Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 99, September 6, 1890 by Various
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Various >> Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 99, September 6, 1890
A PRODUCT OF THE SILLY SEASON.
DEAR MR. PUNCH,
London at the end of August is not particularly inviting, save in one
respect--it is negatively pleasant to find that _Matinees_ are all
but suspended. I should say quite, were it not that the Shaftesbury
Theatre on the 27th opened its doors at a quarter to three o'clock
in the afternoon, for the performance of _The Violin Makers_, an
adaptation of _Le Luthier de Cremone_, and the production of a "new
and original Comedy sketch," in two Acts, called _The Deacon_, by
HENRY ARTHUR JONES. The first piece I had already seen at the Bushey
Theatre, with Professor HERKOMER, R.A., in the principal character.
I had now an opportunity of comparing the Artist-Actor with the
Manager-Actor, and must confess that I liked the former better than
the latter. Mr. WILLARD as _Filippo_, was Mr. WILLARD, but Professor
HERKOMER, shaved for the occasion, seemed to be anyone other than
Professor HERKOMER. The mounting of the piece at Bushey was also
greatly to be preferred to the _mise-en-scene_ in Shaftesbury
Avenue, and as the accomplished Artist-Actor had also supplied
some exceedingly touching music to his version of FRANCOIS COPPEE's
Poetical Play, which was wanting two hundred yards from Piccadilly
Circus, I was altogether better pleased with the entertainment served
up with _sauce a la Herkomer_. I may be wrong in preferring the
amateur to the professional, or I may be right--after all, it is
merely a matter of opinion.
Mr. JONES is entirely justified in calling _The Deacon_ a "sketch,"
as it can scarcely claim greater histrionic importance. I think I
may take it for granted that a sausage-maker, from the nature of his
employment, is usually presumed to be a man not absolutely without
guile, and, therefore, _Abraham Boothroyd_, "Wholesale bacon-factor,
Mayor of Chipping Padbury on the Wold, and Senior Deacon of Ebenezer
Chapel," may perhaps be counted one of those exceptions that are said
to prove the rule. According to Mr. JONES, this eccentric individual
comes up to town to attend an indignation meeting held with a view to
protesting against the conversion of Exeter Hall into a temple of the
drama, and after dining with "a _Juliet_ of fifteen years ago," and a
new and quaint sort of Barrister, accompanies them to the play, and
is so greatly pleased with the performances presented, to him, that,
before the curtain falls, he announces his intention of repeating
his visit to the theatre every evening until further notice! This may
be true to human nature, because there is authority for believing
that the said human nature is occasionally a "rum un"; but, without
the precedent I have quoted, it is difficult to accept the sudden
conversion of _Mr. Boothroyd_ as quite convincing. I could scarcely
have believed that Mr. JONES, who has done such excellent work in
_Judah_, and _The Middleman_, could have been the author of _The
Deacon_, had not his name appeared prominently on the playbill, and
had not a rumour reached me that this "comedy sketch" had adorned for
years, in MS. form, a corner of some book-shelves. I think, if the
rumour is to be believed, that it is almost a pity that there was any
interference with that corner--I fancy _The Deacon_ might have rested
in peace on the book-shelves indefinitely, without causing serious
injury to anyone. But this is a fancy, and only a fancy.
I may add that Mr. WILLARD made the most of the materials provided for
him; but whether that most was much or little is, and must remain, a
matter of conjecture. On the whole, if I had understood aright what
the sad sea waves were evidently attempting to say to me, I think I
would not have attended on the 27th of August a London _Matinee_. But
this is a thought, and nothing more. Believe me, dear _Mr. Punch_,
yours, more in sorrow than in anger,
A CRITIC, LURED TO TOWN FROM THE COUNTRY.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE DOCTRINE OF "HINTERLAND."
THESE THREE GENTLEMEN DO NOT PLAY THE GAME, BUT WISH TO TAKE A MORNING
WALK BY THE SEA.]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
The Baron has recently been reading a new work, disinterestedly
recommended to him by M. ROQUES, the French publisher and French
bookseller of Bond Street, entitled _L'Ame de Pierre_, by GEORGES
OHNET. It is a strangely fascinating story; the picturesque
descriptions transport us to the very places; and the studies of life,
are, specially of certain phases of French life, most interesting
to an English reader. The cosmopolitan Baron DE B.W. wishes that
Frenchmen, however manly they may be, were not so easily and so
constantly moved to tears. This however, is only a matter of taste.
What the purpose of the novel may be--for GEORGES OHNET has written
this with a purpose--is not quite evident. Whether it is intended
to chime in with the popular theme of hypnotism, and illustrate it
in a peculiar way, or whether it is merely illustrating _Hamlet's_
wise remark that, "There is more in heaven and earth than is dreamt
of in your philosophy," the Baron is at a loss to determine. It
is psychological, it is materialistic, it is idealistic, it is
philosophical, it is ... French. The _Vacuus Viator_ may have a worse
companion on a long journey than _L'Ame de Pierre_.
Talking of materialistic, "let us," quoth the Baron, "be grateful to
Mrs. DE SALIS for a bookful of '_Tempting Dishes for Small Incomes_,'
published by LONGMANS & Co." First of all get your small income, then
purchase this book, for eighteenpence, or less with discount; or (a
shorter and a cheaper way) borrow it from a friend. Let the Small
Incomer cast his watery eye over Lobster cutlets, p. 19, and Lobster
pancakes: let him reduce his small income to something still smaller
in order to treat himself and family to a _Rumpsteak a la bonne
bouche_, a Sausage pudding, and a Tomato curry. The sign over a
Small-Income House is the picture of a Sheep's Head, usually despised
as sheepish: but go to p. 28, and have a _tete-a-tete_ (_de mouton_)
with Mrs. DE SALIS about _Sheep's head au Gratin_.
Rabbit batter pudding, eh? with _shalot a discretion_. How's that for
high? Let the Small Incomer get some dariole tins, mushrooms, chives,
rabbits, tripe, onions, oil, ducks, eggs, and with _egg kromeskies_
he'll dine like a millionnaire, and be able to appreciate a real
_epigram_ of Lamb (not CHARLES) and Peas. Don't let the Man with a
Small Income be afraid of trying _Un Fritot de Cervelle de Veau_,
simply because of the name, which might do honour to the _menu_ of
a LUCULLUS. "Blanch the Brains" for this dish--delicious!--"and fry
till a nice golden colour." Beautiful! Nice golden colour like dear
BLANCHE's hair: only often that's a BLANCHE without brains. And now
your attention, my Small Incomer, to _Eggs a la Bonne Femme_. This
work ought to be arranged as a catechism: in fact all cookery books,
all receipt books, should be in the form of Question and Answer.
_Question_.--Now, Sir, how would you do _Eggs a la Bonne Femme?_
Perhaps this query might be preceded by general information as to
who the particular "_bonne femme_" (for she must have been a very
particular _bonne femme_) was to whom so many dishes are dedicated.
[In the Scotch McCookery books, _Broth o' the gude-wife_ would be a
national name.]
_Answer_.--To make _Eggs a la Bonne Femme_, Mrs. DE SALIS says, "Get
as many eggs as there are guests (they should all be the same size)--"
Now this is a difficulty. It is not an easy matter to assemble round
your table a party of guests "all the same size:" still more difficult
is it to get together a lot of eggs all the same size as the guests.
But, when this has been got over, read the remainder at p. 55, and
then, as _Squeers's_ pupils used to have to do, go and reduce the
teaching to practice.
The receipt for _Potatoes a la Lyonnaise_ begins with, "Mince an
onion, and fry it in hot butter"--O rare! Why do more? Who wants
potatoes after this? And, when you've had quite enough of it, smoke
a pipe, drink a glass of whiskey-and-water, go to an evening party,
and then, if you won't be one of the most remarkable advertisements
for _cette bonne femme_ Madame DE SALIS, why I don't live in Baronion
Halls, and my name's no longer
THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.
P.S.--So many persons have sent in touching requests to the Baron only
to notice their books with one little word, that his library table
groans under their weight. To about a hundred of them that one little
word might be "Bosh!"--but even then they'd be pleased.
* * * * *
THE NEW STOCKING.
[The CHANCELLOR of the EXCHEQUER has announced that the
Treasury have decided to enable the small investor in Consols,
upon a written request to the Bank of England, to have his
dividends re-invested as they arise, and thus automatically
accumulated without further trouble on his part.--_Times_.]
Oh, it was the old Lady of Threadneedle Street,
And she held up her Stocking (ne'er used for her feet),
And she ups, and says she, "I've an excellent notion;
Leastways, 'tis one borrowed from COHEN by GOSCHEN;
Which nobody can deny!
"The cash that you put in my Stocking, my dears,
Will grow by degrees, if you leave it for years.
By your dividends? Ah! you draw _them_, girls and boys,
And spend 'em, the _Times_ says, in sweets and in toys;
Which nobody can deny!
"How very much better to let 'em remain;
Re-invest 'em, in fact! An original brain
Has hit on that capital notion, at length,
And I'm game for to back him with all my old strength,
Which nobody can deny!
"Leave your dividends in my--suppose we say hose--
And the cash, snowball-like, gathers fast as it goes.
So my--Stocking (I _must_ use the word) will be seen,
The latest and best Automatic Machine,
Which nobody can deny!
"Think, children, of Ac-cu-mu-la-tive Con-sols!
Much better than bull's eyes, and peg-tops, and dolls!
Yes, this is the notion, exceedingly knowin',
Which GOSCHEN, the Chancellor, borrows from COHEN,
Which nobody can deny!
"To the Nation friend COHEN's idea's a great gift;
It should lend such a "vigorous impulse to thrift;"
Leave your coin in my Stocking--in time it will double,
Without giving you, what a Briton hates, Trouble!
Which nobody can deny!
"Then think of the saving in potions and pills,
And the fall in that _very_ bad stock--Doctor's Bills--
When your Dividends no longer spoil girls and boys
With per-ni-ci-ous sweets, and with re-dun-dant toys,
Which nobody can deny!
"So, dear Little Investors, I trust you'll come flocking,
Like bees to the hive, to my last style of Stocking,
My new, automatic, self-mending, smart hose,
In which cash, left alone, gathers fast as it goes,
Which nobody can deny!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: WHAT OUR ARTIST HAS TO PUT UP WITH.
_Inquisitive and Motherly Old Stranger_ (_deliberately settling
herself down between Our Artist and what he is trying to sketch_). "I
SUPPOSE YOU OFTEN FIND IT VERY DIFFICULT TO GET NEW SUBJECTS, DON'T
YOU? I HEARD A THING THE OTHER DAY--," &C., &C., &C.]
* * * * *
ANOTHER VICTIM.
[The Emperor of AUSTRIA will leave Voecklabruck on September 2
to attend the Army manoeuvres in Silesia. On the 17th he will
go to attend the manoeuvres in Prussian Silesia, and will
be the German EMPEROR's guest at Schloss Kohnstook, near
Liegnitz.--_Times_.]
_Imperial Victim sings:_--
"Here awa', there awa', wandering WILLIE."
O WILHELM, my lad, _you_ might well sing that song.
This stir's getting troublesome, not to say silly,
Our "Travelling EMPEROR"'s coming it strong.
This playing at Soldiers, is't never to cease?
There's no rest but the grave for the Pilgrim of--Peace!
_Sub tegmine fagi_, in holiday Autumn,
E'en Emperors sometimes incline to take ease,
But when once _he_ has dropped in upon 'em, and caught 'em,
The Tityrus _role_ is all up. 'Tis a tease.
I was just settling down to my pipe and my bock,
When he bursts in like this! Gives a man quite a shock!
He has stirred them up pretty well all round already.
Good Grandmother GUELPH! Well, with her, 'twas just "come and off!"
(A true British "Summer" the wildest will steady),
And then he drops in upon tired Cousin ROMANOFF.
Ha! ha! How the CZAR must have laughed--in his sleeve--
At that "capture," which WILHELM could scarcely believe!
Taken prisoner, the "Travelling EMPEROR!" Funny!
Oh, could they have kept him till Autumn was o'er!
No such luck! I must stir up, and spend time, and money,
In playing the old game of Soldiers! Great bore!
Ah, my youthful, alert, irrepressible KAISER,
When just a bit older you'll be a bit wiser.
Voecklabruck's pleasant in genial September,
And now I must start for Silesia. Ah me!
That name gives a KAISER so much to remember--
Would FREDERICK--THE GREAT--have "waltzed round" with such glee,
Trotting out Europe's soldiers and ships in this way?
Well, the KAISER's a "kid," I suppose it's his play.
I wonder what BISMARCK the blunt thinks about it.
He hardly takes _Kriegspiel_ views of the earth;
He _may_ be prepared to applaud, but I doubt it.
I fancy him moved to a saturnine mirth.
I wonder where next the young ruffler will go.
I should like, if I dared, to suggest--Jericho!
"Come out, Cousin HAPSBURG, your uniform don,
And let's play at Soldiers!" Ah, yes, that's his voice.
How glad Grandma GUELPH must be now he has gone,
And how at his leaving the CZAR must rejoice!
And now _I_ am in for it all, for awhile.
Ah, well, I must dress, and endeavour to smile.
Only _if he_ would off it to Stamboul or Cairo,
Look up EMIN PASHA, survey Zanzibar,
Or try butterfly hunting at Kilimi Njaro,
The Crowned Heads of Europe were easier far.
But Africa's "_fauna_ and _flora_" would pall--
_He_ wants armies and fleets, or he can't rest at all.
Silesian manoeuvres! I know what they mean;
Long hours in the saddle, much dust, many hails!
An elderly Emperor's fancy might lean
To idling, or hunting the chamois with WALES.
Now, _he_ would not worry--but grumbling's no use,
So here's for Schloss Ronnstock, and endless Reviews!
* * * * *
OUR FAILURES.--"One man in his time plays many parts," and JOHN
L. SULLIVAN, the great American "Slogger," having lately rather
failed, perhaps, as a pugilistic "Champion," has done what Mr.
HARRY NICHOLLS's lyric hero so yearned to do, viz., "gone on the
Stage." Decline of the Drama, indeed! Recruited from the ranks of
the Amateurs, on one side from the "Swells," on the other from the
"Sports," the Stage _ought_ to flourish. "Critics," said Dizzy, "are
those who have failed in Literature." Will it by-and-by be said that
Actors are those who have failed in "Sassiety" and the Prize Ring, as
Mashers or as Bashers?
* * * * *
[Illustration: ANOTHER VICTIM.
WILLIAM THE IRREPRESSIBLE. "NOW THEN, COUSIN AUSTRIA, PUT ON A
UNIFORM, AND COME AND PLAY AT SOLDIERS!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: RATHER SEVERE.
_Regular_ (_manouevering with Yeomanry_). "GOT TO GIVE UP MY
ARMS, HAVE I? UMPH! THIS COMES OF GOING OUT WITH A LOT OF DARNED
VOLUNTEERS!"]
* * * * *
THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK.
MODERN NAUTICAL VERSION.
(_BY A CORRESPONDENT WITH ADMIRAL TRYITON'S FLEET._)
FIT THE LAST.--THE VANISHING.
We sought it with search-lights, we sought it with care,
We pursued it with ships and hope;
But it seemed to have suddenly vanished in air
From under the heaven's blue cope.
We shuddered to think that the chace might fail,
And TRYON, excited at last,
Went ramping like redskin in search of a trail,
For the ten days were nearly past.
"There is Thingumbob shouting!" the Admiral said.
"He is shouting like mad, only hark!
He is waving his hands, he is wagging his head,
He has certainly found the--Snark!"
We gazed in delight, whilst a Bo'sun exclaimed--
(Your Bo'sun is always a wag!)--
"In the East there's a wision, a _mirage_ it's named!
_That_ the Snark? Put yer head in a bag!"
Then Admiral TRYON he ramped like a lion,
In prospect of splendid success.
But the Snark, with a spasm, plunged in a sea chasm;
Of SEYMOUR one couldn't see less.
"It's the Snark!" was the sound that first fell on our ears,
It seemed almost too good to be true.
Then followed a torrent of laughter and jeers,
Then the words, "It is all a Yah-Boo--"
Then silence. Some fancied they heard in the air
A sigh (from the lips of J.D.?)
That sounded like "----jum!" But some others declare
It was more like a half-choked big D.!
We hunted ten days and ten nights, but we found
Not so much as poor collier-barque.
By which we might tell that we steamed o'er the ground
Where CULM-SEYMOUR had handled the--Snark!
In the depths of that two thousand square miles, they say,
'Midst the world's mocking laughter and glee,
SEYMOUR softly and silently vanished away--
This Snark _was_ a Yah-Booh-Jum, you see!
* * * * *
"A VERY SHORT HOLIDAY."
[Illustration: "Is this a dagger that I see before me?"
No, c'est un souvenir d'Aubourg, une petite truelle a poisson de
l'Hostellerie des Vieux Plats, Gonneville.]
For the benefit of all tourists in Normandy, and visitors to Le Havre,
Etretat, and all round and about that quarter, I gave an account,
two weeks ago, of the excellent fare provided for us by _La famille
Aubourg_ at Gonneville. But on that occasion I made the great mistake
of calling their curious old house--a perfect little museum of
curiosities and works of Art--"a hotel." By my halidom! "Hotel," save
the mark--and spend the shilling. "Hotel," quotha! "Hotel" is far too
modern. Old English "Inn" more like. The kind of inn, good gossip,
which was kept in SHAKSPEARE's time by "mine host," where everyone,
with coin of the realm in his purse, could take his ease and be happy.
So, to put me right on this matter, M. AUBOURG sends me a _truelle_ of
burnished metal, on which is inscribed, "_Hostellerie des Vieux Plats,
Souvenir d'Aubourg_," which _truelle_, if not large, "yet will serve"
to help fish, or _pommes soufflees_, or _pommes Anna_, and, mark ye,
my masters, will also serve to recall to my memory a right merrie,
even tho' 'twere an all too short, holiday.
* * * * *
[Illustration: MR. PUNCH'S PARLIAMENTARY ARTIST FAILS TO ESCAPE FROM
HIS MODELS.]
* * * * *
PICTURESQUE LONDON; OR, SKY-SIGNS OF THE TIMES.
(_AN EXTRACT FROM THE "TRIVIA" OF THE FUTURE._)
"But when the swinging signs your ears offend,
With creaking noise."
GAY's _Trivia; or, The Art of Walking the Streets of London_.
Offend our _ears_? Pedestrian Muse of GAY,
Had you foreseen the London of to-day,
How had you shuddered with ashamed surprise
At "swinging signs" which now offend our _eyes_!
Long have Advertisement's obtrusive arts
Pervaded our huge maze of malls and marts;
But now the "swinging signs" of ogre Trade,
Even the smoke-veiled vault of heaven invade,
And sprawling legends of the tasteless crew
Soar to the clouds and spread across the blue.
See--if you can--where Paul's colossal dome
Rises o'er realms that dwarf Imperial Rome.
Cooped, cramped, half hid, the glorious work of WREN
Lent grandeur once to huckstering haunts of men,
Though on its splendour Shopdom's rule impinged,
And plaster, had they power, kind heaven's clear vault
With vulgar vaunts of Sausages or Salt.
Picture the proud and spacious city given
Wholly to Shopdom's hands! 'Twixt earth and heaven
Forests of tall and spindly poles arise,
With swinging signs that almost hide the skies.
Huge letterings hang disfiguring all the blue
To vaunt the grace of SNOBKINS's high-heel'd Shoe.
A pair of gloves soar to a monstrous height,
Long have its letterings large, its pictures vile,
Possessed the mammoth city mile on mile;
Made horrors of its hoardings, and its walls
Disfigured from the Abbey to St. Paul's,
And far beyond where'er a vacant space
Allowed Boeotian Commerce to displace
Scant Urban Beauty from its last frail hold,
On a Metropolis given up to Gold.
But till of late our sky at least was clear
(Such sky as coal-reek leaves the civic year)
If not of smoke at least of flaming lies,
And florid vaunts of quacks who advertise.
Not these sky-horrors, huge and noisy-hinged,
Shamed the still air about it, or obscured
Its every view. Is it to be endured,
O much-enduring Briton? There be those
Who'd scrawl advertisements of Hogs or Hose
Across the sun-disc as it flames at noon,
Or daub the praise of Pickles o'er the moon.
Unmoved by civic pride, unchecked by taste,
They 'd smear the general sky with poster's paste
And at Dan Phoebus seem to "take a sight."
Colossal bottles blot the air, to tell
That MUCKSON's Temperance drink is a great sell.
Here's a huge hat, as black as sombre Styx,
Flanked by the winsome legend, "Ten and Six."
Other Sky-signs praise Carpets, Ginghams, Socks,
Mugg's Music-hall, and "Essence of the Ox."
Bah! GAY's trim Muse might sicken of her rhymes
Had she to read these Sky-signs of the Times!
[Illustration]
* * * * *
IN THE KNOW.
(_BY MR. PUNCH'S OWN PROPHET._)
I Was aware that Mr. J. was a semolina-brained impostor, but I should
never have conceived that even he, the jelly-faced chief of the
chowder-heads, could have attained to such a pitch of folly as to
inform me that "the _Prix Montyon_ is not a medal, and cannot be
worn at Court." These are his words. Did I ever say it was a medal? I
remarked that the QUEEN had given me permission to wear it at Court.
That is true. But I never said that I would or could so wear it. As
for Her Most Gracious Majesty's permission, it was conveyed to me in
a document beginning, "VICTORIA, by the grace of," &c, and containing
the signature of Lord HALSBURY, the Lord Chancellor--No, by the way,
that is another Royal communication. The Permission begins, "To
our right trusty and well-beloved." What beautiful, confiding,
affectionate words are these! Who can wonder that a Queen who
habitually makes use of them should reign in the hearts of her
subjects?
Since I returned from France I have been on a further and more
extensive Continental tour, and have received more marks of
distinction from various Crowned Heads. Did you hear the strange story
of what took place at the meeting of the German EMPEROR with the
CZAR of Russia? It was the hour of the mid-day meal. The EMPEROR, at
the head of his Wyborg Regiment, had performed prodigies of valour.
Mounted on his fiery _Tchinovick_ (a Circassian mustang) he had
ridden into the heart of the hostile position, and with one stroke
of his _Pen_ (a sort of Russian scimetar with a jewelled hilt) he
had captured a convoy containing three thousand _Versts_ (a sort of
condensed food), intended for the consumption of the opposing Army.
Tired with his labours, he was now lying at full length beside his
Imperial host on the banks of the torrential Narva. The CZAR, in
attempting to open, a Champagne bottle, had just broken one of his
Imperial nails, and had despatched his chief butler to Siberia,
observing with pleasant irony, that he would no doubt find a corkscrew
there. At this moment a tall and aristocratic stranger, mounted upon
a high-spirited native _Mokeoffskaia_, dashed up at full gallop. To
announce himself as Lieutenant-General POPOFF, to seize the refractory
bottle, to draw the cork, and pour the foaming liquid into the
Imperial glasses, was for him the work of a moment. That stranger
was I. In recognition of my promptitude, _the_ CZAR has conferred
upon me the Stewardship of the Vistula Hundreds, with the command
of a division of the Yeomanoff Cavalry, the most distinguished
horse-soldiers in Europe.
The German EMPEROR was equally impressed. His Majesty smiled, and,
turning to General CAPRIVI, told him to consider himself henceforth
under my orders for everything that concerned the peace of the world.
I could see that CAPRIVI did not relish this, but I soon made him know
his place, and when I threatened to send for Prince BISMARCK--who, by
the way, has granted me the unique honour of an interview--he became
quite calm and reasonable. On my way home, I called in on Prince
FERDINAND of Bulgaria, _who offered me his Crown_, telling me at the
same time that he intended to take a course of German Baths. He said
I should find STAMBOULOFF a very pleasant fellow; "but," he added,
"you've got to know him first."
I, of course, refused His Highness's offer, and accepted instead the
Cross for Valour on the Field of Battle. I then hurried off to Servia.
King MILAN informed me that, if I wished to take a Queen back with me
to England, he would dispose of one very cheaply. Having advised the
Regents as to the best method of governing the country, I departed
for Roumania. The Queen of ROUMANIA welcomed me as a literary man.
She writes all the Roumanian sporting prophecies in verse. The King
invested me at once with the _Stonibroku_ Order in brilliants, with
the _Iohu_ Clasp for special promise shown in connection with turf
literature. I may assure you in confidence that there will be no war
for the next week or two. This result is entirely due to me.