Chapter 1

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOLUME 100.

May 9, 1891.

A FIRST VISIT TO THE "NAVERIES."

"Shiver my timbers!" said the Scribe.

"Haul down my yard-arm with a marling-spike!" cried the Artist.

And with these strictly nautical expressions, two of _Mr. Punch's_ Own entered the Royal Naval Exhibition, which now occupies the larger portion of the grounds of the Military Hospital, Chelsea. That so popular a show should be allowed to occupy so large a site speaks wonders for the amiability of the British Public. When the Sodgeries appeared last year, it was, so to speak, with fear and trembling that "the powers that were" appropriated a little of the ground usually over-run by the Nobility and Gentry of the Pimlico Road and its vicinity; or, rather, by their haughty offspring. This year the tough old sea-dogs of the Admiralty have had no hesitation in taking what they required, apparently without causing comment, much less objection. And the result? In lieu of the dusty arena of 1890, scarcely large enough for a ladies' cricket-match, there appears in 1891 an enclosure containing lakes and lighthouses, panoramas, and full-size models of men-of-war! And the Public take their exclusion philosophically, either paying their shillings at the door, or attempting to get a view of the hoofs of the nautical horses through the gaps in the surrounding hoardings.

The Scribe and the Artist, having been ordered by He Who Must Be Obeyed in the world generally, and at 85, Fleet Street, in particular, to make a sort of preliminary cruise through the wonders of the (Admiralty) Deep, hastened from the inviting grounds into the main building, with its pictures, its plans, and last, but (it is only just to say) least, its pickles. The first object that attracted their favourable attention was a trophy of arms, representing the fashions of the past and the present. On one side were shrapnel and magazine rifles, on the other flint-locks and the ordnance of an age long gone by. Next they passed through the Arctic section, wherein they found dummies drawing a sledge through the canvas snow of a corded-off North Pole. Then they entered the Picture Galleries called after NELSON and BENBOW, wherein magnificent paintings by POWELL, full of smoke and action, served as an appropriate background to the collection of plate, lent by that gallant sailor-warrior and industrious collector of well-considered trifles, H.R.H. the Duke of EDINBURGH. They glanced at the relics of Trafalgar, and then hurried away to the HOWE Gallery, which, containing as it did specimens of the implements used in the game of golf, might have as appropriately been christened the WHEREFORE. Next they skirted a corridor full of plans, and here they discovered that the Committee of the Exhibition must be wags, every Jack Tar of them! This corridor was close to the Dining-rooms, and the Committee (ha! ha! ha!) had called it (he! he! he!) after COOK! (Ho! ho! ho!) Oh, the wit of it! How the Members of the Executive must have nudged one another in the ribs as the quaint idea dawned upon them! And how they must have laughed, too, on the Opening Day, when the Guard of Honour, presenting arms, and the "Greenwich Boys" singing "_Ye Mariners of England_," were drenched in the rain! And what a capital notion it was on that occasion to put "the Representatives of the Fourth Estate" (no doubt called by _them_, with many a sly twinkle of the eye, "the Press Gang") into a pen that soon, thanks to a series of water-spouts, assumed the appearance of a tank!

After leaving the Galleries, the Scribe and the Artist looked up at the model of Eddystone Lighthouse, and entered a shed declared to be an "Arctic Scene." Here they were reminded by the introduced ship of those happy days of their boyhood spent in the toy-shops of the Lowther Arcade. Next they visited the Panorama of Trafalgar, and revelled in the carnage of a sea-fight that only required Margate in the distance to be entirely convincing. They glanced at the arena, and gazed with awe at the lake which is to be devoted to the manoeuvring of miniature ironclads. It will be interesting to note whether these mimic combats will hold their own in the coming season against the introduction of capsized clowns, drenched old women, and comic police. Keeping the best for the last, the Scribe and the Artist now entered the model of the _Victory_--a really admirable exhibition. There they saw before them the old battle-ship with its full equipment, as it was in the days of NELSON--when that deathless hero expected every Englishman (not excluding even those passing the Custom House--as the Committee would say) "to _do_ his duty." To make the illusion complete, the great sea-captain was observed dying in the cook-pit in the agonies of wax. And to think that this work was executed by a firm of house-decorators! Why, who would not, after this, have his back drawing-room converted into the quarter-deck of the _Shannon_, and his spare bed-room into a tiny reproduction of the Battle of Copenhagen!

The Scribe and the Artist, on their visit, were invited by all sorts and conditions of men to partake of champagne. The moment it was discovered that they were "connected with the Press," the offerers of hospitality were absolutely overwhelming. But, obeying the best traditions of their order, they sternly, but courteously, refused all refreshment. It is fortunate they pursued this course, for had they received the entirely disinterested kindness of their would-be hosts, their recollections of the marvels of the Royal Naval Exhibition would no doubt have been of the haziest character imaginable. As it was, they were able to take their departure through the main entrance with some show of dignity, and not in a less imposing manner (as the Committee--_Cook's_ Gallery near the Dining-rooms--ho! ho! ho! ha! ha! ha!--would probably and amusingly suggest), by Tite Street.

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AMONG THE IMMORTALS.

Mr. PUNCH would be failing in his duty to Art and the British Public if he did not place on imperishable record his notes of the exceptionally brilliant Royal Academy Banquet of last Saturday. H.R.H. the Prince of WALES made one of his best and briefest speeches, in which he feelingly alluded to the late Sir EDGAR BOËHM, R.A. Never was the President, Sir FREDERICK, more eloquent, or his themes more varied; for this occasion is noteworthy as being the first time in the history of this great annual representative gathering that the toast of Music and the Drama has been duly honoured. Sir ARTHUR SULLIVAN responded for the first, and HENRY IRVING for the second. Both made excellent speeches. Sir ARTHUR'S solo was most effective; his notes were in his head; he gave us several variations on the original theme, and cleverly played upon one word in saying that music had been "instrumental" on various historical occasions. HENRY IRVING followed suit; he spoke of Mrs. SIDDONS, Sir JOSHUA REYNOLDS, and of a professional gentleman, one ROSCIUS, mentioned, we believe, by _Hamlet_ as having been, some considerable time ago, "a man of parts," that is an Actor, in Rome. It was a great success. Sir FREDERICK then proposed the LORD MAYOR, which may be briefly expressed as "a toast with a Savory to follow." For "The Visitors," Lord Justice BOWEN, catching sight of the President's classical picture (No. 232), made a happy hit about the delights of a honeymoon in the Infernal Regions, ending in the return of Proserpine to her mother Ceres by order of the Court above. Finally, the President, in summing up the losses to Art during the past year, paid a graceful tribute to the memory of CHARLES KEENE, who, but a short while ago, was our fellow-worker on the staff of _Mr. Punch_ With a hopeful allusion to the Storage of Artistic Force in the near future, the President concluded: but this Banquet of 1891 will long live in the recollection of all whose privilege it was to be present on so memorable an occasion.

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MUSICAL NOTES.

I SAY! YSAYE! _Why say?_ Why _not_ say that YSAYE is a grand Yolinist, since he is this; and, as 'ARRY would observe, "No error!" and whoever says the contrary, is not speaking the absolute truth, but "_Ysaye Worsay_." The Yolinist had the advantage of the co-operation of a fine Orchestra, under the Magic Wand of Conductor COWEN.

On the 27th, Heard young JEAN GERARDY, Little boy, but player hardy, Not the slightest Lardy-Dardy, Not yet out of care of "Guardy," Heard him _Lundi_, not on _Mardi_. But, whene'er he plays, your Bardy, Always spry, and never tardy, Will again hear JEAN GERARDY.

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GENERAL SUMMARY OF CARICATURES OF MR. GLADSTONE.--"Collarable Imitations."

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FASHION'S FLORALIA;

OR, THE URBAN QUEEN OF THE MAY.

(_A Song of the Season, a very long way after Herrick_.)

"London town is another affair Since HERRICK wrote his perfect rhymes."

MORTIMER COLLINS.

True, sadly true, shaper of rattling rhymes, London hath changed with process of the times. Aurora now may "throw her faire Fresh-quilted colours through the aire," But our conditions atmospheric Are not as in the days of HERRICK. Nathless the Muse to-day may see Flora at urban revelry. See how the goddess trippeth from the West, Fragrant, though something fashionably drest; The Season waketh at her tread, Art lifteth a long-drooping head; Music doth make a merry din. 'Tis profanation, keeping in, Whenas a hundred Shows upon this day Spring, lightly as the lark to fetch in May.

Rise, Nymph, put on fresh finery, and be seen, To come forth like the Spring-time, fresh and green! And gay as Flora. Art is there, With flowing hyacinthine hair. Fear not, the throng will strew Largess abundant upon _you_, When Burlington's great Opening Day is kept. Gone is thy Grosvenor rival, not unwept; But a New Nymph, with footing light, Trips it beside thee, nor hath night Shadowed sweet "Aquarelle" whose skill, As of a Water-Nymph, is still Well to the fore. Pipe up! playing means paying, When Fashion's Urban Flora goes a-Maying.

Come, my CORINNA, come; and, coming, mark How each street turns a grove, each square a park, Made green and trimmed with trees: see how The pinky hawthorn decks the bough! Each Bond Street porch, or door, ere this Of Art a Tabernacle is; Nor Art alone. With May is interwove Seaweed, which Neptune's favourites love. SWINBURNE should sing in stanzas fleet, How NELSON may, at Chelsea, meet ARMSTRONG! Sound conch-shell! Let's obey Thy Proclamation made for May. Wild marine whiffs from the salt sea are straying, And the brine greets us as we go a-Maying.

There's not a London-Teuton but this day Hath a new welcome for the English May. Germania from her distant home In Flora's train this year doth come. She hath despatched her country's cream Of things, to make the Cockney dream. Neptune and she have wooed and plighted troth, And her we give May-welcome, nothing loth, As many a welcome we have given To France, Spain, Italy! War hath riven Many true hearts, but we're content Of Peace to make experiment. Blow Teuton horn--(not like "_Hernani's_" braying!)-- It makes new music as we go a-Maying!

Come, let us go, while May is in its prime, And make the best of the brief Season's time. HERRICK'S CORINNA might not see An Urban May Queen such as we Behold disport in our rare sun. Rouse, Nymph! The Season is begun! We'll trust no blizzard, and no boreal rain May mar "Our Opening Day." Sound flutes again! Pipe, Sir FREDERICK! Ah, well played! Tootle thy new strains, fair Maid. Blow, oh Briny One, with might! Teuton BRUNEHILD, glad our sight! Fashion's Floralia, Nymph, invite our straying; Come, my CORINNA, come; let's go a-Maying!

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THE HUMOUR O'T!

(_Namely of Parliament, as seen through Harry Furniss's fancy._)

AIR--"_The Wooing o't._"

LIKA JOKO makes us laugh, Ha! ha! the humour o't! With caricature and caustic chaff; He! he! the humour o't! Parliament strikes some as slow, LIKA JOKO deems not so; Visit _his_ St. Stephen's Show! Humph! humph! the humour o't!

GLADSTONE stern and GLADSTONE staid, Ha! ha! the humour o't! GLADSTONE in war-paint arrayed, He! he! the humour o't! GLADSTONE "Out" and GLADSTONE "In," GLADSTONE with colossal chin, Giant collars plunged within, Humph! humph! the humour o't!

SMITH with bland perennial smile, Ha! ha! the humour o't! BALFOUR, pet of the Green Isle, He! he! the humour o't! HARCOURT, big as Babel's tower, GOSCHEN, with myopic glower, JOSEPH of the orchid-flower. Humph! humph! the humour o't!

How they muster, how they "tell," Ha! ha! the humour o't! Woes of the Division Bell, He! he! the humour o't! _All_--from Prayers to "Who goes Home?" O'er St. Stephens you may roam; LIKA JOKO bids you. Come! Humph! humph! the humour o't!

LIKA JOKO is a wag, Ha! ha! the humour o't! All the tricks are in his bag, He! he! the humour o't! He can mimic, he can mime, Draw, and act, and--what is prime-- _Keep you laughing all the time._ Humph! humph! the humour o't!

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Why doesn't some Musical Photographic Artist of Scotch Nationality compose a March for his fellow Professors and Practisers, and call it "_The March of the Camera Men_"? Sure to be popular.

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AN UN-"COMMON" GOOD HORSE.--The Winner of this Year's Two Thousand.

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MR. PUNCH'S POCKET IBSEN.

(_Condensed and Revised Version by Mr. P.'s Own Harmless Ibsenite._)

No. III.--HEDDA GABLER.

ACT. III.

SCENE.--_The same Room, but--it being evening--darker than ever--The crape curtains are drawn. A Servant, with black ribbons in her cap, and red eyes, comes in and lights the gas quietly and carefully. Chords are heard on the piano in the back Drawing-room. Presently_ HEDDA _comes in and looks out into the darkness. A short pause. Enter_ GEORGE TESMAN.

_George_. I am _so_ uneasy about poor LÖVBORG. Fancy! he is not at home. Mrs. ELVSTED told me he had been here early this morning, so I suppose you gave him back his manuscript, eh?

_Hedda_ (_cold and immovable, supported by arm-chair_). No, I put it on the fire instead.

_George_. On the fire! LÖVBORG'S wonderful new book that he read to me at BRACK'S party, when we had that wild revelry last night! Fancy _that!_ But, I say, HEDDA--isn't that _rather_--eh? _Too_ bad, you know--really. A great work like that. How on earth did you come to think of it?

_Hedda_ (_suppressing an almost imperceptible smile_). Well, dear GEORGE, you gave me a tolerably strong hint.

_George_. Me? Well, to be sure--that _is_ a joke! Why, I only said that I envied him for writing such a book, and it would put me entirely in the shade if it came out, and if anything was to happen to it, I should never forgive myself, as poor LÖVBORG couldn't write it all over again, and so we must take the greatest care of it! And then I left it on a chair and went away--that was all! And you went and burnt the book all up! Bless me, who _would_ have expected it?

_Hedda_. Nobody, you dear simple old soul! But I did it for your sake--it was _love_, GEORGE!

_George_ (_in an outburst between doubt and joy_). HEDDA, you don't mean that! Your love takes such queer forms sometimes, Yes, but yes--(_laughing in excess of joy_), why, you _must_ be fond of me! Just think of that now! Well, you _are_ fun, HEDDA! Look here, I must just run and tell the housemaid that--she will enjoy the joke so, eh?

_Hedda_ (_coldly, in self-command_). It is surely not necessary, even for a clever Norwegian man of letters in a realistic social drama, to make quite such a fool of himself as all that?

_George_. No, that's true too. Perhaps we'd better keep it quiet--though I _must_ tell Aunt JULIE--it will make her so happy to hear that you burnt a manuscript on my account! And, besides, I should like to ask her whether that's a usual thing with young wives. (_Looks uneasy and pensive again._) But poor old EJLERT'S manuscript! Oh Lor, you know! Well, well! [Mrs. ELVSTED _comes in_.

_Mrs. E._ Oh, please, I'm so uneasy about dear Mr. LÖVBORG. Something has happened to him, I'm sure!

_Judge Brack_ (_comes in from the hall, with a new hat in his hand_). You have guessed it, first time. Something _has!_

_Mrs. E._ Oh, dear, good gracious! What is it? Something distressing, I'm certain of it! [_d._

_Brack_ (_pleasantly_). That depends on how one takes it. He has shot himself, and is in a hospital now, that's all!

_George_ (_sympathetically_). That's sad, eh? poor old LÖVBORG! Well, I _am_ cut up to hear that. Fancy, though, eh?

_Hedda_. Was it through the temple, or through the breast? The breast? Well, one can do it beautifully through the breast, too. Do you know, as an advanced woman, I like an act of that sort--it's so positive, to have the courage to settle the account with himself--it's beautiful, really!

_Mrs. E._ Oh, HEDDA, what an odd way to look at it! But never mind poor dear Mr. LÖVBORG now. What _we've_ got to do is to see if we can't put his wonderful manuscript, that he said he had torn to pieces, together again. (_Takes a bundle of small pages out of the pocket of her mantle._) There are the loose scraps he dictated it to me from. I hid them on the chance of some such emergency. And if dear Mr. TESMAN and I were to put our heads together, I _do_ think something might come of it.

_George_. Fancy! I will dedicate my life--or all I can spare of it--to the task. I seem to feel I owe him some slight amends, perhaps. No use crying over spilt milk, eh, Mrs. ELVSTED? We'll sit down--just you and I--in the back drawing-room, and see if you can't inspire me as you did him, eh?

_Mrs. E._ Oh, goodness, yes! I should like it--if it only might be possible!

[GEORGE _and_ Mrs. E. _go into the back Drawing-room and become absorbed in eager conversation_; HEDDA _sits in a chair in the front room, and a little later_ BRACK _crosses over to her._

_Hedda_ (_in a low tone_). Oh, Judge, _what_ a relief to know that everything--including LÖVBORG'S pistol--went off so well! In the breast! Isn't there a veil of unintentional beauty in that? Such an act of voluntary courage, too!

_Brack_ (_smiles_). Hm!--perhaps, dear Mrs. HEDDA--

_Hedda_ (_enthusiastically_). But _wasn't_ it sweet of him! To have the courage to live his own life after his own fashion--to break away from the banquet of life--_so_ early and _so_ drunk! A beautiful act like that _does_ appeal to a superior woman's imagination!

_Brack_. Sorry to shatter your poetical illusions, little Mrs. HEDDA, but, as a matter of fact, our lamented friend met his end under other circumstances. The shot did _not_ strike him in the _breast_--but-- [_Pauses._

_Hedda_ (_excitedly_). General GABLER'S pistols! I might have known it! Did they _ever_ shoot straight? Where _was_ he hit, then?

_Brack_ (_in a discreet undertone_). A little lower down!

_Hedda_. Oh, _how_ disgusting!--how vulgar!--how ridiculous!--like everything else about me!

_Brack_. Yes, we're realistic types of human nature, and all that--but a trifle squalid, perhaps. And why did you give LÖVBORG your pistol, when it was certain to be traced by the police? For a charming cold-blooded woman with a clear head and no scruples, wasn't it just a leetle foolish?

_Hedda_. Perhaps; but I wanted him to do it beautifully, and he didn't! Oh, I've just admitted that I _did_ give him the pistol--how annoyingly unwise of me! Now I'm in _your_ power, I suppose?

_Brack_. Precisely--for some reason it's not easy to understand. But it's inevitable, and you know how you dread anything approaching scandal. All your past proceedings show that. (_To_ GEORGE _and_ Mrs. E., _who come in together from the back-room._) Well, how are you getting on with the reconstruction of poor LÖVBORG'S great work, eh?

_George_. Capitally; we've made out the first two parts already. And really, HEDDA, I do believe Mrs. ELVSTED _is_ inspiring me; I begin to feel it coming on. Fancy that!

_Mrs. E._ Yes, goodness! HEDDA, _won't_ it be lovely if I can. I mean to try _so_ hard!

_Hedda_. Do, you dear little silly rabbit; and while you are trying I will go into the back drawing-room and lie down.

[_She goes into the back-room and draws the curtains. Short pause. Suddenly she is heard playing_ "The Bogie Man" _within on the piano._

_George_. But, dearest HEDDA, don't play "_The Bogie Man_" this evening. As one of my aunts is dead, and poor old LÖVBORG has shot himself, it seems just a little pointed, eh?

_Hedda_ (_puts her head out between the curtains_). All right! I'll be quiet after this. I'm going to practise with the late General GABLER'S pistol!

[_Closes the curtains again_; GEORGE _gets behind the stove_, Judge BRACK _under the table, and_ Mrs. ELVSTED _under the sofa. A shot is heard within._

_George_ (_behind the stove_). Eh, look here, I tell you what--she's hit _me!_ Think of that!

[_His legs are visibly agitated for a short time. Another shot is heard._

_Mrs. E._ (_under the sofa_). Oh, please, not me! Oh, goodness, now I can't inspire anybody any more. Oh!

[_Her feet, which can be seen under the valance, quiver a little, and then are suddenly still._

_Brack_ (_vivaciously, from under the table_). I say, Mrs. HEDDA, I'm coming in every evening--we will have great fun here togeth-- (_Another shot is heard._) Bless me! to bring down the poor old cock-of-the-walk--it's unsportsmanlike!--it's--.

[_The table-cloth is violently agitated for a minute, and presently the curtains open, and_ HEDDA _appears._

_Hedda_ (_clearly and firmly_). I've been trying in there to shoot myself beautifully--but with General GABLER'S pistol--(_She lifts the tablecloth, then looks behind the stove and under the sofa._) What! the accounts of all those everlasting bores settled? Then my suicide becomes unnecessary. Yes, I feel the courage of life once more!

[_She goes into the back-room and plays_ "The Funeral March of a Marionette" _as the Curtain falls._

THE END (_with the usual apologies_).

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OPERATIC NOTES.