Chapter 2

_Monday, May 16._--Sound the trumpets, Beat the drums! All Hail to Sir DRURIOLANUS OPERATICUS, the most successful Knight of the Season! A brilliant audience in a brilliant house lighted by thousands of additional electric lights, acclaimed with rapture the awakening of Opera. _Philémon et Baucis_ began it, a work by GOUNOD (which is not intended for swearing) of great sweetness and light; and this was followed by PIETRO MASCAGNI's _Cavalleria Rusticana_, "Rustic Chivalry," which might be epigrammatically described as a "Clod-hoppera." _Philémon et Baucis_ is charming. M. MONTARIOL was a capital _Philémon_, and Mlle. SIGRID ARNOLDSEN as _Baucis_, a sort of classical Little Bo-peep, received a hearty welcome on her return to the Covent Garden House and Home. M. PLANÇON was the thoroughly French _Jupin_, and M. CASTELMARY an amiable _Vulcan_; both most accomplished Divines. Altogether, a perfect quartette. The graceful _intermezzo_ only escaped an _encore_ because the knowing ones among the gods and groundlings felt that too much enthusiasm at first might do serious damage to the subsequent reception of the great _intermezzo_ of the evening. All on _qui vive_ for great _intermezzo_. Anticipations of event heard in the lobbies. Anxiety depicted on some countenances, but most features looking happy and hopeful. The members of what was once known as "the Organising Committee" nod encouragingly to one another as they pass to and fro; the officials and _habitués_ exchange greetings without any expression of opinion. Sir DRURIOLANUS does not issue forth until the right moment, when he can shut up his opera-glass with a click, and give the word to Field-Marshal MANCINELLI to lead his men to the attack. For the present, "Wait" is the _mot d'ordre_, "and this," quoth a jig-maker, "is the only weight in the entire entertainment."

Up goes the Curtain, and those who remember the _Cavalleria_ as it was put on "in another place," to use parliamentary language, see at the first glance that this representation is going to be quite another pair of shoes. The stage management is admirable: not a second without movement, and every movement with a motive--musical or dramatic, or both. Madame CALVÉ's _Santuzza_ is operatically and histrionically--but especially the latter--a triumph; and "this is the verdict of us all." GIULIA RAVOGLI makes a great part of _Lola_; the many-talented little Mlle. BAUERMEISTER's _Lucia_ is not quite up to her own _Marta_ in _Faust_. As for the men, the singing and the acting of Signor DE LUCIA as _Turiddu_ (ye gods! what a name!), and of Mons. DUFRICHE as _Alfio_ cannot be surpassed.

But--stop--the tremendous row (a quarrel quite representative of Whitechapel in Italy, and suggesting to some of us what Signor Coster CHEVALIER might do if this Opera were Londonised) between _Turiddu-de-Lucia_ and _Santuzza-Calvé_ is over, the latter has denounced her former lover, there is thunder in the air--the atmosphere is heavy with fate--and the stage is clear. Then comes the _intermezzo_, foreboding ill, presaging tragedy,--magnificent! And as MANCINELLI bows from his seat, acknowledges the thunder of applause--this was the thunder in the atmosphere--and pulls his forces together again to repeat and emphasize the triumph--DRURIOLANUS shuts up his lorgnette, beams on the world around, and murmurs to himself, "Waterloo is won!" Decides thereupon to give the same performance on Thursday, and does so, with repetition of triumph.

Now one word as to a picturesque detail. The action takes place on Easter Sunday, not on Palm Sunday; but Archbishop DRURIOLANUS has issued a pastoral melody dispensing his flock from the usual custom, and allowing them to have the palms distributed on Easter Sunday, for the sake of the show. "_Palmam qui meruit ferat_,"--and well does each one of the Chorus deserve his or her palm. And do not those in front who are nervous as to splitting their glove-seams, also bare their palms to applaud this Opera? Why certainly. Truly, Sir DRURIOLANUS ARCHIEPISCOPUS DISPENSATOR, well hast thou inaugurated the palmy days of this Opera Season.

_Friday_.--_Faust_ selected because alliteration in _Faust_ and Friday. A trifle, but as DRURIOLANUS says, "The world is governed by trifles." Wise saw this, with practical modern instance. VAN DYCK looking like a Rembrandt, a Faust-rate _Faust_, and Miss EMMA EAMES a charming _Marguerite_, Mons. PLANÇON's _Mephistopheles à la Française_. Mons. CESTE good as _Valentine_. _À propos_ of _Valentine _ and his soldiers, why do the army and their friends who come to welcome them, invariably _turn their backs_ on the triumphal procession, taking no sort of interest in it whatever? Also, why is that banner persistently and purposelessly waved during the whole of the great Soldiers' Chorus? Is this _the_ reason why nowadays the ever-popular Soldiers' Chorus is seldom encored? As this monotonous action on the part of the Bannerman (not CAMPBELL of that ilk, but the ensign-bearing supernumerary) suggests "flagging interest," hadn't it better be abolished altogether?

_Saturday_.--Great excitement in outer Hall. Everybody buzzing about. What has happened? Has dynamite been found? Has some eminent vocalist "gone up to see," and can't come down again in time? Sir DRURIOLANUS is present, explaining matters to the critics, and repeating explanation in various tongues to eager foreign inquirers. The sentinels eye the moving scene with determination and bayonets fixed. At a word from Sir DRURIOLANUS, they will give an extra charge, and rout the crowd. "What is it all about?" asks little PETERKIN. Sir DRURIOLANUS can tell him. Madame CALVÉ is indisposed, and _L'Amico Fritz_ cannot be performed. So GLUCK's _Orfeo_ is substituted in a happy-g'lucky sort of way. The two RAVOGLI are excellent, and Box and Stall are satisfied.

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"MRS. HENNIKER," my Baronite writes, "dedicates to her brother, Lord HOUGHTON, her first essay in fiction, on the ground that he will be the most kindly critic. _Bid me Good-bye_ (BENTLEY) does not stand in need of the adventitious aid of fraternal kindliness to recommend it to the reader. The story of woman's sacrifice to a sense of duty has been told before; but Mrs. HENNIKER endows her version with a charm of simplicity under which, here and there, glows the fire of passion. Moreover, she writes excellent English, which ladies who make books do sometimes. It is a pity the story is so sad. _Colonel St. Aubyn_ might just as well have married _Mary Giffard_, and lived ever after in that charming Brereton Royal which Mrs. HENNIKER doubtless sketches from life. If she had insisted on his being a cripple for life, her dictum could not have been disputed. But there ought to have been a union between _William_ and _Mary_."

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Why are the Obstructives like last Season's Walnuts?--Because they are troublesome to PEEL.

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* * * * *

TO LORD SALISBURY.

(_BY A PERTURBED TORY_.)

["We trust that the present Administration will not commit the blunder of attempting to 'gain favour with this or that section of the constituencies, by indulging in loose talk on economical questions.'"--_The Standard_.]

To thump the Drum Ecclesiastic Was very likely mere parade; But oh, why make yourself seem plastic To the fanatics of Fair Trade? Of course a warning's no "incitement"; You only said, in tones of thunder, The valiant Ulstermen to fight meant, And on your soul you didn't wonder. Encouragement in _that_? Go to! Did shouting SAUNDERSON so take it? (_Still it did raise a hullabaloo_. _It's settling now, DON'T re-awake it!_) No; civil war is far--and fudge! But why the dickens make suggestions That England is inclined to budge An inch, on Economic Questions? Let HOWARD VINCENT, if he likes, Talk "Fair Trade" fustian; no one listens. But _you_?--best keep to slating Strikes. You bet the eye of HARCOURT glistens, And GLADSTONE reading with a grin, Says, "Now I have him on the hip!" This will _not_ do, if we're to win. Of course, dear Lord, 'twas but a slip, But then you do make such a lot; Explaining them away gets wearying. You seem as though--of course, 'tis rot!-- Our Free Trade system you were querying. That cock won't fight; Protection's dead, Don't trot its ghost out. Just ask GOSCHEN! That Silver Conference, too! _His_ head Must have gone woolly, I've a notion. Fire us with militant suggestions; Your loyal followers they embolden, But upon Economic Questions Remember Silence is _so_ golden!

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REPORTED DISAPPEARANCE OF THE BROAD GAUGE.--It has been "converted," and in this sense our old friend, The Broad Gauge, with its easy-going ways, is defunct for ever. Is the conversion for the better? From "broad" to "narrow" is not, ordinarily speaking, beneficial to the individual or to society. And as applied to lines that fall in such pleasant places as do those of the Great Western, will the change to "narrow" result in the same breadth of view which the passengers have hitherto enjoyed? Will the ideas of the management and direction of the G.W.R. change from "broad" to "narrow"? We see it mentioned that the "cross sleepers" have been disturbed and re-laid (enough to make them crosser than ever; the ceremony should have been accompanied by a band playing selections from "_The Sleeper Awakened_"), and that "an inner row of chairs" is already fixed. But chairs are not so comfortable for sleepers as the good old-fashioned broad-gauge-G.-W.-R. first-class seat, in which, after you had lunched, you could repose from Swindon to Exeter. However, we all know the safety of choosing the "narrow" in preference to the "broad" way in life, and so, no doubt, the spiritually-minded Directors of the G.W.R. have acted with the best intentions and upon the most unanimous resolutions. Yet "intentions" or "resolutions" are more compatible with the "broad" than the "narrow" way.

* * * * *

LORD BRAMWELL.

BORN 1808. DIED 1892.

Alas! The Busy "B" is dead, No more we'll hear him buzz a-wing, Nor picture with a smiling dread The pungent terrors of his sting. As Io's gadfly was this "B" To Sentiment and to Pretence. Oh, Property! Ah, Liberty! Fallen in your supreme defence! Gone is the friend that in a phrase The "Common Sense" of things could settle, That with a stroke could slay a craze, And folly lash with flail of nettle. Who now will thunder in the _Times_ Against the Socialistic Rad's tone? Who'll flout the cant and check the crimes Of him, the all-surviving GLADSTONE?

* * * * *

Military Tournament at Islington successful as ever. All the glory of war, as Mr. JORROCKS observed in his lecture, with one-half per cent. of its danger. Under command of Major TULLY. For seats, apply per Tully-phone.

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ON MY LADY'S POODLE.

I wonder what on earth it is That makes me think my lady's poodle (Her minion smug of solemn phiz,) The pink and pattern of a noodle: Its eyes are deep; their look, serene; Its lips are sensitive and smiling; But oh! the gross effect, I ween, Is, passing measure, dull and riling.

It is not that its locks are crisp; Your humble servant's hair is crisper, It is not that its accents lisp; I, too, affect a stammered whisper: Nor that a gorgeous bow it wears And struts with particoloured bib on; I like these macaronic airs; I'm very fond of rainbow ribbon.

Nor can it be--of this I'm sure-- Because she pampers all its wishes And tempts her peevish epicure With dainty meats in dainty dishes. To tell the truth, while _I'm_ her guest, _My_ little wants and whims she studies; If "Beau"'s a rival, I protest No jealous tincture in my blood is.

I wonder, wonder, at a loss To justify such wayward snarling-- It makes her very, _very_ cross My poor opinion of her darling; The cause (should pride the cause withhold, She bodes and I deserve a scrimmage,) The cause is this--she calls, I'm told, The little brute my "_Living image!_"

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LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--My dear friend, Lady HARRIET ENTOUCAS, said to me, the other day at Kempton, when I told her to have a sovereign on _Conifer_:--"My dear Lady GAY, your tips are so marvellous that I really wonder you don't write to the papers!" Being struck with the idea, my thoughts naturally flew to you--not only as the most gallant Editor of my acquaintance, but also as probably the only one hitherto unrepresented with a regular Turf Correspondent.

It is, therefore, with true feminine confidence that I place my services at your disposal, and, my information being of the most unreliable description (derived invariably from the owners), I feel sure that those of your readers who follow my tips will have no cause to regret their temerity, as, being like all women, nothing if not original, I intend to tip, not the probable _winner_, but the probable _last_ horse in important races!

As I invariably attend all the fashionable meetings and most of the unfashionable (incognito of course the latter), it can be left to _me_ to decide which horse was last--thus reducing the matter to a _certainty_--distinctly an object to be gained in making a bet--whatever _men_ may say to the contrary.

An ancestor of mine (the poet of the name)--having transmitted to me a spark of his genius--I propose to give my selections in verse--select verse in fact, and will now in concluding my letter, give my tip for the probable last horse in the Derby--(which, by the way, happens in this case to be a mare--I repeat--I am nothing if not original!)--and, before doing so, I should like to express my sympathy with the Duke of WESTMINSTER and JOHN PORTER, who have indeed had an Orme-ful of trouble with the unfortunate erstwhile Derby Favourite, which would undoubtedly have been my selection had he not been scratched! Yours devotedly,

LADY GAY.

"THE TIP."

The Baron boldly said, "Je vais Renvoyer cette dépêche: 'À Monsieur FRY of London Town. Un livre sur _La Flèche_.'"

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HYDE PARK CORNER.

(MAY, 1892.)

My hansom here completely stuck; No chance to catch my train, worse luck! I sit and wonder: Why should the roads be up in May? Who muddles matters in this way, With bungling blunder?

What use to make a shapeless space, Where rambling roadways interlace, And, in the Season, To close just what was meant to save This block, because they want to pave? What is the reason?

By Jove, it's like some years ago, The traffic stopping in a row In Piccadilly! The Vestry does not care a pin For all the muddle that we're in; They're much too silly.

Perhaps they'd say they meant it well. I do not know. All I can tell Is that I'm raving. I'd send that Vestry down below, Where all such good intentions go, To make more paving!

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FAIR TRADERS.

Lady friend of my wife's wants us to "try her tea"! Seems she's started (with two other Ladies) as Firm of Tea Merchants in City. What _are_ we coming to? Or rather, what are male Tea Merchants coming to? Mr. Registrar BROUGHAM, most likely. In incautious moment--as I was out--wife promised to give her an order for a couple of pounds of her "best Ceylon Mixture."

Tried it. Never tasted such vile stuff! Wife agrees, and asks me to call at the Firm's Offices and see if they haven't got anything with more Ceylon and less Mixture in it. Don't much like the job. How can one blow up a woman whom one will have to meet in one's own drawing-room, calling?

Have looked in. Must say that Tea-dealeress is better than her tea. Really quite an attractive person. The three of them gave me afternoon tea in a little sanctum behind the shop, and chatted _most_ pleasantly. My wife's friend the head of Firm. Said the Ceylon Mixture was a mistake--really intended for kitchen use--but as they've only just started business, their stocks have got jumbled together. She hoped--quite penitently--that I would "overlook the error."

What _could_ I say? What I _did_ was to order a whole box of their "Incomparable Congou," at four shillings a pound.

Wife (when I tell her of this) seems surprised. Says "she won't send _me_ shopping again." But can one call this cosy--this tea-cosy--social visit to three accomplished women by the vulgar term "shopping "?

Wife incautiously mentions that she is "out of Coffee." Gives me an excuse to call on Firm again, and see if they sell Coffee too. Yes, they do. Head of Firm more fascinating than ever. Asks me "if I would mind, as a very great favour, mentioning her tea to all my City friends? She _knows_ I have great influence in the City." Says this with winning smile. Query--is not _Mincing_ Lane rather an appropriate locality for Lady Tea-dealers?

Later. Wife has forbidden my ever going to Mincing Lane again! Says the box of "Incomparable Congou" was mere "dust." So are my hopes!

* * * * *

A DENTIST'S WAITING-ROOM.

Clasping tight my jaw, I staggered, Pale and haggard, To this room, Where were fellow-martyrs sitting In befitting, Solemn gloom;

Whilst they turned, with air dejected, Books collected To amuse, _Graphics_, or accumulated _Illustrated_ _London News_.

How they glared! No fellow-feeling O'er them stealing, Made them kind; "Touch of nature" that is dental Makes no mental Kin, I find.

There I sat, the numbers growing Less, each going To his fate-- What a dismal occupation! My elation Was not great--

Heard the butler call each saddened, Toothache-maddened Victim's name; Watched them wincing as they strode out: I should no doubt Look the same.

Then, when me he had to take in, "Mr. AIKIN!" Made me quail; O'er the after vivisection Recollection Draws a veil!

* * * * *

FROM THE SHADES.

(_AT THE SIGN OF THE "CASTOR AND POLLUX."_)

DEAR MISTER PUNCH,--Look at 'ere! This is not one of your penny papers--there was none on 'em in _my_ time--ups and says, says it:--"The travelling expenses from America of Mr. JACKSON, who is coming to England to fight Mr. SLAVIN for the Championship of the World, are reckoned at no less than £150."

Wy, wot a delikit plarnt, wot a blooming hexotic, this "Mister" JACKSON (oh, the pooty perliteness of it!) must be! Saloon passage and fust-class fare, I persoom, for the likes of _'im_. Isters and champagne, no doubt, and liquoor brandy, and sixpenny smokes! A poor old pug like me wos glad of a steak and inguns, and a 'arf ounce o' shag, with a penny clay. And as to "travelling hexpenses"--I wonder wot the Noble Captings of _our_ day would 'ave said to the accounts laid afore your "National Sporting Club!" £2000 for the Purse, and £150 for Mister JACKSON's travelling hexpenses!!! Oh, I say! Pugs _is_ a-looking up! And yet I'm told some o' your cockered-up fly-flappers carnt 'it a 'ole in a pound o' butter, or stand a straight nose-ender without turning faint! Evidently funking _and_ faking pays a jolly sight better than 'onesty and 'ard 'itting.

Well, well, _Mister Punch_, I'm hout of it now, thanksbe. And I ain't sure as I could shape myself 'andy to the Slugger SULLIVAN and JEM SMITH kind o' caper. The "resources o' science" is so remarkable different from what they wos in _my_ days, and include so many new-fangled barnies as we worn't hup to. These 'ere pugilistic horchids, so to speak, wants deliket 'andling _in_ the Ring, as well as hout on it, and a fair 'ammering from a 'onest bunch o' fives might spile the pooty look of 'em for their fust-clarss Saloons, Privet Boxes, and Swell Clubs. But you can tell Mister JACKSON, Eskvire, an cetrer, an cetrer, an cetrer (put it all in, please, Sir, as I vant to be perlite), that in my day I'd a bin only too 'appy to fight 'im to a finish (which mighn't ha' bin in five minutes, either, hunless he wanted it so), for--his Travelling Hexpenses!!!

Yours to kommand, THE CHICKEN.

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SINGULAR PLURALITY!

O SHAW-LEFEVRE, was it but fatality, Or could it be because the subjects bore 'em, That, when you wished to argue on plurality. About one Member came to form a quorum? No doubt the others meant this to denote That when you speak you like "One Man, One Vote."

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FRIENDLY ADVICE TO MRS. HUMPHRY WARD, À PROPOS OF HER TROUBLE WITH HER ADVERSE CRITICS.--_Grieve_ no more!

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* * * * *

ST. JOHN'S WOOD.

These hapless homes of middle class, Can they escape annihilation When come, in place of trees and grass, A filthy goods-yard and a station?

If such seclusion sheltered Peers, Their wealth and influence might save it; No speculator ever fears Artists or writers such as crave it;

Or if it housed the WORKING MAN, Would Lords or Commons dare eject him? Picture the clamour if you can! His vote, his demagogues, protect him.

But you, who only use your brains-- The people's voice, the noble's money, Not yours--why save you from the trains? For quiet, do you say? How funny!

Perhaps you think, because in May The talk is all of Art and beauty, The Commons also think that way; Not so, they have a higher duty.

If only speculators shout, And millionnaires take up the story, They thrust all Art and Nature out, For Trade is England's greatest glory.

Then, if a careless House some day Permit the Channel Tunnel boring, Think how this railway line would pay; If you had shares you'd cease deploring.

Think of the cotton-laden trains Direct from Manchester to Asia! Think of the Sheffield Railway's gains, Not of your lilac or acacia!

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"ONE TOUCH OF NATURE."