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PUNCH ***




Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Malcolm Farmer,
Ernest Schaal, and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net







PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 108.
MARCH 30, 1895.




[Illustration: "ANIMAL SPIRITS."

No. IX. - AWKWARD POSITION OF HIPPOLICEMAN AMONG THE WILD BULLS AND BEARS
IN THROGMORTON STREET.

(_Vide Papers, March 22._)]

* * * * *

AN ELECTION ADDRESS.

[Mr. RIDER HAGGARD has become the accepted Conservative
candidate for a Norfolk constituency. The following is
understood to be an advance copy of his Address.]

Intelligent electors, may I venture to present
Myself as an aspirant for a seat in Parliament?
The views of those opponents who despise a novelist,
Are but the foggy arguments of People of the Mist!

No writer, I assure you, can produce a better claim,
A greater versatility, a more substantial fame;
My candidature, though opposed by all the yellow gang,
Has won the hearty sympathy of Mr. ANDREW LANG.

And if what my opinions are you'd really like to know,
They're issued at a modest price by LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.;
The Eight Hours Bill, for instance, I'm prepared to speak upon
From a practical acquaintance with the Mines of Solomon.

Whatever my intentions as to Woman's Rights may be,
I yield to none in honouring the great immortal She;
While, as to foreign policy, though Blue Books make you yawn,
You'll find the subject treated most attractively in _Dawn_.

When I am placed in Parliament, I'll speak with fluent skill,
And show (like Mr. MEESON) I've a most effective will;
And if there is a special point for which I mean to fight,
It is for legislation to protect my copyright.

If chance debate to matters in South Africa should tend,
My anecdotes will cause the Speaker's wig to stand on end;
And if an opportunity occurs, I'll rouse the lot
By perorating finely in impassioned Hottentot!

So, Gentlemen, I beg you, let my arguments prevail,
Shame would it be if such a cause through apathy should fail,
Shame on the false elector who his honest duty shirks!
Believe me, Yours.
The Author of _She_, _Dawn_, and other works.

* * * * *

SUGGESTED REVIVAL OF AN OLD FORM OF PUNISHMENT FOR FUTURE OBSTRUTIONIST
SPECULATORS IN THROGMORTONIAN KAFFIR LAND. - "Put 'em in the Stocks."

* * * * *

"WHEN ARTHUR FIRST AT COURT."

Last week the Court Theatre was advertised as a "Company, Limited." The
cast in the bill was given as Chairman, ARTHUR W. PINERO; First
Director, Sir ARTHUR SULLIVAN (with a song?); Second Director, HERBERT
BENNETT (Director also of HARROD'S Stores, Limited, the success of which
establishment has been so great as to now out-HARROD HARROD); and then
ARTHUR CHUDLEIGH (who was jointly lessee at one time with Mrs. JOHN
WOOD), as Director and Acting Manager. The Solicitor is down as ARTHUR
B. CHUBB ("little fish are sweet"), and the Secretary is Mr. A.
(presumably ARTHUR?) S. DUNN. Most appropriate this name to finish with;
"and now my story's DUNN." Fortunate omen, too, that there are two "n's"
in DUNN, which otherwise is a word associated with a Court not quite so
cheerful as the Court Theatre.

But the curious note about it is the preponderance of "ARTHURS." ARTHUR
PINERO, ARTHUR SULLIVAN, ARTHUR CHUDLEIGH, ARTHUR CHUBB, and ARTHUR (?)
DUNN. If they have power to add to their number, why not take in ARTHUR
JONES, ARTHUR LLOYD, and ARTHUR ROBERTS? That would make the Dramatic
ARTHURS and the Musical ARTHURS about equal.

MATILDA CHARLOTTE WOOD is mentioned as having had an agreement with one
of the ARTHURS yclept CHUDLEIGH, and probably also a disagreement too,
as their once highly prosperous joint management came to an end. But now
"she will return," at least, everyone hopes so, as, after her capital
performance of the Sporting Duchess at Drury Lane, she has shown us that
she is as fresh and as great an attraction as ever. Some of the ARTHURS
will write for her, one ARTHUR will compose for her, two ARTHURS will
act and sing with her, and ARTHUR, the managing director, will direct
and manage her. May every success attend the venture! But how about
authors and composers offering their work to so professional a board of
directors? Doesn't _Sir Fretful Plagiary's_ objection to sending his
play in to the manager of Drury Lane, namely, that "he writes himself."
hold good nowadays? Hum. A difficulty, most decidedly; still, not
absolutely insuperable.

* * * * *

Which Settles It.

_Over-enthusiastic Person_ (_speaking confidentially of his absent
Friend to the young Lady to whom absent friend is going to propose_).
Everybody speaks in his praise. He is an exceptionally good man.

_Sharp Young Lady._ Ah, then he is "too good to be true." I shall refuse
him! [_Exit separately._

* * * * *

[Illustration: "MUSIC HATH CHARMS."

H.R.H. THE DUKE, ACCOMPANIED BY DRUMMER-BOY HERBERT GLADSTONE, LEADS THE
SUNDAY PARK BAND.

"The Duke of CAMBRIDGE takes the liveliest personal interest in the
proposal made by Mr. JOHN AIRD, and supported by Mr. HERBERT GLADSTONE,
First Commissioner of Works, that military bands should perform in the
Royal Parks on suitable occasions during the season." - _Daily Telegraph,
March 20._]

* * * * *

[Illustration: QUITE A CATCH.

_Young Splinter_ (_driving Nervous Old Party to Covert_). "YES, I LOVE A
BARGAIN IN HORSEFLESH! NOW, IF YOU BELIEVE ME, I PICKED THIS LITTLE
BEGGAR UP THE OTHER DAY FOR A MERE SONG. BOLTED WITH A TRAP - KICKED
EVERYTHING TO SMASH. BID THE FELLOW A TENNER FOR HER, AND THERE SHE IS!"
[_Old Party begins to feel that "'E don' know where 'e are," or will be
presently._]

* * * * *

"MUSIC HATH CHARMS."

A SONG FOR A SUMMER DAY, 1895.

(_A Very Long Way after Dryden._)

["Mr. HERBERT GLADSTONE, in reply to Mr. AIRD, said he was glad
to tell the hon. gentleman that he had been informed by his
Royal Highness the Duke of CAMBRIDGE that arrangements were
being made for a military band to play in Hyde Park on certain
days in summer." - _Parliamentary Report._]

I.

In harmony, in public harmony,
This bit of pleasant news began.
St. Stephen's underneath a heap
Of burning questions lay.
When HERBERT raised his head
His tuneful voice was heard on high,
And this is what it said:
That Great GEORGE RANGER could descry
A chance of making a big leap
To pop-u-lar-i-ty.
That Music's power should have full summer sway,
And the bands begin to play!
With harmony, with general harmony,
Around the information ran
That harmony, sweet harmony,
Should stay mere rumpus with its rataplan,
And make Hyde Park a pleasant place to Man!

II.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
When HERBERT thumps the side-drum well
The listening nursemaids well may stand around,
A-wondering at that curly swell,
A-worshipping the rattling sound.
Less than a dook they think can hardly dwell
In that drum major's toffy togs.
He startles even the stray dogs!
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

III.

The populace charms,
The kettledrum-banger
The baby alarms.
At the double, double, double beat
Of young GLADSTONE'S drum
The Socialist spouters from back street and slum
Cry, "Hark! our foes come!
Way oh! _We_'ad better retreat!"

IV.

The shrill and sprightly flute
Startles the seculurist spouts and shovers.
The crowds of music-lovers
Flock to its sound and leave tub-thumpers mute.

V.

Dark Anarchists proclaim
Their jealous pangs and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depths of spite and heights of passion.
Music mars _their_ little game.

VI.

Yes, Music's art can teach
Better than savage ungrammatic speech.
Young HERBERT let us praise,
"The dear Dook" let us love.
The weary wayfarer, the wan-faced slummer,
Beneath the spell of Music and the Drummer,
Feel rataplans and rubadubs to raise
Their souls sour spleen above.

VII.

"Orpheus could lead the savage race,
And trees uprooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre." -
Precisely, Glorious JOHN! Yet 'twere no lark
To see the trees cavorting round the Park.
No! Our CECILIA'S aim is even higher.
To soothe the savage (Socialistic) breast,
Set Atheist and Anarchist at rest,
And to abate the spouting-Stiggins pest
Young HERBERT and grey GEORGE may well aspire.
The "Milingtary Dook"'s permission's given
That the Park-Public's breast, be-jawed and beered,
May by the power of harmony be cheered,
And lifted nearer heaven!

GRAND CHORUS.

(_By a Grateful Crowd._)

"This 'ere's the larkiest of lays!
Things _do_ begin to move!
'ERBERT and GEORGY let us praise,
And all the powers above.
We've spent a reglar pleasant 'our
Music like this the Mob devour.
Yah! Anerchy is all my heye.
That cornet tootles scrumptiously.
Go it, young GLADSTING! Don't say die
Dear Dook, but 'ave another try.
'Armony makes disorder fly
And Music tunes hus to the sky!

* * * * *

"THE 'KEY-NOTE'-ORIOUS MRS. EBBSMITH."

[Illustration: The Dowdy Mrs. Ebbsmith makes it hot for her young man.]

MR. PINERO'S new play at the Garrick Theatre is a series of scenes in
dialogue with only one "situation," which comes at the end of the third
act, and was evidently intended to be utterly unconventional, dreadfully
daring, and thrillingly effective. "Unconventional?" Yes. "Daring?"
Certainly; for to burn a bible might have raised a storm of sibilation.
But why dare so much to effect so little? For at the reading, or during
rehearsal, there must have been very considerable hesitation felt by
everybody, author included, as to the fate of this risky situation - this
"_momentum unde pendet_" - and for which nothing, either in the character
or in the previous history of the heroine, has prepared us. Her earliest
years have been passed in squalor; she has made a miserable marriage;
then she has become a Socialist ranter, and hopes to achieve a triumph
as a Socialist demagogue. Like Maypole Hugh in _Barnaby Rudge_ she would
go about the world shrieking "No property! No property!" and when, in a
weak moment, she consents to temporarily drop her "mission," she goes to
another extreme and comes out in an evening dress - I might say almost
comes out _of_ an evening dress, so egregiously _décolleté_ is it - to
please the peculiar and, apparently, low taste of her lover, who is a
married man, - "which well she knows it," as Mrs. GAMP observes, - but
with whom she is living, and with whom, like GRANT ALLEN'S _The Woman
who did_ (a lady whom in many respects Mr. PINERO'S heroine closely
resembles), and who came to grief in doing it, she intends to continue
living. This man, her paramour, she trusts will be her partner in the
socialistic regeneration of the human race. At the close of the third
act _Mrs. Ebbsmith_, being such as the author of her being has made her,
is presented with a bible, and, in a fit of ungovernable fury, she
pitches it into the stove "with all her might and main"; and then it
suddenly occurs to her that she has committed some terrible crime (more
probably it occurred to the author that _he_ had committed the
unpardonable sin of offending his audience) - and so she shoots out her
arm into a nice, cool-looking stove (suggestive of no sort of danger to
her or the book), and drags out the pocket volume apparently quite as
uninjured as is her own hand at the moment, though this is subsequently
carefully bound up with a white handkerchief in the last act.
Well - that's all. There is _the_ situation. The Key-note-orious _Mrs.
Ebbsmith_ is supposed to repent of her sins against society; and off she
goes to become the companion of the unmarried parson and of the lively
widow his sister. What the result of this arrangement will be is pretty
clear. The Key-note-orious One will soon be the parson's bride; but
"that is another story."

To carry out this drama of inaction, as it is schemed, should occupy
eight persons something under two hours; but it takes thirteen persons
three hours to carry it along. Five of these _dramatis personæ_ are
superfluous; and much time is wasted on dialogues in Italian and French
that could be "faked up" from any conversation-book in several
languages, and evidently only lugged in under the mistaken impression
that thereby a touch of "local colour" is obtained.

As it is the audience wearies of the long speeches, and there is nothing
in the action that can rouse them as there was in _The Second Mrs.
Tanqueray_, a play that Mr. PINERO has not yet equalled, much less
surpassed.

But what is a real pleasure, and what will attract all lovers of good
acting, is, first of all, Mr. FORBES ROBERTSON'S admirable impersonation
of the difficult, unsympathetic _rôle_ of a despicably selfish,
self-conceited, cowardly prig; and, secondly, to a certain extent, the
rendering of the heroine by Mrs. PATRICK CAMPBELL, who, however, does
not come within measurable distance of her former self as _Mrs.
Tanqueray_ - her "great stove scene" being about the weakest point in her
performance. But there cannot be a divided opinion as to the perfect
part given to Mr. JOHN HARE, and as to the absolutely perfect manner in
which it is played by this consummate artist in character. All the
scenes in which he appears are admirably conceived by the author, and as
admirably interpreted by the actor.

Mr. HARE'S performance of the _Duke of St. Olpherts_ is a real gem,
ranking among the very best things he has ever done, and I may even add
"going one better." It is on his acting, and on the acting of the scenes
in which he appears, that the ultimate popularity of the piece must
depend. The theatrical stove-cum-book situation may tell with some
audiences better than with others, but it is not an absolute certainty;
while every scene in which the _Duke of St. Olpherts_ takes part, as
long as this character is played by Mr. HARE, is in itself an absolute
isolated triumph. Mr. AUBREY SMITH, as the modern young English
moustached parson, _en voyage_, with his pipe, and bible in his pocket
(is he a _colporteur_ of some Biblical Society, with a percentage on the
sale? otherwise the book is an awkward size to carry about, especially
if he has also a _Murray_ with him), is very true to life, at all events
in manner and appearance; and Miss JEFFREYS, as his sister, who looks
just as if she had walked out of a fashion-plate in _The Gentlewoman_,
or some lady's journal, plays discreetly and with considerable
self-repression. Of course it will remain one of the notable pieces of
the year; but what will keep it green in the memory of playgoers is not
the story, nor its heroine, nor its hero, but the captivating
impersonation of the _Duke of St. Olpherts_ by Mr. JOHN HARE.

[Illustration: Transformation Scene. The Rowdy-Dowdy Mrs. Ebbsmith
fascinates the Dook.]

* * * * *

THE GAME OF DRAUGHTS.

(_By One who has Played it._)

Assume that I am living in Yokohama Gardens (before the pleasant change
from winter to spring), and that I am conscious of the near approach of
the North Pole. The fires in the grates seem to be lukewarm, and even
the coals are frozen. My servants have told me that the milk had to be
melted before it could adorn the breakfast-table; and as for the butter,
it is as hard as marble. There is only one thing to do, to send for that
worthy creature Mr. LOPSIDE, an individual "who can turn his hand to
anything."

"Well Sir," Mr. LOPSIDE arrives and observes after a few moments spent
in careful consideration of the subject from various points of view, "of
course you feel the cold because there is five-and-twenty degrees of
frost just outside."

I admit that Mr. LOPSIDE'S opinion is reasonable; and call his attention
to the fact that a newspaper which is lying on the floor some five yards
from a closed door is violently agitated.

"I see Sir," says he promptly. "If you will wait a moment I will tell
you more about it."

He takes off his coat, throws down a bag of tools (his chronic
companion), and lies flat on the floor. Then he places his right ear to
the ground and listens intently, pointing the while to the newspaper
that has now ceased to suffer from agitation.

"There you are, Sir!" he exclaims triumphantly. "There's a draught
there. I could feel it distinctly."

He rises from the ground, reassumes his overcoat, and once more
possesses himself of his bag of useful instruments.

"Well, what shall I do?" I ask.

"Well, you see Sir, it's not for the likes of me to advise gentry folk
like you. I wouldn't think of presuming upon such a liberty."

"Not at all, Mr. LOPSIDE," I explain with some anxiety.

"Then Sir - mind you, if it's not taking too much of a liberty - I would,
having draughts, get rid of them. And you have draughts about, now
haven't you?"

I hasten to assure him that I am convinced that my house is a perfect
nest of draughts.

"Don't you be too sure until I have tested them," advises Mr. LOPSIDE.

Then the ingenious creature again divests himself of his overcoat and
workman's bag and commences his labours. He visits every door in the
house and tries it. He assumes all sorts of attitudes. Now he appears
like JESSIE BROWN at Lucknow listening to the distant slogan of the
coming Highlanders. Now like a colleague of GUY FAWKES noting the tread
of Lord MONTEAGLE on the road to the gunpowder cellar beneath the Houses
of Parliament. His attitudes, if not exactly graceful, are full of
character.

"There are draughts everywhere," says Mr. LOPSIDE, having come to the
end of his investigations.

"And what shall I do?" I ask for the second time. Again my worthy
inspector spends a few minutes in self-communing.

"It's not for the likes of a poor man like me, Sir, to give advice; but
if I were you, Sir, I would say antiplutocratic tubing."

"What is antiplutocratic tubing?"

"Well, Sir, it's as good a thing as you can have, under all the
circumstances. But don't have antiplutocratic tubing because I say so. I
may be wrong, Sir."

"No, no, Mr. LOPSIDE," I reply, in a tone of encouragement. "I am sure
you are right. Do you think you could get me some antiplutocratic
tubing, and put it up for me?"

"Why, of course I could, Sir!" returns my worthy helper, in the tone of
a more than usually benevolent Father Christmas. Then he seems to lose
heart and become despondent. "But there, Sir, it's not for the likes of
me to say anything."

However, I persuade Mr. LOPSIDE to take a more cheerful view of his
position, and to undertake the job.

For the next three hours there is much hammering in all parts of the
house. My neighbours must imagine that I have taken violently to
spiritual manifestations. Wherever I wander I find my worthy assistant
hard at work covering the borders of the doors with a material that
looks like elongated eels in a condition of mummification - if I may be
permitted to use such an expression. Now he is standing on a ledge level
with the hall lamp; now he is reclining sideways beside an
entrance-protecting rug; now he is hanging by the bannisters midway
between two landings. The day grows apace. It is soon afternoon, and
rapidly becomes night. When the lights are beginning to appear in the
streets without, Mr. LOPSIDE has done. My house is rescued from the
draughts.

"You won't be troubled much more, Sir," says he, as he glances
contemptuously at a door embedded in antiplutocratic tubing. "Keep those
shut and the draughts won't get near you - at least so I think, although
I may be wrong. Thank you, Sir. Quite correct. Good evening."

And he leaves me, muffled up in his overcoat, and still clinging to his
basket, with its burden of saws, hammers, chisels, and nails of various
dimensions. I enter the dining-room with an air of satisfaction as I
hear his echoing footsteps on the pavement without, and attempt to close
the door. It will do almost everything, but it won't shut. I give up the
dining-room, and enter my study. Again, I try to close the door. But no;
it has caught the infection of its neighbour and also declines to close.
I try the doors of the drawing-room, bedroom, and the dressing-room. But
no, my efforts are in vain. None of them will close. The wind howls, and
the draughts rush in with redoubled fury. They triumph meanly in my
despair.

There is only one thing to do, and I determine to do it. I must send for
Mr. LOPSIDE to take away as soon as possible his antiplutocratic tubing.
After all he was right when he had those, alas! unheeded misgivings. He
said "he might be wrong" - and was!

* * * * *

[Illustration: SO LIKELY!

SCENE - _Bar of a Railway Refreshment Room._

_Barmaid._ "TEA, SIR?"

_Mr. Boosey._ "TEA!!! ME!!!!"]

* * * * *

[Illustration: THINGS ONE SAYS WITHOUT THINKING.

"I'M SO SORRY YOU'VE HAD TO COME AND DINE WITH US WITHOUT YOUR HUSBAND,
LIZZY. I SUPPOSE THE REAL TRUTH IS THAT, BEING LENT, HE'S DOING PENANCE
BY DINING AT HOME!"

"OH, NO! I ASSURE YOU! HE THINKS IT A PENANCE TO DINE OUT!"]

* * * * *

QUARTER-DAY; OR, DEMAND AND NO SUPPLY.

_Resentful Ratepayer loquitur:_ -

"Demand and Supply!" So economists cry,
And one, they assure us, must balance the other.
_I_ fancy their doctrines are just all my eye,
But then I'm a victim of bad times and bother.
At least, friend Aquarius, _you_'ll understand
That Jack Frost and you have between you upset me.
You are down on me - ah! like a shot - with Demand,
But as to Supply - ah! that's just where you get me.

Water? You frosty old fraud, not a drop,
Save what I have purchased from urchins half frozen,
I've had for six weeks for my house and my shop,
And they tell me the six weeks _may_ swell to a dozen!
Call _that_ Water-Supply, Mister Mulberry Nose?
Why, your oozy old eyelids seem winking in mockery,
My cisterns are empty, my pipes frozen close,
I've nothing for washing my hands, clothes or crockery.

As to flushing my drain-pipes, or sinks, why you know,
I might as well trust the Sahara for sluicing.
A bath? Yes, at tuppence a pailful or so.
Good gracious! we grudge every tumbler we're using.
Your stand-pipes and tanks compensate for such pranks?
Get out! You _are_ playing it low down, Aquarius.
Be grateful for mercies so small, Sir? No thanks!
My wrongs at your hands have been many and various.

But these last six weeks, Sir, are just the last straw
That break the strong back of the rate-paying camel,
I do not quite know what's the state of the law,
But _if_ yours is all freedom, and mine is all trammel,
If yours is Demand, and mine is _not_ Supply,
As 'twould seem by the look of that precious rate-paper,
Aquarius, old boy, I have plans in my eye
For checking your pretty monopolist caper.

Pay up, and look pleasant? Ah yes, that's my rule
For every impost, from Poor Rate to Income.
But paying for what you don't get fits a fool,
Besides, you old Grampus-Grab, whence will the tin come?
Supply discontinued? Aquarius, _that_ threat,
Is losing its terrors. I don't care a penny,
'Twon't frighten me now into payment, you bet,
When for the last six weeks I haven't had any.

Whose fault? Well, we'll see. But at least you'll agree


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Online LibraryVariousPunch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 108, March 30th 1895 → online text (page 1 of 3)