Chapter 2

Sure such a _King Lear_ was never seen on any stage, so perfect in appearance, so entirely the ideal of SHAKSPEARE'S ancient King. It must have been a vision of IRVING in this character that the divinely-inspired poet and dramatist saw when he had a _Lear_ in his eye. For a moment, too, he reminded me of BOOTH--the "General," not the "particular" American tragedian,--and when he appeared in thunder, lightning, hail, and rain, he suggested an embodiment of the "_Moses_" of MICHAEL ANGELO.

A strange weird play; much for an audience, and more for an actor, all on his own shoulders, to bear. A one-part play it is too, for of the sweet _Cordelia_,--and sweet did ELLEN TERRY look and so tenderly did she play!--little is seen or heard. With _Goneril_ and _Regan_, the two proud and wicked sisters,--associated in the mind of the modernest British Public with Messrs. HERBERT CAMPBELL and HARRY NICHOLLS, as is also _Cordelia_ associated either with _Cinderella_ or with _Beauty_ in the story of _Beauty and the Beast_--we have two fine commanding figures; and well are these parts played by Miss ADA DYAS and Miss MAUD MILTON. The audience can have no sympathy with the two wicked Princesses, and except in _Goneril's_ brief Lady-Macbethian scene with her husband, neither of the Misses LEAR has much dramatic chance. Pity that Mrs. LEAR--his Queen and their mother, wasn't alive! Let us hope she resembled her youngest daughter _Cordelia_, otherwise poor _Lear_ must have had a hard life of it as a married man.

Why should not Mr. IRVING give the first part of this play reconsideration? Why not just once a week try him as a different sort of _Lear_? For instance, suppose, to begin with, that he had had a bad time of it with his wife, that for many years as a widower he had been seeking for the opportunity of disposing of his daughters, handing over to them and to their husbands the lease and goodwill of "The Crown and Sceptre," while he would be, as King, "retired from business," and going out for a lark generally. Thus jovially would he commence the play, a rollicking, gay, old dog, ready for anything, up to anything, and, like old Anchises, when he jumped on to the back of Æneas, "a wonderful man for his years." In fact, _Lear_ might begin like an old King Cole, "a merry old soul," a "jolly old cock!" And then--"Oh, what a difference in the morning!"--when all his plans for a gay career had been shipwrecked by _Cordelia's_ capricious and unnatural affectation.

Then must commence his senility; then he would begin to break up. A struggle, to show that there was life in the old dog yet, could be seen when the old dog had been out hunting, in Act II., and had shot some strange animal, something between a stag and a dromedary, which no doubt was a native of Britain in those good old sporting days. However, more of this anon. Suffice it to say now, that our HENRY IRVING'S _Lear_ is a triumph in every respect, and that the audience only wanted a little more of _Cordelia_, which is the fault of the immortal and unequal Bard.

To those unacquainted with this play, Mr. TERRISS'S sudden appearance in somewhat anti-Lord-Chamberlain attire, as he bounded on, with a wand, and struck an attitude, was suggestive of the Good Fairy in the pantomime; and his subsequent proceedings, when he didn't change anybody into Harlequin, Clown, and so forth, puzzled the unlearned spectators considerably. But Mr. TERRISS came out all right, and acquitted himself (being his own judge and jury) to the satisfaction of the public. His speech about Dover Cliff, generally supposed to convey some allusion to the Channel Tunnel, was excellently delivered, and certainly after _Lear_, "on the spear side," Mr. TERRISS must take the Goodeley Cake.

Next to him in order of merit comes Mr. FRANK COOPER, as the wicked _Edmund_, on whom the good EDMUND, "Edmundus Mundi," smiled benignantly from a private box. There was on the first night a great reception given to HOWE--the veteran actor, not the wreck, and very far from it--who took the small part of an old Evicted Tenant of the _Earl of Glo'ster_, a character very carefully played by Mr. ALFRED BISHOP, _Floreat Henricus!_ "Our HENRY" has his work cut out for him in this "Titanic work," as in his before-curtain and after-play speech he termed it. This particular "Titanic work" is (or certainly was that night) in favour with "the gods," who "very much applauded what he'd done." But the gods of old were not quite so favourable to "Titanic work" generally, and punished eternally Titanic workmen. To-night gods and groundlings applaud to the echo, and then everyone goes home as best he can in about as beautiful a specimen of a November fog as ever delighted a Jack-o'-Lantern or disgusted

PRIVATE BOX.

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AN OPERATIC NOTE.--_Wednesday_.--Lord Mayor's Day and Sheriff Sir AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS'S Show. _L' Amico Fritz_, or "The old Min is friendly," as _Dick Swiveller_ would have put it. Not by any means as bright as _Cavalleria_. Mlle. DEL TORRE, del-lightful as _Suzel_. M. DUFRICHE, very good as _Rabbino_; CREMONINI, weak as _Fritz_; and Mlle. MARTHA-CUPID-BAUERMEISTER, good as usual in the part of the "harmless necessary _Cat"-erina._ Opera generally "going strong."

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REPORTED DECISION.--Uganda is to be occupied till March next. Then, order of the day, "March in, March out!"

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"SAFE BIND, SAFE FIND!"

P.C. JOHN BULL _LOQUITUR_:--

Keep them? Right my Gallic friend! 'Tis my duty, sad but binding. Free the Wolf--to what good end? Loose the Snake--what vantage finding? Faction flusters, Cant appeals In the name of sham-humanity. Right, not wrath, my bosom steels; Softness here were sheer insanity.

_You_'ve my warmest sympathy, Victim of the new Red Terror! _My_ caged RAVACHOLS to free Were the maddest kind of error. Prison walls and dungeon wards Love I not, I'm no born gaoler, But just Law which Freedom guards _Must_ ignore anarchic railer.

Blind offence of men half mad 'Neath the goad of brute oppression, Blunderings of fierce fools of fad, Demoniacal possession Of red rage at law unjust, I can check with calm compassion; But must firmly crush to dust Murder--in the newest fashion.

Dynamite as Freedom's friend? 'Tis the foul fiend's latest juggle. We must fight it to the end, Firm, unfaltering in this struggle. Mere "Political Offence," All this murder, mashing, maiming? 'Tis a pitiful pretence, Honour-blinding, wisdom-shaming.

Indiscriminate, ruthless raid! Mad chance--medly of disaster! Sophistry, the fiend's sworn aid, Never better served its master Than in calling such hell-birth A new gospel, holy, human,-- Blasting as with maniac mirth Blameless men, and guiltless women!

No! The Dynamiter's creed-- Though hate swagger, though cant snivel-- Fires no "patriotic" deed; Base-born, all its ends are evil. Let caged wolves and tigers free? What more wicked, what absurder? Amnesty to Anarchy Means encouragement to Murder?

* * * * *

WHERE TO PLACE HIM.--Why ought the future Poet-Laureate, whoever he may be, to occupy rooms over or close to the stables at Buckingham Palace? Because he would then be inspired by the Royal Mews.

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* * * * *

TO A MODEL YOUNG LADY.

[It is reported that it is a common custom in Paris, amongst ladies of position, to pay for their dresses by wearing them in public, and letting it be known from whom they obtained them.]

My dear, I like your pretty dress, It suits your figure to a T. I'm free to own that I confess, It's just the kind of dress for me. Yet will you kindly tell me, dear, Not merely was the costume made for Yourself alone--but is it clear And certain that your dress is paid for?

Mistake me not. I do not dread That you'll think fit to run away And leave the bill unpaid. Instead, I fear that you will never pay, Because no bill will ever come; And since when you decide to toddle Abroad, you'll go amidst a hum Of praise for Madame's lovely Model

Oh! promise me that when I read My paper (as I often do), I shall not with remorseless speed See endless pars in praise of you, Or rather of the dress you wore, For though, maybe, no harm or hurt is meant, Remember, dearest, I implore, I _won't_ be fond of an advertisement!

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"_Days with Sir Roger de Coverley!_" exclaimed the Baron, on seeing the charming little book brought out at this season by Messrs. MACMILLAN. "Delightful! Immortal! Ever fresh! Welcome, with or without illustration; some of Mr. THOMSON's would not be missed."

There is a breezy, frank, boyish air about the "Reminiscences" of our great Baritone, CHARLES SANTLEY, which is as a tonic--a tonic sol-fa--to the reader a-weary of the many Reminiscences of these latter days. SANTLEY, who seems to have made his way by stolid pluck, and without very much luck, may be considered as the musical _Mark Tapley_, ready to look always on the sunny side. With a few rare exceptions, he appears to have taken life very easily.

Muchly doth the Baron like Mr. HALL CAINE's story of _Captain Davy's Honeymoon_, only, short as it is, with greater effect it might have been shorter.

The Baron, being in a reading humour, tried _The Veiled Hand_, by FREDERICK WICKS, a name awkward for anyone unable to manage his "r's." What Fwedewickwicks' idea of _A Veiled Hand_ is, the Baron has tried to ascertain, but without avail. Why not a Gloved Hand? Hands do not wear veils, any more than our old friends, the Hollow Hearts, wear masks. Hands take "vails," but "that is another story." However, _The Veiled Hand_ induced sleep, so the Baron extinguished both candles and Wicks at the same time, and slumbered.

I have also had time to read _An Exquisite Fool_, published by OSGOOD. MCILVAINE & CO., and written by Nobody, Nobody's name being mentioned as being the author. It begins well, but it is an old, old tale--BLANCHE AMORY and the Chevalier, and so forth--and as _Sir Charles Coldstream_ observed, when he looked down the crater of Mount Vesuvius, "There's nothing in it."

Most interesting is a short paper on "The Green Room of the Comédie Française," in the _English Illustrated Magazine_ for this month, pleasantly written by Mr. FREDERICK HAWKINS,--HAWKINS with an aspirate, not "'ENERY 'AWKINS" at present associated with "A CHEVALIER" in London. Mr. HAWKINS tells many amusing anecdotes, and gives a capital sketch of M. RENÉ MOLÉ. But the article would be damaged by extracts. Therefore, "_Tolle, lege_," says yours and everybody's, very truly,

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

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* * * * *

A PUFF OF SMOKE.

(_What the heart of the young Vocalist said to the Anti-Tobacconist, after reading Mr. Charles Santley's sage observations on Singing and Smoking, in his new book "Student and Singer."_)

["Smoking is an art; it may be made useful or otherwise, according as it is exercised."--Mr. SANTLEY.]

Tell me not, ye mournful croakers, Smoking is a dirty habit. Brainless are ye, sour non-smokers, As a vivisected rabbit.

"Smoking is an Art," says SANTLEY; There is Beauty in the bowl. They who doubt it must be scantly Blest with sense, or dowered with soul.

_As_ an Art it claims attention; Study is the only way. Smoking skill, _not_ smoke-prevention, Is the thing we want to-day.

Art is long and smoke is fleeting; But puff on until you learn Good tobacco's not for _eating_! Pipe-bowls are not meant to _burn_!

Smoke without expectorating, Do not sputter, do not chew; Puff not as though emulating Some foul factory's sooty flue

Let not oily dark defilement Sting your lips; there is no need. Joy and care need reconcilement For enjoyment of the weed.

Trust no "Germans," buy no "British," Sound Havanas only smoke! "Lady Nicotine" is skittish, Penny Pickwicks are no joke.

Smoke no strong shag, no rank "stinger," Pick your baccy, puff with skill, And--although you are a singer, You may smoke, and not feel ill.

Let us then be up and smoking, An an Art the thing pursue; As great SANTLEY, who's not joking, Says _he_ does, and all _may_ do!

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LADY GAY'S DISTRACTION.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--You are as fickle as the rest of your sex, I fear, otherwise you would not have requited my devotion to you and your interests in such an awful manner as you did in publishing my husband's letter last week!--and _such_ a letter! Oh, I could write such a _scathing_ reply to it!

Of course, it was jealousy on the part of Sir CHARLES at my literary success--(setting aside the _wonderful_ tips)--which caused the explosion that led to his writing to you, but I never--never--thought you would insert his letter, especially as I slipped in a postscript which to my mind explained _everything_--as, indeed, postscripts _should_ do, or what is the good of writing a long letter about nothing in front of them? The wretch confesses that he laughed at my articles until he knew who wrote them, and then thought less of them! Isn't that like a husband?--I won't say like a _man_, as so few husbands _are_ men!--at least, in the eyes of their wives. The moment a wife does something her husband can't do, he dislikes and pooh-poohs it; whereas, the more accomplishments a husband displays, the more a wife appreciates him, or _says_ so even if she doesn't!--which is a noble falsehood, for how few women are large-minded enough to pretend to admire qualities which they despise because they don't possess them--I'm not sure that this is what I mean, nor do I quite understand it, but it reads well, which is more than Sir CHARLES'S stuff does!

And then his impertinence in proposing to "edit" my letters!--as if anyone could be more capable of doing that than _you_?--(you will observe that it is solely on _your_ account that I am annoyed!)--I could not brook such interference!--I don't know exactly the meaning of "brooking" anything, but I know I wept enough tears of annoyance to form a decent "brook" of themselves! I need hardly tell you that it was a biting sarcasm on my part to suggest that he should finish his letter with a "verse," as I always do--but there--men don't understand sarcasm--(one of _our_ most frequently employed weapons of offence!)--and the poor thing thought I was in earnest, and did it! And _what_ a verse! I could write better with my left hand!

I need scarcely tell you that I have left him--(this is why my address is not to be published)--as I consider my duty to the Public rendered it imperative that I should do so, for I should not think much of any woman who allowed a paltry consideration of domestic obligations to weigh against the pursuit of a career of usefulness.

If, therefore, a vein of sadness and cynicism runs through this letter, you will understand that it does _not_ proceed from any regret at the "breaking up of the happy home," but rather from sorrow at the thought that once again the intellectual superiority of one of the softer sex has not been accepted in the right spirit by the possessor of the weaker mind, to whom she owes obedience!

I trust I have done with Sir CHARLES for ever!--especially if he speaks the truth in saying that "following my tips has ruined him"--for why should any woman burden herself with an impecunious husband? He does not know where I am, and I feel still more secure in my retreat from having just heard that he has engaged the services of several of the most prominent London Detectives to trace me!

Owing no devotion now to Sir CHARLES--who will appreciate the following tender lines with which I close my letter--

O woman! in our hours of ease, Thou art not _very_ hard to please! Thou takest what the gods may send; But, thwarted!--thou wilt turn and rend!

I am able to subscribe myself, dear _Mr. Punch_,

Yours more devotedly than ever,

LADY GAY.

[From internal evidence, we are inclined to believe that this present letter, or the one last week from "Sir CHARLES," is a forgery. In former correspondence Lady GAY mentioned "Lord ARTHUR" as her husband. We pause for an explanation.--ED.]

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PROVERB FOR VOCALISTS, À PROPOS OF SIR JOSEPH BARNBY'S REMARKS ON ARTICULATION.--"Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves."

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Why is pepper essential to the health of the new LORD MAYOR?--Because without "Kn." (cayenne) he would be "ill."

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* * * * *

LEFT TO THE LADIES.

MY DEAR MR. PUNCH,

Everyone--I mean everyone with a right mind--will sympathise with those nice people at Bristol who have been holding a "Woman's Conference." So kind and thoughtful of them, isn't it? I notice that Lady BATTERSEA gave a spirited account of a Confederation of Temperance of some thirty villages in Norfolk. The dear, good inhabitants are to keep off the allurements of drink by "listening to such shining lights as Canon WILBERFORCE, and social teas, processions with banners, and magic-lanterns, play their part." How they are to listen to the teas, processions and lanterns, I don't quite understand, in spite of the fact that they (the aforesaid teas, &c.) seem to be "playing their parts." Evidently teas, &c., are amateur Actors.

Then somebody who described herself as "a nobody from nowhere," is said to have "touched a moving chord, as she spoke with great feeling of the sympathy and the moral help the poor give back to those who work among them." What "moving chord?" Sounds like a bell-rope!

Then another lady who wore "the black and lavender dress of the Sisters of the People," followed with a paper, "perhaps overfull of details." And here let me say that I am quoting from "a woman correspondent" who seems to be full of admiration for her talking sisters. But in spite of this admiration, she knows their little faults. For instance, she describes a speech as "vigorous, racy, and perhaps a trifle sensational." Then, when someone else delivered an "address to educated mothers," she says that it excited deep interest, and "almost too many educated mothers threw themselves into the discussion that followed."

Then she observes, "It was disappointing that Lady ABERDEEN was at the last moment forbidden by her Doctor to undertake the long journey from Scotland." So it was, most disappointing; and "at the last moment," too!

Then she announces that "Some ladies expressed a feeling, that introducing young men and women in business to each other, when assembled in their hundreds at Prince's Hall, was an office fraught with considerable responsibility." To be sure! Great responsibility! Might even be improper! Everyone should be _so_ careful!

However, there was one good thing in this Woman's Conference that everyone will praise. The delightful, genial, charitable females seem to have kept to themselves. No men were present. What a blessing--_for the men_! Yours gratefully,

AN OLD BACHELOR.

_The Growleries, Lostbuttonbury, Singleton_.

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CHRISTMAS IS COMING!

When the ruddy autumn leaves Flutter down on golden sheaves, And on plum-trees one perceives No more plums-- All the swallows have not fled, Hardly is the summer dead-- Then, alas, it must be said Christmas comes!

Christmas! Hang it all! But how Can that be? 'Tis weeks from now. What a fearful thought, I vow That it numbs! "Order Christmas papers" fills Bookshops, bookstalls. With its bills, Taxes, tips, fogs, frosts, coughs, chills, Christmas comes!

Even Christmas-cards appear, They are with us half the year, I would banish them from here, Say, to Thrums, Or to any mournful place, Where I'd never show my face, For they tell one that, apace, Christmas comes!

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SEASONABLE CHRISTMAS MOTTO FOR WELL-KNOWN FINE-ART PUBLISHERS.--"TUCK in!"

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* * * * *

TO "THE LAZY MINSTREL"

_On the publication of his Eighth Edition, with therein Nineteen Poems originally written for Mr. Punch._

Who would not be a Minstrel Lazy? A trifle crazy, The best of them! Ah! Here's ASHBY STERRY, in punt or wherry, He's ever merry! sing "hey down derry," Or anything very Like Tra! la! la! la!

On sunny days he trolls his lays With gay guitar and Tra! la! la! la! From groves and glades come meadow-sweet maids, None of your saucy minxes or jades; The poet is there Without a care. With no regret, with mild cigarette. With gay guitar, and whiskey from Leith, Will he be crowned with the Laureate wreath?

(_The Nymph Pantalettina is heard singing_.)

Come where my ASHBY lies dreaming, Dreaming for hours after lunch. Softly! for he is scheming Poems for _Mister Punch_! Graceful is his position-- Hark! how he sweeps the strings, While of his Eighth Edition The Warbler STERRY sings:--

(_The Bard chirpeth his roundelay_.)

"On 'Spring's Delights' in 'Hambledon Lock' 'My Country Cousin' may hap-- With her I'll go 'In Rotten Row,' Stop on an 'oss 'At Charing-Cross,' For a 'Tam O'Shanter Cap.'

No gout? Oh no! But I'm 'Taken in Tow,' And suffering from dejection, 'Spring Cleaning' I'll use for a pair of old shoes (Queer rhyme upon reflection), 'Sound without Sense,' I've no pretence, To write Shakspearian Sonnets. Of her and him, As suits my whim, I sing, and I hymn her bonnets!"

(_Chorus of Pantalettina and River Nymphs._)

So, hail to the Bard so merry, To Lazy Laureate STERRY! He'll sing of a Lock on the Thames! oh rare! Or hymn a Lock of his Lady's hair.

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CONVERSATIONAL HINTS FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS.

The subject of Lunch, my dear young friends, has now been exhausted. We have done, for the time, with poetry, and descend again to the ordinary prose of every-day shooting. Yet stay--before we proceed further, there is one matter apart from the mere details of sport, which may be profitably considered in this treatise. It is the divine, the delightful subject of

SMOKING.