Chapter 1

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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 103.

September 10, 1892.

WHY I DON'T WRITE PLAYS.

(_FROM THE COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF A NOVELIST._)

Because it is so much pleasanter to read one's work than to hear it on the Stage.

Because Publishers are far more amiable to deal with than Actor-Managers.

Because "behind the scenes" is such a disappointing place--except in Novels.

Because why waste three weeks on writing a Play, when it takes only three years to compose a Novel?

Because Critics who send articles to Magazines inviting one to contribute to the Stage, have no right to dictate to us.

Because a fairly successful Novel means five hundred pounds, and a fairly successful Play yields as many thousands--why be influenced by mercenary motives?

Because all Novelists hire their pens in advance for years, and have no time left for outside labour.

And last, and (perhaps) not least, Why don't I send in a Play? Because I _have_ tried to write _one_, and find I can't quite manage it!

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According to recent accounts, the attitude of the Salvation Army in Canada may be fairly described as "Revolting."

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A DIARY OF THE DEAD SEASON.

(_SUGGESTED BY THE CONTENTS BILLS._)

_Monday._--First appearance of "the Epidemic." Good bold line with reference to Russia. Not of sufficient importance to head the Bill, but still distinctly taking.

_Tuesday._--Quite a feature. Centre of the Bill with sub-lines of "Horrible Disclosures," and "Painful Scenes." Becoming a boom. To be further developed to-morrow.

_Wednesday._--Bill all "Epidemic." Even Cricket sacrificed to make room for it. "News from Abroad." "Horrors at Hamburg." No idea it would turn out so well. A perfect treasure-trove at this quiet season of the year!

_Thursday._--Nothing but "Epidemic"--"Arrival in England"--"Precautions Everywhere." Let the boom go! It feeds itself! Nearly as good as a foreign war!

_Friday._--Still "the Epidemic," but requires strengthening. "Spreading in the Provinces," but still, not like it was. Falling flat.

_Saturday._--A good sensational Murder! The very thing for the Contents Bills. Exit "the Epidemic," until again wanted.

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SONGS OF SOCIETY;

I.--INTRODUCTORY. TO MY LYRE.

["Smoothly written _vers de Société_, where a _boudoir_ decorum is, or ought always to be, preserved; where sentiment never surges into passion, and where humour never overflows into boisterous merriment."--_Frederick Locker's Preface to "Lyra Elegantiarum."_]

Dear Lyre, your duty now you know! If one would sing with grace and glow Songs of Society, One must not dream of fire, or length, Or vivid touch, or virile strength, Or great variety.

Among the Muses of Mayfair A Bacchanal with unbound hair, And loosened girdle, Would be as purely out of place As Atalanta in a race O'er hedge or hurdle:

Our Muse, dear Lyra, must be trim, Must not indulge in vagrant whim, Of voice or vesture. Boudoir decorum will allow No gleaming eye, no glowing brow, No ardent gesture.

Society, which is our theme, Is like a well-conducted stream Which calmly ripples. We sing the World where no one feels Too pungently, or hates, or steals, Or loves, or tipples.

And should you hint that down below The subtle siren all men know Is hiding _her_ face, Our answer is: "That may be true, But boudoir bards have nought to do Save with the surface."

And therefore, though Society feel The Proletariat's heavy heel Its kibe approaching, Some luxuries yet are left to sing, The Opera-Box, the Row, the Ring, And Golf, and Coaching.

Not e'en the Socialistic scare The dandyish and the debonair Has quite demolished; Whilst Privilege hath still a purse, There's yet a chance for flowing verse, And periods polished.

If IBSEN, BELLAMY, and GEORGE, Raise not the boudoir critic's gorge Beyond all bearing, Light lyrics may she not endure, On social ills above her cure, Below her caring?

Muse, with Society we may toy Without impassioned grief or joy, Or boisterous merriment; May sing of Sorrow with a smile; At least, it may be worth our while To try the experiment.

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QUITE THE TREBLE GLOUCESTER CHEESE!--The Three Quires' Festival this week. Do the Three Quires appear in the Cathedral? If so, as each quire means twenty-four sheets, there'll he quite a "Surplice Stock."

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CONTRIBUTION BY OUR OWN "MULEY HASSAN."--_Puzzle_--To find "three Single Gentlemen rolled into one?" _Answer_--Sir EUAN SMITH. _Explanation_--Sir, You, an' SMITH. [_Exit_ MULEY HASSAN _going to Bray._

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Why ought a Quack's attendance on a patient to be gratis?--Because he is No-Fee-sician.

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MORE REASONS FOR STOPPING IN TOWN.

_Commodore Buncombe._ Because I know those infernal Tentonners, and ---- Chartreuse jaune only makes me worse.

_William Sikes._ Because of the gross incompetence of my Counsel, and the ridiculous adverse prepossessions of the Jury at my recent appearance in public at the C.C.C.

_McStinger._ Because there's bonny braw air on the braes of Hampstead, and it costs but a bawbee to get intil it.

_Fitz-Fluke._ Because, since that awkward affair at the Roulette Club, my country invitations haven't come in.

_Capel Courtney._ Because those beastly bucket-shops have collared all our business.

_Bumpshus, M.P._ Because the Lords of the Treasury (shabby crew of place-hunters) declined to adopt my suggestion, and to place a trooper, thoroughly well found, victualled, and overhauled, at the disposal of any Members of the Lower House whose profound sense of duty, and of the importance of the Imperial Federation idea, impelled them to take a six-months' trip round the world at the nation's expense.

_Theodore John Hook Straight._ Because of the old trouble--"got a complaint in the chest."

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"THE SPEECH OF MONKEYS."--Professor R.L. GARNER, who is a great hand at "getting his Monkey up" (he was naturally a bit annoyed at being, quite recently, accidentally prevented from giving his Monkey lecture), is about to commence operations by adapting the old song of "_Let us be Happy Together_" to Monkey Language, when it will re-appear as "_Let us be Apey Together_." It will be first given at Monkey Island on Thames.

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CRICKETERS WHO OUGHT TO BE GOOD HANDS AT PLAYING A TIE.--"The Eleven of Notts."

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UN-BROCKEN VOWS.

Walpurgis Brocken Night at Crystal Palace last Thursday--Grand! Jupiter Pluvius suspended buckets, and celestial water-works rested awhile to make way for Terrestrial Fire-works. "Todgers's can do it when it likes," as all Martin-Chuzzlewiters know, and BROCK can do it too when _he_ likes. _À propos_ of DICKENS' quotation above, it is on record that _Mr. Pickwick_ was once addressed as "Old Fireworks." Where? When? and How? _Mr. Pickwick_, we are led to infer by the commentary thereon, somewhat objected to the term, unless our Pickwickian memory fail us--which is not improbable--but Mr. BROCK would appropriate it to himself with pleasure, and be "'proud o' the title' as the Living Skeleton said." Despite wind and weather, and _contretemps_ generally, BROCK has never brocken faith with the public. "_Facta non verba_" is his motto: and "_Facta_" means (here) Fire-works.

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"GREAT BRITAIN AND THE GILBERT ISLANDS."--Captain DAVIS of H.M. Screw Cruiser _Royalist_, on May 27, formally annexed "The Gilbert Islands." Where was SULLIVAN? Or is it that Sir ARTHUR, having been annexed as a Knight, was unable to interfere? Will D'OYLY CARTE explain?

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THE MENAGERIE RACE.

SCENE--_The terrace in front of Hauberk Hall, which the_ LARKSPURS _have taken for the Summer_. TIME--_An August afternoon. Miss STELLA LARKSPUR--a young lady with great energy and a talent for organisation--has insisted upon all the Guests taking part in a Menagerie Race._

_The Rev. Ninian Headnote, the Local Curate_ (_to Mr. PLUMLEY DUFF--after uneasily regarding Miss STELLA, as she shakes up some pieces of folded paper in a hat_). Can you give me any idea of the precise nature of this amusement--er--nothing resembling a gambling transaction, I suppose?--or I really--

_Mr. Plumley Duff_. Well, I'm given to understand that we shall each be expected to take an animal of some sort, and drive it along with a string tied to its leg. Sounds childish--to _me_.

_The Curate_ (_relieved_). Oh, exactly, I see. Most entertaining, I'm sure! (_He coos._) What wonderful ingenuity one sees in devising ever-fresh pastimes, do we not? Indeed, yes!

_Miss Stella_. There, I've shuffled all the animals now. (_Presenting the hat_.) Mr. HEADNOTE, will you draw first?

_The Curate_. Oh, really. Am I to take one of these? Charmed! (_He draws._) Now I wonder what my fate--(_Opening the paper_.) The Monkey! (_His face falls._) _Is_ there a Monkey here? _Dear_ me, how _very_ interesting!

_Dick Gatling_ (_of H.M. Gunboat "Weasel"_). Brought him over my last cruise from Colombo. No end of a jolly little beast--bites like the--like _blazes_, you know!

_Miss Stella_ (_to her Cousin_). Now, DICK, I won't have you taking away poor Jacko's character like that. He's only bitten BINNS--and, well, there _was_ the gardener's boy--but I'm sure he _teased_ him. _You_ won't tease him, will you, Mr. HEADNOTE?

_The Curate_. I--I shouldn't dream of it, Miss STELLA,--on the contrary, I--(_To himself._) Was it quite discreet to let myself be drawn into this? Shall I not risk lowering my office by publicly associating myself with a--a Monkey? I feel certain the Vicar would disapprove strongly.

_Dick_ (_to Colonel KEMPTON_). Drawn _your_ animal yet, Sir?

_The Colonel_ (_heatedly_). Yes, I have--and I wish I'd kept out of this infernal tomfoolery. Why the mischief don't they leave a man in peace and quietness on a hot afternoon like this? Here am I, routed out of a comfortable seat to go and drive a confounded White Rabbit, Sir! Idiotic, _I_ call it!

_The Curate_. Pardon me, Colonel KEMPTON; but if you object to the Rabbit, I would not at all mind undertaking it myself--and you could take my Monkey--

_The Colonel_. Thanks--but I won't deprive you. A Rabbit is quite responsibility enough for me!

_The Curate_ (_to himself, disappointed_). He's afraid of a poor harmless Monkey--and he an Army man, too! But I _don't_ see why _I_--

_Miss Gussie Grissell_. Oh, Mr. HEADNOTE, _isn't_ it ridiculous! They've given me a Kitten! It makes me feel too absurdly young!

_The Curate_ (_eagerly_). If you would prefer a--a more appropriate animal, there's a Monkey, which I am sure--(_To himself, as Miss G. turns away indignantly_). This Monkey doesn't seem very popular--there must be _someone_ here who--I'll try the American Lady--they are generally eccentric. (_To Mrs. HEBER K. BANGS._) I hope Fortune has been kind to you, Mrs. BANGS?

_Mrs. Bangs_. Well, I don't know; there _are_ quadrupeds that can trot faster over the measured mile than a Tortoise, and that's _my_ animal.

_The Curate_ (_with sympathy_). Dear me! That is a trial, indeed, for you! But if you would prefer something rather more exciting, I should be most happy, I'm sure, to exchange my Monkey--

_Dick Gatling_ (_bustling up_). Hallo, what's that? No, no, Mrs. BANGS--be true to your Tortoise. I tell you he's going to romp in--Æsop's tip, don't you know? I've backed you to win or a place. I say, what do you think _I_'ve drawn--the Mutton! Just my luck!

_The Curate_. DICK, just come this way a moment--I've a proposition to make; it's occurred to me that the Monkey would feel more--more at home with you, and, in short, I--

_Mr. Plumley Duff_ (_plaintively, to Miss CYNTHIA CHAFFERS_). I shouldn't have minded any other animal--but to be paired off with a Goose!

_Miss Chaffers_ (_consolingly_). You're better off than _I_ am, at all events--I've got a Puppy!

_Mr. Duff_. Have you? (_After a pause--sentimentally_.) Happy Puppy!

_Miss C._ He'll be anything but a happy Puppy if he doesn't win.

_Mr. Duff_. Oh, but he's sure to. I know I would, if _I_ was your Puppy!

_Miss C._ I'm not so sure of that. Don't they lodge objections, or something, for boring?

_Mr. Fanshawe_. Can anybody inform me whether I'm expected to go and catch my Peacock? Because I'll be hanged if--

_The Curate_. Oh, Miss STELLA, it's all right--Mr. GATLING thinks that it would be better if he undertook the Monkey himself; so we've arranged to--

_Miss Stella_. Oh, nonsense, DICK! I can't have you taking advantage of Mr. HEADNOTE's good-nature like that. What's the use of drawing lots at all if you don't keep to them? Of _course_ Mr. HEADNOTE will keep the Monkey.

[_The unfortunate Curate accepts his lot with Christian resignation_.

_Dick_. Well, _that's_ settled--but I say, STELLA, where's my Mutton's moorings--and what's to be the course?

_Stella_. The course is straight up the Avenue from the Lodge to the House, and I've told them to get all the beasts down there ready for us; so we'd better go at once.

THE START.

_The Competitors_. STELLA, my dear, _mustn't_ Miss GRISSELL tell her kitten not to claw my Tortoise's head every time he pokes his poor nose out? It isn't fair, and it's damping all his enthusiasm!... Now, Colonel KEMPTON, it isn't the Puppy's fault--you _know_ your Rabbit began it!... Hi, STELLA, hold on a bit, my Mutton wants to lie down. Mayn't I kick it up!... DUFF, old chap, your Goose is dragging her anchor again, back her engines a bit, or there'll be a foul.... Miss STELLA, I--I really _don't_ think this Monkey is quite well--his teeth are chattering in such a _very_.... All right, _padre_, only his nasty temper--jerk the beggar's chain. More than _that_!

_Chorus of Spectators at Lodge Gates_. My word, I wonder what next the gentry'll be up to, I dew. Ain't Miss STELLA orderin' of 'en about! Now she's started 'en. They ain't not allowed to go 'ittin of 'en--got to go just wheeriver the animiles want. Lor, the guse is takin _his_ genlm'n in among the treeses! Well, if iver I did! That theer tartus gits along, don't he? Passon don't seem com'fable along o' that monkey. I'll back the young sailor gent--keeps that sheep wunnerful stiddy, he do. There's the hold peacock puttin' on a bust now. Well, well, these be fine doin's for 'Auberk 'All, and no mistake. Make old Sir HALBERD stare if he was 'ere, &c., &c.

_The Colonel_ (_wrathfully to his Rabbit, which will do nothing but run round and round him_). Stop that, will you, you little fool. Do you want to trip me up! Of all the dashed nonsense I ever--!

_Mrs. Bangs_. My! Colonel, you do seem to have got hold of a pretty insubordinate kind of a Rabbit, too!

_The Colonel_ (_looking round_). Well, you aren't getting much pace out of your Tortoise either, if it comes to that!

_Mrs. Bangs_. He puts in most of his time in stoppages for rest and refreshment. I'm beginning to believe that old fable's a fraud. Anyway, it's my opinion this Tortoise isn't going to beat any hare--unless it's a jugged one.

_Dick Gatling_ (_in front, as his Sheep halts to crop the turf in a leisurely manner_). We've not pulled up--only lying-to to take in supplies. We're going ahead directly. There, what did I tell you! Now she's tacking!

_The Curate_ (_in the rear_). Poo' little Jacko, then--there, there, quietly now! Miss STELLA, what does it mean when it gibbers like that? (_Sotto voce._) I wonder, if I let go the chain--

_Mr. Duff_ (_hauling his Goose towards Miss CHAFFERS_). It's no use--_I_ can't keep this beast from bolting off the course!

_Miss C._ Do keep it away from my Puppy, at all events. I _know_ it will peck him, and he's perfectly happy licking my shoe--he's found out there's sugar-candy in the varnish.

_Mr. Duff_ (_solemnly_). Yes, but I _say_, you know--that's all very well, but it's not making him _race_, is it? Now I _am_ getting some running out of my Goose.

_Miss C._ Rather in-and-out-running, isn't it? (_Cries of distress from the rear._) But what is the matter now? That poor dear Curate again!

_The Curate_ (_in agony_). Here, I say, somebody! _do_ help me! Miss STELLA, do speak to your monkey, please! It's jumped on my back, and it's pulling my hair--'ow!

[_Most of the Competitors abandon their animals and rush to the rescue._

_Dick Gatling_ (_coming up later_). Why on earth did you all jack up like that? You've missed a splendid finish! My Mutton was forging ahead like fun, when FANSHAWE's Peacock hoisted his sail, and drew alongside, and it was neck and neck. Only, as he had more neck than the Mutton, and stuck it out, he won by a beak. Look here, let's have it all over again!

[_But the Monkey being up a tree, and the Colonel having surreptitiously got rid of his Rabbit among the bracken, and the Tortoise having retired within his shell and firmly declined to come out again, sport is abandoned for the afternoon, to the scarcely disguised relief of the Curate, who is prevented from remaining to tea by the pressure of parish-work._

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LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.

_Mount Street, Grosvenor Square._

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

Once more I am back in my London "_pied-à-terre_"--(but how it can he a _pied-à-TERRE_, I don't quite know, considering it's a flat on the fourth floor!--_ridiculous_ language French is to be sure!)--and

very glad to get home again I assure you. I have spent the last few weeks in the Isle of Wight, which is a British Possession in the latitude of Spithead--(I don't know why Spithead should want any latitude, but it seems to take a good deal!)--sacred to Tourists, _Char-à-bancs_, and Pirates--the latter disguised as Lodging-letters!

While there we suffered severely from Regattas; which swarm in the Island at this season, and are hotly pursued by the visitors, with the deadly telescope. I myself was bitten once by the Regatta Bacteria, and very painful it was. My friend, Baron VON HODGEMANN, owner of the _Anglesey_, persuaded me to go on board for a race, and we travelled the whole thirty miles sitting at an angle of forty-five degrees, and singing the war-cry of the Royal Victoria Yacht Club!--

To the mast-head high we nail the Burge,[1] When the north wind snores its dismal dirge! In the trough of the sea with a mighty splurge, The quiv'ring Yacht beats down the surge, And weathers the Warner Light!

This experience having inspired me with courage, I indulged in another flight of daring which required all the _aplomb_ of a leader of Fashion to carry out successfully; and, though few of the "smart" Ladies of my set habitually indulge in the habit. I am happy to think I am encouraging them in a healthy and amusing pastime, which, in the Summer, may in time even rival Lawn Tennis! However--not to beat about the bush any longer--an utterly absurd expression this is!--as if it could hurt the bush to beat it!--to say nothing of the difficulty of keeping a bush always handy to beat!)--it is time I told you what this great achievement of mine was--_I went paddling!_ There!--the secret is out!--the Fashion is set!--the new Summer Amusement discovered! The Rules of the Game are being written, and will shortly be published under the title, "_Routledge's Etiquette of Paddling, for Ladies of Good Standing_." I need hardly tell you that the first thing necessary is to find a secluded bay, and it is also advisable to collect a few children to take with you--(there are usually plenty left about on the beach from which you can make a selection)--as a sort of excuse;--no other implements are required for the game, in fact, superfluities are a nuisance and only get wet--thus equipped--the game can be played with freedom--(_not_ from pebbles)--combined of course with propriety, and will be found amusing and invigorating--(quotation from the preface to the Book of Rules written by the eminent German Doctor, HERR SPLASHENWASSER--inventor of the Water-Cure.

The next Race meeting requiring attention takes place at Doncaster this week, and the most important race, I take it--at least, _I_ don't take it--but the _winner_ will--another senseless expression--is naturally the St. Leger, for which I make a poetic selection, which has cost me weeks of anxious thought, no "leger" task!--(French joke)--owing to the number of horses engaged, so few of which will run!

Yours devotedly, LADY GAY.

ST. LEGER SELECTION.

The best of the classic events of the year We are told by the students of "form," Is a foregone conclusion, 'tis perfectly clear, For the noble possessor of _Orme_.

[Footnote 1: This should really be Burg_ee_, but then it wouldn't rhyme, and a Poet may drop a _syllable_, if he or she mayn't drop an H!]

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STUDIES IN THE NEW POETRY.

NO. V.