Part 1

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 93.

DECEMBER 31, 1887

ANOTHER "BUTLER;" OR, A THORNE IN HIS SIDE.

Taking for granted the improbabilities of Mr. AUTHOR JONES'S plot--which seems to use up again the materials of _Aurora Floyd_, and one or two other novels, including the _Danvers Jewels_--and a certain maladroitness of construction, _Heart of Hearts_ is both interesting and amusing. All the characters are distinctly outlined excepting one, and this one, strange to say, is _James Robins_, the hero of the piece, a part apparently written rather to suit Mr. THOMAS THORNE'S peculiarities, than to exhibit any marked individuality of character.

_James Robins_, _Lady Clarissa Fitzralf's_ butler,--who is of course the intimate friend of Mr. and Mrs. MERIVALE'S butler at Toole's Theatre round the corner,--has secretly married his mistress's sister, and her niece is openly to marry his mistress's son. Now, how about the character of _James Robins?_ Is he honest? Hardly so. Is he sly? Certainly. Is he crafty? It cannot be denied. Yet the sympathy of the audience is with him. Why? Well, chiefly because he is played by Mr. THORNE, and secondarily, because he is very fond of his brother's child, whom he has brought up because his brother, having got into trouble and been compelled to "do his time," has delivered her into his care. This nice father returns, comes to see his child, and steals a ruby bracelet, this ruby being the "heart of hearts." Whereupon one _Miss Latimer_, a malicious schemer, fixes the theft on _Lucy Robins_. What more natural, considering the name? The father, _Old Robins_, has stolen the jewel; the daughter, _Lucy Robins_, has been accused of doing so. Quite a robbin's family. Of course exculpation and explanation wind up the play, though I regret to say I was compelled to leave before hearing how Mr. AUTHUR JONES deals with that old reprobate Cock _Robins_, the parent bird, who, in view of the future happiness of _Mary_ and _Ralph_, would be about as presentable a father-in-law to have on the premises as that old "unemployed" reprobate, _Eccles_, in _Caste_. I am sorry he wasn't somehow disposed of, having of course previously confessed his guilt to the bilious detective, _March_, and expired under the assumed name of _Mister Masters_. By the way, AUTHUR JONES is not happy in nomenclature.

The dialogue is good throughout, even when it only indirectly developes character or helps the action, and so is the acting. Mr. THORNE as _James_ is admirable; representing the character as a man gifted with an overpowering appreciation of the humorous side of every situation,--including his own as a butler,--in which either accident or design may place him. I do not believe that this was the author's intention, but this is the impression made upon me by Mr. THORNE'S acting, and I am sure it could not be better played. Miss KATE RORKE is charmingly natural; Mr. LEONARD BOYNE is unequal, being better in the last Act than the first. My sensitive ear having been struck by the mellifluous accents of _Lucy_ and the Corkasian,--I think, though, it may be Galwaisian,--tones of her lover, I could not help wondering why the author, after the first few rehearsals, did not slightly alter the dialect and lay the scene in Ireland. The play is well worth seeing, and begins at the easy hour of 8·45. There should be _matinées_ of a new operetta, entitled _The Two Butlers_, characters by J. L. TORNE and THOMAS THOOLE.

* * * * *

CORNET AND PIANO.

AT A JUVENILE PARTY.

_Cornet._ Ready? Yes, _I'm_ ready--but I'm not going to begin before I'm asked. If they want us to strike up, let 'em come and ask us, d'ye see?

_Piano._ Well, but there are all the children sitting about doing nothing----

_C._ _Let_ 'em sit! They'll see you and me sittin' all the evenin', strummin' and blowin' like nigger slaves, and a lot they'll care! Don't you make no mistake, young Pianner, there ain't no sense in doin' more than you're obliged--you'll get no credit for it, d'ye see? And don't keep that programme all to yourself. Ah, one Swedish, one Sir Roger, and a bloomin' Cotilliong--_they_'ll take two hours alone! We shan't work this job off much before one, you see if we do. (_To Hostess._) Commence now? By all means, Madam. Send us a little refreshment? Thank you, Madam, we shall be exceedingly obliged to you. (_The refreshment arrives._) Here's stuff to put liveliness in us, Mate--_Leminade!_

[_Puts jug under piano with intense disgust._

_P._ Well, I should think you'd lemon enough in you already.

_C._ I _'ate_ kids, there--and that's the truth of it! It makes me downright sick to see 'em dressed out, and giving themselves the airs and graces of grown-ups. (_To Small Child._) Yes, my little dear, it's a worltz this time. (_To Pianist._) Strike up, young P. and O! (_A little later._) I'm blest if I don't believe you're _enjoying_ this, Pianner, settin' there with that sort of a dreamy grin on your pasty countinance!

_P._ And if I am, where's the harm of it?

_C._ It's easy to see you ain't bin at it long, or you wouldn't take that interest in it. Much they thank you for takin' a interest, these bloated children of a pampered aristocracy! Why, they don't mind you and me more than the drugget under their feet. Even gutter kids have got manners enough to thank the Italian as plays the orgin for 'em to dance to. Are _we_ ever thanked? I arsk you.

_P._ The Italian plays for nothing. We don't.

_C._ There you go, redoocin' everything to coppers. You're arguin' beside the question, you are. Ever see a well-dressed kid give a orgin a penny without there was a monkey a-top of it? _I_ never did. If you chained a monkey to your pianner now, they might condescend to look at yer now and then--not unless.

_P._ Well, you can't deny they're a nice-looking set of children here. Look at that one with the long hair, in the plush--like a little Princess, she is.

_C._ And p'raps she ain't aware of it, either! Why, there's that little sister o' yours, that's got hair just as long, ah, and 'ud look as pretty too, if she'd a little more colour; but you can't have colour without capital. It's 'igh-feeding does it all, and money wrung from the working-classes, like you and me.

_P._ I don't know what _you_ call yourself. I'm a professional, and see no shame in it.

_C._ You can be as purfessional as you please, but you needn't be poor-spirited. Come on; pound away! Ain't you got a uglier worltz than that?

AT SUPPER.

_C._ I must say I ardly expected this--after the leminade. But you're eatin' nothin', young Pianner. (_To Servant._) Thank 'ee, my pretty dear, you may leave that raised pie where it is; and do you think you could get us another bottle o' Sham, now--for my young friend here? (_To Pianist._ You needn't think you've made a conquest with that moony mug of yours. She's only lookin' after you to make _me_ jealous, d'ye see? I know these minxes' ways, bless you.)

_P. (with lofty bitterness)._ I've no wish to dispute it with you.

_C._ Ah, you've had _your_ eye on the governess all the evening. I saw you!

_P. (blushing)._ You're talking folly, Cornet, and what's more, you know it.

_C._ That's her playin' upstairs now. I know a governess's polker--all tum-tum and no jump to it. Wouldn't you like to go up and help her, eh?

_P._ If I _am_ a wretch doomed to misery, it's not for you to remind me of it, Cornet. It's not a friendly act, I'm blowed if it is!

_C._ You're a regular Tant--Tarantulus, you know, that's what you are! You'll be goin' mad on your music-stool--"I saw her dancin' in the 'All"--that sort o' thing, hey?

_P. (with dignity.)_ It seems to me you've had quite enough of that Champagne, and we've been down half-an-hour.

_C._ You don't 'pear to unnerstand that a Cornet's very mush thirstier instrumen' than a iron-grand out o' tune--but you're a good young feller--I li' a shentimental young chap. I'm a soft-arted ole fool myshelf!

AFTER SUPPER.

_C. (with emotion.)_ Loo' at that now, ain't that a sight to make a man o' you? All these brit appy young faces. I could play for 'em all ni'--blesh their 'arts! Lor, what a rickety chair I'm on, and thish bloomin' brash inshtrumen's gone and changed ends. Now then, quicken up, let 'em 'ave it--you are a shulky young chap!

_P._ It is not sulks but misery. I swear to you, Cornet, that each hammer I strike vibrates on my own heart-strings!

_C._ Then you can be innerpennant of a pianner.

_P._ I am young--but the young have their sorrows, I suppose. Is it nothing to have to minister to others' gaiety with a bitter pang in one's own breast?

_C._ Thash wha' comes o'shtickin' to the leminade!

A LITTLE LATER.

_P. (aghast)._ I say, what _are_ you about? You mustn't, you know!

_C. (smiling dreamily)._ It'sh all ri', dear boy! If a man fines he can't breathe in 'sh bootsh--on'y loshical coursh 'fore him is to play in socksh--d'ye see?

AT PARTING.

_The Cornet (to hostess, with benignant tenderness.)_ Goori', Madam, Gobblesh you, I do' min' tellin' you, you've made me and the pianner here, and ah, 'undreds of young innoshent arts very 'appy, Madam, you may ta' that from _me_. I hope we've given complete satisfaction, 'm sure we've had mosht pleasant shupper--I mean pleashant evenin'--_sho_ glad we came. And you mushn't ta' no notish my young fren, he'sh been makin' lil too free with the leminade, d'ye see? _Goo_ ri! [_Exit gracefully, and is picked up at bottom of Staircase by the Pianist._

* * * * *

* * * * *

A NEW YEAR'S CARD.

_Library, House of Commons, New Year's Eve._

HONOURED SIR,

I find in the Letter Bag a communication from that eminent statesman GRANDOLPH. But I think it will keep for a week, and on this New Year's Eve I will put in the Bag a letter of my own, addressed to him who, take him for all in all, (as BACON wrote) is the most Eminent Man of the century. No one, a cynic has said, is a hero to his own valet--meaning, I suppose, that the closer a man is looked into the less profound his valley appears. It has been my lot to sit at your feet for close upon half-a-century, perched upon the pile of volumes which, oddly enough, never grows an eighth-of-an-inch higher through the revolving years. You have honoured me with your closest confidence. I have known your inmost thoughts. I have often seen you, as you are weekly presented to an admiring public, chuckling with finger to nose and brightened eye over the inception of a joke, and I have observed you afterwards a little depressed on reading it in the proof, struck with the conviction that it was not quite so good as you thought. I am not your valet. But you are truly my Hero.

It may be said that I am prejudiced by receipt of personal favours. You took me literally out of the streets to be your daily companion, and, at friendly though still humble distance, to consort with the Beauty and Brilliance that throngs your court. But for you I might years ago have followed the historic precedent, gone mad to serve my private ends, bit some unwholesome person and died. But you took me by the paw, lifted me into your company, placed me on the pedestal of your ever-increasing but never-swelling bulk of volumes, whence it was an easy matter to step on to the lower level of the floor of the House of Commons. The prestige of your name was sufficient to secure for me the suffrages of one of the most important and one of the most enlightened county constituencies of this still undivided Empire.

As I sit here alone in this dimly-lighted chamber there glide along with silent footfall an interminable procession of familiar faces and figures that have passed through this room since I first took the oath and my seat for Barkshire. DIZZY walks past, looking neither to the right nor to the left, but conveying to the mind of the onlooker a curious impression that he sees all round; and here comes kindly STAFFORD NORTHCOTE and burly BERESFORD-HOPE, and TOM COLLINS, with the faded umbrella he used to bring down through all the summer nights and solemnly commit to the personal charge of the doorkeeper. And there goes dear ISAAC BUTT, wringing his hands because of Major O'GORMAN'S revolt, and W. P. ADAM, disappointed after his long fight which ended with victory for his Party and something like a snub for himself. Here is NEWDEGATE frowning at the scarlet drapery of a reading lamp; and behind him, WHALLEY, wondering whether he was really in earnest when he denounced him before the House of Commons as "a Jesuit in disguise." Here, too, poor Lord HENRY LENNOX with his trousers turned up, and Sir THOMAS MAY with a Peerage looming within hand's reach, and Captain GOSSET steering his shapely legs towards his room to drink Apollinaris and read up Hansard. All, all are gone, the old familiar faces, and the New Year, which the bell-ringers are waiting to welcome in, is nothing to them. Over there in the corner are the two chairs on which the form of JOSEPH GILLIS reclined on the first all-night sitting that ever was, when, the thing being fresh to Members, they were eager to stop up all night, to walk round the recumbent form, dropping pokers and heavy volumes with innocent attempt to disturb the slumberer. But JOSEPH GILLIS slept, or seemed to sleep. He was giving the Saxon trouble, and was not greatly inconvenienced himself.

I have taken down from the shelves two volumes among the most recent and most prized addition to our Library, and, turning over the leaves, come upon fresh testimony to my Honoured Sir's prescience. Turning over _John Leech's Pictures of Life and Character_, garnered from the Collection of _Mr. Punch_, I find under date twenty-five years back, women of all degrees presented under cover of monstrous hoops. Everybody wore crinoline in those days. It was the thing, the only possible thing, and the average human mind could not grasp the idea of there being any other way of arraying the female form. But the prophetic eye of one of the most brilliant of _Mr. Punch's_ Young Men peered into the future and beheld what was to come.[1] In the very midst of delineations of these everyday monstrosities, fearful in the drawing-room, grotesquely exaggerated in the kitchen, JOHN LEECH flashed forth a view of the future. There are three sketches of girls, two in the eelskin dress that marked the rebound from the hideous tyranny of crinoline, and the third showing a style of dress that might have been sketched to-day in Bond Street, not forgetting the upper rearward segment of the crinoline which survives at this day to hint what has been. _Ex pede Herculem._ It seemed at the date a monstrous idea, a nightmare fancy, peradventure a joke. But _Mr. Punch's_ calm eye pierced the veil of the future, and saw then, as he has always seen, what was to be.

[Footnote 1: There is a later example of this gift in the date of another Young Man's letter.--ED.]

This, Sir, is only a solitary instance of your prescience cited in accidentally turning over the collected pages that seem so familiar and are still so fresh. I could quote indefinitely as I turn over the leaves. But time is shorter than usual this evening. There is less than an hour left of 1877. The procession I spoke of just now has passed out and closed the doors. Under brighter and more inspiriting auspices comes another group. May I present them to my honoured Master? EIGHTEEN EIGHTY-EIGHT this is _Mr. Punch_ of whom you may have heard. _Mr. Punch_, this is EIGHTEEN EIGTHY-EIGHT of whom I expect you will hear a good deal. And here, happier in his possessions than _King Lear_, are his four daughters--Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter. They come to wish you a Happy New Year in which no one joins so heartily as your humble friend and servitor,

TOBY, M.P.

* * * * *

* * * * *

FROM A COUNTRY COUSIN.

MY DEAR MR. PUNCH,

I thank you for your advice. You were right when you told me to go and see Mrs. BERNARD BEERE in _As in a Looking Glass_. Indeed, she does hold the mirror up to "nature,"--which is in this instance what ZOLA calls _la bête humaine_,--and in it is reflected the worn face, so weary of wickedness and so hopeless of the future, of _Lena Despard_. The moral of the story--for moral there is--is never out of date. If we can ever retrace any of our steps in life, which I doubt, there are at all events some false steps that never can be retraced. Our deeds become part and parcel of ourselves, and we can no more rid ourselves of them than we can jump off our shadows.

"Our deeds our angels are, or good or ill; Our fatal shadows that walk with us still."

And yet _la bête humaine_, has not quite killed the soul of this adventuress, for she is still capable of a real love, and of proving its reality by an awful self-sacrifice. This is not a Christmas spirit, is it? But you see I went before Christmas, and having done with tragedy, I am looking forward to pantomimical stuff and nonsense. I had not read the novel,--_you_ have, but considerately refrained from telling me the plot,--so I enjoyed the performance without my memory compelling me to compare it, for better or worse, with the original story.

I have never seen Mrs. BEERE play anything before this, nor have I seen SARAH BERNHARDT, who, as you tell me, was in other pieces this lady's model. A London Cousin of mine, who is a theatre-goer, and knows several of the leading actors and actresses "at home," tells me that in this piece the individuality of the actress is completely merged in the part, and that it is only when she is saying something very cynical, that he was reminded by a mannerism peculiar to this actress how bitter this BEERE could be on occasion. It is a pity her name is BEERE, because when I asked my cousin (do you know him--JOSEPH MILLER?) if, off the stage, this lady was really thin and tall, he replied, "Yes--Mrs. BEERE was never stout, and was never a half-and-half sort of actress."

And then, when I pressed him for serious answer, he said, "Well, she's _Lena_ on the stage, as you see." What is one to do with a joker like this, except go with him to a Pantomime, Burlesque, or Circus?

Yours, LITTLE PETERKIN.

P.S.--The Opéra Comique is not the Theatre for a _tragédienne_. Joe says, "Yes it is--for Mrs. BEERE, because of the 'Op in it."

* * * * *

"DE DEUX SHOWS, UNE."

On Thursday night, Mr. WILSON BARRETT, brought out a new piece at the Globe, and in Leicester Square, the Empire Variety Show was inaugurated. The good-natured "Visible Prince," who is always ready to encourage Art in any form, and willing to "open" anything from a Cathedral to an Oyster, was present at this _première_ of the New Music Hall. Poor W. B! "How long! How long!" By the way, it may be necessary to explain to some simple persons, that _The Empire_ has nothing whatever to do with The Imperial Institute.

* * * * *

A Christmas Tip.

"Tally ho! Yoicks, over there!" Which being translated, means go and see the Sporting "Illustrations" at GERMAN REED'S--not "German" at all, for you must always take this title _cum corney grano_, but "So English, you know." And CORNEY GRAIN'S song afterwards, that marvellous duet between Corney and Piano,--excellent!

* * * * *

There is now an Examination for everything. A man can't even become a Bankrupt without passing an examination. Very hard this.

* * * * *

SOMETHING TO SWALLOW.--TOM TOPER says, "SHAKSPEARE'S plays were written partly by SHAKSPEARE and partly by BACON. It was a 'split B. & S.'"

* * * * *

THE RECENT PRIZE-FIGHT.--What the French thought of it: an In-Seine proceeding.

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

I have just come across something on Modern Wiggism in the shape of an amusing advertising book on the Wigs supplied to leading actors by the theatrical perruquier FOX. "Nothing like leather," said the tanner; and judging from the collection of illustrations and notices, it is, in Mr. FOX'S opinion, more what is outside the head than what is in it, that insures success on the Stage. The perruquier makes the wig, and the wig makes the actor. There are portraits of various theatrical celebrities, including one or two of Mr. TOOLE, in various wigs, whose presentments in these pages may entitle the work to be called FOX'S _Book of Martyrs_--willing martyrs, of course, and many of them after they've strutted and fretted for several hours on the stage, quite ready to go cheerfully to "The Steak."

Mr. FREDERICK BARNARD'S CHARACTER SKETCHES FROM DICKENS have been republished. They are the work of a true artist; but he should have left _Mr. Pickwick_ alone. Who cares for an artistic _Mr. Pickwick?_ No; let him ever remain the burlesque eccentricity invented by Mr. SEYMOUR, and founded on DICKENS'S creation. But Mr. BARNARD'S _Mrs. Gamp_ and _Bill Sikes_ are both quite truly Dickensonian.

BARON DE BOOK WORMS.

* * * * *

NUGGETS IN NORTH WALES.

There is legends, and traditions told, and narratives, and tales, Of wealth in mountain crannies, caves, and cells of ancient Wales. The dens of dwarves and fairies, sprites and goblins, imps and elves, Where they, like misers, look you, kept their treasures to themselves.

A cockatrice, a griffin, or a wivern watched the hoard, In the coffers of the crystal rocks, and stone-strong chambers stored, Breathed fire and flames, and ramped and raved in form to tear and rend, And scratch and bite, and sting with tail, barbed arrow-like on end.

The lions and the eagles and the snakes together linked, The cockatrices, wiverns, and their tribes is all extinct. No dragons could PENDRAGON, if alive yet, find to slay, And the dwarves, and fays, and fairies all alike have gone away.

Now GRIFFITHS is the Safe Man, and a griffin guards no more The secret riches of the rocks--they lie concealed in ore; The lodes and veins, and minerals, there's quantities untold In the quarries and the crystals, and the quartzes, full of gold.

It is an El Dorado, found in Mawddach's happy vale; It is Mr. PRITCHARD MORGAN'S, look you, no romancer's tale. And mines besides Gwmfynydd mine 'tis like there's them that owns; Peradventure Mr. JENKINS, Mr. EVANS, Mr. JONES.

North Wales will be a Golden Chersonesus, though the phrase Is a little solecisms, indeed, suppose quartz-crushing pays. And, moreover, in Welsh diggings what if nuggets there be found, As large as leeks, and weighing from a scruple to a pound?

A Golden Age in Wales, look you, there's goodly ground to hope, And a theme of song besides to give the Bards unbounded scope, And prizes at Eistedfoddau for poetry and odes, On the find of gold in the quartzes and the metal-veins and lodes.

* * * * *

SOCIAL ROMANCE.

_A "Fragment," extracted from the "Dim and Distant Future," as imagined by Mr. Frederic Harrison._