Chapter 2

At this moment there is really a very excellent extertainment at the Empire Theatre of Varieties, something, or rather many things of which the Management may, and should be proud. A capital troupe of Bicyclists, a Spanish Dancer and singer--whose gestures to the multitude are more intelligible than her language--a graceful, serpentine dancer, and "a very peculiar American Comedian"--all these are a part of the programme. But the best item in this liberal bill of fare is _Round the Town_, a characteristic Ballet, in five _tableaux_. The composers of this pleasing piece are Madame KATTI LANNER, and Mr. GEORGE EDWARDES. As the lady is well known for her admirable dances, it may be safely presumed that the gentleman is solely responsible for the plot, or rather "the argument." It runs as follows:--"_Dr. Burch_, newly arrived in London with his pupils, wishes to show them the sights. What better to begin with than Covent Garden Market in the early morning?" Quite so, the more especially as the lads must be very backward boys. There are six of them, and the youngest seems about thirty, and the oldest about double that age. The Doctor must have rescued them from Epsom Race Course, and apparently is attempting to give them an education fitting them to follow what seems to be his own calling--the profession of an undertaker. These elderly pupils follow their kind preceptor (for, although he is called _Burch_, there is not the slightest suggestion of the rod about him, and, moreover, his charges are really too elderly to receive chastisement) to the Royal Exchange, the Thames Embankment, and, lastly, to the Empire. During their travels, they meet _Mr. Rapless_, known as "the Oofless Swell," (a part amusingly played by Mr. W. WARDE), and _John Brough_, a carpenter with a taste for ballet costumes and drink, the carpenter's wife, and the carpenter's child. _Dr. Burch_, who is evidently easy-going, but good-hearted, after flirting with a lady who has her boots cleaned before the Royal Exchange, suddenly developes into a philanthropist, not to say a divine. On the carpenter's wife and child appearing on the Thames Embankment in the characters of would-be suicides, the worthy pedagogue convinces them (to quote the programme) "That they have no right to take away the lives which the Almighty has placed in their hands." Mother and child are quickly convinced, and the neat but drunken father (Signorina MALVINA CAVALAZZI) appearing on the scene, the good man informs him that his wife and child are dead, "driven to an untimely grave by his (the intemperate but natty artisan's) desertion and cruelty." The effect of this inaccurate statement is startling. To quote once more from the argument, "incontinently the now penitent ruffian falls fainting to the ground." But he is brought back to himself, his better self, by his child whispering "Father!" The situation is full of pathos, even when witnessed from the Stalls. Recovering his senses, the converted carpenter promptly borrows money from the good old Doctor, and when that estimable gentleman is about to enter the Empire Theatre of Varieties (accompanied by his school), a little later he has the "satisfaction of seeing his _protégé Mortimer_ (the ex-ruffian), returning contentedly from his work." This is the simple but pathetic story that Mr. GEO. EDWARDES touchingly tells with the assistance of a full _corps de ballet_, five _tableaux_, and last, but certainly not least, the hints of Madame KATTI LANNER.

There are many remarkable persons in _Round the Town_. Notably an effeminate but substantial stock-broker, who looks like a stock-jobber's maiden-aunt in disguise. Another important personage is a representative of the Navy, whose figure suggests as an appropriate greeting, "Hip, hip, hip, hooray!" Both these characters are well-played, and although subordinate parts, make their mark, or rather, we should say, score heavily. Altogether; the ballet is excellent both in dances and plot. The first is a testimony of the good head of Madame KATTI LANNER, and the last of the equally good heart of Mr. GEORGE EDWARDES. There is no doubt that _Round the Town_ will draw all London to see (in its realistic scenes) all London drawn!

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WRITTEN A HUNDRED YEARS HENCE.

(_FROM A COLLECTION OF COMMUNICATIONS SUPPLIED BY OUR PROPHETIC COMPILER._)

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Forgive me for addressing you, but the urgency of the occasion warrants the intrusion. A hundred years since, the old Fighting _Foudroyant_ was sold by the Admiralty to be broken up. The moment the Public of the Period learned the cruel fact through the customary sources of information, they flew to the rescue. Headed by the then LORD MAYOR, they raised a fund to bring back the discarded vessel, and yet in those distant days there were they who denied that the _Foudroyant_ had ever done anything in particular. And now we propose doing the same thing. On the Thames there is an ancient steamboat called _Citizen Z_, that once belonged to the Company that started penny river lifts. It is certainly rather out of date, but is full of historical memories. It is said that the Cabinet travelled to Greenwich on its venerable boards, where they feasted on the half-forgotten Whitebait, and the entirely, superseded Champagne. It has carried, at one time or another, all the nobility to Rosherville, there to spend (as the old saying went) "a happy day," and yet it is proposed to break it up! Out upon the thought! Have we no veneration for our relics of the past? Cannot we appreciate a boat that should have had an honoured place in the Museum at Woolwich? Do not let this act of Vandalism be done. Save the steamer for the sake of its past.

Yours truly, A REAR-ADMIRAL.

_H.M.S. Electric-Balloon, Skye._

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I appeal to you, and I know I shall not appeal in vain. The picturesque Cabman's Shelter in the middle of Piccadilly is threatened! I hope you will exert your influence to preserve it. It absolutely teems with historical associations. Lord RANDOLPH CHURCHILL is supposed to have used it for writing his famous letter on the Poor-Laws, and to this day is shown the initials of CHARLES STUART PARNELL which were carved by that celebrated statesman on one of its benches about the middle of the last century--probably in 1854. And why is it to be removed? Simply because it is said to impede the traffic! Could anything be more absurd? Do, pray, save it from the hand of the ruthless "improver." Yours truly,

ONE WHO RESPECTS THE PAST.

_Tumbledowns, West Kensington_ (_late Reading_).

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AT LAST!

(_JEREMIAD BY A MIDDLE-AGED MARTYR TO THE GREAT SEASIDE SUPERSTITION._)

["To middle-aged people, at all events, nothing can be more trying and deleterious than holidays."--_Daily News_.]

Oh, thanks to thee, thanks to thee, sage unconventional! Heaven be blest, the truth's out, then, at last! Holiday woes--'twould take volumes to mention all!-- Now, in the lump, meet a shrewd counterblast. _Trying?_ Of course they are! _Most deleterious?_ Scribe, let me clasp thee, in thought, to this breast! Holiday-hunting is Man's most mysterious, Maddening guest!

_Quixote_, I swear, was a model of sanity, When with the Holiday-seeker compared. Fidgety folly, and fussy inanity. These be the figments by which we are snared. Soon as you're drawn from your own cosy drawing-room, Far over flood, field, or foam--for your sins-- Then, when your breast makes for vulturine gnawing room, Bother begins!

Bother, that bugbear of bufferish Middle-Age! Swift "scurry-funging" may do for the young, The "hey-diddle-diddle, the Cat-and-the-fiddle" age. "Over the moon" I myself once had sprung, Thirty years syne, in sheer fervour athletical-- Now, like the dog, I would laugh, and look on. Once, with sheer "drive," I'd a sense sympathetical-- Now I have none!

Holiday? Term, Sir, is simply a synonym For--waste of tissue! What doctor will dare Tell his poor patients so? _I_'ll put _my_ tin on him! Rest? Recreation? Pick-up? Change of air? All question-begging fudge-phrases of sophistry! Let city-toilers who're fagged or "run down," Autumnal _quiet_ (in home or in office), try; _Not_ "out of town."

Out of town? Where is the term that's claptrappier? _Means_ out of temper, or out of your mind. Boot-black or old crossing-sweeper's far happier, Tied to his task in the town--as you'll find. Picking up coppers far better than picking up Shells by the sea, or sham friends on the snore. Bah! What have buffers to do with such kicking-up Heels? It's a bore!

Who'll start a League to be called Anti-Holiday? Bet half the middle-aged men-folk will join! Then we _might_ get an occasional jolly day, Free from the pests who perplex and purloin. "Health-Resort" quackery, portmanteau-packery, Cheat-brigade charges and chills I might miss. Dear-bought jimcrackery, female knicknackery!-- Oh! 'twere pure bliss!

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BRAVO, BOBBY!

["The Brighton Police have received orders to move on all organ-grinders."]

Bless you, Brighton Bobby, bless you, Boldly bringing balmy bliss! Barrel--organ barred--I guess you Banish blatant bands with this.

Brazen blasts, by boobies blowing, Bad as barrel's buzz can be. Bid them budge! I'd vote for throwing Beggars like these in the sea.

Battered bands from Bremen, Berlin; Bearded bandits, born between Bari and Bergamo, hurl in! Bathed--that's what they've never been!

Britons all, oh, be not laggards, But, like Brighton, move them on! Bad, bacteria-hearing black-guards, Beastly, blatant brutes, begone!

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ANOTHER ABOUT THE NEW LORD MAYOR ELECT.--"It's _a Knill wind_ that blows nobody any good." _Signed_, BOGIE MOORE.

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L'ESPRIT DE CORPS (_loq._). "SHAME! SHAME!--IS IT THUS YOU USE YOUR SWORDS? WHATEVER MAY HAVE HAPPENED, ARE WE NOT STILL 'GENTLEMEN OF THE LIFE GUARDS'?"

"It is stated that Lord METHUEN, after censuring the conduct of the regiment, requested the men who had cut the saddle-panels to step forward and own the act, which would in that case be dealt with simply as a case of insubordination. He gave them a few minutes to consider, but as none of them made any admission, he intimated that he should have to report the matter to the Commander-in-Chief as a mutiny."--_Daily Paper_, 30th Sept., 1892.]

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DE CORONA.

["The shape of the hat is another token in which individuality asserts itself, and the angle at which it is worn. There are men who vary this angle with their different moods."--_Article on "Men's Dress," Daily News, Sept. 10._]

You ask why I gaze with devotion At ALGERNON's features, my love? Nay, you are astray in your notion, My glance is directed above; His hair may be yellow or ruddy, No longer I'm anxious for that, But now I incessantly study The tilt of his hat.

At times it will carelessly dangle With an air of æsthetic repose, At others will point to an angle Inclined to the tip of his nose; When it rests on the side of his head, he Will smile at whatever befalls, When pushed o'er his brow, we make ready For numerous squalls!

When he starts for his train to the City It is put on exactly upright, And who would not view it with pity Return, mud-bespattered, at night? When early, so polished and glowing, Jammed on at haphazard when late; It forms a barometer, showing His mood up to date.

And you, who are young and unmarried, Give heed to my counsel, I pray; Do not, I entreat you, be carried By wealth or affection away; The heroine, novelists mention, "Eyes fondly his features." Instead, Observe, for _your_ part, with attention, The hat on his head!

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A NEW COLLECTION OF _HIMS_, ANCIENT AND MODERN.--The Church Congress at Folkestone.

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LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.

_Mount Street, Grosvenor Square._

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

We were not overcrowded last week at Newmarket, and really the more one takes racing from a business point of view, the more attractive it becomes!--at least, I have found it so myself ever since it has been my duty to acquire information for the benefit of my readers.

There was only one thing that annoyed me during the week, and that was the inconsiderate behaviour of _Windgall_ in winning the October Handicap, although it was a most extraordinary confirmation of my remarks anent his performance in the Leicester Handicap, in my last letter; but it _is_ annoying that, when you select a horse to win a race, he runs _second_, and directly after wins a race for which he is _not_ selected, beating the horse chosen by a length!--it puzzles me completely, as it is impossible in this case to put it down to want of good breeding! We were sorry not to have the _Buccaneer-Orvieto_ match decided, as it would have been the event of the meeting; but, as the old proverb runs, "a wise owner is merciful to his beast," so _Orvieto_ had an afternoon's rest at the price of £100!--rather more than some people might be inclined to pay for a game of forfeits!

The time is not yet ripe--(has anyone _ever_ seen time get ripe, I wonder?)--for disclosing what I know about the Cesarewitch--(I never know whether I've spelt that correctly or not!--and the more you look at it the "wronger" it seems!)--but I may mention that I've heard great accounts of _Kingkneel_, who was bought the other day for Sir GREENASH BURNLEY (the latest favourite of fortune, and beloved of the ring)--and had he not earned a penalty--(this expression ought to be changed, as it implies, to my mind, which is an _excellent_ average sample; a misdemeanor)--by winning a paltry thousand pounds race somewhere; I really believe the Cesare--no!--not again!--was at his mercy--but now, as the turf-writer puts it--"I shall look elsewhere!"--as if _that_ would make any difference!--but of this race, more anon, and meantime, those who are fond of the "good things" of this life must not miss my selection for the big race of next week at Kempton--on the Jubilee Course, which said course, I am told, is by no means a Jubilee for the jockeys, owing to the danger in "racing for the bend."

There are several horses entered who seem to have great chances, making the race as difficult as a problem in _Euclid_--but my selection will most certainly be "there, or thereabouts," which is a comforting, if somewhat vague reflection.

Yours truly, LADY GAY.

DUKE OF YORK STAKES SELECTION.

The muse is dull!--the day is dead! And vain is all endeavour To light afresh the poet's spark-- I _can't_ find a rhyme for the winner, _Iddesleigh_,

P.S.--Really it's most thoughtless of owners to harass one with such names!

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"IN THIS STYLE, TWO-AND-SIX."

(IN THE POUND).

SIR,--I have been much struck with the suggestion to do without hats, and have made trial of the system. It has also made trial of _me_, in the way of colds in the head, bronchial catarrh, &c., but I still persevere. _It's so much cheaper!_ I have sold my stock of old hats for half-a-crown, and calculate that I shall save _quite three shillings per annum_ by not buying new ones. Surely anybody can see that this is well worth doing! I am now seriously contemplating the possibility of _doing without boots_!

Yours truly, SAVE THE SAXPENCES.

SIR,--Talk about hair growing if you leave off hats! My hair was falling off in handfuls a little time ago. Did I abjure hats altogether? Not being a born idiot, I did not. But I saw that what was needed was proper ventilation aloft. So I had a specially-constructed top-hat made, with holes all round it. In fact there were more holes than hat, and the hatter scornfully referred to it as a "sieve." The invention answered splendidly. There was a thorough draught constantly rushing across the top of my head, with the speed and violence of a first-class tornado. My locks, before so scanty, at once began to grow in such profusion that it now seems impossible to stop them, except by liberal applications of "Crinificatrix," the Patent Hair Restorer. _That_ checks the growth effectually. My general name among chance acquaintances is "Old Doormat." You can judge how thick my hair must be and I ascribe it entirely to the beneficent action of the draught, as before,

Yours, WELL-COVERED.

DEAR SIR,--Why would it be a mistake to say that a Negro was "as black as my hat?" _Because I never wear one._ The only inconvenience resulting is in wet weather--but, even then, I am prepared for all emergencies. I keep in my pocket a little square of black waterproof, to cover my head when it rains. In an Assize town, the other day, I was followed by an angry crowd, who imagined that I was one of the Judges, and that I had gone mad, and was walking about the streets with the black cap on! But all true reformers are treated in this way, even in England, the land of Liberty.

Yours, HATZOFF.

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"Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!"-- Ah, CARROLL! it is not in fun Your song's light lilt we snatch.

Our Jabberwock's a _real_ brute, With mighty maw, and ruthless hand, Who ravage makes beyond compute In Civic Blunderland.

Look at the ogre's hideous mouth! His tiger-teeth, his dragon-tail! O'er Town, East, West, and North and South, He leaves his slimy trail.

And where he comes all Beauty dies, And where he halts all Greenery fades. Pleasantness flies where'er he plies His gruesomest of trades.

He blights the field, he blasts the wood, With breath as fierce as prairie flame; And where sweet works of Nature stood, He leaves us--slums of shame.

The locust and the canker-worm Are not more ruinous than he. "I'll take this Eden--for a term!" He cries, and howls with glee.

"Beauty? Mere bosh! Charm? Utter rot! What boots your 'Earthly Paradise,' Until 'tis made 'A Building Plot'? Then it indeed looks nice!

"O Jerry Street! O Jerry Park! O Jerry Gardens, Jerry Square!-- You won't discover--what a lark!-- One 'touch of Nature' there!

"'This handsome Villa Residence' Means mud-built walls and clay-clogged walks; And drains offensive to the sense, And swamps whence fever stalks.

"Beauty's best friends I drive away, Artists who sketch, ramblers who rove, Lovers who spoon, children who play,-- All, all who Nature love.

"Nor do I give them wholesome homes For verdant meads--no, there's the fun! Stuccodom, frail and sickly, comes After 'Lot Twenty-One!'

"I make a clearing, dig a trench, Run up a shell of rotten bricks. And thus the rule of sham and stench Upon the 'site' I fix.

"The ugly and unhealthy still Associate with the name of Jerry; And thus I work my wicked will, And flourish, and make merry!"

'Twas so the Jerry-Jabberwock Sang in a suburb, void of shame, Blunderland's civic will to mock, And put its sense to shame.

This ogre of our towns to slay, Where is the urban "Beamish Boy"? CARROLL, when comes that "frabjous day," _We_'ll "chortle in our joy."

Young County Council, are _you_ one? 'Tis said you're but a Bumble-batch! Beware the Jobjob Bird, and shun The Bigot-Bandersnatch!

We'll pardon much that seems absurd, Excuse some blunders that bewilder, If you'll but "draw your vorpal sword" And slay--the Jerry-Builder!

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THE MODERN MERCURY.

Behold that urchin, occupied In counting with an honest pride The marbles he has won! O tardy messenger of fate, Without distinction, small and great, Their telegrams, perforce, await Until your game is done.

Perchance a philosophic strain Makes you regard as wholly vain Our human bliss and woes; What matters, whether State affairs, Or news of good, or weighty carts, Or tidings relative to shares Within your bag repose?

Well, not by me will you be blamed; I like to see you not ashamed To dawdle for awhile; You furnish, by example sage, A moral for our busy age; And so, though others fume and rage, I watch you with a smile.

He moves at length, and now we'll see Which way ... This telegram for me? Oh, worst of human crimes Is such delay!--it's monstrous quite! I'll forward a complaint to-night! Here, pen and paper--let me write A letter to the _Times_!

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MRS. RAM was heard to remark that she "didn't know a finer body of men than the Yokel Loamanry." Probably the old lady meant the Local Yeomanry.

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LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.

NO. XVI.--TO YOUTHFULNESS.