Chapter 1

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 101.

December 5, 1891.

QUITE FABULOUS!

(_A STORY OF THE TIMES, DEDICATED TO PROFESSOR MUNRO._)

KING COLE, although described as a "merry old soul," was in reality a tyrant. He had a number of subjects who used to work underground, and their labour was to bring to the surface the black diamonds of the earth. It was not altogether a pleasant occupation, but still, the task had to be accomplished. His Majesty was fond of ferocious practical jokes, and perchance this may have been the origin of the jocular description attached to his name. One day, some of his subjects complained that their hours of labour were too many.

"How long do you work?" asked the King.

"May it please you, Sire, sixteen," was the reply.

"Try what you can do with twelve," and they were about to depart rejoicing, when the Monarch called them back and added, "But mind you, I shall expect just as many black diamonds to be unearthed as before."

So the King's subjects worked only twelve hours, and strange to say, quite as many black diamonds were produced as in the olden days. Then the workmen began to grumble once more, and the King again interviewed them.

"Do you still work twelve hours?" he asked the deputation.

"Certainly, Your Majesty; but we think half would be quite enough," returned the spokesman.

"By all means--why not make it three hours?" and again his subjects were departing, rejoicing, when once more he added, "But I shall expect just the same output as before."

And he got it, for the men worked harder than ever. And then they came yet again to him. Once more they considered the hours of labour excessive. They thought sixty minutes plenty.

"So do I," replied the Monarch, "not only plenty, but too many. But as it is scarcely worth while employing you only half an hour a day, I shall make other arrangements."

And from that time forth he brought up his black diamonds from the centre of the earth by machinery!

* * * * *

NOT "HALF A CHAP."--A well-known Clergyman, who "does nothing by halves." i.e., Dean HOLE.

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* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

In the Christmas Numbers of the numerous picture-papers it is at first rather difficult to discover which is the genuine article illustrated, and which the advertisement, likewise illustrated. In the outside picture of the Christmas Number of _The Penny Illustrated Paper_, which represents a couple dancing together, I am not yet quite sure that the handsome Hebraic gentleman, dancing with a fair Anglo-Saxon girl, is not assuring his frightened-looking partner that "Epps's Cocoa is Grateful--Comforting," as stated in the paragraph immediately beneath the aforesaid picture. On the next page is a sad illustration entitled, "The Curse of Revenge. Lost to Human Aid." which turns out to be not a Christmas story at all, but an advertisement for Fruit Salt. Then opposite this commences a story by GEORGE R. SIMS; and at the foot of this page some one replies, "Mr. DOOLAN! There's no one of that name here now, Sir." Whereupon, being interested, the reader turns over page 1 to find at the head of page 2, not the continuation of the above interesting story in the shape of some remark on the part of the inquirer, nor any account of what happened after this reply had been given, but simply "Benson's Watches" followed by "Fry's Chocolate," then a picture (not an advertisement) facing that, and then on page 4 the remainder of the dialogue. It doesn't much matter perhaps, as the excitement aroused by the story is not violent, and the mistake of giving somebody else's card for your own does not occur here for the first time as the motive of a plot. CUTHBERT BEDE's name is to a "Christmas Carol," and Mr. JOHN LATEY's to a dramatically told tale called "Mark Temple's Trial," in which the imaginary heroine pays a visit to a very real person of the name of Madame KATTI LANNER, whose pupils are represented as all assembled, with bouquets and posies, to do honour to the birthday of their "well-loved mistress," who is at the same time, "the acknowledged mistress of the choreographic art." In this story, the author is to be complimented on his invention of the name, "Lord Morgagemore" as an ancient looking and highly aristocratic Irish title.

"Up to any game at Christmas, if it's not too high," says the Baron of Hampershire, who detests all game that is lofty, but is glad to welcome a Shakspearian Revival by MYERS & Co. in the shape of a _Nine Men's Morris_, a title the Baron recommends to the notice of Mr. WILLIAM MORRIS, yclept "BILLY," when he is making another bouquet of poesies. By the way, BIM BROS.' Almanac Cards, one of the Baron's Lady Helps describes as "decidedly dainty." Christmas is specially a card-playing season, a time of _Pax_ to everybody.

From the _Gordon Stables_ of HUTCHINSON & Co. issues the nightmare tale of _The Cruise in the Crystal Boat_; when finished, try their _Family Difficulty_, by SARAH DOUDNEY. Send to the Deanery of DEAN AND SON, ask for _Baby's Biography_ and _The Little One's Own Beehive_. The Spindleside department of the Baron's Booking-Office recommends both the above for the Tiny Trots; while the Spearside tells the boys to go in for MANVILLE FENN's _Burr Junior_ and Mrs. R. LEE's _Adventures in Australia_. Then for all-comers, procure BEATRICE HARRADEN's _New Book of Fairies_, for, our "Co." thus puts it, "This is all concerning those poor little Fairies, about whom no one takes any trouble, and who are left out in the cold at Christmas time." Thus for this week conclude the duties of Mesdames BLYTHE and GAY, the Baron's Lady Assistant Perusers. "I trust my gentle Public will benefit by their advice," quoth,

Theirs truly,

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

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"NOW YOU'RE QUITE THE GENTLEMAN!"

(_A BALLAD OF BIRMINGHAM._)

["You will not find an alliance in which the weaker side has been so loyal, so straight, so single-hearted, so patriotic as the Liberal Unionists have been during the last five years.... Birmingham is the centre, the consecration of this alliance."--_Lord Salisbury at Birmingham._

"Now I neither look for nor desire reunion" (with the Gladstonian Liberals.)--_Mr. Chamberlain at Birmingham._]

AIR--"_YE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND_."[1]

Ye Gentlemen of England, Who follow SALIS-BU-RY, How little did you count upon Assistance from J.C.! Give ear unto his speeches old, And they will plainly show Once he'd scorn to be borne Where the Tory breezes blow, Where the Lilies and Primroses bloom, And the Tory zephyrs blow.

If once he did oppose you, To-day he is at war With GLADSTONE and his Items. Faith, JOE has travelled far! The Primrose Dames shall teach him True patriot "form" to know. He is leal, and will kneel To the "Lilies" in fair row; To the pretty, winsome Primrose girls, Who buttonhole Brum JOE.

Ye Gentlemen of England, Whom once he did deride, How safe ye are, and how serene, With JOSEPH on your side. He talks no more of "Ransom" ('Tis P-e-n-s-i-o-n rather now), Brum JOE will not go Where the Hawarden winds do blow; Where HARCOURT thunders loud and long, And Gladstonians blare and blow.

The Orchid from his button JOE's willing to displace, To take the Primrose posy That's proffered by Her Grace. O gentle dame and dainty, What man could answer "No!" As you prest to his breast The most blessed flowers that blow, The blossoms loved by BEACONSFIELD The bravest blooms that blow?

O (Brummagem) Tory Beauty, 'Tis yours to consecrate The holiest Alliance Our land hath seen of late. Shall he reject its symbol, Or answer "Not for JOE!"? Nay, sweet girl, such a churl Were no "Gentleman" you know; And JOE is "quite the Gentleman," Brum BRUMMEL in full blow!

Then courage, all brave Unionists, And never be afraid Whilst Brummagem Republican Is witched by Primrose Maid. There is soft fascination In radiant rank, we know; And a posy, though primrosy, From soft hands makes soft hearts glow, Lilies--though they toil not nor spin Are beauteous--in full blow!

[Footnote 1: Mr. CHAMBERLAIN was once reported to have congratulated himself upon his co-operation with "English Gentlemen."]

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* * * * *

LORD LYTTON.

BORN NOV. 8, 1831. DIED NOV. 24, 1891.

Were clever wise, were grandiose great, How many a servant of the State Had left a more enduring name. But all is not for all; 'tis far From flaming meteor to fixed star, From notoriety to fame.

Picturesque son of brilliant sire, It wanted but the touch of fire Prometheus only knows to bring The flame divine in him to wake Who moved our plaudits when he spake, But stirred no passion when he'd sing.

The Orient pageantry he loved, The histrio not the hero moved, The _dilettante_ not the sage. Hence in our England's East his hand Turned, in a story sternly grand, A motley mock-heroic page.

He by the Seine found fitter place For courtly wit and modish grace, Than by the Indus. There right well His facile talent served his Chief; And England hears with genuine grief That sudden-sounding passing bell.

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NEW NAME.

Who prizes Literature? All sorts and sizes Of literary wares now hang on "prizes." 'Tis not prose fictionists or poem-spinners The public rush for; no, 'tis "all the winners!" Letters in lotteries find support most sure-- Let us be frank, and call them _Lottery_ture!

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SUITOR RESARTUS.

_A SENTIMENTAL DILEMMA._

How can I woo you in this ancient suit? You do not notice it, of course; I know it. My soul is burdened with a shapeless boot, Your heart is singing welcome to your poet. Here in the shadowy settle I can sit And sparkle with you, brightly confidential, But when into the lamp-bright zone you flit, I shrink into some corner penitential. A well-dressed crowd, their tailors all unpaid, Throng round you there, and cuffs and collars glisten; Of pity's blindness, as of scorn, afraid, I shun the merry fray, and darkling listen, For who could urge the timidest of suits, Conscious of such indifferent clothes and boots?

You think me quite as good as other men; Nay, more, I think you think me vastly better; Your candid glances seem to ask me when I'll seek to bind you in a willing fetter. Is this presumption? Not from friend to friend, Whose souls unite like clasping hands of lovers; Yet can I breathe no word of love, to end The delicate doubt that o'er the unspoken hovers. If I were hopeless that you loved me not, My hopeless love, confess'd, myself would flatter, But should the blissful dream be true, I wot That love confess'd the joy of love would shatter. My Queen, indeed as king I'd love to lord it; I cannot tell you that I can't afford it.

* * * * *

POSSIBLE EXPLANATION:--"For many months nothing has been heard of Lieutenant IVANITCH," was the remark of our leading journal _à propos_ of Russian disappearances. Is it not probable that IVANITCH, unable to find a post to suit him, has gone on tour with a "scratch company"?

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THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

NO XVII.

SCENE--_Under the Colonnade of the Hôtel Grande Bretagne, Bellagio. CULCHARD is sitting by one of the pillars, engaged in constructing a sonnet. On a neighbouring seat a group of smart people are talking over their acquaintances, and near them is another visitor, a Mr. CRAWLEY STRUTT, who is watching his opportunity to strike into the conversation._

_Mrs. Hurlingham._ Well, she'll _be_ Lady CHESEPARE some day, when anything happens to the old Earl. He was looking quite ghastly when we were down at SKYMPINGS last. But they're frightfully badly off _now_, poor dears! Lady DRIBLETT lets them have her house in Park Lane for parties and that--but it's wonderful how they live at all!

_Colonel Sandown._ He looked pretty fit at the Rag the other day. Come across the SENLACS anywhere? Thought Lady SENLAC was going abroad this year.

_Mr. Crawley Strutt._ Hem--I saw it mentioned in the _Penny Patrician_ that her Ladyship had--

_Mrs. Hurl._ (_without taking the slightest notice of him_). She's just been marryin' her daughter, you know--rather a good match, too. Not what I call pretty,--smart-lookin', that's all. But then her _sister_ wasn't pretty till she married.

_Col. Sand._ Nice family she married into! Met her father-in-law, old Lord BLETHERHAM, the other morning, at a chemist's in Piccadilly--he'd dropped in there for a pick-me-up; and there he was, tellin' chemist all the troubles he'd had with his other sons marryin' the way they did, and that. Rum man to go and confide in his chemist, but he's like that--fond of the vine!

_Mr. C.S._ Er--er--it's becoming a very serious thing, Sir, the way our aristocracy is deteriorating, is it not?

_Col. S._ Is it? What have they been up to now, eh? Haven't seen a paper for days.

_Mr. C.S._ I mean these mixed marriages, and, well, their general goings on, I don't know if you're acquainted with a paper called the _Penny Patrician_? I take it in regularly, and I assure _you_--loyal supporter of our old hereditary institutions as I am--some of the revelations I read about in high life make me blush--yes, downright _blush_ for them! [_Mrs. HURLINGHAM retires._

_Col. S._ Do they, though? If I were you I should let 'em do their own blushin', and save my pennies.

_Mr. C.S._ (_deferentially_). No doubt you're right, Sir, but I _like_ the _Patrician_ myself--it's very smartly written. Talking of that, do you happen to know the ins and outs of that marriage of young Lord GOSLINGTON's? Something very mysterious about the party he's going to marry--who _are_ her people now?

_Col. S._ Can't say, I'm sure--no business of mine, you know.

_Mr. C.S._ There I venture to think you're wrong, Sir. It's the business of everybody--the _duty_, I may say--to see that the best blood of the nation is not--(_Col. S. turns into the hotel; Mr. C.S. sits down near CULCH._)--Remarkably superior set of visitors staying here, Sir! My chief objection to travel always is, that it brings you in contact with parties you wouldn't think of associating with at home. I was making that same remark to a very pleasant little fellow I met on the steamer--er--Lord UPPERSOLE, I think it was--and he entirely concurred. Your friend made us acquainted.--(_PODBURY comes out of the hotel._)--Ah, here _is_ your friend.--(_To PODB._)--Seen his Lordship about lately, Sir?--Lord UPPERSOLE, I _mean_, of course!

_Podb._ UPPERSOLE? No--he's over at Cadenabbia, I believe.

_Mr. C.S._ A highly agreeable spot to stay at. Indeed, I've some idea myself of--Exceedingly pleasant person his Lordship--so affable, so completely the gentleman!

_Podb._ Oh, he's affable enough--for a boot-maker. I always give him a title when I see him, for the joke of the thing--he likes it.

_Mr. C.S._ He _may_, Sir. I consider a title is not a thing to be treated in that light manner. It--it was an unpardonable liberty to force me into the society of that class of person--unpardonable, Sir!

[_He goes._

_Podb._ Didn't take much _forcing_, after he once heard me call him "Lord UPPERSOLE"! Where are all the others, eh? Thought we were going up to the Villa Serbelloni this afternoon.

_Culch._ I--er--have not been consulted. Are they--er--_all_ going?

[_With a shade of anxiety._

_Podb._ I believe so. You needn't be afraid, you know. HYPATIA won't have the chance of ragging you now--she and Miss TROTTER have had a bit of a breeze.

_Culch._ I rather gathered as much. I think I could guess the--

_Podb._ Yes, HYPATIA's rather uneasy about poor old BOB; thinks Miss TROTTER is--well, carrying on, you know. She is no end of a little flirt--_you_ know that well enough!--(_C. disclaims impatiently._) Here you all are, eh?--(_To Miss P., Miss T., and BOB._)--Well, who knows the way up to the villa?

_Miss T._ It's through the town, and up some steps by the church--you cann't miss it. But Mr. PRENDERGAST is going to show me a short cut up behind the hotel--aren't you, Mr. PRENDERGAST?

_Miss P._ (_icily_). I really think, dear, it would be better if we all kept together--for so _many_ reasons!

_Culch._ (_with alacrity_). I agree with Miss PRENDERGAST. A short cut is invariably the most indirect route.

_Miss P._ (_with intention_). You hear what Mr. CULCHARD says, my dear MAUD? He advocates direct ways, as best in the long run.

_Miss T._ It's only going to be a short run, my love. But I'm vurry glad to observe that you and Mr. CULCHARD are so perfectly harmonious, as I'm leaving him on your hands for a spell. Aren't you ever coming, Mr. PRENDERGAST?

[_She leads him off, a not unwilling captive._

_A PATH IN THE GROUNDS OF THE VILLA SERBELLONI._

_Podb._ (_considerately, to CULCHARD, who is following Miss PRENDERGAST and him, in acute misery_). Look here, old fellow, Miss PRENDERGAST would like to sit down, I know; so don't you bother about keeping with us if you'd rather _not_, you know!

[_CULCHARD murmurs an inarticulate protest._

_Miss P._ Surely, Mr. PODBURY, you are aware by this time that Mr. CULCHARD has a perfect mania for self-sacrifice!

[_CULCHARD drops behind, crushed._

_AMONG THE RUINS AT THE TOP OF THE HILL._

_Culch._ (_who has managed to overtake Miss T. and her companion_). Now _do_ oblige me by looking through that gap in the pines towards Lecco. I particularly wish you to observe the effect of light on those cliffs--it's well worth your while.

_Miss T._ Why, certainly, it's a view that does you infinite credit. Oh, you _didn't_ take any hand in the arrangement? But ain't you afraid if you go around patting the scenery on the head this way, you'll have the lake overflow?

_Bob. P._ Ha-ha-ha! One in the eye for _you_, CULCHARD!

_Culch._ (_with dignity_). Surely one may express a natural enthusiasm without laying oneself open--?

_Miss T._ Gracious, yes! I should hope you wouldn't want to show your enthusiasm _that_ way--like a Japanese nobleman!

_Culch._ (_to himself_). Now that's coarse--_really_ coarse!--(_Aloud._)--I seem to be unable to open my mouth now without some ridiculous distortion--

_Miss T._ My!--but that's a serious symptom--isn't it? You don't feel like you were going to have lock-jaw, do you, Mr. CULCHARD?

[_CULCHARD falls back to the rear once more. Later--Mr. VAN BOODELER has joined the party; HYPATIA has contrived to detach her brother, CULCHARD has sought refuge with PODBURY._

_Miss T._ (_to VAN B._). So that's what kept you? "Well, it sounds just too enchanting. But I cann't answer for what Miss PRENDERGAST will say to it. It mayn't suit her notions of propriety.

_Mr. Van B._ I expect she'll be superior to Britannic prejudices of that kind. I consider your friend a highly cultivated and charming lady, MAUD. She produces that impression upon me.

_Miss T._ I presume, from that, she has shown an intelligent interest in the great American novel?

_Mr. Van B._ Why, yes; it enlists her literary sympathies--she sees all its possibilities.

_Miss T._ And they're pretty numerous, too. But here she comes. You'd better tell her your plan right now.

_Miss P._ (_in an earnest undertone to BOB, as they approach, followed by CULCH. and BOB_). You _must_ try and be sensible about it, BOB; if _you_ are too blind to see that she is only--

BOB (_sulkily_). All _right_! Haven't I _said_ I'd go? What's the good of _jawing_ about it?

_Mr. V.B._ (_to Miss P._) I've been telling my cousin I've been organising a little water-party for this evening--moonlight, mandolins, Menaggio. If you find that alliteration has any attractions, I hope you and your brother will do me the pleasure of--

_Miss P._ I'm afraid not, thanks. We have all our packing to do. We find we shall have to leave early to-morrow.

[_Van B.'s face falls; BOB listens gloomily to_ Miss T.'s rather perfunctory expressions of regret; PODBURY looks anxious and undecided; CULCHARD does his best to control an unseemly joy._

* * * * *

THE GOOD NEW "TIMES."

Nobody, after visiting Terry's Theatre, can apply to Mr. PINERO's piece the hackneyed phrase,--used apologetically by an unconscionable reader after detaining the leading journal for three-quarters of an hour,--"Oh, there's nothing in _The Times_," for, in Mr. PINERO's piece there is plenty of amusement, if not of absorbing interest.

The story is that of a _parvenu_, whose sole object in life, to be recognised by "Society," is thwarted by the marriage of his good-for-nothing son with the daughter of an Irish lodging-house keeper. The struggles of _Mr. and Mrs. Bompas_ to conceal this _mésalliance_, and the assistance given them in their difficulties by the _Hon. Montague Trimble_, constitute the motive of the play. But the question that must occur to the critical mind is, "Did the author mean this piece for high comedy, or farcical comedy?" If the former, then Mr. TERRY is wrong in his conception of the part; if the latter, everybody else is wrong in their conception of their parts.

It seems to me as if, in the course of rehearsal, the peculiarities distinguishing the character of _Percy Egerton Bompas, M.P._, had gradually become assimilated with the individualities of the actor, Mr. EDWARD TERRY. If Mr. PINERO so meant it, if he so wrote it for Mr. TERRY and for Mr. TERRY only, then there is nothing more to be said; Mr. PINERO's ideal is realised. But if the author did _not_ intend Mr. TERRY's impersonation, then he must be content to sacrifice the ideal to the real, shrug his shoulders, and pocket his profits. Yet, as if making an appeal to the public to judge between the auctorial abstract and the representational concrete, Mr. PINERO not only publishes his playbook, but sells it in the theatre. Visitors to TERRY's, who buy the book, will judge the play by its stage interpretation that has had the advantage of the author's personal supervision and direction. The representation, therefore, is either more or less in accordance with his teaching, or flatly contradicts it.