... How wonderfully well your daughter throws the rings, dear Lady CORNELIA, I hear she's won three walking-sticks and five clasp knives.... You're very kind. She is quite clever at it; but then she's had some private coaching from a gipsy, don't you know.... What are you going to do with yourself this afternoon?... Oh, I'm going to the People's Palace to see the finals played off for the Skittles Championship; bound to be a closish thing; rather excitin', don't you know.... Ah, Duchess, you've been in form to-day, I see, five cocoa-nuts! Can I relieve you of some of them?... Thanks, they _are_ rather tiresome to carry; if you _could_ find my carriage and tell the footman to keep his eye on them. [_&c. &c._].

_Lady Rosehugh_ (_to_ Mr. LUKE WALMER, _on the way home_). You know I _do_ think it's _such_ a cheering sign of the times, Society getting simpler in its tastes, and sharing the pleasures of the Dear People, and all that; it must tend to bring all classes more _together_, don't you know!

_Mr. Luke Walmer._ Perhaps. Only I was thinking, I don't remember seeing any of the Dear People _about_.

_Lady Rosehugh._ No; somebody was telling me they had taken to playing Polo on bicycles in Hyde Park. So extraordinary of them--a place nobody ever goes _near_ now, you know!

* * * * *

THE LAST TOURNAMENT

(OF TENNIS--IN THE NORTH).

_By a Manchester Enthusiast of Tennis-onian Tastes and Hibernian Sympathies._

["For once in a way the Northern Tournament, which has long boasted of being second only to Wimbledon, has not proved an unqualified success.... The withdrawal of Messrs. PIM and STOKER must for some time be severely felt by tournaments of first-class importance."--_Bradford Observer._]

AIR--"_The Battle of the Baltic._"

Of Tennis in the North, Sing the--more or less--renown! But--some champions of worth From the netted lists are flown; The Great Brethren from the verdant courts are gone! Once they mustered a brave band, LAWFORD long, and LEWIS grand, Whilst the RENSHAWS, hand o'er hand, Smashed--and won!

Now the other--BADDELEY--twins Have it nearly their own way; And they score repeated wins, Though the ALLENS, too, can play, And can send a swift one down the centre line. When those twins are on the job It is little use to lob. Then there's BARLOW,--bet your bob _He_ is fine!

But the might of England flush'd In those courts of emerald sheen. WILFRID flew, and H. B. rush'd.-- Oh! the wearing of the Green!-- Where is Irish PIM, where STOKER, that great gun? Though they smashed and volley'd madly, The Hibernians murmured sadly, "Faix! Auld Erin's beaten--BADDELEY At this fun!"

Then there's sweet Miss DOD again! Oh, how sad it seems, and odd. To survey the chalk-marged plain In the absence of Miss DOD, Who they say is wholly given up to GOLF!!! Shall the links then lick the Court? Tennis champions run short? And the slaves of the Scotch sport Jeer and scoff?

True MAHONEY and Miss MARTIN Did their best our sport to save; And Miss COOPER took stout part In mixed doubles--which was brave: But where was Mrs. HILLYARD, "whom we knew?" (As Ulysses said of him In the Shades.) Oh, STOKER, PIM! E'en bright Manchester looked dim Missing you!

Still, joy, Old England, raise! For the tidings of your might! Yet we hope that Golfing craze Will not come, like a big blight, And seduce our DODS and RENSHAWS any more. For to mar the sweet content Of our Northern Tournament, By much time on links misspent Were a Bore!!!

* * * * *

"THE SEELEY LECTURERS."--We have a wholesome dread of lecturers generally. Perhaps the more learned the lecturer, the greater the boredom to the listeners, specially if the latter be frivolously inclined. But in any case, if lectures must be, then we would rather hear a _Wise_ lecturer than a _Seeley_ one. On second thoughts, the only entertaining Seeley Lecturer that we know is the one at the Zoo, who discourses on, while exhibiting, the seal.

* * * * *

* * * * *

SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.

Mr. H. T. WADDY, the Liberal Candidate, has been telling the voters of the Truro-Helston division of Cornwall stories about those wicked publicans. At one of the bye elections they got out posters, which read, "If you vote for the Liquor Traffic Bill, this house will be closed," and displayed them in their premises. But the Radical humorist was on the warpath, and, having provided himself with copies of the poster, attached them to the respective doors of the prison, the lunatic asylum, and the workhouse. This was quite excellent. But Mr. WADDY might have carried the joke a little further, say as far as London. There, at all events, the Bill may possibly lead to the early closing of one public house, where business has for some time been in a very bad way. This would of course be a source of great satisfaction to Mr. WADDY--and his leaders.

* * * * *

In connection with the course of lectures given at Truro by Mrs. THWAITES, principal of the Liverpool School of Cookery, a large Company recently dined in the Concert Hall, at the invitation of the directors of the Truro Gas Company, when the advantages of cooking by gas were put to practical test. Truly there be epicures at Truro who know what's what. Cooking by G. A. S. must have been a great success, and Truro will look forward to a repetition of this cook's excursion. In any case, it will have added to the list of the good things it has seen and people it has known.

* * * * *

BUBBLES from the BALTIC.

BLOWN FROM THE PIPE OF TOBY. M.P.

_Off the Elbe, Wednesday Afternoon._--Got up steam, weighed anchor and laid our course East by North half South for Hamburg. Don CURRIE, whose knowledge of ocean life is extensive and peculiar, tells me no well regulated ship puts to sea without first ascertaining the weight of her anchor. Much interested at this peep into nautical life. But what has the weight of the anchor to do with the voyage of the _Tantallon Castle_, or even with the opening of the Baltic Canal? Well, the Don is not sure. Anyhow, it is an old custom. Sailors are superstitious, and if this preliminary to a voyage were omitted, they would turn rusty, and might even want to throw someone overboard. So, to prevent possible unpleasantness, the anchor is weighed--"To an ounce," Don CURRIE says severely.

Suppose before we turn in we shall be told how much it weighs. Wish I knew what is the average weight of a really good anchor. So awkward if a man comes upon you suddenly, and says "The anchor weighs just over a ton"; or "What do you think? the anchor turns the scale at fifty-two lbs. ten dwt." Is one too much, and is the other surprisingly little? Haven't the slightest idea. Shall, in either case, say "Ha!" That is, at any rate, noncommittal.

Mr. G. will know what an anchor ought to weigh in given circumstances. He knows everything. Shall try and find opportunity of asking him.

_Hamburg, Friday_, 5 A.M.--"I am very fond of the German tongue," said the Member for SARK, paying me an early morning pyjama-call. "The language in which GOETHE wrote and HEINE sang is sacred. Still, when it is emitted from the throats of half a score of steam-whistles, one feels there are limits to passionate desire. Have often heard siren song of steam-whistle in and about the Thames. That's bad enough for the sensitive ear. But when it comes to steam-whistling in German, you begin to understand why people sometimes commit suicide."

For my part, I like it. Few things more charming than to be wakened at daybreak by a steam-whistle spluttering in your larboard ear. Before you have quite drank in the fulness of the music, another shrieks in your starboard ear. Then, far and near, all round the harbour, they pop off in different keys. Some angry; some whining; some in anguishing pain; some mocking; some wailing; one ingenious contrivance, moved by a master-hand, managing to imitate a burst of maniacal laughter, in which, if you didn't bury your head in the pillow, you feel you must join.