Part 1

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 109.

JULY 13, 1895.

OPERATIC NOTES.

_Monday._--Quite new Opera, _Faust_. Some people say they've heard it before. Others add, "Yes, and more than once this season." Unwritten law in _Codex Druriolanum_ is "You can't have too much of a good thing." There are a hundred different ways of dressing chicken; so with _Faust_. This time _Faust_ comes and is _Faust_ served with _Sauce Marguerite à l'Emma Eames_. Uncommonly good. _Faust lui-même à l'Alvarez_ goes down uncommonly well. _Mefisto-Plançon Sauce au bon diable_, a little overdone, perhaps, but decidedly a popular dish. Baton of BEVIGNANI keeps all the ingredients well stirred up. House full.

_Tuesday._--_Carmen._ Madame BELLINCIONI and Signor ANCONA going strong. Capital house, spite of shadow of dissolution being over us all.

_Wednesday._--_Nozze di Figaro_, with EMMA EAMES as Countess, singing charmingly, and looking like portrait of Court Beauty by Sir PETER LELY. _Maurel-Almaviva_ all right for voice, but not up to his Countess in aristocratic appearance. However, this is in keeping with character of nobleman whose most intimate friend is his barber, and who makes love to the barber's _fiancée_, who is also his wife's _femme de chambre_.

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ROUNDABOUT READINGS.

At the Oxford and Cambridge Athletic Sports on Wednesday last, great surprise was expressed at the defeat of the hitherto invincible Mr. C. B. FRY by Mr. MENDELSON in the Long Jump. Mr. MENDELSON, who comes to us from New Zealand, has not only done a fine performance, but he has also jumped into fame. It is at any rate obvious that it is quite impossible for him to represent his University in the High Jump, for

With a musical name (though he varies the spelling), This youth from New Zealand is bound to go far. He couldn't jump high, since (it's truth I am telling) No master of music e'er misses a bar.

* * * * *

The Long Jump, snatched like a brand from the burning, practically gave the victory in the whole contest to Cambridge, who also won the Weight, the Mile, the Three Miles and the Quarter.

The Light Blues triumphed, fortune being shifty; They cheered FITZHERBERT sprinting home in fifty. For strength the weight-man's parents have a hot son, Witness the put of youthful Mr. WATSON. LUTYENS, who always pleases as he goes, Romped in, his glasses poised upon his nose. And none that day with greater dash and go ran Than the Light Blue three-miler, Mr. HORAN.

* * * * *

During the practice of the crews for Henley Regatta there has been one exalted contest, which I cannot remember hearing of in former years. My _Sporting Life_ (of which I am a diligent and a constant reader) informed me that "at one time it did seem as though Jupiter Pluvius was about to swamp Old Boreas, but the latter proved too tough." Quite a sporting event, evidently. Why, oh why, was not Old Boreas present when Pelion was piled upon Ossa? The whole course of (pre) history might have been changed.

* * * * *

A Newcastle contemporary has been discussing the art of adding to the beauty of women by the use of cosmetics, &c. May I commend the following extract to the notice of the ladies of England?

"No woman is capable of being beautiful who is capable of being false. The true art of assisting beauty consists in embellishing the whole person by the ornaments of virtuous and commendable qualities. How much nobler is the contemplation of beauty when it is heightened by virtue! How faint and spiritless are the charms of a coquette, when compared with the loveliness of innocence, piety, good-humour, and truth--virtues which add a new softness to their sex, and even beautify their beauty! That agreeableness possessed by the modest virgin is now preserved in the tender mother, the prudent friend, and the faithful wife. Colours artfully spread upon canvas may entertain the eye, but not touch the heart; and she who takes no care to add to the natural graces of her person, noble qualities, may amuse as a picture, but not triumph as a beauty."

* * * * *

Cheltenham is a pleasant place. I quote from a memory which is, I know, miserably defective:

Year by year do England's daughters In the fairest gloves and shawls Troop to drink the Cheltenham waters, And adorn the Cheltenham balls.

This is not the place that one would naturally associate with violent language over so small a matter as the rejection of some plans. A quarrel, however, has taken place in the Town Council, and terrible words have been spoken:--

"In the course of a discussion on the rejection of some plans, Mr. MARGRETT accused the acting chairman of the Streets Committee (Mr. PARSONAGE) with being influenced by personal and political motives against the person (Mr. BARNFIELD) who sent them in. Mr. PARSONAGE warmly retorted with the lie direct, and told Mr. MARGRETT that he knew he was lying. Mr. LENTHALL accused Mr. PARSONAGE of being 'slip-shod' in his method of bringing up the minutes of the Streets Committee, because he had passed over without comment a dispute between the Corporation and the Board of Guardians. While denying this imputation, Mr. PARSONAGE said he would even prefer to be 'slip-shod' than to follow Mr. LENTHALL'S example of giving utterance to a long-winded and frothy oration over such a trumpery matter as a road fence."

After this I quite expected to read that some one--

... raised a point of order, when A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen, And he smiled a sort of sickly smile and curled upon the floor! And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.

But the matter seems to have dropped, and everything to have ended peacefully--a great and bitter disappointment to all lovers of ructions.

* * * * *

Even in aquatic matters Ireland is a country of surprises. In the Eight-oared race the other day for the "Pembroke Cup," there was a dead-heat between the Shandon Boat Club and the Dublin University Boat Club. In the row-off, the _Irish Independent_ says that "Boat Club caught the water first, but after a few strokes Shandon forged in front. After the mile mark, Shandon were rowing eighteen against the Boat Club's nineteen or twenty. In the next three hundred yards Boat Club dropped to seventeen, the others being steady at nineteen all through. About one hundred and fifty yards off the fishery step the Boat Club quickened up to forty and got within two feet of their opponents. Then, amid the greatest excitement, Boat Club got in front and won by a canvas." A stroke oar who can row a race at nineteen to the minute all through is steadier but certainly less versatile than one who can spring suddenly from the rate of seventeen to the rate of forty. As admirable as either is the genius of the reporter who describes the event.

* * * * *

Mr. H. M. HYNDMAN is the Socialist candidate for Burnley. He advocates "the immediate nationalisation and socialisation of railways, mines, factories, and the land, with a view to establishing organised co-operation for production and distribution in every department under the control of the entire community. There should be a minimum wage of thirty shillings a week in all State and Municipal employment, as well as in State-created monopolies." There's a modest and practical programme for you! But this windy gentleman's opponents may reply that they prefer the system of each for himself, and d----l take the HYNDMAN, to all the verbiage of the Socialist froth-pot.

* * * * *

Many reasons have been given for the fall of the late Government. It has been left to a correspondent of the _Birmingham Daily Post_ to discover the real and only one. "It is most unfair," he says, "to hold them entirely responsible for all the shortcomings, blunders, and failures which distorted their administration. How could they help these things? Has it never occurred to you that the Government of Lord ROSEBERY was the '13th' Parliament of Queen VICTORIA? Can anybody reasonably expect good government from a 13th Parliament? It is out of all question." What _persiflage_, what wit!

* * * * *

I sorrow over the new town clock of Dalkey. In my _Freeman's Journal_ I read that, at the monthly meeting of the Dalkey Township Commissioners, a letter was read from Messrs. CHANCELLOR AND SONS, stating that the new town clock could not be made to strike, but they could make a new clock for £100. The letter was marked read--and no wonder. If it can't strike, it had better be wound up, and Dalkey is obviously the place to wind it. Otherwise there seems no reason in the Township's name.

* * * * *

Clevedon is, I believe, in Somerset. Anyone in search of a sensation ought to have gone there last week, for it is stated that "Mr. VICTOR ROSINI'S Spectral Opera Company commenced a week's engagement at the Public Hall on Monday evening." I cannot imagine a spectral _basso_ or _tenore robusto_. And in any case, why should the unfortunate operatic spectres be harried into giving public performances?

* * * * *

MUSICAL HONOURS!!--The friends of Sir HENRY JAMES, Q.C., M.P., will celebrate his being raised to the peerage by serenading with "_The Aylestone Chorus_."

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* * * * *

HER PREVIOUS SWEETHEART.

_Wednesday._--Violet has accepted me, this very day, the happiest of my life. She is the sweetest and prettiest woman in the world. I have loved her long and passionately. She has not loved me long, and she could never love me passionately. She is rather unemotional. Even when I kissed her this afternoon for the first time she was quite calm. She tells me she has once loved, as though she could never love again. Her previous sweetheart was a Captain. I am a mere writer. His name was PERCY PLANTAGENET CHOLMONDELEY. Mine is JONES. I hope that in time she may forget him.

_Thursday._--Meet her in the Row, and sit under the trees. She is fond of horses. So am I, but I do not ride often. She mentions that Captain CHOLMONDELEY was a splendid rider. Listen patiently to what she tells me.

_Friday._--To the Opera with VIOLET and her people. She does not care for GOUNOD'S _Faust_. Prefers a burlesque with comic songs. Says the Captain sang comic songs admirably, with banjo accompaniment. When it's well done, I also like that. Tell her so. This encourages her to further reminiscences. Of course, she is right to conceal nothing from me now we are engaged, but frankness, even engaging frankness, may be carried too far. Manage to change the subject at last, and then unfortunately the Soldier's Chorus reminds her of a parody in an amateur burlesque which Captain CHOLMONDELEY----and so on.

_Saturday._--Meet her at Hurlingham. She is so fond of polo. She says the Captain was a splendid player. I expected that. A sort of Champion of the World. Of course. I never played in my life. Listen to an account of his exploits. Rather bored.

_Sunday._--Up the river. Very hot day. Delightful to lounge in the shade and smoke. VIOLET more energetic. Compels me to exert myself. She says the Captain could do anything in a boat. No doubt. I am prepared to hear that he shot the Falls of Niagara in a punt. He was a wonderful genius. I am tired of hearing of him.

_Monday._--To Mr. MONTGOMERY-MUMBY'S dance. VIOLET there of course. We both like dancing. Get on charmingly together. Suddenly something reminds her of the ever-lamented Captain P. P. C. I suggest that he has said good-bye to her for ever, as his initials show. She does not see the little joke. Have to explain it to her. Then she says it is a very poor joke. No doubt it is, but she needn't tell me so. Annoying. A certain coolness between us.

_Tuesday._--To the French play with VIOLET and her aunt. She understands French very well. Seems to think a lot of me because I know something of several languages. Ask her if Captain CHOLMONDELEY was fond of learning languages. Am prepared to hear that he was a second MEZZOFANTI. On the contrary, it seems that he couldn't speak a word of anything but English, and that he didn't speak very much that was worth hearing even in that. The only French he could understand was in a _menu_. Apparently he never read anything else in any language, except the sporting papers in English. Have at last found something he could not do. Delighted. Unfortunately show this. VIOLET begins to defend him. I say he must have been rather a duffer. She retorts that I can't play polo. What has that to do with it? Again a coolness between us.

_Wednesday._--It is all over! We have parted for ever. She could never forget that confounded Captain. Asked her this morning, when she was telling me of his shooting elephants, or alligators, or rabbits, or sparrows, or something wonderful, why she did not marry him. She says it was broken off. She shows me his last letter of farewell. I read it critically. It is very short. Point out to her nine mistakes in spelling, and four in grammar. She says I am brutal. Indignation. Argument. Scorn. Tears. Farewell.

* * * * *

* * * * *

GREAT WHEEL GOSSIP.

Are you quite sure that it is safe?

Well, there have been all sorts of stories about this sort of thing, but I don't believe it. The PRINCE went, you know.

Oh, yes, of course. Then that's all right. Now we are off. How interesting! We can see the tops of the houses! But what are we waiting for?

Oh, for other passengers to get into the cars. How long does it take?

About three-quarters of an hour. Well, now we are off again.

Why, there is a mist, and we can't see anything.

Oh, yes, we can. Why, that must be either Kensington Gardens, Hyde Park Corner, or Battersea Park.

Don't think there is much in it. And why are we stopping?

People getting in and out. Well, now we have had thirty-five minutes of it, I shall be glad to be home.

Oh, here we are. Now we can get out. Come, that is nice!

No, we can't! _We have missed the landing, and have to go round again._[1]

After two journeys I think the best way of thoroughly enjoying the Wheel is to sit fast, close your eyes, and think of something else!

[1] A fact. July 6. Mr. _Punch's_ Representative was taken round twice--the second time against his will--in company with an indignant shareholder and several impatient, yet sorrowful, passengers, who complained of missing appointments, &c., in consequence of their "extra" turn.]

* * * * *

IN THE EARL'S COURT INDIA.

IN BOMBAY STREET, INDIAN CITY. TIME--ABOUT EIGHT P.M.

_A Matron_ (_to her friend, as they approach the natives at work_). Everything seems for sale here, my dear. _Just_ the place to get a nice wedding-present for dear EMILY. I want to give her _something_ Indian, as she will be going out there so soon. What are they doing in here? oh, glass-blowing!... See, JANE, this one is making glass bangles.... Well, no, EMILY would think it _rather_ shabby if I gave her a pair of those. I might get one apiece for Cook and PHOEBE--servants are always so grateful for any little attention of that sort--though I shouldn't like to encourage a taste for finery; well, it will do very well when we come back.... Perhaps one of those brass dinner-gongs--there's a large one, I see, marked seven-and-sixpence--but I'd rather give her something _quieter_--something she'd value for its _own_ sake.... Now one of those chased silver bowls--twenty-five-and-nine-pence? Well, it seems a little----and though I was always very fond of her mother, EMILY was never----I must _think_ over it.... She might like a set of beetle-wing mats--only they're not likely to entertain much.... How would one of these embroidered tablecloths--eh? oh, I'm sure I've seen them much cheaper at LIBERTY'S; and besides----(_After a prolonged inspection of various articles at various stalls._) After all, I shall be going to Tunbridge Wells next week. I think I'll wait. I might see something there I liked _better_, you know!

_A Wife_ (_to her husband, who is examining the stock of a native shoemaker with interest_). No, CHARLES. I put up with a _great deal_ for the sake of your society of an evening; but if you imagine I am going to have you sitting opposite me with your feet in a pair of slippers separated into two horrid toes, you make a great mistake! Put the dreadful things down and come away.

_Mr. McPairtan_ (_from the North, to his small nephew_). Eh, ROBBIE, my man, I'm thinking your mither wouldna' just approve o' my takkin' ye to sic a perfairmance as yon Burrmese dancing-women.... Nay, nay, laddie, there's deceitfulness eneugh in the naitural man withoot needing to lairn ony mair o't fro' these puir juggling Indian bodies wi' their snake-chairmin' an' sic godless doins!... Ride on the elephant? Havers! Ye can do that fine in the Zooloagical Gairdens.... 'Twould be just sinful extrawvagance in me to be throwing away guid siller wi' so mony bonny sichts to be seen for naething.

_Mr. Gourmay_ (_who is dying for his dinner, to his pretty cousins, who cannot be got past the Indian craftsmen_). Yes, yes, very interesting, and all that; but we can see it just as well if we come back _later_, you know.

_His Cousin Belle._ But they may have stopped by then. I _must_ just see him finish the pattern; it's too _fascinating!_

_Mr. Gourm._ I--er--don't want to _hurry_ you, you know, only, you see, if we don't look sharp, we shan't be in time to secure an outside table at the Restaurant. Much jollier dining in the open air.

_His Cousin Imogen._ Oh, it's too hot to _think_ of food. I'm not in the _least_ hungry--are _you_, Belle?

_Belle._ No; I'd ever so much rather see the Burmese dancers and the Indian conjurors. I don't want to waste the best part of the evening over dinner; we might have some of that nice Indian tea and a piece of cake by-and-by, perhaps, if there's time.

[_Speechless delight of_ Mr. GOURMAY.

_Energetic Leader_ (_to his party, who are faint, but pursuing_). No, there's nothing particular to see here. I tell you what _my_ plan is. We'll go and do the Kinetoscopes and the Phonographs, have a look at the Great Wheel, and some shots at the Rifle Range, cross over and take a turn on the Switchback, finish up with a cold-meat supper at SPIERS AND POND'S, and a stroll round the band-stand, and, by the time we've done, we shall have got a very fair idea of what India's _like!_

_First Relative_ (_to Second_). What's become of Aunt JOANNA? I thought she was going on one of the elephants.

_Second Relative._ She would have it none of 'em looked strong enough for her. And what _do_ you think she goes and does next? Tries to bargain with a black man to take her for a turn on one o' them little bullock-carts! I really hadn't the patience to stop and see what come of it.

_Miss Rashleigh_ (_by the Burmese Cheroot Stall, audibly, to her companion_). Just look at this girl, my dear, with a great cigar in her mouth! Fancy their being New Women in Burmah! And such a _hideous_ creature, too!

_Her Companion._ Take care, my dear, she'll hear you. I expect she understands English.

_Miss Rashleigh_ (_with ready tact and resourcefulness_). Then let's tell her how pretty she is!

IN THE INDIAN JUNGLE.

_Mr. Moul_ (_to_ Mrs. MOUL, _as they halt before a darkened interior representing a coolie sleeping in an Indian hut, which a leopard is stealthily entering_). Ah, now I do call that something _like!_ Lovely! _ain't_ it?

_Mrs. Moul._ It's beautiful. 'Ow ever they can _do_ it all! (_After a pause_.) Why, I do believe there's a _animal_ of some sort up at the further end! Can you see him, SAMSON?

_Mr. Moul._ A animal! where? Ah, I can make out somethink now. (_With pleased surprise._) And look--there's a man layin' down right in front--do you see?

_Mrs. Moul._ Well, I never! so there is! To think o' _that_ now. They _'ave_ got it up nice, I will say that.

[_They pass out, pleased with their own powers of observation._

IN THE INDIAN THEATRE.

_Hindu Magician_ (_as he squats on the stage and takes out serpents from flat baskets_). Here is a sna-ake--no bite--Bombay cobra, verri good cobra. (_Introducing them formally to audience._) Dis beeg cobra, dis smahl cobra. (_One of them erects its hood and strikes at his foot,_ _which he withdraws promptly._) No bite, verri moch nice sna-ake. (_He plays a tune to them; one listens coldly and critically, the others slither rapidly towards the edge of the platform, to the discomposure of spectators in the front row; the_ Magician _recaptures them by the tail at the critical moment, ties them round his neck and arms, and then puts them away, like toys._) Here I have shtone; verri good Inglis shtone. I hold so. (_Closing it in his fist._) Go away, shtone. Go to Chicago, Leeverpool, Hamburg. (_Opening fist._) Shtone no dere. I shut again. (_Opening fist._) One, two, Inglis shillin's. (_Singling out a_ Spectator.) You, Sar, come up here queeck. Comonn!

_The Spectator._ Not me! Not among all them snakes you've got there--don't you think it!

_The Magician and a Tom-tom player_ (_together_). Verri nice sna-akes--no bite. Comonn, help play.

_Angelina_ (_to_ EDWIN, _as the invitation is coyly but firmly declined_). EDWIN, do go up and help the man--to please _me_. And if you find him out in cheating, you can expose him, you know.

[EDWIN _clambers up and stands, smiling feebly, at the_ Magician's _side amidst general applause_.

_The Magician_ (_to_ EDWIN). Sit down, sit down, sit down. Now you count--how menni sillings? Dere is seeks.

_Edwin_ (_determined not to be taken in_). Four, you mean.

_The Magician._ I tell you seeks. Count after me--One, tree, five, seeks. Shtill onli four, you say? Shut dem in your hand--so. Now blow. (EDWIN _puffs at his fist_.) Open your hand, and count. One, two, tree, four, five, seeks, summon, ight, nine, tin, like, vise! Dis Inglisman make money verri moch nice; verri goot Inglisman. Put dem in your hand again, and shut. Hûblo! Now open.

[EDWIN _opens his fist, to discover in it two small and extremely active serpents, which he rejects in startled dismay_.

_Angelina_ (_to herself_). How _nasty_ of EDWIN! He _must_ have felt them inside.

_The Magician_ (_to_ EDWIN). Verri nice sna-akes; but where is my monni? (EDWIN _shakes his head helplessly_.) Ah, dis Inglisman too moch plenti cheat. (_He seizes_ EDWIN'S _nose, from which he extracts a shower of shillings_.) Aha! Verri goot Inglis nose--hold plenty monni!

_Angelina_ (_as_ EDWIN _returns to her in triumph_). No; _please_ turn your head away, EDWIN. I can't _look_ at your nose without thinking of those horrid shillings; and oh, are you _quite_ sure you haven't got any of those horrid snakes up your sleeve? I do _wish_ you hadn't gone!

[_So does_ EDWIN.

_A Serious Old Lady_ (_as the_ Magician _produces from his throat several yards of coloured yarn, a small china doll, about a gross of tenpenny nails, and a couple of eggs_). Clever, my dear? I daresay; but it seems to me a pity that a man who has been given such talents shouldn't turn them to better account!

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ELECTION INTELLIGENCE.