Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 99, August 16, 1890 by Various
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 99, August 16, 1890
[Illustration: Policeman.]
Never will I venture out of the yacht again, until I can do so safely.
Expect me back soon. Ah, what an escape!--to think I might have
languished for the best of my days in irons or in the mines out in
Siberia, like _Rip Van Winkle_, or the Prisoner of Chillon, who dug
himself out with his nails (when I was a boy I remember it, and tried
to do it in the garden), and came up with a long beard when everyone
was dead and gone. I may return as a stowaway, but anyhow expect me,
and prepare the fatted outlet. That's humorous, isn't it, eh?
[Illustration: "Suddenly from their awful manner, their frowns, and
violent expressions, it occurred to me, 'Hang it all! They take me for
a Jew!"'--_Extract from Letter from Our Yotting Yorick_.]
Yours, JETSAM, THE Y.Y.
19,000 miles away too! Just imagine!
* * * * *
AUTOMATIC PROGRESS.
The Proprietors of the "Automatic Chair" having had reason to think
their invention such a success that they have turned it into a
Company, a stimulus has been given to ingenuity in this direction,
with the result that the following prospective advertisement, or
something very much like it, may shortly be expected to see the
light:--
THE AUTOMATIC FURNITURE SUPPLY ASSOCIATION, started for the purpose of
meeting the daily-increasing demand for self-acting and trouble-saving
appliances in the domestic arrangements of the modern household, beg
to inform their patrons that they are now able to supply them with
THE AUTOMATIC FOUR-POSTER.--This ingeniously constructed piece of
furniture will tuck up the occupant, rock him to sleep, and pitch him
out on to the floor at a given hour in the morning, thoroughly waking
him by the operation, when it will of its own accord fold itself
up into a conveniently-shaped parcel, not bigger than an ordinary
carriage umbrella. The Association further desire to inform their
patrons that they have also invented a
PATENT AUTOMATIC SHOWER-BATH AND WASH-HAND-STAND, that will forcibly
seize the user, thoroughly souse him from head to foot, scrub, wash,
and dry him. Finally folding itself up into a convenient lounge, on
which he can complete his toilette at leisure. They also are prepared
to supply their
AUTOMATIC DINNER-TABLE AND APPETITE COMBINED, upon taking a seat at
which, the diner will be immediately served with a course consisting
of soup, fish, joint, and vegetables, choice of _entrees_, sweets,
cheese, and celery, with an appetite to enable him to relish the
repast as it proceeds. After-dinner speeches, phonographically
introduced, can be supplied at a slight additional charge. They,
moreover, have in hand an
AUTOMATIC BUTLER-DETECTING SIDEBOARD, which, by an ingenious
contrivance, on the Butler opening it for the purpose of helping
himself to a glass of wine, instantly blows up with a loud explosion,
that obliges him to desist in his design. But their chief triumph is
their
AUTOMATIC AND MECHANICAL SHAREHOLDER, who, immediately on being shown
the Prospectus, puts his name down for the required number of Shares
as indicated to him. This last the Association regard as a great
success, but they have several other startling novelties in active
preparation.
* * * * *
[Illustration: RISING TO THE SITUATION!
(_Scene from a well-mounted Drama._)]
* * * * *
STARS IN THE STRAND; OR, THE HORSE AND THE LADY.
MY DEAR MR. PUNCH,
One of the greatest attractions in Town to the Country Cousin I need
scarcely say is the Theatre. Speaking for myself, it is the place
I earliest visit when I get to London, and consequently I was not
surprised to find myself the other evening in the Adelphi, on the
first night of a new play. As an Irishman might guess, from its name
(_The English Rose_), the piece is all about Ireland. Both State and
Church are represented therein--the former by a comic sergeant of the
Royal Constabulary, and the latter by a priest, who wears a hat in the
first Act that would have entirely justified his being Boycotted. The
plot is not very strong, and suggests recollections of the _Flying
Scud, Arrah Na Pogue_, and _The Silver King_. The acting is fairly
satisfactory, the cast including a star, supported by an efficient
company. The star is a horse that pranced about the stage in the most
natural manner possible, carefully avoiding the orchestra. In spite,
however, of his anxiety to keep out of the stalls, suggestive as they
were (but only in name) of the stable, some little alarm was created
in the neighbourhood of the Conductor, which did not entirely subside
until the fall of the curtain. But the sagacious steed knew its
business thoroughly well, and was indeed an admirable histrion.
Only once, at the initial performance, did this intelligent creature
remember its personality, and drop the public actor in the private
individual. The occasion was when it had to put its head out of a
loose-box to listen to the singing of a serio-comic song by a lady,
dressed as a "gossoon." For a few minutes the talented brute made a
pretence of eating some property foliage, and then, catching sight
of the audience, it deliberately _counted the house!_ I regret to
add that, in spite of the valuable support afforded by this useful
member of the Messrs. GATTI's Company, its name did not appear in the
playbill.
[Illustration: A BREAKDOWN AT THE LYCEUM!
(_Imported from the Gaiety._)]
A few evenings later I had a second time the advantage of being
present at a first night's performance. The occasion was, the
production of _The Great Unknown_, by AUGUSTIN DALY's Company of
Comedians. I found the piece described as a "new eccentric Comedy,"
but, beyond a certain oddness in the distribution of the characters
of the cast, did not notice much novelty or eccentricity. The life
and soul of the evening's entertainment was Miss ADA REHAN, a talented
lady, who (so I was told) has made her mark in _Rosalind_, in _As You
Like It_, and _Katharina_, in the _Taming of the Shrew._ I can quite
believe that Miss REHAN is a great success in parts of the calibre
of the Shakspearian heroines I have mentioned; nay, more, I fancy she
would do something with _Lady Macbeth_, and be quite in her element
as _Emilia_, in _Othello_. But, as she had to play an _ingenue_, aged
eighteen, in _The Great Unknown_, she was not quite convincing. It
was a very good part. In the First Act she had to coax her papa, and
flirt with her cousin; in the second, to respond to a declaration of
love with a burst of womanly feeling; and, in the third, to play the
hoyden, and dance a breakdown. All this was done to perfection, but
not by a young lady of eighteen. Miss ADA REHAN was charming, but
looked, and I fancy felt, many years older than her legal majority.
I question whether she was an _ingenue_ at all, but, if she were, she
was an _ingenue_ of great and varied experience. When Mrs. BANCROFT
appeared as the girl-pupil in _School_, she was the character to the
life; but when Miss REHAN calls herself _Etna_, throws herself on
sofas, and hugs a man with less inches than herself, we cannot but
feel that it is very superior play-acting, but still play-acting. Take
it all round, I was delighted with the lady at the Lyceum, and the
horse at the Adelphi, and nearly regret that, having to leave town, I
shall not have the opportunity of seeing either of them again.
Yours faithfully. A CRITIC FROM THE COUNTRY.
* * * * *
A HOLIDAY APPEAL.
[Last year Mrs. JEUNE'S "Country Holiday Fund" was the means
of sending 1,075 poor, sickly, London children for a few weeks
into the country, averting many illnesses saving many lives,
and imparting incalculable happiness. Mrs. JEUNE makes appeal
for pecuniary assistance to enable her to continue this
unquestionably excellent work.]
It is Holiday Time, and all such as can _pay_,
For the Summer-green country are up and away;
But what of the poor pale-faced waifs of the slums?
Oh, the butterfly flits, and the honey-bee hums
O'er the holt and the heather, the hill and the plain,
But they flit and they hum for Town's children in vain;
Unless--ah! _unless_--there is hope in that word!--
Mrs. JEUNE'S kindly plea by the Public is heard.
Heard? Everyone feels 'tis a duty to listen.
The eyes of the children will sparkle and glisten,
In hope of the beauty, at thought of the fun,
For they know their kind champion, and what she has done,
And is ready to do for them all once again,
If folks heed her appeal. Shall she make it in vain?
Three weeks in the country for poor BOB and BESS!
Do you know what _that_ means, wealthy cit? Can you guess,
Dainty lady of fashion, with "dots" of your own,
Bright-eyed and trim-vestured, well-fed and well-grown?
Well, BOBBY'S a cripple, and BESS has a cough,
Which, untended, next winter may "carry her off,"
As her folks in their unrefined diction declare;
They are dying, these children, for food and fresh air,
And their slum is much more like a sewer than a street,
Whilst their food is--not such as your servants would eat;
Were they housed like your horses, or fed like your dogs.
They would think themselves lucky; _that's_ how the world jogs!
But three weeks in the country! Why, that would mean joy,
And new life for the girl, and fresh strength for the boy.
The meadow would heal them, the mountain might save,
_Won't_ you give them a chance on the moor, by the wave?
Why, of course! _You_ have only to know, _Punch_ to ask,
And you'll jump at the job as a joy, not a task!
Come, delicate dame, City CROESUS rotund,
And assist Mrs. JEUNE'S "Country Holiday Fund!"
_Mr. Punch_ asks, _for her_, your spare cash, and will trouble you
_To send it to Thirty-seven, Wimpole Street, W.!_
* * * * *
THE EMPIRE IS PIECE, OR, RATHER, BALLET.
Now that the weather is so uncertain, that one day it may be as sultry
as the tropics, and the next suggestive of Siberia, it is as well
to know where to go, especially when _al fresco_ entertainments are
impossible. To those who are fond of glitter tempered with good
taste, something suitable to their requirements is sure to be found
at the Empire. At this moment (or, rather, every evening at 10:30
and 9) there are two excellent ballets being played there, called
respectively _Cecile_ and the _Dream of Wealth_. The first is dramatic
in the extreme, and the last, with its precious metals and harmonious
setting, is worth its weight in notes--musical notes. There is plenty
of poetry in both spectacles--the poetry of motion. Further, as
containing an excellent moral, it may be said that this pair of
spectacles is suitable to the sight of everyone, from Materfamilias
up from the country to Master JACKY home for his Midsummer holidays.
* * * * *
[Illustration: BANK HOLIDAY SPORTS. "KISS-IN-THE-RING."
"NONE BUT THE FAIR DESERVE THE BRAVE."]
* * * * *
THE CLOSE OF THE INNINGS.
_Bowler_. Over at last!
_Wicket-keeper._ Humph! Yes, but not "all out!"
Time's up! All glad to leave the field, no doubt;
But _I_'m not satisfied.
_Bowler._ You never are!
_Wicket-keeper._ Some thought you, when you joined the team, a star,
Equal, at least, to SPOFFORTH, FERRIS, TURNER,
Yet sometimes you have bowled like a school-learner.
_Bowler._ That's most discouraging! Come now, I say,
You know that every Cricketer has "his day,"
Whilst the best bat or trundler may be stuck.
And, though he try his best, be "out of luck."
Ask W.G. himself! Early this season
He couldn't score, for no apparent reason.
Now look at him! Almost as good as ever!
_Wicket-keeper._ Well, ye-e-s! But you were thought so jolly clever.
To me it seems 'tis your idea of Cricket
To smash the wicket-keeper--not the wicket.
Look at my hands! They're mostly good to cover me;
With _you_, by Jingo, I need pads all over me!
_Bowler._ Oh, well, you know, fast bowling, with a break,
Not every wicket-keeper's game to take.
You are not quite a SHERWIN or a WOOD,
Or even a McGREGOR. You're no good
At bowling that has real "devil" in it.
_Wicket-keeper._ The--dickens I am not! Just wait a minute!
I have stood up to GRANDOLPH at his wildest.
You know _his_ pitch and pace; not quite the mildest,
Scarce equal, certainly, to "demon" DIZZY,
But when he's on the spot he keeps one busy.
It's not your "devil," JOKIM, that I dread;
That's easy, when you're "bowling with your head,"
But when you sling them in, as you've done lately,
Swift but _not_ straight, why, then you vex me greatly.
Your pet fast bumpy ones, wide of the wicket,
Perhaps look showy, but they are not Cricket.
_Bowler._ Oh, bother! You're the crossest of old frumps.
Why, bless you, SMITH, I stood behind the stumps
Long before you put gloves on!
_Wicket-keeper._ I dare say,
But when we took you in our team to play
'Twas for your bowling. I don't want to scoff
At chance bad luck, but you have not come off!
Now, BALFOUR doesn't give "no balls" and "wides,"
Or make it hot for knuckles, shins, and sides,
As you've been doing lately. "Extras" mount
When you are bowling, and your blunders count
To our opponents,--not to mention _me_.
Although two broken fingers, a bruised knee,
A chin knocked out of shape, and one lost tooth
Are trying little items, to tell truth.
_Bowler._ Hang it! If you're so sweet on ARTHUR B.,
Try him next Season, but don't chivey _me_!
[_Goes off huffily._
_Wicket-keeper_ (_to Umpire_). I take them without flinching. Umpire,
don't I?
I'll do my duty to my Team and County
As long as I've a knuckle in its place;
I have not many--look! And see my face!
No, when the game's renewed, JOKIM must try
To keep the wicket clearly in his eye,
Not the poor wicket-keeper, or you'll see
"Retired, hurt" will be the end of Me!
* * * * *
AN OLD RAILWAY AND A NEW LINE.
At the last General Meeting of the L.C. & D., their Chairman made one
of his best speeches. Prospects were bright, and hearts were light,
just to drop into poetry. Sir E. WATKIN, _alias_ S. Eastern WATKIN,
had some time ago been assured judicially of the fact that Folkestone
meant Folkestone as clearly as Brighton means Brighton, or Ramsgate
means Ramsgate, and the two great Companies were, it was hoped, soon
to come to an agreement and live happily ever afterwards. Among other
plans for the future, the popular and astute Chairman more than
hinted that the day was not far distant when, in consequence of the
increasing patronage bestowed on the improved third-class carriages,
the trains of the L.C. & D. Company would be made up of first and
third, and the middle class would be out of it altogether. This will
be a blow to those whose travelling motto has hitherto been "_In medio
tutissimus ibis._" But, on the other hand, if the second-class be
dropped, the L.C. & D. can adopt the proud motto, "_Nulli Secundus_."
_Mr. Punch_, Universal Managing Director, in charge of thousands of
lines, wishes them the benefit of the omen.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE CLOSE OF THE INNINGS.
W.H.S. (_Wicket-keeper_). "TELL YOU WHAT IT IS, UMPIRE:--IF THE
BOWLING'S GOING TO BE AS WILD--NEXT INNINGS--AS THIS, I SHALL '_RETIRE
HURT_'!"]
* * * * *
"LEBE WOHL! HELGOLAND!"
(_AN INCIDENT OF THE CESSION--HITHERTO UNREPORTED_.)
[Illustration]
The Representative of BRITANNIA'S Might had departed in appropriate
state, and the German Emperor had reached his destination. The new
landlord was most anxious to take possession. He was all impatience
to appear before his recently-acquired subjects, to show to them the
Military Uniform he had assumed after discarding that garb he loved
so well--the _grande tenue_ of an Honorary Admiral of the Fleet in
the service of VICTORIA, Queen, Empress, and Grandmother. There was
a consultation on board the _Hohenzollern_, and then a subdued German
cheer. The Chief Naval Officer approached His Majesty, cocked-hat in
hand.
"Sire," he said, falling on one knee; "all is now ready."
"But why has there been this delay?" asked WILLIAM THE SECOND, in a
tone of imperial command.
"Sire, we could not find the island. Unhappily we had mislaid--" and
then the naval officer paused--
"Your charts and field-glasses?" queried His Majesty.
"No, Sire," was the reply. Then, after some hesitation, the chief of
the German sailors continued, "The fact is, Your Majesty, I had lost
my microscope, and--" But further explanation was drowned in the sound
of saluting artillery. And the remainder of the day was devoted (by
those who could find room on the island) in equal proportions to smoke
and enthusiasm.
* * * * *
IN THE KNOW.
(_BY MR. PUNCH'S OWN PROPHET._)
Last week I published a dispatch conveying to me the exalted approval
of H.S.H. the Grand Duke of PFEIFENTOPF. The closing words of
His Serene Highness's gracious letter informed me that I had been
appointed a Knight of the Honigthau Order, one of the most ancient
and splendid orders known to chivalry.
When HUNDSVETTER VON VOGELANG, of whom the ancient Minnesingers relate
that in his anger he was wont to breathe forth fire from his mouth
and smoke from his nostrils, when, as I say, the valiant and gigantic
HUNDSVETTER, with his band of faithful retainers (amongst whom one
of our own CAVENDISHES--_der Zerschnittens_ as they called him, found
a place), was assailed in his ancestral Castle of Meerschaum by the
wild hordes of the Turkish Zig-'arets, it is said that, with one
aged attendant, he mounted the topmost tower, prepared, if no sign of
succour showed itself, to cast himself to the ground or perish in the
attempt. But just as he had hurled his seneschal over the battlements,
in order, as he playfully observed, to make the falling softer, his
eye was arrested by a wreath of smoke in the middle distance. "May I
perish," said the gallant but sorely-reduced Teuton warrior, "if that
be not the war-sign of my uncle PFEIFENTOPF." Hastening downstairs, he
apprised his followers that succour was at hand. Armed with _klehs_,
they made a desperate sally, and, having taken the Zig-'arets between
two fires, utterly extinguished them. That night HUNDSVETTER'S only
daughter, the lovely and accomplished BREIA, was solemnly married
by the Archbishop of TAeNDSTICKOR, assisted by the Rev. WILHELM
SCHWANZPUDEL and the Rev. CONRAD RATTENZAHN, cousin of the bride, to
the K.K. OBERPOTZTAUSENDER VON THUTWEH, the leader of PFEIFENTOPF'S
advance-guard. The bride's going-away dress was composed of a simple
bodice of best Sheffield steel, with a gown of Bessemer composite
to match, and, in honour of the event, the Honigthau Order was
ceremoniously founded.
I have cited this tale at length, because some carping, malevolent
scribes have dared to insinuate, actually to insinuate in print, that
the Grand Duke and his Order have no existence. To these jelly-faced
purveyors of balderdash I only say this:--_How, if His Serene Highness
be a myth, could I receive from him the letter I published last week?_
But, to make assurance doubly sure, I sent the following dispatch
to the Grand Duke:--"Mooncalves cast anserous doubts on your serene
existence, and on that of Order. Kindly make me Grand Cross, and
send decoration in diamonds.". To this I have received the following
reply:--"You are Grand Cross made. Order _mit diamenten und
perlen_ now is being at the post-office by my Grand Chamberlain for
transmission abroad registered."
This should strike detraction dumb, I propose also to publish a
selection of congratulations from other Continental potentates, but
of this, as SHAKSPEARE says, Anon, anon!
Permit me, in the meantime, to go half-way towards revealing my
identity by adopting a pseudonym drawn from an immortal work, and
subscribing myself prophetically yours (and the public's),
TIPPOO TIP.
* * * * *
A NEW PLAGUE.
SIR,--I understand that those who suffer oppression are permitted
to turn to you for relief, and I am told, further, that there is no
wrong which you are unable to remedy. Listen for a few moments to my
tale of woe, and then say if you can strike a blow on my behalf. I
am an author, that is to say, I have written a book, and have lately
published it at my own expense. I was told by a friend of mine, who
has some experience in these matters (he is the Sporting Correspondent
of the _Fortnightly Glass of Fashion_), that it would be well for me
to make some arrangement with my publishers as to Royalty. I therefore
gave orders that presentation copies, suitably bound, were to be
forwarded to Her Gracious MAJESTY and the rest of the Royal Family,
including, of course, the Duke of CLARENCE. My publisher seemed
surprised, but offered no objection, and I was therefore able to
congratulate myself on having successfully smoothed over a difficulty
which, if I am to believe Mr. WALTER BESANT, too often troubles the
young author. This, however, is neither here nor there. I merely
mention the incident to show that I am not altogether lacking in
_savoir faire_.
As I said, I am an author. My book is a romance entitled, _The
Foundling's Farewell_. Of course you have heard of it. It is
blood-curdling but sympathetic, romantic but realistic, pathetic and
sublime. The passage, for instance, in which the Duke of BARTLEMY
repels the advances of the orphan charwoman is--but you have read it,
and I need not therefore enlarge further upon it. After it had been
published two days, I began to look eagerly into all the daily and
weekly papers for critical notices of my _magnum opus_. I persisted
for a fortnight, and failing to see any, wrote an angry letter to my
publishers. On that very day the last post brought me three letters
in unknown hands. I opened the first listlessly, I read what it
contained, and (may an author confess his weakness?) gave a wild shout
of triumph when I found that one of the enclosures was a newspaper
extract referring to my work. Here it is, as it appeared on the form
enclosed:--
_THE UNITED ASSOCIATION OF COMBINED PARAGRAPHISTS_.
MR. WILLIAM WHORBOYS.
(_FROM THE PIMLICO POTTERER. JULY 6TH_.)
"Amongst the books of the month we may notice _The Foundling's
Farewell_, by MR. WILLIAM WHORBOYS, an author whose name we have not
hitherto met with. It is a romance of surpassing interest, the subject
being treated with all the convincing power of a master-hand. We shall
look forward eagerly to MR. WHORBOY'S next work."
With this there came a polite letter from the U.A.C.P., asking me to
allow them to supply me with all newspaper cuttings referring to me or
to my book from "the entire English, American, and Continental Press."
Another leaflet stated the terms on which they were prepared to take
this immense trouble on my behalf.
Here, at last, thought I to myself, is Fame. The other two letters
contained the same extract, and similar requests from "The Universal
Notice-Mongers," and "The British Cutting Company (Limited)." I
decided in favour of the U.A.C.P., sent them two guineas, and waited.
Three days afterwards there came a scrubby little roll of paper, with
a halfpenny stamp on it. I saw the magic letters U.A.C.P. upon it, and
tore it open. It contained a newspaper cutting, which nothing but my
desire to be truthful would force me to publish. But here it is:--"The
stuff that is palmed off upon a hapless public by aspiring idiots, who
are vain enough to imagine that they are novelists, is astounding.
The latest of these is a certain WILLIAM WHORBOYS, whose book, _The
Foundling's Farewell_, is remarkable only for its ungrammatical
dulness, &c, &c." The next post brought me the same cutting, sent
gratuitously, out of spite, I suppose, by the two Extract Companies to
whom I had preferred the U.A.C.P., and from four others who desired
my custom. During the following week not a day passed without the
receipt of that accursed cutting from some new extract company. Since
then I have waited some months, but nothing more has appeared. My
subscription, I find, has only a year to run. The question is, what
can I do? My life has been blighted by the U.A.C.P., poisoned by "The
Universal Notice-Mongers," and the cup of happiness has been dashed
from my lips by "The British Cutting Company (Limited)."
I know I am not alone in this. My friend HARTVIG, who is an actor, has
been similarly treated. He gets all the insulting notices of his great
performances with extraordinary regularity, but never a favourable
one. BUNCOMBE, who is standing for Parliament, receives bushels of
extracts from the local Radical paper, he being a Tory Democrat.
We intend to combine and do something desperate. Is there not some
method of winding up Companies, or putting them into liquidation, or
appointing receivers? Pray let me know, and oblige yours in misery,