Chapter 1

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 100.

January 31, 1891.

VOCES POPULI.

A ROW IN THE PIT; OR, THE OBSTRUCTIVE HAT.

SCENE--_The Pit during Pantomime Time._

_The Overture is beginning._

_An Over-heated Matron_ (_to her Husband_). Well, they don't give you much _room_ in 'ere, I _must_ say. Still, we done better than I expected, after all that crushing. I thought my ribs was gone once--but it was on'y the umbrella's. You pretty comfortable where you are, eh. Father?

_Father_. Oh, I'm right enough, I am.

_Jimmy_ (_their Son; a small boy, with a piping voice_). If _Father_ is, it's more nor what _I_ am. I can't see, Mother, I can't!

_His Mother_. Lor' bless the boy! there ain't nothen to _see_ yet; you'll see well enough when the Curting goes up. (_Curtain rises on opening scene_). Look, JIMMY, ain't _that_ nice, now? All them himps dancin' round, and real fire comin' out of the pot--which I 'ope it's quite safe--and there's a beautiful fairy just come on, dressed so grand, too!

_Jimmy_. I can't see no fairy--nor yet no himps--no nothen! [_He whimpers_.

_His Mother_ (_annoyed_). Was there ever such a aggravating boy to take anywheres! Set quiet, do, and don't fidget, and look at the hactin'!

_Jimmy_. I tell yer I can't _see_ no hactin', Mother. It ain't my fault--it's this lady in front o' me, with the 'at.

_Mother_ (_perceiving the justice of his complaints_). Father, the pore boy says he can't see where he is, 'cause of a lady's hat in front.

_Father._ Well, _I_ can't 'elp the 'at, can I? He must put up with it, that's all!

_Mother._ No--but I thought, if you wouldn't mind changing places with him--you're taller than him, and it wouldn't be in your way 'arf so much.

_Father._ It's always the way with you--never satisfied, _you_ ain't! Well, pass the boy across--I'm for a quiet life, I am. (_Changing seats._) Will _this_ do for you?

[_He settles down immediately behind a very large, and furry, and feathery hat, which he dodges for some time, with the result of obtaining an occasional glimpse of a pair of legs on the stage._

_Father_ (_suddenly_). D---- the 'at!

_Mother._ You can't wonder at the _boy_ not seeing! P'raps the lady wouldn't might taking it off, if you asked her?

_Father._ Ah! (_He touches_ The Owner of the Hat _on the shoulder._) Excuse me, Mum, but might I take the liberty of asking you to kindly remove your 'at? [The Owner of the Hat _deigns no reply._

_Father_ (_more insistently_). _Would_ you 'ave any objection to oblige me by taking off your 'at, Mum? (_Same result._) I don't know if you _'eard_ me, Mum, but I've asked you twice, civil enough, to take that 'at of yours off. I'm a playin' 'Ide and Seek be'ind it 'ere!

[_No answer._

_The Mother._ People didn't ought to be allowed in the Pit with sech 'ats! Callin' 'erself a lady--and settin' there in a great 'at and feathers like a 'Ighlander's, and never answering no more nor a stuffed himage!

_Father_ (_to the Husband of The Owner of the Hat_). Will you tell your good lady to take her 'at off, Sir, please?

_The Owner of the Hat_ (_to her Husband_). Don't you do nothing of the sort, SAM, or you'll _'ear_ of it!

_The Mother._ Some people are perlite, I must say. Parties might _beyave_ as ladies when they come in the Pit! It's a pity her 'usband can't teach her better manners!

_The Father._ _'Im_ teach her! 'E knows better. 'E's got a Tartar there, _'e_ 'as!

_The Owner of the Hat._ SAM, are you going to set by and hear me insulted like this?

_Her Husband_ (_turning round tremulously_). I--I'll trouble you to drop making these personal allusions to my wife's 'at, Sir. It's puffickly impossible to listen to what's going on on the stage, with all these remarks be'ind!

_The Father._ Not more nor it is to _see_ what's going on on the stage with that 'at in front! I paid 'arf-a-crown to see the Pantermime, I did; not to 'ave a view of your wife's 'at!... 'Ere, MARIA, blowed if I can stand this 'ere game any longer. JIMMY must change places again, and if he can't see, he must stand up on the seat, that's all!

[_JIMMY is transferred to his original place, and mounts upon the seat._

_A Pittite behind Jimmy_ (_touching up JIMMY's Father with an umbrella_). Will you tell your little boy to set down, please, and not block the view like this?

_Jimmy's Father_. If you can indooce that lady in front to take off her 'at, I will--but not before. Stay where you are, JIMMY, my boy.

_The Pittite behind._ Well, I must stand myself then, that's all. I mean to see, _somehow_! [_He rises._

_People behind him_ (_sternly_). Set down there, will yer?

[_He resumes his seat expostulating._

_Jimmy_. Father, the gentleman behind is a pinching of my legs!

_Jimmy's Father._ Will you stop pinching my little boy's legs! He ain't doing you no 'arm--is he?

_The Pinching Pittite_. Let him sit down, then!

_Jimmy's Father._ Let the lady take her 'at off!

_Murmurs behind._ Order, there! Set down! Put that boy down! Take orf that 'at! Silence in front, there! Turn 'em out! Shame!... &c., &c.

_The Husband of the O. of the H._ (_in a whisper to his Wife_). Take off the blessed 'at, and have done with it, do!

_The O. of the H._ What--_now_? I'd sooner _die_ in the 'at!

[_An Attendant is called._

_The Attendant._ Order, there, Gentlemen, please--unless you want to get turned out! No standing allowed on the seats--you're disturbing the performance 'ere, you know!

[_JIMMY is made to sit down, and weeps silently; the hubbub gradually subsides--and The Owner of the Hat triumphs--for the moment._

_Jimmy's Mother._ Never mind, my boy, you shall have Mother's seat in a minute. I dessay, if all was known, the lady 'as reasons for keeping her 'at on, pore thing!

_The Father._ Ah, I never thought o' that. So she may. Very likely her 'at won't _come_ off--not without her _'air!_

_The Mother._ Ah, well, we musn't be 'ard on her, if that's so.

_The O. of the H._ (_removing the obstruction_). I 'ope you're satisfied _now_, I'm sure?

_The Father_ (_handsomely_). Better late nor never, Mum, and we take it kind of you. Though, why you shouldn't ha' done it at fust, I dunno; for you look a deal 'ansomer without the 'at than, what you did in it--_don't_ she, MARIA?

_The O. of the H._ (_mollified_). SAM, ask the gentleman behind if his boy would like a ginger-nut.

[_This olive-branch is accepted; compliments pass; cordiality is restored, and the Pantomime proceeds without further disturbance._

* * * * *

SOMETHING LIKE A SUBSCRIPTION!

(_A PAGE FROM THE BOOK OF PHILANTHROPY._)

The Committee waited impatiently the arrival of the Great and Good Man. It was their duty to obtain a donation--an ample one--from the Millionnaire whose charity was renowned far and wide, from one end of the world to the other. At length he appeared before them.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, with a smile that absolutely shone with benevolence.

"You know, Sir, that the claims of the poor in the Winter are numerous, and difficult to meet?"

"Certainly I do," returned the Man of Wealth, "and hope that you are about to ask me for a subscription."

"Indeed we were," cried the spokesman of the Committee, his eyes filling with grateful tears. "May I put you down for five pounds?"

"Five pounds!" echoed the Millionnaire, impatiently, "What is five pounds?--_five thousand_ is much more like the figure! Now, I will give you five thousand pounds on one condition."

"Name it!" cried the Deputation in a breath.

"The simplest thing in the world," continued the Millionnaire. "I will give you five thousand pounds on the condition that you get ninety-nine other fellows to do the same. Nay, you shall thank me when all is collected. I can wait till then."

* * * * *

The above words were spoken more than thirty years ago. Since then the Deputation have been waiting for the other fellows--and so has the Millionnaire!

* * * * *

PROFESSOR V. PROFESSOR.

PROFESSOR VIRCHOW seems by no means Koch-sure about the _tuberculosis_ remedy. Indeed Professor KOCH finds that there is not only "much virtue in an 'if,'" but much "if" in a VIRCHOW! He is inclined to sing with SWINBURNE:--

"Come down, and redeem us from VIRCHOW."

* * * * *

THE FRIEND OF IRELAND AND THE WORDY KNIFE-GRINDER.

(_IMITATION SAPPHICS SOME WAY AFTER CANNING AND FRERE._)

_Friend of Ireland_:--

"Wordy Knife-Grinder! Whither are you going? Dark is your way--your wheel looks out of order-- Mitchelstown palls, and there seems no more spell in O'BRIEN's breeches!

"Wordy Knife-Grinder, little think the proud ones, Who in their speeches prate about their Union- Ism, what hard work 'tis to keep a Party Tightly together!

"Tell me, Knife-Grinder, what _your_ little game is. Do you mean playing straight with me and others? Or would you jocky Erin like a confounded Saxon attorney?

"Give us a glimpse of that same Memorandum! Pledge yourself clear to what needs no explaining! Prove that your plan is not quite a sham, sly-whittled Down into nullity!

"Ere I depart (if go I must, TIM HEALY) Give me a pledge that I'm not sold for nothing. Tell us in plain round words, without evasion, the _True_ Hawarden story."

_Knife-Grinder_.

"Story! God bless yer! I have none to tell, Sir! _Never_ tell stories, I; 'tis my sole business This Wheel to turn with treadle and cry, 'Knives and Scissors to grind O!'

"Constabulary? Question of Land Purchase? Number of Irish Members due in justice? Never said aught about 'em; don't intend to-- Not for the present.

"I shall be glad to do what honour urgeth; Grind on alone, if you will give me _carte-blanche_, Make room for JUSTIN, and forbear to meddle With politics, Sir!"

_Friend of Ireland_.

"_I_ give thee _carte-blanche?_ I will see thee blowed first-- Fraud! whom no frank appeal can move to frankness-- Sophist, evasive, garrulous, word-web-spinning Subtle Old Spider!!!"

[_Kicks the Knife-Grinder, overturns his Wheel, and exit in a fury of patriotic enthusiasm and forcible language._

* * * * *

CAPITAL AND LABOUR FORECAST;

_OR, SIX OF ONE AND HALF-A-DOZEN OF THE OTHER._

Though in some quarters a better feeling was reported to have prevailed, still, according to latest accounts, the outlook can scarcely be regarded as satisfactory. A meeting of the Amalgamated Engineering Tram-Drivers' Mutual Stand-Shoulder-to-Shoulder Strangulation Society was held on Glasgow Green yesterday afternoon, at which, amid a good deal of boisterous interruption, several delegates addressed the assembled audience and recounted their recent experiences up to date. There were still 1700 of the Company's old hands out of work, and though, thanks to the profound enthusiasm, "their just cause" had excited amidst the Trade Societies in the South, by which, owing to subscriptions from no less important bodies than the Bootmakers' Benevolent Grandmothers' Association, and Superannuated Undertakers' Orphan Society, they had been able to stay out and defy the Company, receiving all the while, every man of them, a stipend of 3s. 9d. a-week, still they had almost come to the end of their resources, and all that they had in hand towards next week's fund for distribution, was £1 13s. 7-1/2d., received in coppers from the Deputy-Chairman of the Metropolitan Boys' Boot-blacking Brigade, accompanied with an intimation that that help must be regarded as the last that can be counted on from that quarter. Under these circumstances it became a question whether it was not almost time to consider some terms of compromise.

In the above sense one of the speakers addressed the meeting, but he was speedily followed by another, who insisted that, "come what might," they would stick to their latest terms, which were, a three-hours' day--(_loud cheers_)--and time-and-three-quarters for any work expected after three o'clock in the afternoon. (_Prolonged cheering_.)

A Delegate here rose, and said it was all very well their cheering, but could they get it? (_A Voice, "We'll try!"_) For his part, the speaker continued, he had had enough of trying. With wife and children starving at home, he had only one course open to him, and that was, to knock under to the Company and their ten-hours' day, if they would have him. (_Groans, amid which the Speaker had his hat knocked over his eyes, and was kicked out of the assembly_.)

The discussion was then continued, much in the same vein, and eventually culminated in a free fight, in which the Chairman got his head broken, on declaring that a Motion further limiting the working day to two hours and a half, was lost by a narrow majority.

Yesterday afternoon the Directors' Mutual Anti-Labour Protection Company met at their Central Offices for the despatch of their usual business. The ordinary Report was read, which announced that though the affairs of three great Railway Companies had "gone" literally "to the dogs," still, the Directors of each had to be congratulated on showing a firm front, in refusing to acknowledge even the existence of their _employés_. The usual congratulatory Motions were put, _pro formâ_, and passed, and, amid a general manifestation of gloomy satisfaction, the meeting was further adjourned.

* * * * *

"A SALVAGE MAN."

Rudyard Kipling has hit on a picturesque plan; He describes in strong language "the savage in Man." Whilst amongst the conventions he raids and he ravages. We'd like just a leetle more "Man" in his savages.

* * * * *

* * * * *

FROM OUR MUSICAL BOX.

We sent our Musical Box (Cox being unable to accompany him on the piano or any other instrument, by reason of the severe weather) to hear STAVENHAGEN at St. James's Hall, Thursday last, the 22nd. Our Musical B. was nearly turned out of the hall, he was in such ecstasies of delight over a Beethovenly _concerto_, which "bangs Banagher," he said, subsequently translating the expression by explaining, "that is, beats BEETHOVEN." Our M.B. wept over a _cadenza_ composed by the performer, and was only restored by the appearance--her first--of Madame STAVENHAGEN, who gave somebody's grand _scena_ far better, probably, than that somebody could have given it himself, set as it was to fine descriptive music by the clever STAVENHAGEN, which delighted all hearers, especially those who were Liszt-eners. "Altogether," writes our Musical Box, "a very big success. Music is thirsty work. I am now about to do a symphony in B. and S."

* * * * *

VICE VERSÂ.

A poet in the _Forum_ asks the question, "Is Verse in Danger?" 'Tis a wild suggestion! Is Verse in Danger? Nay, _that_'s not the curse; Danger (of utter boredom) is in Verse!

* * * * *

"ODD MAN OUT."--On Saturday last, the last among the theatrical advertisements in the _Daily Telegraph_ was the mysterious one, "MR. CHARLES SUGDEN AT LIBERTY," and then followed his address. "At Liberty!" What does it mean? Has he been--it is a little difficult to choose the right word, but let us say immured--has he been immured in some cell?--for it does sound like a "sell" of another sort--and has he at last effected a sensational escape? No doubt CHARLES, our friend, will be able to offer the public a satisfactory explanation when he re-appears on the Stage which suffers from his absence.

* * * * *

PLAYING OLD GOOSEBERRY AT THE HAYMARKET;

_OR, THE DOOK, THE DANCING GIRL, AND THE LITTLE LAME DUCK._

What is to be admired in ENERY HAUTHOR JONES is not so much his work but his pluck,--for has he not, in the first place, overcome the prudery of the Lord Chamberlain's Licensing Department, and, in the second place, has he not introduced on the boards of the Haymarket a good old-fashioned Melodrama, brought "up to date," and disguised in a Comedy wrapper? Walk in, Ladies and Gentlemen, and see _The Dancing Girl_, a Comedy-Drama shall we call it, or, generically, a Play? wherein the prominent figures are a wicked Duke,--_vice_ the "wicked Baronet," now shelved, as nothing under the ducal rank will suit us nowadays, bless you!--a Provincial Puritan family, an honest bumpkin lover, a devil of a dancing woman who lives a double-shuffling sort of life, an angel of a lame girl,--who, of course, can't cut capers but goes in for coronets,--a sly, unprincipled, and calculating kind of angel she is too, but an audience that loves Melodrama is above indulging in uncharitable analysis of motive,--a town swell in the country, a more or less unscrupulous land-agent, and a genuine, honest "heavy father," of the ancient type, with a good old-fashioned melodramatic father's curse ready at the right moment, the last relic of a bygone period of the transpontine Melodrama, which will bring tears to the eyes of many an elderly playgoer on hearing the old familiar formula, in the old familiar situation, reproduced on the stage of the modern Haymarket as if through the medium of a phonophone.

At all events, _Drusilla Ives, alias_ "the Dancing Girl "--though as to where she dances, how she dances, and when she dances, we are left pretty well in the dark, as she only gives so slight a taste of her quality that it seemed like a very amateurish imitation of Miss KATE VAUGHAN in her best day,--_Drusilla Ives_ is the mistress, neither pure nor simple, of the _Duke of Guisebury_,--a title which is evidently artfully intended by the, at present, "Only JONES" to be a compound of the French "Guise" and the English "Bury,"--who from his way of going on and playing old gooseberry with his property, might have been thus styled with advantage: and so henceforth let us think and speak of him as His Grace or His Disgrace the Duke of Gooseberry.

This Duke of Gooseberry visits, "quite unbeknown,"--being, for this occasion only, the Duke of Disguisebury,--his own property, the Island of St. Endellion, just to see, we suppose, what sort of people the Quaker family may be from which his mistress, the Dancing Quakeress (and how funny she used to be at the Music Halls and at the Gaiety!), has sprung. For some reason or other, the Dancing Quakeress has gone to stay a few weeks with her family in the country, and while this hypocritical Daughter of HERODIAS is with her Quaker belongings at prayers in the Meeting House, the spirit moveth her to come out, and to come out uncommonly strong, as, within a yard or so of the building, she laughs and talks loudly with Gooseberry, and then in a light-hearted way she treats the Dook to some amateur imitations of ELLEN TERRY, finishing up with a reminiscence of KATE VAUGHAN; all of which _al fresco_ entertainment is given for the benefit of the aforesaid Gooseberry within sound of the sermon and within sight of the Meeting House windows. Suddenly her rustic Quaker lover, a kind of _Ham Peggotty_, lounges out of the Conventicle, which, as these persons seem to leave and enter just when it suits them, ought rather to be called a Chapel-of-Ease,--and, like the clown that he is, says in effect, "I'm a-looking at yer! I've caught yer at it!" Dismay of Dook and Dancer!! then Curtain on a most emphatically effective situation.

The Second Act is far away the best of the lot, damaged, however, by vain repetitions of words and actions. To the house where Miss Dancing Girl is openly living under the protection of Gooseberry, the Duke's worthy Steward actually brings his virtuous and ingenuous young daughter! If ever there were a pair of artful, contriving, scheming humbugs, it is this worthy couple. Because the Duke saved her from being run over by his own horses, therefore she considers herself at liberty to limp after him, and round him, and about him, on every possible occasion, to say sharp, priggish things to him, to make love to him, and in the Third Act so craftily to manage as to spot him just as he is about to drink off a phial of poison, which operation, being preceded by a soliloquy of strong theatrical flavour and considerable length, gives the lame girl a fair chance of hobbling down the stairs and arresting the thus "spotted Nobleman's" arm at the critical moment. Curtain, and a really fine dramatic situation. "Which nobody can deny."

It is in this same Third Act that the fine old crusted melodramatic curse is uncorked, and a good imperial quart of wrath is poured out on his dancing daughter's head by the heavy father, who, in his country suit, forces his way into the gilded halls of the Duke's mansion, past the flunkeys, the head butler, and all the rest of the usual pampered menials. An audience that can accept this old-fashioned cheap-novel kind of clap-trap, and witness, without surprise, the marvellous departure of all the guests, supperless, for no assigned cause, or explicable reason, not even an alarm of fire having been given, will swallow a considerable amount.

The Fourth Act is an anticlimax, and shows up the faulty construction of the drama. Of course the news comes that the Dancing Girl is dead, and this information is brought by a Sainte Nitouche of a "Sister" of some Theatrical Order (not admitted after half-past seven), whose very appearance is a _suggestio falsi_. Equally, of course, a letter is found, which, as exculpating Gooseberry, induces the old cuss of a Puritan father to shake hands with the converted "Spotted Nobleman"; but, be it remembered, the Dook is still his landlord, and the value of the property is going up considerably. Then it appears that the old humbug of an agent has sagaciously speculated in the improvement of the island, and poor Gooseberry feels under such an obligation to that sly puss of an agent's daughter, that, in a melancholy sort of way, he offers her his hand, which she, the artful little hussy of a _Becky Sharp_, with considerable affectation of coyness, accepts, and down goes the Curtain upon as unsatisfactory and commonplace a termination to a good Melodrama as any Philistine of the Philistines could possibly wish. It would have been a human tragedy indeed had poor Gooseberry poisoned himself, and the girl whose life he had saved had arrived just too late, only to die of a broken heart. But that "is quite another story."