Part 1

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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOLUME 93.

AUGUST 6, 1887.

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ALL IN PLAY.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

Now that your own particular theatrical adviser and follower, Mr. NIBBS, has left London for a trip abroad, I venture to address you on matters dramatic. I am the more desirous of so doing because, although the Season is nearly over, two very important additions have been made to the London playhouse programme--two additions that have hitherto escaped your eagle glance. I refer, Sir, to _The Doctor_ at the Globe, and _The Colonel_ at the Comedy--both from the pen of a gentleman who (while I am writing this in London) is partaking of the waters at Royat. Mr. BURNAND is to be congratulated upon the success that has attended both productions. I had heard rumours that _The Doctor_ had found some difficulty in establishing himself (or rather herself, because I am talking of a lady) satisfactorily in Newcastle Street, Strand. It was said that she required practice, but when I attended her consulting-room the other evening, I found the theatre full of patients, who were undergoing a treatment that may be described (without any particular reference to marriages or "the United States") as "a merry cure." I was accompanied by a young gentleman fresh from school, and at first felt some alarm on his account, as his appreciation of the witty dialogue with which the piece abounds was so intense that he threatened more than once to die of laughing.

I have never seen a play "go" better--rarely so well. The heroine--the "_Doctoresse_"--was played with much effect and discretion by Miss ENSON, a lady for whom I prophesy a bright future. Mr. PENLEY was excellent in a part that fitted him to perfection. Both Miss VICTOR, as a "strong woman," and Mr. HILL, as--well, himself,--kept the pit in roars. The piece is more than a farce. The first two Acts are certainly farcical, but there is a touch of pathos in the last scene which reminds one that there is a close relationship between smiles and tears. And here let me note that the company in the private boxes, even when most heartily laughing, were still in tiers. As a rule the Doctor is not a popular person, but at the Globe she is sure to be always welcome. Any one suffering from that very distressing and prevalent malady, "the Doleful Dumps," cannot do better than go to Newcastle Street for a speedy cure.

The _Colonel_ at the Comedy is equally at home, and, on the occasion of his revival, was received with enthusiasm. Mr. BRUCE has succeeded Mr. COGHLAN in the title _role_, and plays just as well as his predecessor. Mr. HERBERT is the original _Forester_, and the rest of the _dramatis personae_ are worthy of the applause bestowed upon them. To judge from the laughter that followed every attack upon the aesthetic fad, the "Greenery Yallery Gallery" is as much to the front as ever--a fact, by the way, that was amply demonstrated at the _Soiree_ of the Royal Academy, where "passionate Brompton" was numerously represented.

_The Bells of Hazlemere_ seem to be ringing in large audiences at the Adelphi, although the piece is not violently novel in its plot or characters. Mrs. BERNARD-BEERE ceases to die "every evening" at the end of this week at the Opera Comique until November. I peeped in, a few days since, just before the last scene of _As in a Looking-Glass_, and found the talented lady on the point of committing her nightly suicide. Somehow I missed the commencement of the self-murder, and thus could not satisfactorily account for her dying until I noticed that a double-bass was moaning piteously. Possibly this double-bass made Mrs. BERNARD-BEERE wish to die--it certainly created the same desire on my part. Believe me, yours sincerely,

ONE WHO HAS GONE TO PIECES.

* * * * *

OUR EXCHANGE AND MART.

HOLIDAY INQUIRIES.

ELIGIBLE CONTINENTAL TRAVELLING COMPANION.--A D.C.L., B.M., and R.S.V.P. of an Irish University, is desirous of meeting with one or two Young English Dukes who contemplating, as a preliminary to their taking their seats in the House of Lords, passing a season at Monaco, would consider the advertiser's society and personal charge, together with his acquaintance with a system of his own calculated to realise a substantial financial profit from any lengthened stay in the locality, an equivalent for the payment of his hotel, travelling, and other incidental expenses. Highest references given and expected. Apply to "MASTER OF ARTS." Blindhooky. County Cork.

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INVALID OUTING. EXCEPTIONAL ADVANTAGES.--A confirmed Invalid, formerly an active member of the Alpine Club, who has temporarily lost the use of his legs, and has in consequence hired a Steam-traction engine attached to which, in a bath-chair, he proposes making a prolonged excursion through the most mountainous districts of Wales, is anxious to meet with five other paralytics who will join him in his contemplated undertaking, and bear a portion of the expense. As he will take in tow two furniture vans containing respectively a Cottage-Hospital and a Turkish-bath, and be accompanied by three doctors, and a German Band, it is scarcely necessary for him to point out that the details of the trip will be carried out with a due regard to the necessities of health and recreation. While the fact that a highly respectable firm of Solicitors will join him _en route_, will be a guarantee that any vexatious litigation instituted against him by local boroughs for the crushing and otherwise damaging their gas and water-mains, or running into their lamp-posts will, if it occur, be jealously watched and effectually dealt with. In the not unforeseen, though by no means expected event of the Traction Engine becoming by some accident permanently wedged in and unable to move from some inaccessible pass, it is understood that the party shall separate, and that each member shall be at liberty to return home by any _route_ he may select for himself as most convenient and available for the purpose. For all further particulars apply to X. X. X., Struggle-on-the-Limp, Lame End, Beds.

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LIFE IN THE COUNTRY. RARE OPPORTUNITY.--An impecunious Nobleman, whose income has been seriously reduced owing to the prevailing agricultural depression, would be willing to let his Family Mansion to a considerate tenant at a comparatively low rental. As half the furniture has been seized under a distress-warrant, and as a man in possession is permanently installed, under a bill of sale, in charge of the rest, a recluse of aesthetic tastes, to whom a series of rooms entirely devoid of furniture would present a distinct attraction, and who would find a little friendly social intercourse not an altogether disagreeable experience, might discover in the above an eligible opportunity. Some excellent fishing can be had on the sly in the small hours of the morning by dodging the local Middle-man to whom it has been let. Capital rat-shooting over nearly an eighth of an acre of wild farm-yard buildings. Address, "MARQUIS." Spillover. Herts.

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THE BEST PART OF HALF A PACK OF HOUNDS FOR SALE.--A Midland County Squire, who, through having come into a Suburban Omnibus business, is about to relinquish his position as a county gentleman, is anxious to find a purchaser for what is left of a Pack of Hounds, of which he has for several years been the acknowledged Master. The "remnant" consists of a Dachshund, a Setter, slightly blind of one eye, two Drawing-room Pugs, a Lurcher, and a French Poodle, who can tell fortunes with a pack of cards, jump through three papered hoops at a time, walk round the room on his fore legs, and take five o'clock tea with any assembled company. Any enthusiastic huntsman wishing "to ride to hounds" in the middle of August, could, with a little preliminary training, scarcely fail to find in the above all the elements that would provide him with a capital run, even at this comparatively early season of the sporting year. With a red herring tied on to the fox, they could be warranted not to miss the scent; and, failing their performances in the field, might be safely relied on as a striking feature in any provincial Circus. The advertiser would be glad to hear from a respectable and responsible sausage manufactory.--Apply, MASTER, Packholme, Kenilworth.

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* * * * *

SOME MORE OFFICIAL JILLS.

(_Whom Mr. Punch, with his characteristic sense of justice and fair-play, is proud to recognise as no less representative than his earlier types--although he could wish he had the pleasure of encountering them a little more frequently._)

SCENE--_A large Branch Post Office. The weather is oppressively warm, and the Public slightly irritable in consequence. Behind the counter are three Young Ladies, of distinctly engaging appearance, whom we will call_ Miss GOODCHILD, Miss MEEKIN, _and_ Miss MANNERLY, _respectively. As the Curtain rises_, Miss GOODCHILD _is laboriously explaining to an old lady with defective hearing the relative advantages of a Postal and a Post Office Order_.

_The Old Lady._ Just say it over again, so that a body can hear ye. You young Misses ought to be taught to speak _out_, 'stead o' mumbling the way you do. _Why_ can't ye give me a Postal Order for five-and-fourpence, and a'done with it, eh?

_Miss Goodchild (endeavouring to speak distinctly)._ A _Post Office_ Order will be what you require. See, you just fill in that form, and then I'll make it out--it's quite simple.

_Old Lady._ Yes, I dessay, _anything_ to save yourselves a little trouble! You're all alike, you Post-Office young women. As if I couldn't send five-and-fourpence to my boy down at Toadley in the 'Ole, without filling up a parcel o' nonsense!

_Person behind (with a talent for grim irony of a heavy order)._ Can you inform me whether there are any arrangements for providing luncheon for the Public--because, as it appears I am to spend the entire _day_ here----

_Miss Goodchild (sweetly)._ I'm so very sorry to keep you waiting, Sir. As soon as _ever_ I have attended to this lady!----

_Old Lady._ If you _call_ it attending--which I don't myself. There's your form.

_Miss Goodchild._ Oh, but you haven't told me whom you want the order made out to!

_Old Lady._ I did--I told you it was my son. If you hadn't been woolgathering, you'd ha' heard me. I'm sure _I_ speak plain enough!

_Miss Goodchild (laughing good-humouredly)._ Oh, yes, you speak _very_ plainly--but I want the name in full, please, to put in the instructions.

_The Person with the Irony._ When you have _quite_ concluded your little conversation----

_Miss Goodchild (as she fills in the order)._ Now, Sir, what can I do for you?

_The Person with the Irony._ Well, I should be glad to be informed what you mean by requiring me to take out a licence for a dog that died of distemper a fortnight after I had him--and I had a warranty with him too!

_Miss Goodchild._ Oh, but that isn't my department, you see. You must go----(_gives him elaborate instructions as to the place he is to apply to._)

_The Person._ Ah, if you had had the common courtesy to tell me all that before, I should not have wasted my time like this! [_Exit in wrath._

_A Feeble Lady (to_ Miss MEEKIN). Oh, I just thought as I was passing by--may I put my umbrella here--and these parcels? thank you. I daresay you can tell me. Does the Mail for New Heligoland touch at Port Sandune? They go every other Friday, don't they? or is it changed to alternate Tuesdays now? and will there be anyone on board who would look after a box of Japanese rats if I sent them?--they'll want feeding, or _something_ I suppose.

[Miss MEEKIN _disentangles these inquiries, and answers them categorically to the test of her knowledge, information and belief_.

_Feeble Lady (disappointed)._ Oh, I _quite_ thought you would know _all_ about it! Then you _wouldn't_ send the rats, you think?

_Miss Meekin._ No, I don't _think_ I should send the rats, without someone in charge.

_Feeble Lady._ Oh, well, but I call it very unsatisfactory--did I put my umbrella down in this corner, or not? Oh, (_slightly annoyed_) you have it ... there must be another parcel, do see if you haven't put it away by mistake! No? Then it will be all right about the rats?

[_Exit vaguely._

_A Conversational Man (to_ Miss MANNERLY). _Warm_, isn't it?

_Miss Mannerly._ _Very_ warm. What can I do for you?

_Conv. Man._ Wait a bit. Give a man time to get his breath ... phew! (_In an injured tone._) Why, the mercury in this office of yours must be over eighty at least!

_Miss Mannerly._ I daresay ... you wanted----?

_Conv. Man._ Daresay! Haven't you got a thermometer--you can easily look for yourself!

_Miss M._ I'm afraid there isn't one. If you will tell me what you came for?

_Conv. Man._ Ah, you wouldn't be in such a hurry if I was a nice-looking young chap! You'd be ready enough to talk all day then--_I_ know what you young ladies are like!

_Miss M._ Perhaps we are not all alike--and I really have no time to talk to anybody.

[_Turns away and weighs a parcel for somebody else._

_Conv. M._ So that's the way you treat a civil remark, is it! I tell you what it is--you young women want taking down; a little showing up will do you _good_! Perhaps you haven't seen _Punch_ lately? Well, you look out--I could give _Punch_ some wrinkles if I liked! Ah, I thought _that_ would make a change in you! What do I want? Well, 'pon my soul I forget what I came in for. I'll look in when you're in a better temper.

[_Exit with the consciousness of having scored._

_A Testy Man (to_ Miss MEEKIN). Look here, this is simply scandalous! I've brought it to show you. My little girl in the country sent home some silkworms to her sister in a light paper-box. They were marked "fragile, with care"--and _this_ is how they arrived! (_Thrusts a crushed packet, unpleasantly stained, upon_ Miss MEEKIN'S _notice._) That's your _stamping_, that is!

_Miss Meekin._ I'm sure I'm very sorry.

_Testy M._ Sorry! What's the use of _that?_ The silkworms are _dead_! dead through culpable negligence on the part of someone in this office--and if you'll give me a sheet of paper, I'll let the Postmaster-General know what I think of you here. (Miss MEEKIN _supplies him with paper and an envelope; he dashes down a strong-worded screed with a gold pencil-case_.) There, you'll hear more of that--I'll bring these silkworms home to somebody, if I have to do it through Parliament! good-day to you.

_Miss Meekin (as he is opening the door)._ Sir, one moment!

_Testy Man._ No, I'll listen to no apologies--disgraceful, _disgraceful!_

_Miss Meekin (a little roused)._ I wasn't _going_ to apologise--only to tell you you've left your pencil-case on the counter.

_Testy Man._ Oh--er--have I? much obliged. (_Disarmed._) And you may give me back that letter--I'll think over it!

_Miss Goodchild (to_ Mrs. QUIVERFUL--_a regular client_). Oh, Mrs. QUIVERFUL, do you know, you never put any stamp on that letter to Wurra-Gurra? I saw it was in your handwriting.

_Mrs. Quiverful._ Dear, _dear_ me! how careless--and my boy expecting to hear as usual! So you couldn't send it?

_Miss G._ Oh, yes, it _was_ sent--I thought you wouldn't like to miss the Mail.

_Mrs. Q._ But he'll have to pay double at his end--he'll think I grudge the expense, poor boy!

_Miss G. (timidly)._ I--I thought you'd rather it went stamped, so I--I took the liberty of stamping it myself.

_Mrs. Q._ Did you? Then you're a darling, and I don't care what unkind things _Mr. Punch_ chooses to say about you--there!

_Mr. Punch (in background)._ If they were all like her, he would never have said any unkind things at all, Madam. _O si sic omnes!_

_Mrs. Q. (in some alarm)._ A--quite so, I'm sure. What a very singular person! [_Scene closes in._

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* * * * *

HORATIAN MOTTO FOR MR. STANSFELD & CO.--"_Gens humana ruit per vetitum nefas._" "The humane gent plunges headlong into impropriety."

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THE BEST "DRESS IMPROVER."--A Pretty Girl.

* * * * *

A REMINISCENCE OF THE NAVAL REVIEW.

I HAD never seen a Naval Review. It was to come off on the Saturday, and this was the Thursday previous. When therefore in answer to a modest inquiry, I received a wire from Mr. RICHARD ROSSHER, Chairman of the Great M. & N. Steamship Company, saying, "Come aboard our new boat, _Regina_, to-morrow, Friday; tickets and instructions by post," I made up my mind on the spot to accept, if I could return on the Saturday night, as business of the utmost importance demanded my presence in London on Sunday morning. What that business was is nobody's business but mine, so I need not explain. Suffice it to say that to miss a certain appointment on Sunday morning, would have been fraught with most disastrous consequences to myself and others.

I answered ROSSHER'S telegram, "Yes, with pleasure, if you can land me Saturday night." To which the reply was, "Think it can be managed; try to come." To this I wired, "Instructions and tickets received. Am coming." Within two hours I got a message from a Clerk in the M. & N. Office, City, "ROSSHER on board at Southampton. Too late to wire."

What this was meant to convey I did not understand, but my mind was made up, and very soon my bag was packed, and I was ready for the start. At all events, there was the utter novelty to me of being a guest on board one of the largest vessels afloat in the Indian Merchant Service (I believe it is the Indian Merchant Service, or, as OLLENDORFF would put it, "the Service of the Indian Merchant,") with a select party, limited, I supposed, to about a dozen "jolly companions every one," and in being taken in and done for _en prince_, _en prince indien_.

"Immensely kind of ROSSHER," I said to myself (and subsequently said it to him) as I alighted at the Waterloo Station, and proceeded at once to the wrong platform. I do not remember ever having been to Waterloo Station without having been to the wrong platform to begin with.

Bag in hand, and coat over arm--the wary sea-dog provides against probable squalls--I strode to another platform--wrong again. "The M. & N. Special," I panted to a porter, who was so taken aback by being appealed to suddenly, that for a few seconds he could only mop his heated brow and stare at me vaguely. Then after repeating my question twice, once to me and once to himself, he shook his head as if he were giving up a conundrum, whereupon to interest him personally in my proceedings I handed him my bag to carry. This looking like real business, he showed himself a man of vast resources by stopping an official in a buttoned-up uniform and a tall chimney-pot hat, and obtaining the information from him. Across the bridge and then second on the left. Off we go. Here we are. Board up labelled "M. & N. Special. _Regina._" A crowd is pouring in at the wicket-gate. Can they all be going by the M. & N. Special? Yes. I hear the question put, and those not possessing the proper tickets are sternly rejected. Some are sent off to another platform where there is another "M. & N. Special" for the _Italia_.

I present my ticket. It is examined, clipped, and I am passed in. Seeing a number of people ahead and an empty smoking-carriage close at hand, I jump into this, stow away my bag, and find myself with a quarter of an hour to the good. I get out to look about me. Enter Sir PETER PORTLAND (looking younger than ever, as he always does whenever I meet him) in decidedly fashionable yachting-costume, cap and all (he once owned a yacht), carrying a brown-paper parcel. Delighted to see one another. He secures a seat in my carriage. So does another fellow, name unknown, but evidently a gallant seaman with a weather-beaten countenance. At the last moment hurries up Sir THOMAS QUIRCKE, also in full yachting-costume, cap and all, only not so bright and gay as Sir PETER, who I observe has on an evening white waistcoat and patent leather shoes, which combination gives a light and airy and hornpipy appearance to the wearer, which mere navy blue serge can never convey.

We, including the unknown man in the corner, with the weather-beaten face--the Knight of the Bronzed Features--congratulate ourselves on being the guests of the M. & N. Sir PETER produces his card of invitation. So does Sir THOMAS; so does the Weather-beaten One. I feel in all my pockets. No. I've left it behind me. Sir PETER, Sir THOMAS, and the Weather-beaten Stranger eye me suspiciously. There is a lull in the conversation. I tell my story, and try to interest them. It strikes me that they don't believe it; but my railway ticket proves my veracity. They brighten up again, but are evidently still far from clear that they are not travelling with an impostor.

"I don't see your name on the list," says Sir PETER, scanning a large card through his glasses.

"What list?" I ask, somewhat disturbed.

"List of guests," replies Sir THOMAS, examining his card.

Weather-beaten Man hasn't got a list; he asks to be allowed to examine Sir PETER'S. Aha! the Weather-beaten Man's name is not there. Sir THOMAS and Sir PETER eye _him_ with suspicion now. He explains and tells his story. If my name had been on the list I should have disbelieved him; but as it isn't, I only think that his account of being here at all is not so plausible and clear as my own.

"You've got the number of your berth?" asks Sir THOMAS, looking round at me doubtfully, as if he were giving me a last chance.

"Berth!" I exclaim. "No, I haven't. You see I only telegraphed----" and here I am about to repeat my entire explanation, when Sir PETER and Sir THOMAS cut it short by shaking their heads ominously. "I'm going away on Saturday night," I say, as if the prospect of my leaving them soon would soften them a bit.

"Saturday!" returns Sir PETER, with a chuckle. "'Pon my soul I don't see how you're going to do that." And he smiles derisively.

"No one goes on shore till Monday," observes Sir THOMAS, with decision. "Certainly not," says the Weather-beaten Man, who is not on the list, turning against me; "and, for my part, I don't care how long I stay in such good quarters."

After this there is an uncomfortable silence. Sir THOMAS says there are two hundred and fifty guests. Heavens! and I had thought it was a small and select party of genial bachelors! We read our papers, the Weather-beaten Man in his corner, I in mine. Sir PETER and Sir THOMAS smoke, and then both fall asleep. Waking up, they fall to conversing about a trip they have already had on the _Regina_, comparing notes of comfort and so forth. I'm out of it. So is the Weather-beaten Stranger. I begin to wish I hadn't come, or, at all events, that I had brought my invitation card as proof of my identity, and a verification of my statement. Wish, too, I'd brought ROSSHER'S telegram. No good wishing. I haven't. I'm not there yet; but what frightens me is, that as there are two hundred and fifty passengers, if I am the only one who wants to go on shore on Saturday night, they will never upset all the arrangements for the sake of sending me off in a launch or a gig, or whatever they have in use. And if I can't return Saturday----However, here I am, and I'll go through with it.