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diff --git a/39362-h/39362-h.htm b/39362-h/39362-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8f78173 --- /dev/null +++ b/39362-h/39362-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1885 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" /> + + <title>Punch, or the London Charivari, October 28th 1893</title> + + <style type="text/css"> + + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + p {text-align: justify;} + .ind {margin-left: 2em; margin-right: 2em;} + .ind1 {margin-left: 5em; margin-right: 5em;} + .ind2 {margin-left: 8em; margin-right: 8em;} + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 {text-align: center;} + blockquote {text-align: justify; font-size: 0.9em; margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%;} + .sans {font-family: sans-serif;} + pre {font-size: 0.7em;} + .sc {font-variant: small-caps;} + .center {text-align: center;} + .center1 {text-align: center; font-size: 0.9em;} + td.note {text-align: left; font-size: 0.9em; font-weight: normal; border: 1px dashed; padding: 1em; width: auto;} + ul.none {font-size: 1.0em; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; list-style-type: none; line-height: 150%} + hr.full {width: 100%;} + html>body hr.full {margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 0%; width: 100%;} + hr.medium {width: 76%;} + html>body hr.medium {margin-right: 12%; margin-left: 12%; width: 76%;} + ins {text-decoration: none; border-bottom: dashed 1px silver;} + p.note {margin-left: 25%; margin-right: 20%;} + p.author {text-align: right; margin-top: -1em; margin-right: 2em;} + p.author1 {text-align: right; margin-top: -1em; margin-right: 16em;} + p.author2 {text-align: right; margin-top: -1em; margin-right: 20em;} + span.pagenum {position: absolute; left: 1%; right: 91%; font-size: 8pt; text-indent: 0;} + span.und {text-decoration: underline;} + + .poem {margin-left: 35%; margin-right: 10%; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem p {margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem p.i2 {margin-left: 1em;} + .poem p.i4 {margin-left: 2em;} + .poem p.i6 {margin-left: 3em;} + .poem p.i8 {margin-left: 4em;} + .poem p.i10 {margin-left: 5em;} + .poem p.i12 {margin-left: 6em;} + .poem p.i14 {margin-left: 7em;} + .poem p.i16 {margin-left: 8em;} + .poem p.i24 {margin-left: 12em;} + .poem p.i36 {margin-left: 18em;} + + .poem1 {margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 10%; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;} + .poem1 .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem1 p {margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem1 p.i2 {margin-left: 1em;} + .poem1 p.i4 {margin-left: 2em;} + .poem1 p.i6 {margin-left: 3em;} + .poem1 p.i8 {margin-left: 4em;} + .poem1 p.i10 {margin-left: 5em;} + .poem1 p.i12 {margin-left: 6em;} + .poem1 p.i14 {margin-left: 7em;} + .poem1 p.i16 {margin-left: 8em;} + + .poem2 {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;} + .poem2 .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem2 p {margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem2 p.i2 {margin-left: 1em;} + .poem2 p.i4 {margin-left: 2em;} + .poem2 p.i6 {margin-left: 3em;} + .poem2 p.i8 {margin-left: 4em;} + .poem2 p.i10 {margin-left: 5em;} + .poem2 p.i12 {margin-left: 6em;} + .poem2 p.i14 {margin-left: 7em;} + .poem2 p.i16 {margin-left: 8em;} + + .figure, .figcenter, .figright, .figleft {padding: 1em; margin: 0; text-align: center; font-size: 0.8em;} + .figure img, .figcenter img, .figright img, .figleft img + {border: none;} + .figure p, .figcenter p, .figright p, .figleft p + {margin: 0; text-indent: 1em;} + .figcenter {margin: auto;} + .figright {float: right;} + .figleft {float: left;} + + </style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, October +28th 1893, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license + + +Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, October 28th 1893 + +Author: Various + +Release Date: April 3, 2012 [EBook #39362] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH *** + + + + +Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Lesley Halamek and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page193" id="page193"></a>[pg 193]</span> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<h1>Punch, or the London Charivari</h1> + +<h2>Volume 105, October 28th 1893</h2> + +<h4><i>edited by Sir Francis Burnand</i></h4> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<h2>MY LANDLORD.</h2> + +<h4>(<i>By a Tenant.</i>)</h4> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>Who asked a rent absurdly high;</p> +<p>Who never scrupled at a lie?</p> +<p>The house well built! The soil so dry!</p> +<p class="i4">My Landlord.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Whose saving schemes cause constant fears</p> +<p>The house will fall about my ears?</p> +<p>I say it totters, and he sneers.</p> +<p class="i4">My Landlord.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>The cellar's flooded when it rains;</p> +<p>The ceilings show damp, mouldy stains.</p> +<p>Who swindled me about the drains?</p> +<p class="i4">My Landlord.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Who called the house extremely nice?</p> +<p>It's simply overrun with mice,</p> +<p>The cook has had hysterics twice.</p> +<p class="i4">My Landlord.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Who praised the garden in a way</p> +<p>To seem like Eden? I should say</p> +<p>The soil is brickbats mixed with clay.</p> +<p class="i4">My Landlord.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Who said each kind of plant succeeds?</p> +<p>Yet when I sow the choicest seeds</p> +<p>They all develop into weeds.</p> +<p class="i4">My Landlord.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>What's this? A note from him—a few</p> +<p>Short lines to say the rent is due.</p> +<p>Who tells me facts not new, if true?</p> +<p class="i4">My Landlord.</p> + </div> </div> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p class="center"><span class="sc">A Suggestion.</span>—A decoration for +<span class="sc">Jabez Balfour</span>,—"The Order of the Golden Fleece."</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"><a href="images/193-800.png"><img src="images/193-400.png" width="400" height="524" alt="RECKLESS." /></a> +<h2 class="sans">RECKLESS.</h2> + +<p><i>Moderate Swell.</i> "<span class="sc">Going to take a Cab</span>?"</p> + +<p><i>Immoderate Swell.</i> "<span class="sc">Er—no</span>."</p> + +<p><i>M. S.</i> "<span class="sc">No Umbrella, I see</span>."</p> + +<p><i>Imm. S.</i> "<span class="sc">Er—no, dear Boy. See—if you—er—carry +'brella—Looks as if you'd only One Suit a Clothes!</span>"</p></div> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<h2>MY TENANT.</h2> + +<h4>(<i>By a Landlord.</i>)</h4> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>Who haggled long about the price;</p> +<p>Who says my house is far from nice;</p> +<p>Who seeks solicitor's advice?</p> +<p class="i4">My Tenant.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Who wants incessantly repairs</p> +<p>To floors and ceilings, steps and stairs;</p> +<p>Who doats on hygienic scares?</p> +<p class="i4">My Tenant.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Who lives in fear of sewer gas,</p> +<p>So that the plumbers soon amass</p> +<p>Vast sums, once mine? That utter ass,</p> +<p class="i4">My Tenant.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Eternally some fresh complaint;</p> +<p>Distemper, whitewash, paper, paint!</p> +<p>He is enough to vex a saint—</p> +<p class="i4">My Tenant.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Who lets the garden go to pot?</p> +<p>What used to be a pleasant spot</p> +<p>Is worse than an allotment plot.</p> +<p class="i4">My Tenant.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Deferring payments suits his bent;</p> +<p>When various demands I've sent;</p> +<p>Unwillingly he pays the rent,</p> +<p class="i4">My Tenant.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>A note from him? Another growl!</p> +<p>Some chimney smokes, he wants a cowl.</p> +<p>Thus he complains, that moping owl,</p> +<p class="i4">My Tenant.</p> + </div> </div> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p class="ind1">Mrs. R. says she always understood +you must "catch your hare before you +cook it;" so she cannot for the life +of her make out what a friend of +hers meant by telling her that "when +their kitchen-maid cooked the hare +<i>she caught it afterwards</i>!"</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<h2>A DIARY À LA RUSSE.</h2> + +<p><i>Monday.</i>—Rather tired of this constant hand-shaking, and even +the lady-kissing is somewhat wearisome. Especially when the fair +dames do not draw the line at sixty. However, no doubt well meant. +Found usual collection of miscellaneous presents. Don't quite know +what I shall do with ton of tallow. Somehow our hosts fancy we +require it. Latest addition from the advertising merchants—a +Patent Tombstone (with space for <i>affiches</i> at back) and Somebody's +Remedy for Neuralgia. Wish our hosts would not send us such a +lot of things! Have been staying at my hotel all day long on the +chance of escaping attention, and thus be able to find my way to the +Moulin Rouge. Just got past the porter, when I was caught by one +of the <i>attachés</i> and carried off to a State Dinner. Spent the rest of +the evening in shouting "Long Live France!" and listening to the +Russian National Hymn.</p> + +<p><i>Tuesday.</i>—Hope I shall have better luck to-day. My hand is +twice its normal size, thanks to the shaking. More presents. +Candles by the hundredweight, and bear's-grease by the ton. Some +one has sent a Boot-blacking Machine, and wants a testimonial. On +the watch all day. Trust to get to the Folies Bergères some time or +another. Just crawled out when seized by a friendly <i>député</i>, and +hurried off to a function at the Hotel de Ville!</p> + +<p><i>Wednesday.</i>—Absolutely done up. Deafened with the "<i>Marseillaise</i>," +and sick to death of "<i>The Emperor's Hymn</i>." Usual +collection of presents. Five thousand fire-alarms! One of them +alone enough to wake up a slumbering town of half a million inhabitants! +Ladies of all ages (especially of mature age) anxious to +kiss me. Could not walk across the road this morning for them! +Had to stop in the hotel all day long. Tried to escape in the evening +on the chance of finding my way to a "concert-music-hall," when +seized by an officer of the French Marine, and carried away to a Reception!</p> + +<p><i>Thursday.</i>—I have now been in Paris four days and seen +nothing, absolutely nothing! Of course most gratifying from a +patriotic point of view, but if this is Paris why give me St. Petersburg, +or even Siberia! Can't move a step without having my hand shaken +off. Not a moment's privacy; and as for the presents, I am absolutely +deluged with them! and such idiotic gifts! All the advertisers +in the country seem to have found us out. What use on earth +can I make of an elephant's feeding-spoon or a lady's comb for curling +the hair? I made a last effort to get to the Moulin; but, of course, +again frustrated. I was seized by an "A.-D.-C." and taken to a State Lecture!</p> + +<p><i>Friday.</i>—Giving way to despair! What a hollow thing is popular +applause! I am absolutely tired to death of it. I cannot repeat +(for very weariness), the various ovations I have received. I have +been accepted with cheers at all hours of the day and night! Oh, +how glad I would be to get back! At the last moment I saw my +way to a stealthy visit to the Folies, when I was secured and booked +for two dinners and a "<i>punch</i>." Betrayed! Betrayed!</p> + +<p><i>Saturday.</i>—Still hunted. Not allowed to go anywhere except +when my tormentors drag me to some official function. Have sold all +my presents for ten francs. Have received marching orders for +Toulon. Just as I was about to escape and proceed to the Moulin +Rouge, captured by "my friends the enemy," or should it be "my +enemies the friends"? Had to submit to the usual enthusiasm on my +road to the railway station. Fortune of war I suppose, or rather of +peace. Of the two, the latter I should think was the more deadly. +Last strain of the "<i>Marseillaise</i>," last kiss from some one's grandmother, +and curtain! Glad it's all over!</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p class="ind1"><span class="sc">By Mr. Justice Charles</span> (<i>omitted in reports of his decision last +week</i>).—"The Dahomey Troupe of Amazons appear only in the +evenings at certain music-halls. Their name should be changed to +'Day-homey and Night-outy Amazons.'"</p> + +<p class="author2">(<i>Signed</i>)</p> +<p class="author1">"<span class="sc">Charles his Friend.</span>"</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p class="ind1"><span class="sc">The Cheshire Cruelty To Children Case.</span>—Rightly were +condemned the two unfeeling <span class="sc">Phelans</span>. No jury could possibly +have any consideration for such <span class="sc">Phelans</span> as these. If for the male +prisoner the jury had recommended a tail or two of the Cheshire Cat +(o'-nine-tails), it would not have been thought too much.</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p class="ind1"><span class="sc">Motto for Mr. Inderwick, Q.C.</span>—The eminent Counsel of the +<span class="sc">Queen</span> has been recently admitted to the freedom of the borough of +Rye. He has added to his coat of arms the words, "Mind your Rye."</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p class="ind1"><span class="sc">New Descriptive Title of the G. O. M. suggested by Lord +Salisbury's Latest Speech.</span>—"The Autocrat of the Round Table."</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page194" id="page194"></a>[pg 194]</span> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"><a href="images/194-1500.png"><img src="images/194-600.png" width="600" height="445" alt="'EMINENTLY A SCOTTISH GOVERNMENT.'" /></a> +<h2 class="sans">"EMINENTLY A SCOTTISH GOVERNMENT."</h2> + +<p class="center">(<i>Mr. Asquith's Speech, Tuesday, October 17.</i>)</p></div> + +<hr class="medium" /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page195" id="page195"></a>[pg 195]</span> + +<h3>THE SAX SCOTCH PIPERS.</h3> + +<blockquote><p> +["The present Government is eminently a +Scottish Government. You must remember that +there are in the present Cabinet no less than five +Scotch members of the House of Commons ... +and we have also a member of the House of Lords +who is one of the most eminent Scotchmen—I +mean Lord <span class="sc">Rosebery</span>."—<i>Mr. Asquith in Glasgow.</i>] +</p></blockquote> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>"<i>A Sassenach chief may be bonily built</i>,</p> +<p><i>He may purchase a sporran, a bonnet, a kilt;</i></p> +<p><i>Stick a skeän in his hose—wear an acre of stripes</i>—</p> +<p><i>But he cannot assume an affection for pipes</i>."</p> +</div> <div class="stanza"> +<p class="i24">—<i>Bab Ballads</i>.</p> +</div> </div> + +<h3><span class="sc">Air</span>—"<i>The Hundred Pipers.</i>"</h3> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>Wi' sax stalwart pipers an' a', an' a',</p> +<p class="i2">Wi' sax Scotch pipers an' a', an' a',</p> +<p>We'll up an' gie them a blaw, a blaw,</p> +<p class="i2">Wi' sax stout Scotch pipers an' a', an' a',</p> +<p>Oh! it's Sassenach bummlers awa', awa'!</p> +<p class="i2">Our <span class="sc">Wullie's</span> a Scotsman sae braw, sae braw,</p> +<p>We'll on an' we'll march to St. Stephen's ha',</p> +<p class="i2">Wi' its seats an' its salaries an' a', an' a'!</p> +<p class="i4">Wi' sax Scotch pipers an' a', an' a', &c.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Oh! wha' is formaist o' a', o' a'?</p> +<p class="i2">Oh! wha' does follow the blaw, the blaw?</p> +<p>Bonnie <span class="sc">Wullie</span>, the king o' us a', hurrah!</p> +<p class="i2">Wi' his five stout pipers an' a', an' a'!</p> +<p>His bonnet an' feather he's wavin' high.</p> +<p class="i2">His bagpipes wheeze, an' his ribbons fly;</p> +<p>The nor' win' plays wi' his thin white hair,</p> +<p class="i2">While the pipers blaw wi' an unco' flare.</p> +<p class="i4">Wi' sax Scotch pipers an' a', an' a', &c.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p><span class="sc">Primrose</span>, an' <span class="sc">Campbell</span>, sae dink an' sae deep,</p> +<p class="i2">Shouther to shouther wi' <i>Marjoribanks</i> they keep,</p> +<p><span class="sc">Robertson</span>, <span class="sc">Balfour</span>, an' <span class="sc">Asher</span> a' round</p> +<p class="i2">Dance themselves dry to the pibroch's sound.</p> +<p>Dumfoundered the English saw, they saw,</p> +<p class="i2">Dumfoundered they heard the blaw, the blaw</p> +<p>Hath a Southron ae chance ava' ava',</p> +<p class="i2">Wi' these sax Scotch pipers an' a', an' a'?</p> +<p class="i4">Wi' the sax Scotch pipers an' a', an' a',</p> +<p class="i4">The Saxon must go to the wa', the wa'!</p> +<p class="i4"><span class="sc">Wullie's</span> up an' gies them a blaw, a blaw</p> +<p class="i4">Wi' his sax Scotch pipers an' a', an' a'!</p> + </div> </div> + +<hr class="medium" /> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"><a href="images/195-1500.png"><img src="images/195-600.png" width="600" height="407" alt="TOO PARTICULAR." /></a> +<h2 class="sans">TOO PARTICULAR.</h2> + +<p>"<span class="sc">Look here—confound it, Isaacson! You've played me a pretty Trick with this +Ancestor you sold me! Showed it +to a friend yesterday, and told him it was the Portrait of my Ancestor who came +over with William the First; and +he said, 'What a funny thing he should have dressed himself in the style of +William the Fourth!'"</span></p> + +<p><span class="sc">"Vell that'th nothing. I jeth made a mithtake of a few yearth—Villiam the +Firtht and Villiam the Fourth; +only hith Great-Grandthon!</span>"</p></div> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p class="ind1"><span class="sc">A Contribution to the celebrated Pickwickian +Examination Paper.</span>—<i>To Students +of Pickwick.</i>—On what (as far as this questioner +is aware) solitary occasion is champagne +mentioned in <i>Pickwick</i>? who drank a bottle +of it? where was it consumed? after what +exhilarating performance?—<span class="sc">Ed.</span></p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p class="ind1">"<span class="sc"><i>Ta ta'</i>d and Feathered.</span>"—"<i>A soft +thing that waves</i>" was the description of a +feather given by a Lady Correspondent—and +therefore a perfectly Fair One—in the <i>Times</i> +last Saturday. But surely "<i>a soft thing that +waves</i>" is evidently a lady's hand bidding +somebody "<i>Ta! ta!</i>"</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p class="ind2"><span class="sc">By Our Own Crammer.</span>—In unsuccessful +candidates for Army and Navy Exams. England +may have lost some of her best "pluck'd" soldiers and sailors.</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<h3>BRIC-À-BRAC.</h3> + +<p class="center">(<i>By a Gallio.</i>)</p> + +<blockquote><p> +["Poetry will degenerate into mere literary +<i>bric-à-brac</i>, such as the composition of rondels and +triolets."</p> +<p class="author">—<span class="sc">Dr. C. H. Pearson.</span>] +</p></blockquote> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>Literary odds and ends</p> +<p class="i2">Will for lays be scribbled!</p> +<p><span class="sc">Pearson</span> thus ahead portends</p> +<p class="i2">"Litter"-ary odds and ends.</p> +<p>Pessimist, you owe amends</p> +<p class="i2">For this forecast ribald:—</p> +<p class="i2">"Literary odds and ends</p> +<p class="i2">Will for lays be scribbled!"</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Call you then mere <i>bric-à-brac</i></p> +<p class="i2">Triolet and rondel?</p> +<p><i>All</i> that's knocked off with a knack</p> +<p>Call you then mere <i>bric-à-brac</i>?"</p> +<p>Man of prose, you thus attack</p> +<p class="i2"><span class="sc">Villon</span>, <span class="sc">Dobson</span>, <span class="sc">Blondel</span>.</p> +<p>Call you <i>then</i> mere <i>bric-à-brac</i></p> +<p class="i2">Triolet and rondel?!</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>'Pon my word, <i>I</i> don't much care</p> +<p class="i2">If you prove your thesis.</p> +<p>Poetry's not <i>my</i> affair—</p> +<p>'Pon my word, I don't much care!</p> +<p>My three triolets pray tear</p> +<p class="i2">As you please, to pieces!</p> +<p>'Pon my word, I don't much care</p> +<p class="i2">If <i>they</i> prove your thesis!</p> + </div> </div> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p class="center">The recent illuminations in Paris, it is said, +were a very costly matter. Naturally, as an +"<i>affaire de <span class="sc">LUX(E)</span></i>."</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page196" id="page196"></a>[pg 196]</span> + +<h2>UNDER THE ROSE.</h2> + +<h4>(<i>A Story in Scenes.</i>)</h4> + +<p><span class="sc">Scene</span> XI.—<i>At the entrance to The Eldorado Music-hall.</i> +<span class="sc">Time</span>—<i>Saturday +evening, about</i> 8.30. Mrs. <span class="sc">Toovey</span>, <i>who has just +alighted from a Waterloo bus, approaches; she wears a veil, +under which her spectacles gleam balefully, and passes the +various boards and coloured posters with averted eyes</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Toovey</i> (<i>to herself</i>). I'm late—I ought to have taken a cab, +instead of that dawdling bus. Still, I shall be in plenty of time to +surprise Pa in the very midst of his profligacy. (<i>She looks around +her.</i>) Gilding, rosewood and mahogany panels, plush, stained glass—oh, +the wicked luxury of it all! (<i>She pushes open a swing door.</i>) +Where is the place you call Box C? I—I have to meet somebody there.</p> + +<p class="ind2"> +[<i>She finds herself in a glittering bar, where she produces a +distinct sensation among a few loungers there.</i> +</p> + +<p><i>A Barmaid</i> (<i>tartly</i>). There's no entrance to the music-hall this +<ins title="T.N.: Original reads 'wav'">way</ins>. You've come to the wrong place.</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Toov.</i> (<i>with equal acidity</i>). Ah, young woman, you need not +tell me <i>that</i>! (<i>She goes out with +a withering glance, and hears +stifled sniggers as the doors swing +after her.</i>) A drinking-bar on the +very threshold to trap the unwary—disgraceful! +(<i>She tries the next door, and finds a stalwart +official, in a fancy uniform.</i>) +Will you have the goodness to +conduct me to Box C, instantly?</p> + +<p><i>The Official.</i> Next door, please, +Ma'am. This only admits to the Grand Lounge.</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Toov.</i> (<i>to herself</i>). The +"Grand Lounge," indeed! (<i>She +opens another door, and finds a +Pay-box, where she addresses the +check-taker through the pigeon-hole</i>.) I want to go to Box C. +I've asked for it at I don't know how many places, and——</p> + +<p><i>Checktaker</i> (<i>politely</i>). I'm +really afraid you'll have to ask +again, Ma'am. This is the Promenade. +Box-office <i>next</i> entrance.</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Toov.</i> (<i>to herself, indignantly</i>). I only hope they make it +as difficult for other people to get +in as they do for me! So Pa +comes here to lounge and promenade, does he? Oh, let me only +catch him, I'll send him promenading! +(<i>She goes to the Box-office.</i>) +I want Box C, wherever that is.</p> + +<p><i>Book-Keeper.</i> Can give you +Box D, if you like. Box C is +reserved for this evening.</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Toov.</i> (<i>sharply</i>). I am +quite aware of that. For Mr. +<span class="sc">Theophilus Toovey</span>. I have come to join him here.</p> + +<p><i>Book-K.</i> (<i>referring to book</i>). It +is entered in that name, certainly; +but—hem—may I ask if you belong to Mr. <span class="sc">Toovey's</span> party?</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Toov.</i> (<i>crushingly</i>). No doubt you consider that his wife has +no claim to—— Most certainly I belong to his party.</p> + +<p><i>Book-K.</i> That is quite sufficient, Madam. (<i>To</i> Attendant.) Show +this lady to Box C. (<i>To himself, as</i> Mrs. T. <i>follows the</i> Attendant +<i>up some velvet-covered stairs</i>.) Well, it's no business of mine; but +if Mr. <span class="sc">Toovey</span>, whoever <i>he</i> is, isn't careful what he's about, he +may be sorry for it—that's all!</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Toov.</i> (<i>to herself</i>). They never even asked for my ticket. +Pa's evidently well known here! (<i>To</i> Attendant.) A programme? +with pictures of dancing girls all over it! You ought to be +ashamed to offer such things to a respectable woman!</p> + +<p><i>Att.</i> (<i>surprised</i>). I've never heard them objected to before, Ma'am. +Can I bring you any refreshments? (<i>Persuasively.</i>) Bottle-ale or +stout? Lemonade and brandy? Whisky and soda?</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Toov.</i> Don't imagine you can tempt <i>me</i>, man. I've been a +total abstainer ever since I was five!</p> + +<p><i>Att.</i> (<i>opening box-door</i>). Indeed, Ma'am. I suppose now you 'aven't +mistook this for Exeter 'All?—because it <i>ain't</i>!</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Toov.</i> I am in no danger of making <i>that</i> mistake! (<i>She +enters the box.</i>) I am here before Pa after all. What a gaudy, +wicked, glaring place to be sure! Ugh, this <i>filthy</i> tobacco; it chokes +me, and I can scarcely see across the hall. Not that I <i>want</i> to see. +Well, if I sit in the corner behind the curtain I shan't be seen +myself. To think that I—<i>I</i>—should be here at all, but the responsibility +is on Pa's head, not mine! What are those two girls +singing about on the stage? They are dressed <i>decently</i> enough, I'll +say <i>that</i> for them, though pinafores and baby bonnets at <i>their</i> age +are ridiculous.</p> + +<p class="ind2">[<i>She listens.</i> +</p> + +<p><i>The Sisters Sarcenet</i> (<i>on stage</i>). You men are deceivers and awfully sly. Oh, you <i>are</i>!</p> +<p><i>Male portion of audience</i> (<i>as is expected from them</i>). No we <i>aren't!</i></p> +<p><i>The Sisters S.</i> (<i>archly</i>). Now you <i>know</i> you are!</p> + +<div class="poem2"> <div class="stanza"> +<p class="i4">You come home with the milk; should your poor wife ask why,</p> +<p class="i4">"Pressing business, my pet!" you serenely reply.</p> +<p class="i4">When you've really been out on the "Tiddle-y-hi!" Yes, you <i>have</i>!</p> +</div> </div> + +<p><i>Male audience</i> (<i>as before</i>). No, we've <i>not</i>!</p> +<p><i>The Sister S.</i> (<i>with the air of accusing angels</i>). Why, you <i>know</i> you have!</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Toov.</i> (<i>to herself</i>). It's to those young women's credit that +they have the courage to come here and denounce the men to their +faces—like this. And it's gone +<i>home</i> to them, too! they're shouting out "Over!" (<i>Here the +Sisters suddenly turn a couple of +"cart-wheels" with surprising +unanimity, amidst roars of applause.</i>) +Oh, the shameless minxes! +I will <i>not</i> sit and look on at such +scandalous exhibitions. (<i>She +moves to the corner nearest the +stage, and turns her back upon +the proceedings.</i>) How much +longer will Pa compel me to assist +at such scenes, I wonder? <i>Why</i> +doesn't he come? Where is he +now? (<i>Bitterly.</i>) No doubt on +what those vulgar wretches +would call the "Tiddle-y-hi!" +(<i>The</i> Brothers <span class="sc">Bimbo</span>, <i>Eccentric +Clowns, appear on the stage</i>.) I +can't sit here in a corner looking +at nothing. If I do see anything +improper, <span class="sc">Theophilus</span> shall +answer for it. (<i>She changes her +place again.</i>) Acrobats—well, +they're inoffensive at least. Oh, +I do believe one of the nasty things +is climbing up to the balcony; +he's going to walk along here!</p> + +<p><i>First Brother Bimbo</i> (<i>on stage, +to his confrère, who is balancing +himself on the broad ledge of the +box tier</i>). Ohè—'old up, there. +Prenny garde! Ah, il tombera! +There, I <i>told</i> yer so! (<i>The</i> +Second Brother B. <i>has reached +the front of</i> Mrs. <span class="sc">Toovey's</span> <i>box, +where he pretends to stumble</i>.) +Oh, le pover garçong, look at +'im <i>now</i>! Come back, do! Ask +the lady to ketch 'old of your trousers be'ind!</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Toov.</i> (<i>to the</i> Second +Brother, <i>firmly</i>). Don't expect +me to do anything of the sort. Go back, as your brother asks you +to, you silly fellow. You shouldn't attempt such a foolhardy thing at all!</p> + +<p><i>Second Br. B.</i> (<i>to the</i> First). Oh, my! There's <i>such</i> a nice +young lady in here; she's asking me to come in and set along with +her! <i>May</i> I?</p> + +<p class="ind2">[<i>He lets himself drop astride the ledge, and wags his head at</i> +Mrs. <span class="sc">Toovey</span>, <i>to her intense horror</i>. +</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Toov.</i> (<i>in an audible undertone</i>). If you don't take away +that leg at once, I'll pinch it!</p> + +<p><i>Second Br. B.</i> Eh? Not <i>now</i>; my brother says I mustn't. +"Come round afterwards?" Well, well, we'll see! (<i>He springs up +on the ledge again, and kisses his hand to her.</i>) Goo'bye, ducky! +'Ave no fears for <i>me</i>. Whoo-up!</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"><a href="images/196-1000.png"><img src="images/196-400.png" width="400" height="523" alt="'Goo'bye, ducky! Ave no fears for me!'" /></a> +<p class="center">"Goo'bye, ducky! Ave no fears for <i>me</i>!"</p></div> + +<p class="ind2">[<i>He continues his tour of the balcony, amidst roars of laughter.</i> +</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Toov.</i> (<i>falling back in the box, speechless with fury</i>). And +<i>this</i> is the treatment Pa exposes me to—all those unmanly wretches +laughing at me! But I don't care; here I stay till Pa comes. +<i>Oh</i>, this smoke; I shall be poisoned by it soon! Upon my word, +there's a bold hussy coming on to sing, in a man's coat and black satin +knee-breeches. I'll stop my ears; they shall see there's <i>one</i> woman +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page197" id="page197"></a>[pg 197]</span> +here who respects herself! (<i>She does so, during that and the subsequent +performances; an hour passes.</i>) How much longer am I to +be compelled to remain here? This is terrible; three creatures in +tight red suits, got up to look like devils! I wonder they've no +fear of being struck dead on the stage! They're standing on each +other's stomachs. I daren't look on at such blasphemy! I'll take +off my spectacles; then, at least, my eyes won't be offended by +seeing anything distinctly! (<i>She removes her glasses, and replaces +them in their case, which she lays on the box-ledge.</i>) They're +gone, thank goodness. What's this? There's someone opening the +box-door. Pa—at last! Well, I'm ready for him!</p> + +<p class="ind2">[<i>She stiffens in her chair.</i> +</p> + +<p><i>Attendant's Voice</i> (<i>outside</i>). This is Box C, Miss. Can I bring +you any refreshments? Bottle-ale, stout, lemonade, Miss?</p> + +<p><i>A Female Voice.</i> I—I don't know. There's a gentleman with +me; he'll be here directly; he only stopped to speak to somebody. +Ah, he's coming now.</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Toov.</i> "Miss"?! This is Pa's party, then. <i>Oh!!</i></p> + +<p class="ind2">[<i>A quietly dressed, and decidedly good-looking girl enters, and +starts on seeing that the box is already occupied.</i> +</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Toov.</i> (<i>rising in towering wrath</i>). You were not expecting to +find <i>me</i> here, Miss, I've no doubt?</p> + +<p><i>The Girl</i> (<i>sitting down</i>). No; <span class="sc">Phil</span> didn't say there would +be anyone else; but any friend of his I'm sure——</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Toov.</i> <span class="sc">Phil</span>? you dare to call him "<span class="sc">Phil</span>!" Do you +know who I am, you insolent girl, you? I am his Wife!</p> + +<p><i>The Girl.</i> His wife? I don't believe it. Are you sure you don't +mean his mother. My <i>Phil</i> married to <i>you</i>, indeed—a pretty story!</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Toov.</i> (<i>trembling with rage</i>). Go out of this box instantly, or +I'll make you!</p> + +<p><i>The Girl.</i> I shall do nothing of the kind. Wait till my friend +comes, and we'll soon——(<i>As the door opens.</i>) <span class="sc">Phil, Phil</span>, here's +an abusive old female here who pretends she is your wife, and wants +to order me out. I believe she must either be intoxicated or out of her senses!</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Toov.</i> (<i>pouncing upon the newcomer and boxing his ears +soundly</i>). Is she? it is you who are out of <i>your</i> senses, Pa! Take +that—and <i>that</i>—and now come home with me, do you hear?</p> + +<p><i>The Newcomer</i> (<i>with his hand to his cheek</i>). "Pa," am I? I +thought I was your <i>husband</i> just now! Well, I must have married +before I was born, either way. And now, perhaps, you'll explain +what all this means?</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Toov.</i> (<i>faintly</i>). Oh, my goodness! I've made a dreadful +mistake; it <i>isn't</i> Pa! Let me go—let me go!</p> + +<p><i>The Newc.</i> (<i>putting his back against the door</i>). Not yet, Ma'am; +not yet. You don't go like this; after insulting this young lady, to +whom I've the honour of being engaged, and telling her you're my +wife, and then smacking my face in her presence. I've my dignity +to consider, and I want satisfaction out of you. Come, we won't +have a row here, for the sake of this young lady; just step out into +lobby here, and I'll give you in charge for assault. Stay where you +are, <span class="sc">Milly</span>, my dear. Now, Ma'am, will you go, or shall I send for +a constable? (Mrs. T. <i>totters out, protesting incoherently, and begging +to be released</i>.) Well, I don't want to spoil my evening's pleasure +on your account. You give me your name and address, and I'll +simply summon you for assault; which is more than you deserve. +If you won't, I'll charge you!</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Toov.</i> (<i>reluctantly</i>). Oh, indeed it was an acc——I will +<i>not</i> give you my name. Yes, yes, I will; anything to get out of this +horrible place. (<i>The young man produces a pencil, and pulls down +his left shirt cuff.</i>) Mrs.—<span class="sc">Too</span>—no, I don't mean +<span class="sc">Too—Tomkinson +Jones</span>—The—the Laburnums—U—upper Tooting. There, <i>now</i> are +you satisfied?</p> + +<p><i>The Young Man</i> (<i>recording it</i>). Thank you, that's all <i>I</i> +require. You'll hear from me later on. Good evening!</p> + +<p><i>Mrs. Toov.</i> (<i>as she crawls down the staircase</i>). I have only just +saved myself by a—a <i>fib</i>! And I haven't even found Pa out. But I +<i>will</i>. I'll go straight home and sit up for him!</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="sc">End of Scene</span> XI.</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"><a href="images/197-900.png"><img src="images/197-350.png" width="350" height="495" alt="IMPROVED GNOMENCLATURE." /></a> +<h3 class="sans">IMPROVED GNOMENCLATURE.</h3> + +<h4>(<i>A popular Song adapted to the Glacial Period.</i>)</h4> + +<h4>"<span class="sc">On an Icicle made for Two.</span>"</h4></div> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<h3>FRAGMENTS FROM A FRANCO-RUSSIAN PHRASE-BOOK.</h3> + +<h4>(<i>Picked up at Toulon after the recent Fêtes.</i>)</h4> + +<h3>AT THE BANQUET.</h3> + +<p>I am glad to be next to a Russian. Believe me, France has +always been the best friend of Russia.... No, <i>that</i> was not France—it +was the Corsican. Altogether a different thing.... <i>Were</i> we +at the Crimea? It is possible—through the perfidy of those +English.... Try some of this old sherry. Your shark-fin soup is +delicious.... As I was saying, we are a Republic now, and adore +Liberty.... Siberia must be a charming place, and the climate +ravishing. You have never been there? A pleasure to come!... +Take a <i>carafe</i> of <ins title="T.N.: Original reads 'champage'">champagne</ins>—there is plenty more. We are a democratic +nation, and the hearts of our populace go out to an autocrat. +I know well that all autocrats are not nice—but <i>yours!!</i> <i>Do</i> +have some more champagne.... These are <i>Cailles Schuvaroff</i>. +They are Russian—so they <i>must</i> be good!... Do you know that +my wife and I kissed the hands of (<i>ten—fifteen—fifty—two hundred</i>) +Russian sailors through the portholes of your flagship this afternoon?... +Not at all—we quite enjoyed it.... There is a proposal +to present your Admiral with a model of the Tour Eiffel in brilliants. +I remember it was exhibited in Paris at a franc for admission—but +few people went. I wish he may get it. I subscribed ten +(<i>Napoleons—francs—centimes</i>) towards the fund for presenting +commemorative brooches to the wives, daughters, and sweethearts +of your seamen. I hope they will all arrive quite safely.... Have +you received a silver cup with a suitable inscription? Only a +yellow champagne-glass with a motto! That is mean, miserable, +shabby! I will speak to a waiter about it.... Why do you not +drink? Fill your glass. I am filling mine.... Have you heard +that our warm-hearted nation has forwarded to the Russian Fleet +one hundred cases of the best blacking? The Triple Alliance is +trembling in its shoes.... You drink nothing! All the same, it +seems to me your Tsar might have sent <i>more</i> ships while he +was about it. Yes, I repeat; more—and bigger ones. It would +have been more polished. But you Russians are <i>not</i> polished; +you are cold, brutal, phlegmatic. You remind me of an Englishman +I once saw on the stage of the Variétés. But he had red +whiskers, and said, "Aoh, yes!" You drink too much. The +Russians are all intemperate—it is the climate. So long as you +help us to our revenge, we do not care <i>what</i> you are. I speak +quite frankly. This is a great day for France. As a Frenchman, +I shall never see caviar again without a thrill of heartfelt emotion. +But your shark-fin soup was disgusting—beastly. It is that which +is making me so ill.... <i>Au revoir</i>, dear friend. I am going under +the table for a little while—to think.</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p class="ind2">Mrs. R. wants to know what was the classic story about Ajax and +Telephone? "So," says she, "as <i>that</i> was hundreds of years ago, +it isn't such a <i>very</i> new invention."</p> +<!-- --> +<hr class="medium" /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page198" id="page198"></a>[pg 198]</span> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"><a href="images/198-1500.png"><img src="images/198-600.png" width="600" height="368" alt="UNCALLED-FOR REVELATIONS." /></a> +<h3 class="sans">UNCALLED-FOR REVELATIONS.</h3> + +<p><i>Tommy</i> (<i>to Caller</i>). "<span class="sc">Oh, we've been having such Fun! Papa has +been putting on Mamma's Hair and frightening Baby!</span>"</p></div> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<h2>LITTLE MASTER MINORITY.</h2> + +<h4><i>A Dialogue in Dialect, some way after Bret Harte's "Jim."</i></h4> + +<blockquote><p> +[Referring, in the course of conversation, to the deadlock in the Senate, +Mr. <span class="sc">Chamberlain</span> said:—"My opinion is that the Americans are the most +patient people on the globe. Such an outcome from an organised system of +obstruction would be impossible in England, which I venture to say, with +my foot on New York soil, is far more democratic than America. Democracy, +as I take it, means the government of the people by the people."—<i>The +"Times'" New York Correspondent, Oct. 13.</i>] +</p></blockquote> + +<p class="center">"Cœlum, non (?) animum, mutant, qui trans mare currunt."</p> + +<h3><i>Jonathan to Joseph, loquitur:</i>—</h3> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>Say thar! P'r'aps</p> +<p>You're of them chaps</p> +<p><i>Approve</i> this child,</p> +<p>Who makes <i>me</i> wild!—</p> +<p><i>No?</i>—no offence:</p> +<p>Thar ain't much sense</p> +<p class="i2">In gittin' riled!</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p><span class="sc">Joe</span>, old chum,</p> +<p class="i2">Welcome ye are!</p> +<p>Say! Ye've jest come</p> +<p class="i2">Up from down thar.</p> +<p>Lookin' round, <span class="sc">Joe</span>?</p> +<p class="i2">That's right, Sir! <i>You</i></p> +<p class="i2">Ain't of that crew</p> +<p class="i4">Makes freedom rar'.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p><i>Tory?</i> Not much,</p> +<p class="i2">That ain't <i>my</i> kind:</p> +<p>I ain't no such,—</p> +<p class="i2">Democrat—blind!</p> +<p>Rayther like <i>you</i>!</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Well, this yer boy</p> +<p>(With his derned toy),</p> +<p>Is a fair limb.—</p> +<p>Not much—in size!</p> +<p>Stirs <i>your</i> surprise?—</p> +<p>Wal, that <i>is</i> strange:</p> +<p class="i2"><i>Your</i> nipper, now,</p> +<p class="i2">Riz up some row,</p> +<p>Down under thar,</p> +<p>Ony this year!</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Since you came here.</p> +<p class="i2">You've felt a change!</p> +<p>Wal, he licks <i>us</i>!</p> +<p class="i6">Eh?</p> +<p><i>Spank him</i>, you say!</p> +<p class="i6"><i>Spank?</i>—</p> +<p><i>This</i> little cuss?</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>You make me star,—</p> +<p>Down under, thar,</p> +<p>Minorities stop</p> +<p>Truck—in your shop,</p> +<p>And <i>you</i> don't rar'!</p> +<p class="i2">Here, wide awake</p> +<p class="i2">To our mistake.</p> +<p><i>Our</i> boy you bar!</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i6"><i>Spank!</i>—</p> +<p>This—little—cuss?</p> +<p>Wal, he does fuss,</p> +<p>Raises a muss.</p> +<p class="i2">His "Silver" whim,</p> +<p>His spoutin' prank—</p> +<p class="i2">(Leather-lung'd limb!)</p> +<p>Does crab the swim.</p> +<p class="i2"><i>Should</i> like to yank</p> +<p class="i4">Him crost my knees,</p> +<p class="i2">And—but thar! spank</p> +<p class="i6"><i>Him?</i></p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p><i>Patient</i>, Sir—I?</p> +<p class="i2">No democrat?</p> +<p>Here, Sir, stand by!</p> +<p class="i2">I can't stand <i>that</i>!</p> +<p><i>You</i> wouldn't stand</p> +<p><i>Him</i>—in your land?</p> +<p class="i6">Eh?</p> +<p>What's that you say?</p> +<p>Why, dern it!—sho!—</p> +<p>Draw it mild, <span class="sc">Joe</span>!</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i6">Bold?</p> +<p>Obstruction? Yes!</p> +<p>Still, as I guess—</p> +<p>Though I'll confess</p> +<p class="i2"><i>You</i>'re an authority—</p> +<p>'Tain't no new thing</p> +<p>(<i>You</i>'ve had your fling!),</p> +<p class="i2">But ornery,</p> +<p class="i4">Derned old,</p> +<p class="i2">Loud-lunged—Minority!</p> +<p class="i4">Little—Master—Minority!</p> + </div> </div> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<h2>OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.</h2> + +<p><i>Barabbas</i> is a romance by <span class="sc">Marie Corelli</span>, founded upon the +narrative given by the Four Evangelists. It is in three volumes, and +<i>Barabbas</i> is the principal character. Oratorios have been composed +musically illustrating the sacred story, mystery plays there +have been showing it forth in action, but never yet have we been +taken, as it were, behind the scenes, introduced to <span class="sc">Judas Iscariot's</span> +sister, and been informed as to the motives of human action underlying +"the World's Tragedy." Whether "the stock of <i>Barabbas</i>" +hath been sold out or not, the Baron cannot imagine that this novel +form of treating Holy Writ will ever be popular with any section +of our ordinary reading public. <span class="sc">Marie Corelli</span> is a writer as +picturesque as prolific, but she has wasted her time and talents on +this romance. There used to be a perversion of the text, which +took this form, "Now <span class="sc">Barabbas</span> was—a publisher" (was it <span class="sc">Sydney +Smith's</span> jest?); but if that applies nowadays, the publisher who +depended solely upon this particular work for his success would, +probably, far nearer resemble <span class="sc">Zaccheus</span> than <span class="sc">Barabbas</span>, inasmuch +as he might find himself "up a tree."</p> + +<p><i>Catriona</i> is written by R. L. <span class="sc">Stevenson</span>, and published in one +volume by <span class="sc">Cassell & Co</span>. "Aweel, aweel, mon!" quoth the Baron, +after several praiseworthy attempts at mastering the Scotch dialect +in which the story is told; "aweel, aweel! I am swier to leave ye, +<i>Catriona</i>! But it maun be as it will; I'm nane sae muckle learned +in your Scotch tongue; sae I'll e'en put doun the book, or I'll be +wearyful, deil hae 't!" No: Scotch the Baron cannot manage—except +taken as whiskey. But he will tell those who love the language +that <span class="sc">McStevenson's</span> <i>Catriona</i> they will enjoy to their heart's +content. +All the same it remains a mystery to the Baron de B. W.</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p class="ind1"><span class="sc">In High Feather.</span>—It would not be fair even, for Mr. <span class="sc">Hudson</span>, +to define all ladies wearing feathers as "a Feather-headed Lot."</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page199" id="page199"></a>[pg 199]</span> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"><a href="images/199-1000.png"><img src="images/199-350.png" width="350" height="447" alt="LITTLE MASTER MINORITY." /></a> +<h2>LITTLE MASTER MINORITY.</h2> + +<p><span class="sc">Brother Jonathan.</span> "WA'AL, MR. JOSEPH; I GUESS ALL YOUR SYMPATHIES ARE +WITH THIS LITTLE CUSS?"</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Mr. Chamberlain.</span> "NOT AT ALL, NOT AT ALL,—ON <i>YOUR</i> SIDE OF THE +ATLANTIC!"</p></div> + +<hr class="medium" /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page200" id="page200"></a>[pg 200]</span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page201" id="page201"></a>[pg 201]</span> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"><h3>THE BOOM IN BEETLES—THE LATEST FROM AFRICA.</h3> +<a href="images/201-1200.png"><img src="images/201-500.png" width="500" height="514" alt="THE BOOM IN BEETLES—THE LATEST FROM AFRICA." /></a> + +<p>["The new arrival at the Zoo is a specimen of the Goliath Beetle from West +Africa—a giant even among its own kind."—<i>Daily Graphic.</i>]</p></div> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<h3>TO A LOST FRIEND.</h3> + +<h4>(<i>By a Briefless Barrister.</i>)</h4> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>No more! alas! completely gone,</p> +<p class="i2">No shadow of a trace is left,</p> +<p>And I have still to linger on,</p> +<p class="i2">Of your companionship bereft,</p> +<p>And fight the battle to the end,</p> +<p>As best I may with one less friend.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>It seems a cruel stroke of Fate.</p> +<p class="i2">How eagerly I watched you grow!</p> +<p>How much I loved you; how elate</p> +<p class="i2">When other people came to know</p> +<p>On what I always had insisted—</p> +<p>That you in point of fact existed.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>I played with you, who every day</p> +<p class="i2">Grew more responsive to my touch.</p> +<p>I stroked you in the gentlest way,</p> +<p class="i2">With sweet caresses. Ah! how much</p> +<p>We seemed, as though a child and mother,</p> +<p>To be bound up in one another.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>You <i>did</i> appear to like me then,</p> +<p class="i2">No mere lip-service seemingly</p> +<p>Was that you rendered to me when</p> +<p class="i2">You never contradicted me,</p> +<p>But hung upon my words, though true</p> +<p>It also was they hung on you.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>And then one day you disappeared,</p> +<p class="i2">Cut off in life's most sunny prime.</p> +<p>I missed you sadly as I feared</p> +<p class="i2">And thought I should do at the time.</p> +<p>Though now your image comes and plain</p> +<p>Grows on me sometimes once again.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Oh! my moustache! I did the deed,</p> +<p class="i2">I own it frankly, I alone.</p> +<p>I felt it (for it made me bleed),</p> +<p class="i2">Yet still you always must have known,</p> +<p>Though you were of proportions regal,</p> +<p>You hardly helped me to look legal.</p> + </div> </div> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p class="center"><span class="sc">A Triumph in Cookery.</span>—When the Cook +makes a hash of the marrow-bones.</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p class="ind1">"<span class="sc">He is a Mann, take him for all in all, +We never want to look upon his like +again</span>." (<i>Shakspeare adapted</i>).—It is said +he is going to join the Ministry—not the +Cabinet—but that of the Established Church. +But how will so independent a spirit ever +submit to "take orders" from an Archbishop? +This is to reduce himself from a +<span class="sc">Mann</span> to a Mannikin. Not likely.</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p class="ind2"><span class="sc">Up to Date Translation.</span>—"<i>Qu'est-ce +qu'il y a sur le tapis?</i>" asked the Frenchman. +"You mean 'what's on the tape?'" returned the Englishman.</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page202" id="page202"></a>[pg 202]</span> + +<h3>THE IDEAL DRAMA.</h3> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>Oh think what a change would soon be wrought</p> +<p class="i2">In sins society now condones,</p> +<p>Were virtue and honesty properly taught</p> +<p class="i2">By Comedy's smiles and Tragedy's groans!</p> +<p>The peer, the scholar, the fool, the fop,</p> +<p class="i2">Could learn deportment, high-class, tip-top,</p> +<p>From a <i>Dancing Girl</i> in a <i>Bauble Shop</i>—</p> +<p class="i2">At least so thinks Mr. <span class="sc">H. A. Jones</span>.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>We shall call it "the work," and not "the play,"</p> +<p class="i2">When due solemnity prompts the tones</p> +<p>Of serious actors, more grave than gay;</p> +<p class="i2">They may be bores, but they won't be drones.</p> +<p>So learn, should you wish to have a spree,</p> +<p class="i2">What your Criterion ought to be,</p> +<p>Or the <i>Tempter</i> will put you up a Tree.</p> +<p class="i2">Hear eloquent Mr. <span class="sc">H. A. Jones</span>!</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<p>Amusement? What! Do you dare to think</p> +<p class="i2">That those respectable classic crones,</p> +<p>Melpomene, Thalia, they should sink</p> +<p class="i2">To make you laugh, like a nigger Bones?</p> +<p>If you should expect to be amused,</p> +<p>Your money would simply be refused,</p> +<p>And you would be turned away, abused</p> +<p class="i2">By furious Mr. <span class="sc">H. A. Jones</span>.</p> + </div> </div> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"><a href="images/202-800.png"><img src="images/202-350.png" width="350" height="477" alt="THE ETERNAL FITNESS OF THINGS." /></a> +<h3 class="sans">THE ETERNAL FITNESS OF THINGS.</h3> + +<p>"<span class="sc">And what is your Name?</span>"</p> + +<p>"<span class="sc">Marian Watson. But my last Mistress used to call me Mary, +because Marian isn't a proper name for a Servant, she said.</span>"</p></div> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<h2>REPARTEES FOR THE RAILWAY.</h2> + +<ul class="none"> +<li>"Smoking not allowed." Of +course, but I am going to enjoy my cigar in silence.</li> + +<li>"Want the window closed." +Very sorry, but I can't find a cathedral.</li> + +<li>"Find my journal a nuisance." +Dear me! was under the impression it was a newspaper.</li> + +<li>"Allow you to pass." Afraid +only the Secretary can manage +that for you; he alone has power to issue free tickets.</li> + +<li>"Do I mind the draught?" +Not when I am attending to the chessman.</li> + +<li>"Do I know the station?" +Of the people on the platform? +Probably lower middle class.</li> + +<li>"Is this right for Windsor?" +Yes, if it's not left for somewhere else.</li> + +<li>"Are we allowed five minutes +for lunch?" Think not; but +you can have sandwiches at the counter.</li> + +<li>"Isn't this first-class?" +Quite excellent—first-rate—couldn't be better!</li> + +<li>"I want to go second." Then +you had better follow me.</li> + +<li>"I am third." Indeed! And +who were first and second?</li> + +<li>"I think this must be +London." Very likely; if it is, +it mustn't be anywhere else.</li> +</ul> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p class="ind1"><span class="sc">A Cry to Whymper.</span>—Last Wednesday Mr. <span class="sc">Edward +Whymper</span> lectured at the +Birkbeck. His subject was +"<i>Twenty thousand feet above +the Sea.</i>" "That's ten thousand pairs of boots!" writes +our shoemaker. "Wish I'd +had the order! Well, well, soled again!"</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<h2>A WALK IN DEVON.</h2> + +<h3>PART I.—THE START.</h3> + +<h4><i>Notes from the Travel Diary of Toby, M.P.</i></h4> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p><i>The Cottage, Burrow-in-the-Corner, Devon.</i></p> + </div> </div> + +<p>Went out for a walk just now; nothing remarkable in that; the +wonder came in when I got back. Present postal address given +at head of this note. The Cottage is there all right, but where +the township, hamlet, village, or whatever Burrow-in-the-Corner +may be, is situated, haven't the least idea, and I've tramped +pretty well round the country. The Cottage stands at four cross +roads, on the top of a hill. Specks in the distance, in the valley +and on the hillsides, understood to be farm-houses. Three miles +off is Tipperton; it is approached from this point by a steep hill: +most convenient way of getting to bottom is to lie down on top +and roll; some people said to have become adepts in practise; can +even enjoy quiet sleep on the way, and pull up at the very shop +in High Street where they have business. So it is said; but I +rarely see any people about Burrow-in-the-Corner; so how can +they approach Tipperton in this or other way? The only persons +that pass The Cottage palings are men who stop to ask their way. +The population is sparse, and seems to fill up its time by losing +itself. This should have been a warning to me, but it wasn't.</p> + +<p>The Cottage been standing here for at least two hundred years. +Began life as a smithy; only recently retired from business. +The initials of one of its tenants are "R. B." He has carved the +letters on the front door, with the date, 1813, following it. Fancy +he must have been pretty old then, for, two years later, he cuts +his initials again with date 1815; the writing quite shakey; +possibly he had heard of Waterloo, and his hand was tremulous +with patriotic joy. On second thought, that improbable. News of +Waterloo not likely to have reached Burrow-in-the-Corner within +limit of twelve months.</p> + +<p>The smithy still stands as "R. B." left it when his bellows +blew their last gasp. The Cottage itself transformed. The thatched +roof remains; also the whitewashed walls, the porch, the little windows +embayed in thick walls, which quite naturally form window-seats, +where, if you take care not to bang your head, you may sit +at ease, and look out over the swelling upland—rich red where it +has just been ploughed; for the most part green pastures trending +down to the Exe, a silver stream, rippling on to the sea, reckless +of all it will pass through before it joins it. We have a parlour, +but prefer to sit in the kitchen, a dainty room with gleaming dark-red +sideboard; a kitchener, polished to distraction, so that looking-glasses +are superfluities; a piano in recess by fireplace; a chimney-piece, +on which gleam copper pans, brass candlesticks, and pewter +plates, with their initials and ancient birth-dates polished almost +out of sight; white-curtained windows, bright with begonias and +cyclamen; a low ceiling, supported by a pragmatical beam, strictly +conforming to the regulation that forbids a straight line in the room.</p> + +<p>Have discovered that kitchen is best place in house to dine in; +only drawback is that everything served so unexpectedly hot, +new-comers scald themselves. Soon grow used to it, and to get +grilled mushrooms served really hot is compensation for inconvenience. +As for pancakes (made with freshly-laid eggs), begin +to think I never tasted the real delicacy before. Your true pancake, +as <span class="sc">Brillat-Savarin</span> omitted to say in his well-known treatise, +should be eaten to the music of the one in the pan preparing to +follow. When we go back to town, mean to ask servants to sit in +dining-room whilst we dine in kitchen.</p> + +<p>When I speak of going back to town, of course I imply the +certainty of being able to find our way out of Burrow-in-the-Corner +to nearest railway station.</p> + +<p>Seems a good deal to have four cross roads all to yourself at your +front door. The Cottage scarcely of sufficient importance to justify +such lavish accommodation. But in these parts the amount of arable +land wasted in roads and lanes is almost criminal. It was a Saturday +evening when I went out to find the post-office. Nothing +seemed plainer than instructions.</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page203" id="page203"></a>[pg 203]</span> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"><a href="images/203-1500.png"><img src="images/203-600.png" width="600" height="435" alt="LIKA JOKO'S JOTTINGS.—No. 2. PHEASANT SHOOTING." /></a> +<h3 class="sans">LIKA JOKO'S JOTTINGS.—No. 2. PHEASANT SHOOTING.</h3></div> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page204" id="page204"></a>[pg 204]</span> + +<p>"Go straight down the road facing you, and you'll come to a +church. Close by it is a house; letter-box inserted in side of house; +box painted red, you know."</p> + +<p>Of course I knew; set off with a light heart and handful of +letters. A little way down high road, on right-hand side, lane +suddenly opened and delved downwards, its sinuous course +embowered in trees; where they failed, barricaded with hedges. +High road seemed originally bent upon taking this direction; +changed its mind; turned abruptly to left. Suppose a few traps +driven down hill must occasionally have taken this dip; feeble +attempt to avoid too frequent recurrence of accident made by setting +posts on line of high road, and painting tops white. If, after this, +anyone on pitch-dark night mistakes road, only themselves to blame. +Other roads and lanes perplexingly branching out to right and left +at short intervals; kept on steadily till church came in view; found +the house; not difficult, as there was only one; also discovered +letter-box painted red. Twenty minutes to five was hour for +clearing box; barely that; posted letters. Turning away when +observed remark on letter-box, "Next collection Monday."</p> + +<p>Pretty go, this; postman evidently been before his time; no sign +of him on wide expanse. Looking round perceived Elderly Gentleman +sitting in garden behind house; doubtless this was the householder; +apparently had anticipated Sunday by putting on best +clothes; black frock coat, getting brown about the seams; high +collar, nearly covering black stock; black waistcoat, which seemed +to belong to other suit than the coat; (was buttoned close up over +stock, whilst coat, with generous lapels folded back, buttoned low +down); brown trousers, a little short in leg; stout green umbrella +under left arm. Elderly Gentleman was sitting on rustic bench, +with cup of cider at hand, and expression of serene content on his +wrinkled face. A quaintly-coloured cup, with two handles close +together, presumably with view to taking a good pull at contents. +"Bin my grandfather's," he said, looking at it with affection, and +incidentally half emptying it. There was a motto roughly scrawled +by the potter; Elderly Gentleman read it to me:</p> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p class="i10"> Erth I am et es most trew,</p> +<p class="i10"> Disdain me not for so be yew.</p> + </div> </div> + +<p>Thus it was spelled, but no one born out of Devon could convey +the tremendous sound of the <i>u</i> in the rhyming words. This peculiar +to the soil; even barndoor fowls have it; notice that gamecock at The +Cottage when it wakes me early in the morning, always shrilly pipes +"cock-a-doodle-<i>dew</i>!" Asked Elderly Gentleman if he lived here? +Born in the house, he said. Was he going for a walk? No, only +sitting about. Then why the umbrella? Ah! he always took it out +of drawer with his Sunday clothes, and put it under his arm, if he +was only sitting in the garden.</p> + +<p>But that's another story, told me after we had caught the postman.</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<h2>"THE ART OF 'SAVOY FARE.'"</h2> + +<p>Mr. <span class="sc">D'Oyly Carte</span> is to be heartily congratulated on his brilliant +mounting of Messrs. <span class="sc">Gillivan</span> and <span class="sc">Sulbert's</span> most recent +production +entitled <i>Utopia (Limited)</i>. "Limited" it is in more senses than one. +As there was, according to the immortal <i>Cyrus Bantam, M.C.</i>, +when he was giving his information to <i>Mr. Pickwick</i>, "nobody old +or ugly in Ba-ath," so there is on "the spindle side" no one old or +ugly on the stage of the Savoy Theatre. And this, too, with a +difference, applies to Sir <span class="sc">Arthur's</span> music, in which if there be +nothing particularly new—and the old familiar friends receive the +heartiest welcome—there is at all events nothing dull, even though +it may "hardly ever" rise above mere commonplace. Occasionally +there is a snatch of sweet melody that brings to mind the composer's +happiest inspirations, whether in oratorio or burlesque.</p> + +<p>As to dramatic plot—well, strictly speaking, there is none; +and it would be difficult to name a single telling "situation," in +<i>Utopia (Limited)</i>. The Monarch of Utopia wishes to introduce +English customs into his kingdom; there is a court party +opposed to this innovation: that's the essence of it. In the First Act +the one hit, is the introduction of <i>Captain Corcoran</i> from <i>The +Pinafore</i> +of years ago, and the repetition of the once popular catch-phrase +about "What never?" <ins title="T.N.: Original reads 'aRd'">and</ins> "Hardly ever," which, taken as +applying to our most recent tragical ironclad disaster, is thoroughly +appreciated. Beyond this, as far as dialogue and music go, in the +First Act there is very little anyone would care to "carry away +with him" after a first visit. And if that little were carried away +the residuum would offer scant attraction.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"><a href="images/204-1000.png"><img src="images/204-600.png" width="600" height="462" alt="The Union of Arts. 'Again we come to thee,'" /></a> +<h4><span class="sc">The Union of Arts</span>. "Again we come to thee, +Savoy."—<i>Old Duet.</i></h4></div> + +<p>As for the Second Act, with its Royal Drawing-room scene, its +splendid costumes, and its mimicry of Court etiquette, have we not +witnessed a similar spectacle on a larger scale in a Drury Lane +Pantomime, not so very many years ago? And was not that arranged +by the same artistic stage-manager, who is now, by a wise dispensation +of theatrical providence, in command at the Savoy, yclept +Mr. <span class="sc">Charles Harris</span>? I fancy the Drury Lane Pantomime had the +best of it in point of broad fun, as, if I remember right, <span class="sc">Herbert +Campbell</span> was the Queen, and <span class="sc">Harry Nicholls</span> the King. Before +this scene is the principal hit of the Second Act, when the King, +Mr. <span class="sc">Barrington</span>,—to whom author and composer are under considerable +obligations for the success of the piece, and without +whose acting, dancing, and singing the entertainment would fare +indifferently well,—with his counsellors, an admiral, a Lord Chamberlain, +and so forth, place their chairs in a row, and detaching +from the back of each seat a musical instrument, turn themselves +into a St. James's ("Hall" not "Court") Christy Minstrel Company, +Unlimited, of which Mr. <span class="sc">Barrington</span>, as the <i>Mr. Johnson</i>, is the +life and soul. Is this the remarkably original creation of the united +intellects of Messrs. <span class="sc">Gilbert</span> and <span class="sc">Sullivan</span>? Have they ever +heard of, or did either of them ever see a burlesque entitled <i>Black +Eye'd Susan</i> at the Royalty, which ran a long way over six hundred +nights, and in later days was revived at the Opera Comique and +elsewhere? I will quote from the <i>Times</i>' notice of that burlesque:—</p> + +<blockquote><p> +"The court-martial arranged after the fashion of the Christy's orchestra, +every admiral being dressed in a colour corresponding to his title, an actual +'nigger' figuring as Admiral of the Black, is another odd device which +keeps the audience in a roar." +</p></blockquote> + +<p>And it is this "odd device," with a Lord Chancellor, if I remember +right, or some legal luminary in black, for one of the "corner +men," which is, after all is said, sung, and done, just the one thing +(of the two in the show) that brings down the house, and is +applauded to the echo as the outcome of the combined whimsical +originality of Messrs. <span class="sc">Gilbert</span> and <span class="sc">Sullivan</span>! Imitation being +the +sincerest flattery, the author of <i>Black Eye'd Susan</i> must be indeed +gratified by this tribute to his original success paid by the +librettist and the composer of <i>Utopia</i>, and having no further use +for this particular bit of humour, he will, no doubt, be willing to +make a present of it, free of charge, for nightly use, to the distinguished +Savoyards as a practical congratulation to the pair of them +on their return to the scene of some of their former triumphs.</p> + +<p>Mr. <span class="sc">Barrington</span> is the life and soul of the show; withdraw him, +and then there would be precious little left to draw, excepting, of +course, the <i>mise en scène</i>, due to Messrs. <span class="sc">Harris</span> and +<span class="sc">Carte</span>, if I may +put the <span class="sc">Harris</span> before the <span class="sc">Carte</span>,—and to the Scenic Artist, +<span class="sc">Craven</span>. Nor must I forget to mention the Electric Lightists, +Messrs. <span class="sc">Lyons</span> and <span class="sc">Kerr</span>, which last is a queer combination of +names, from the king of the forest to the lowest of snappy dogs. Miss +<span class="sc">Rosina Brandram</span> is, of course, excellent in what she has to do, and +Miss <span class="sc">Nancy McIntosh</span> is equal to the occasion of her appearance. +<span class="sc">Percy Anderson's</span> costumes are gorgeous and artistic; and to the +"Parisian Diamond Company" are due the gems of the piece. The +dances are by the ever fertile and agile <span class="sc">D'Auban</span>, and everybody +who has contributed to the success of the show obtains honourable +mention in the neat programme-card.</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p class="ind1">"Inquirer" writes: "I see an advertisement of a series called +'<i>The Aldine Poets</i>.' Exceptional bards I suppose, as I was always +given to understand that poets rarely eat anything. Will this series +be followed by '<i>The Allunch Poets</i>,' <i>The Allbreakfast Poets</i>,' and +'<i>The Allsup Poets'</i>? The last-mentioned, of course, will sing in +praise of <span class="sc">Allsup's</span> Ale."</p> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<table summary="tn" align="center" style="margin-top: 3em;"> +<tr> + <td class="note"> + +<h4>Transcriber's Note:</h4> + +<p>Sundry damaged or missing punctuation has been repaired.</p> + +<p>The corrections listed below are also indicated in the text by a dashed line at the appropriate place:</p> +<p>Move the mouse over the word, and the original text <ins title="T.N.: Original reads 'apprears'">appears</ins>.</p> + +<p>Page 196: 'wav' corrected to 'way'</p> + +<p>"There's no entrance to the music-hall this way."</p> + +<p>Page 197: 'champage' corrected to 'champagne'</p> + +<p>"Take a <i>carafe</i> of champagne—there is plenty more."</p> + +<p>Page 204: 'aRd' corrected to 'and'</p> + +<p>"What never?" and "Hardly ever," which, taken as applying to our most +recent tragical ironclad disaster, is thoroughly appreciated.</p> +<hr class="full" /> + + </td> +</tr> +</table> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, +October 28th 1893, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH *** + +***** This file should be named 39362-h.htm or 39362-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/9/3/6/39362/ + +Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Lesley Halamek and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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