PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 100.

March 14, 1891.

SPECIMENS FROM MR. PUNCH’S SCAMP-ALBUM.

No. III.—THE BIOGRAPHER.

We will ask you, reader, this week, to compel your fancy to
take a further flight, and kindly imagine yourself a worthy
merchant, who has exchanged the turmoil of City-life for the
elegant leisure of a suburban villa—let us say at
Norwood. You are in your dining-room, examining the sky, and
thinking that, if the weather holds up, you will take your big
dog out presently for a run before lunch, when you are told
that a gentleman is in the study who wishes to see you “on
particular business.” The very word excites you, not
unpleasantly, nor do you care whether it is Churchwarden’s
business, or the District Board, or the County Council—it
is enough that your experience and practical knowledge of
affairs are in request—and, better still, it will give
you something to do. So, after a delay due to your own
importance, you march into your study, and find a brisk
stranger, with red whiskers and a flexible mouth, absorbed in
documents which he has brought with him in a black bag.

“Your Visitor has his Note-book out.”

“I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. MARK LANE, I
think?” he says. “Just so. Well, Mr. MARK LANE, I consider
myself extremely fortunate in finding you at home, I assure
you, and a very charming place you have here—abundant
evidence of a refined and cultivated mind, excellent selection
of our best-known writers, everything, if I may say so, elegant
in the extreme—as was to be expected! Even from the
cursory glimpse I have had, I can see that your interior would
lend itself admirably to picturesque description—which
brings me to the object of my visit. I have called upon you,
Mr. LANE, in the hope of eliciting your sympathy and patronage
for a work I am now compiling—a work which will, I am
confident, commend itself to a gentleman of your wide culture
and interest in literary matters.” (Here you will look as
judicial as you can, and harden your heart in advance against a
new Encyclopædia, or an illustrated edition of SHAKSPEARE’s
works.) “The work I allude to, Mr. LANE, is entitled,
Notable Nonentities of Norwood and its Neighbourhood.” (Here
you will nod gravely, rather taken by the title.) “It will
be published very shortly, by subscription, Mr. LANE, in two
handsome quarto volumes, got up in the most sumptuous style. It
is a work which has been long wanted, and which, I venture to
predict, will be very widely read. It is my ambition to make it
a complete biographical compendium of every living celebrity of
note residing at Norwood at the present date. It will be
embellished with copious illustrations, printed by an entirely
new process upon India and Japanese paper;
everything—type, ink, paper, binding, will be of the best
procurable; the publishers being determined to spare no expense
in making it a book of reference superior to anything of the
kind previously attempted!” (As he pauses fur breath, you
will take occasion to observe, that no doubt such a work, as he
contemplates, will be an excellent thing—but that, for
your own part, you can dispense with any information respecting
the Notabilities of Norwood, and, in short, that if he will
excuse you—)

“You may have to
wait.”

“Pardon me, Mr. LANE,” he interrupts, “you mistake my
object. I should not dream of expecting you to subscribe
to such a work. But, in my capacity of compiler, I naturally
desire to leave nothing undone that care and research can
effect to render the work complete—and it would be
incomplete indeed, were it to include no reference to so
distinguished a resident as yourself!” (“Oh,
pooh—nonsense!” You will say at this—but you will
sit down again) “Norwood is a singularly favoured locality.
Sir; its charms have induced many of our foremost men to select
it for their rus in urbe. Why, in this very
road—May I ask, by the way, if you are acquainted with
Alderman MINCING? Alderman MINCING has been good enough to
furnish me with many interesting details of his personal
career, a photo-gravured portrait of him will be included, with
views of the interior and exterior of ‘The Drudgeries,’ and a
bit from the back-garden.” (You do know
MINCING—and you cannot help inwardly wondering at the
absurd vanity of the man—a mere nobody, away from
the City!) “Between ourselves,” says your interviewer,
candidly, having possibly observed your expression, “I am by no
means sure that I shall feel warranted in allotting Alderman
MINCING as much space as I fear he will consider himself
entitled to. Alderman MINCING, though a highly respectable man,
does not appeal to the popular imagination as others I
could mention do—he is just a little commonplace!”
(“Shrewd follow, this!” you think to yourself—”Got
MINCING’s measure!“) “But I should feel it an honour,
indeed, if such a man as yourself, now, would give me all the
personal information you think proper to make public, while, as
a specimen of what Norwood can do in luxurious and artistic
domestic fittings, this house, Sir, would be invaluable! I do
trust that you will see your way to—” (At first, you
suggest that you must talk it over with your Wife—but you
presently see that if MINCING and men of that calibre
are to be in this, you cannot, for your own sake, hold aloof,
and so your Visitor soon has his note-book out.) “Any
remarkable traits recorded of you as an infant, Mr. LANE? A
strong aversion to porridge, and an antipathy to
black-beetles—both of which you still retain? Thank you,
very much. And you were educated? At Dulborough Grammar
School? Just so! Never took to Latin, or learned Greek?
Commercial aptitudes declaring themselves thus
early—curious, indeed! Entered your father’s
office as clerk? Became a partner? Married your present
lady—when? In 1860? Exactly!—and have offspring?
Your subsequent life comparatively uneventful? That will do
admirably—infinitely obliged to you, I am sure. It would
be useless to ask you if you would care to have a copy of the
work, when issued, forwarded to you—we can do it for you
at the very nominal sum of two guineas, if paid in
advance—a gratifying possession for your children after
you have gone, Mr. LANE! I may put you down? Thank you.
For two copies?” (On second thoughts, you do order
two copies; you can send one out to your married Sister in
Australia—it will amuse her.) “One, two,
three, four guineas—quite correct, Mr. LANE, and
you shall have an early opportunity of revising a proof, and we
will send down a competent artist, in a day or two, to take the
photographs. Quite an agreeable change in the weather, is it
not? Good day!”

He is gone, leaving you to wait for the proof, and the
photographer, and the appearance of that great work. Notable
Nonentities of Norwood,—and it is not at all unlikely
that you may have to wait a considerable time.

Iago on the Great Sermon Question.

“WHEREVER WE WANDER,” &c.—A new book of advice for
intending Travellers has recently been published, entitled,
“Where to Stay.” It is both ornamental and useful; but
so much depends on ways and means, that, after careful
consideration, Mr. Punch, when asked “Where to
Stay,” considers the safest answer will always be, “At
home.”

“CHUCKED!”

[“The Bookmakers are in consternation, the Chamber
having yesterday (Feb. 28), by 330 Votes to 144,
rejected a Bill legalising the pari mutuel, and
the Government having pledged itself to enforce the law
against gambling.”—Times Paris
Correspondent.]

The Bookie. “ALL RIGHT, MOSSOO, I’M OFF
TO ENGLAND! THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE ‘OME!”

(Extract of Letter from DICKY DIDDLUM, Bookmaker,
Paris, to BOUNDING BOB, ditto, Newmarket.)

“… Our game here appears to be as decidedly hup as
the top of the Awful Tower! Regular mugs, these Mossoos, after
all. Thought we had taught ’em a bit about Ler
Sport by this time: but, bless yer, BOB, once a Pollyvoo,
always a Pollyvoo! No Frenchy really hunderstands a ‘Oss, or
knows ‘ow to make a Book!

“Abolish Betting!!! Wot next, I wonder? Wot with County
Councils, dunderheaded Deppyties, and Swells who do the
Detective bizness in their own droring-rooms, pooty soon there
won’t be a safe look in for a party as wants to do a nice
little flutter—unless, of course, he’s a Stock-Exchange
spekkylator, or a hinvester in South American Mines.
Then he can plunge, and hedge, and jockey the jugginses
as much as he’s a mind to. Wonder how that bloomin’ French
Bourse ‘ud get along without a bit o’ the pitch-and-toss
barney, as every man as is a man finds the werry salt of
life. Yah! This here Moral game is a gettin’ played down too
darned low for anythink. And wot’s it mean, arter all? Why, ‘No
Naughtiness, except for the Nobs!’ That’s about the exact size
of it, and it’s blazing beastly, BOB!

“Only one of the dashed Deppyties talked a mossel o’ sense,
fur as I see. A certain MOSSOO DER KERJEGU, a
Republican, too, bless his boko! said as ‘races were essential
to ‘orsebreeding, and that without betting there would be no
races.’ O.K. you are, MOSSOO DER K.! And then they up and chuck
hus Bookies! No bookies, no betting; no betting, no races; no
racing, no ‘osses; no ‘osses, no nothink! That’s how it runs,
BOB, or I’m a sossidge!

“But this here bloomin’ Republick is too rediklus for
anythink. Look at the kiddish kick-up along o’ the visit of the
Hempress! Why, if we ‘ad that duffer, DEROULÈDE, on
Newmarket ‘Eath, we should just duck him in a ‘orsepond, like a
copped Welsher. Here they washup him, or else knuckle under to
him, like a skeery Coster’s missus when her old man’s on the
mawl, and feels round arter her ribs with his bloomin’
high-lows. That’s yer high-polite French Artists and
brave booky-banishin’ Dippyties! Yah!

“‘Owsomever, I suppose, BOB, I must clear out of this.
MOSSOO CONSTANS, he said, ‘if the Bill were carried there would
be an end to bookmakers.’ And it was carried, by 340
mugs against 144 right ‘uns. And arter all me and my sort has
done for Parry! It’s mean, that’s wot it is, BOB. P’raps
they’ll chuck British jockeys next! Much good their
Grong Pree, ancetrer, will be then, my boy.
Our ‘osses, our jockeys, and our bookies
has bin the making of French Sport,—and werrv nice little
pickings there’s bin out of it take it all round. Wot’ll Ler
Hig Life, and Hart, and Leagues o’ Patriots, and miles o’
bullyvards, and COOK’s Tourists and Awful Towers do for Parry
without hus, I wonder? We shall see! Ah, Madame
lar Republick, maybe you’ll be sorry, you and your
bullyin’ jondarms, for chucking o’ me afore you’re through. As
MAT MOPUS put it:—

Chucked it is, though, and I shall probably see yer next
week, BOB. Thanks be, the Flat Season’s at ‘and! Arter all,
there’s no place like ‘ome! No!—

“Mean to sing that at our next ‘Smoker,’ BOB. But
till then, Ta—ta!!”

Footnote 1:
(return)

Which gentleman declined to find out for Mr. SAMUEL
SMITH, “what proportion betting messages bear to the other
telegrams transmitted by the Post-office Department.”

Desdemona to the Author of “Dorian Gray.”

(A propos of his paragraphic Preface.)

“These are old fond paradoxes, to make boys crow i’ the Club
corner. What miserable praise hast thou for him that’s foul and
foolish?”

SOMETHING IN A NAME.—A recent theatrical announcement
informed us that a new comedy would be produced from the pen of
a Mr. HENRY DAM. If successful, imagine the audience calling
for the Author by name. If a triumph, the new dramatist will be
known as “The big, big D.”

By a Tired and Cynical Critic of Current Fiction.

ATHLETICS.—It is said that the County Council are
resolved to forbid the popular feats of raising heavy weights,
upon the ground that it may lead to shoplifting.

WORKING AND PLAYING BEES.—Lady B-ountiful
first, at the Garrick, and Lady B-arter at the
Princess’s.

OLD FRIENDS.

Big Ben. “OH, FLATTERY’S THE BANE OF FRIENDSHIP!
JUST LOOK AT YOU AND ME, OLD MAN! WHY, I’VE ALWAYS
TOLD YOU THE TRUTH ABOUT YOURSELF, HOWEVER DISAGREEABLE!
IT’S A WAY I HAVE. AND YET WE’VE BEEN FAST FRIENDS FOR
FORTY YEARS, AND I LIKE YOU BETTER THAN ANY FRIEND I
POSSESS! INDEED, YOU’RE ABOUT THE ONLY FRIEND I’VE GOT
LEFT!”

Little Dick (dreamily). “AH, BUT YOU MUST
REMEMBER THAT I’VE NEVER TOLD YOU THE TRUTH BACK
AGAIN!“

THE FIRST ACT—AND THE LAST.

(A Departmental Tragi-Comedy, in active
Rehearsal.)

ACT I.—The Scene represents the Interior of a
Military Instruction Room. Black Boards, on which are displayed
advanced Problems and Calculations in the Higher Mathematics,
and various Scientific Charts cover the Walls. Models of
mechanical contrivances and machinery used in the construction
of complicated Small Arms approved by the Authorities, are
scattered about in every direction. TOMMY ATKINS is
discovered, giving his best attention to the conclusion of a
very lengthy but rather abstruse explanatory Lecture.

Military Instructor (who has been for an hour and
a half explaining the intricate mechanism of the new Magazine
Rifle, finally approaching the end of his subject). Well,
as I have fully explained before, but may state once more, so
as to firmly impress it on your memory, you will bear in mind
that the cylindrical portion will be shortened in front, the
end of the rib being provided with tooth underneath, and stud
on top, both studs on rib to have undercut grooves, a small
keeper-screw, and bolt-head for cover, being added, while the
cocking-stud is enlarged. Then do not forget that jammed cases
or bullets are removed by two ramrods, screwed together by the
locking-bolt being omitted. I needn’t again go over the
twenty-four different screws, but, in ease of accident, it will
be well to retain their various outside thread diameters in
your memory, specially not forgetting that those of the Butt
Trap Spring, the Dial Sight Pivot, and the Striker Keeper
Screw, stand respectively at .1696, .1656, and .116 of an inch.
Of course you will remember the seven pins, and that, if
anything should go wrong with the Bolt Head Cover Pin, as you
will practically have to take the whole rifle to pieces, you
should be thoroughly familiar with the 197 different component
items, which, properly adjusted one with the other, make up the
whole weapon. I think I need not refer again to the “sighting,”
seeing that the Lewes system is abolished, and that the weapon
is now sighted up to 3,500 yards, “dead on,” no matter what the
wind may be. With this remark, I have much pleasure in placing
the rifle in your hands (gives him one), at the same
time advising you, if called upon to use it in the heat of
action, to be prepared with the knowledge I have endeavoured to
impart to you to-day, and, above all things, to keep your head
cool. I don’t think I have anything more to add, ATKINS. I have
made myself pretty clear?

Tommy Atkins (with a grin). ‘Ees, Sir!

Military Instructor. And there is nothing more you
wish to ask me?

Tommy Atkins (still grinning). Noa, Sir!

Military Instructor. Ah! well then, good morning. I
trust you will find it, what they assure me it is,—a most
serviceable weapon.

Tommy Atkins (saluting). ‘Ees, Sir!

[Exit, still grinning as Act-Drop descends.

ACT II.—The Scene represents a Field of Battle
(after the fight) in the immediate neighbourhood of London.
TOMMY ATKINS and the Military Instructor discovered
lying badly wounded amidst a heap of the slain. A European War
having broken out suddenly, from which the Country could not
escape, and the Fleet at the last moment, finding that it had
only half its proper supply of guns, and that the very few of
these which did not burst at the first shot had ammunition
provided for them that was two sizes too large, the Country is
invaded, while a Committee of Experts is still trying to settle
on a suitable cartridge for the new Magazine Rifle. The result
is, that after a couple of pitched battles, though in an
outburst of popular fury, Mr. STANHOPE is lynched by the
Mob to a lamp-post in Parliament Street, London capitulates,
and the French Commander-in-Chief, breakfasts, waited on by
the LORD MAYOR, in the Bank of England.

Military Instructor (sitting up and rubbing his
eyes). Dear me! we seem to have been beaten. That Rifle was
no good, after all. (Recognising him.) Halloa,
ATKINS!

Tommy Atkins (with a grin). ‘Ees, Sir!

Military Instructor. You remember all I told you?

Tommy Atkins (still grinning). ‘Ees, Sir!

Military Instructor. I’m afraid that wasn’t such a
serviceable weapon, after all!

Tommy Atkins (still grinning). Noa, Sir!

Military Instructor. Dear me! Well, we had better get
out of this! By Jove! it looks like the last Act!

[Mutually assist each other to rise and quit the
Battle-field, the Military Instructor threatening to
write to the “Times,” and TOMMY ATKINS still
grinning as Curtain falls.

Sylvanus. “FOXES ARE SCARCE IN MY COUNTRY; BUT WE
MANAGE IT WITH A DRAG NOW AND THEN!”

Urbanus. “OH—ER—YES. BUT HOW DO YOU
GET IT OVER THE FENCES?”

UNDER A CIVIL COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF.

[“What possible chance would Col. X., Member for
——, feel that he had of fair play if he walked
into the Opposition side in a Division?”—Evening
Paper.]

SCENE—A Battle-field. Colonel X. discovered
apparently dying in the hour of victory.

Faithful Aide-de-Camp. The enemy run, Sir! We have
beaten them off on every side!

Colonel (faintly). That is well! (with a
sigh) and yet my heart is heavy within me! Believe me,
SMITH, I cannot die easily.

F.A.-de-C. And yet the vacancy thus created would be
found a stimulus to promotion! Have you thought of that,
Sir?

Col. X. I have not forgotten it, SMITH, and as a
politician the idea is comforting. Ah, SMITH, would that I had
always done my duty in the House of Commons! But no, with a
view to obtaining this command, I voted against my convictions!
I supported the Government in their proposal to tax
perambulators! It was cruel, unmanly so to do, but I was weak
and foolish! And now I cannot die easily! Would that I could
live to repair the past.

Opposition Whip (suddenly springing up from behind
a limber à la HAWKSHAW the Detective). It is
not too late! Return with me to Westminster forthwith.
The Third Reading is down for to-night! With a special train we
shall be in time! You can yet record your vote!

Col. X. (suddenly reviving). Say you so? Then
I will recover! I will do my duty!

[Exit, to vote against his Party, and to be put
permanently on the shelf, from a military point of
view!

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

SIR EDWIN ARNOLD’s paper on Japan, in Scribner, for
March, is interesting and also amusing. The Japanese seemed to
be a charming people; and the Japanese women delightful as
wives; but then they can be divorced for being talkative.

A propos of Japan, to judge from one of our LIKA
JOKO’s capital illustrations of Hospital Nursing in The
English Illustrated Magazine, the Matron’s room must be “an
illigant place, intoirely”; while as for amusement, if the
picture of a nurse giving a patient a cup of ink by mistake for
liquorice-water isn’t a real good practical side-splitter, the
Baron would like to be informed what is? Then we come upon a
delightful little picture of “The Pet of the Hospital“;
and so she ought to be, for a prettier pet than this nursing
Sister it would be difficult to find. What becomes of her? Does
she marry a “Sawbones,” or run off with a patient? Anyhow, she
must be a “great attraction,” and if anything were to happen to
the Baron, and he couldn’t be removed to his own palatial
residence, he would say, “Put me in a cab, drive me to the
Furniss Hospital, and let me be in Pretty Pet’s Ward.”

The Baron has just been dipping into Mr. JUSTIN HUNTLY
McCARTHY’s “Pages on Plays” in The Gentleman’s Magazine.
JUSTIN HUNTLY expresses his opinion that “The Dancing
Girl will almost certainly be the play of the season; it
will probably be the principal play of the year.” “Almost
certainly” and “probably” save the situation. The Baron backs
The Idler against The Dancing Girl for a run. In
the same Magazine Mr. ALBERT FLEMING has condensed into a short
story, called Sally, material that would have served
some authors for a three-volume novel.

It is a pleasure for the Baron to be in perfect accord on
any one point with the Author of Essays in Little, and
in proportion to the number of the points so is the Baron’s
pleasure intensified. Most intending readers of these Essays,
on taking up the book, would be less curious to ascertain what
ANDREW LANG has to say about HOMER and the study of Greek,
about THÉODORE BE BANVILLE, THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY, the Sagas,
and even about KINGSLEY, than to read his opinions on DICKENS
and THACKERAY, placing DICKENS first as being the more popular.
The Baron recommends his friends, then, to read these Essays of
ANDREW’s, beginning with THACKERAY, then DICKENS; do not, on
any account, omit the delightfully written and truly
appreciative article on CHARLES LEVER; after which, go as you
please, but finish with “the last fashionable novel,”
wherein our M.A., in his Merriest-Andrewest mood, treats us to
an excellent parody.

The Baron has appointed an extra Reader, and this
Extra-Ordinary Reader to the Baron has just entered upon the
discharge of his duties by reading Monte Carlo, and How to
Do It, by W.F. GOLDBERG, and G. CHAPLIN PIESSE (J.W.
ARROWSMITH). He reports in the following terms to his loved
Chief:—This book achieves the task of combining
extraordinary vulgarity with the flattest and most insipid
dulness—not a common dulness, but a dulness redolent of
low slang and dirty tap-rooms. The authors seem to plume
themselves on their marvellous success in reaching Monte Carlo,
which, with their usual sprightly facetiousness, they call
“Charley’s Mount.” They are good enough to tell such of the
travelling public as may want to get there, that the train
leaving Victoria at 8.40 A.M. reaches Dover at 10.35.
Stupendous! These two greenhorns took their snack on board the
steamer (Ugh!), instead of waiting until they reached Calais,
where there is the best restaurant on any known line. Instead
of going by the Ceinture, they drove across Paris. The
greenhorns arrive at Monte Carlo, and then settle on their
quarters. Anyone but an idiot would have settled all this, and
much more, beforehand. One gentlemanly greenhorn, who wishes us
to think that “il connait son Paris,” talks of “suppers
of Bignon’s” (which must be some entirely new dish), and
informs us that, “at the Hôtel de l’Athenée, the staff esteem
it rather a privilege, and a mark of their skill in language,
to grin and snigger when sworn at in English.” Oh, sweet and
swearing British greenhorn! now I know why the French so
greatly love our countrymen. But why, oh why do you imagine
that you have discovered Monte Carlo? For the details of the
journey, and the instructions to future explorers, are set out
with a painful minuteness which not even STANLEY could rival.
As for Monaco, dear, restful, old-fashioned, picturesque
Monaco, whither the visitor climbs to escape from the glare and
noise of Monte Carlo, the greenhorn dismisses it scornfully, as
having “no interest.” How much does this ten-per-center want?
He “waggles along the Condamine;” he mixes with many who are
“pebble-beached;” he speaks of his intimates as “Pa,” “The
Coal-Shunter,” “Ballyhooly,” &c., and declares of the
French soldier that “the short service forty-eight-day men
don’t have a very unkyperdoodlum time of it.” There’s wit for
you, there’s elegance! Then he becomes Jeromeky-jeromistically
eloquent on the subject of fleas, throws in such lucid
expressions as “chin music,” “gives him biff,” “his craft is
thusly,” and, altogether, proves himself and his
fellow-explorer to be a couple of the slangiest and most
foolish greenhorns who ever put pen to any sort of paper. I can
imagine the readers who enjoy their stuff. Dull, swaggering,
blatant, gin-absorbing, red-faced Cockneys, who masquerade as
sportsmen, and chatter oaths all day. “Ditto to you,” says the
Baron to his Extra-Ordinary Reader, and backs his opinion with
his signature,

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

MORE IBSENITY!

Dear EDITOR,—Noticing that the author of The Doll’s
House was to have another morning, or, to use an equally
suitable epithet, mourning performance devoted to his works, I
made up my mind, after bracing up my nerves, to attend it. The
23rd of February (the date of the proposed function) as the
second Monday in Lent, seemed to me, too, distinctly
appropriate. By attending the performance—IBSEN
recommends self-execution—I sentenced myself to three
hours and a half of boredom, tempered with disgust. I cannot
help feeling that whatever my past may have been, the penance
paid to wipe it out was excessive, and therefore rendered it
unnecessary that I should attend a second performance announced
for last week.

Rosmershölm is in four Acts and one Scene—a
room in Rosmer’s House. Act I. Rector Kroll, who
is the brother-in-law of Pastor Rosmer, calls upon the
latter, to ask him to edit a paper in the Conservative
interest. Kroll (who, by the way, is a married man)
before seeing the widower of his dead sister, has a mild
flirtation with Rebecca West, a female of a certain age,
who has taken up her abode for some years in the Rector’s
house. And here I may observe that the Rector’s housekeeper,
Madame Helseth, presumably a highly respectable person,
although she has excellent reasons, from the first, for
believing that the relations between her Master and
Rebecca are scarcely platonic, accepts the domestic
arrangements of the Rosmer ménage with hearty
acquiescence, not to say enthusiasm. Rosmer interrupts
the Rector’s tête-à-tête with the fascinating
Rebecca, and declines the proffered editorship, because
he is a Radical, and an atheist. End of Act I.,—no action
to speak of, but a good deal of wordy twaddle. In Act II. we
learn that the late Mrs. Rosmer has committed suicide,
because she was informed that the apostate Pastor could only
save his villainy from exposure by giving immediately the
position of wife to her friend Rebecca. She has had this
tip on the most reliable authority,—it has been furnished
by Rebecca herself. Then the Pastor asks Rebecca
to marry him, but is refused, for no apparent reason, unless it
be that she has tired of her guilty passion. In Act III.
Rebecca admits to the widower and his brother-in-law
that she has deceived the deceased, and prepares to decamp. In
the final Act the apostate Pastor declares that he has been in
love with Rebecca from the first, loves her now, but is
not sure that she loves him. To set his mind at rest on this
point, will she do him a small favour? Will she be so good as
to jump into the mill-stream, and drown herself? With
pleasure—and she takes a header! He explains that
courtesy forbids him to keep a lady waiting, and follows her
example! So both are drowned, and all ends happily!

And this is the plot! And what about the characters?
Rebecca is merely a hysterical old maid, who would have
been set right, in the time of the Tudors, with a sound
ducking; and nowadays, had she consulted a fashionable
physician, she would have been probably ordered a sea-voyage,
and a diet free from stimulants. The Pastor is a feeble, fickle
fool, who seemingly has had but one sensible idea in his life.
He has believed his wife to be mad, and, considering that she
married him, his faith in the matter rested upon evidence of an
entirely convincing nature. The Rector Kroll is a prig
and a bore of the first water. When he discovers
Rebecca’s perfidy, he suggests that she may have
inherited her proneness for treachery from her
father—and, to her distressed astonishment, he gives the
name of a gentleman, not hitherto recognised by her as a
parent! The best line in the piece, to my mind—and it
certainly “went with a roar”—is a question of the
housekeeper—answered in the negative—”Have you ever
seen the Pastor laugh?” Laugh! with such surroundings!
Pretentious twaddle, that would be repulsively immoral were it
less idiotic. And so dull!

As a theatre-goer for more than a quarter of a century, I
dislike undue severity, and am consequently glad to find my
opinion is shared by others. “SCRUTATOR,” the Dramatic Critic
of Truth, wrote last week—”The few independent
persons who have sat out a play by IBSEN, be it The Doll’s
House, or The Pillars of Society, or
Rosmershölm, have said to themselves. ‘Put this stuff
before the playgoing public, risk it at an evening theatre,
remove your claque, exhaust your attendance of the
socialist and the sexless, and then see where your IBSEN will
be.’ I have never known an audience that cared to pay to be
bored, and the over-vaunted Rosmershölm bored even the
Ibsenites.” I only hope it did, for they deserve their
martyrdom! I believe that you personally, my dear Editor, have
never seen a dramatic performance of the “Master’s” work. I
wish I could say as much, and I shall be surprised if you do
not appreciate the feeling, after you too have partaken of this
truly Lenten fare. Yours sincerely,

ONE WHO LIKES IBSEN—AT A DISTANCE.

STRIKING TIMES.

NEW VERSION OF AN OLD STREET BALLAD.

(By a Labouring Elector.)

WILDE FLOWERS.

Some other fellow, in the P.M.G., has been beforehand
with us in spotting “A Preface to Dorian Gray,” by our
OSCAR WILDE-r than ever, in this month’s Fortnightly. Dorian
Gray was published some considerable time ago, so it
belongs to ancient history, and now, after this lapse of time,
out comes the preface. And this “preface” occupies the better
part, I use this expression in all courtesy, of two pages;
which two pages represent a literary flowerbed, where rows of
bright asterisks are planted between lines of brilliant
aphorisms. The rule of the arrangement seems to be.—”when
in doubt, plant asterisks.” Sic itur ad astra. The
garden is open to all, let us cull; here one and there one.
“To reveal Art and conceal the Artist, is Art’s aim.” Is
there not in this the scent of “Ars est celare artem“?
“Art” includes “the Artist,” of course. Then “Puris omnia
pura” is to be found in two other full-blown aphorisms, if
I mistake not. St. PAUL’s advice to TIMOTHY is engrafted on to
the stalk of another aphorism. “Why lug in TIMOTHY?” Well, to
“adapt” Scripture to one’s purpose is not to quote it. Vade
retro! Do we not recognise something familiar in “When
Critics disagree the Artist is in accord with himself?“

But after it is all done, and the little flower-show is
over, then arises the despairing cry of our own cherished
OSCAR. It is in the Last of the Aphorisms; after which,
exhausted, he can only sign his name, fling away the
goose-quill, and then sink back in his luxurious arm-chair
exhausted with the mental efforts of years concentrated into
the work of one short hour. Ah! “La plupart des livres d’à
présent ont l’air d’avoir été faits en un jour avec des livres
lus de la veille.” Ask Messrs. ROCHEFOUCAULD, CHAMFORT,
RIVAROL, and JEAN MORLÉ. “Ai! Ai! Papai! Papai!
Phillaloo! Murther in Irish!” Let us be natural, or shut up
shop. Yet there is a chance,—to be supernatural. The
great Pan is dead, so there is a seat vacant among the gods,
open to any aspirant for immortality. “All Art is quite
useless!” cries OSCAR WILDE-ly. And has it come to this?
“Is this the Hend?” Yes, this is his last word—for the
present. Pan is dead! Vive Pannikin!

“CES AUTRES.”

(HEARD AT CHURCH-PARADE.)

Captain Bergamot. “ARE ANY OF YOUR BROTHERS IN
THE SERVICE, MISS DE BULLION?”

Miss de Bullion. “YES; ONE IN THE GUARDS,
AND—A—” (with disgust)—”THE REST
IN THE COMMON ARMY, YOU KNOW.”

“ADVANCE, AUSTRALIA!”

A SONG OF SYMPATHY.

(Some Way after a celebrated Boating Song.)

[“Sir HENRY PARKES concluded by declaring that if the
Colonies continued separate they must become hostile
communities, and, in order that they might prevent that, it
was for the whole people to join in creating one great
Union Government.”—REUTER.]

Mr. LEO BRITANNICUS, an Old Blue, and a sympathetic
on-looker, loquitur:—

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

“Is a husband worth having?” asks Woman. One reply
would be, “Well, that depends on whose husband it is.” But, by
the way, this view was not under consideration.

“ADVANCE, AUSTRALIA!”

BRITISH LION. “BRAVO,
BOYS!—SWING TOGETHER!!”

A WILD WELCOME.

KENSINGTON GARDENS SMALL TALK.

From the Railway Improvement Phrase-Book.

That Nursery-maid with the three children and the
perambulator will certainly get run over by the train if she
stands there gossiping with the man in the signal-box.

That is the nineteenth horse that has run away and thrown
its rider this morning, frightened by the smoke of the passing
engine.

So it is not, after all, a tornado that has swept across the
Gardens, and rooted up all these trees, but merely the firm
that has taken the contract for the making of the new line.

Yes, there is no doubt that this wooden fence, stretching
right across the Gardens, relieved by overseers’ moveable
hatch-houses, puffing steam-cranes, and processions of
mud-carts, rather interfere with the beauty and tranquillity of
the place, but one must really bear in mind that it is,
after all, only to last for live years.

Ha! I thought so! There go the whole of the water-fowl under
that luggage-train.

It is true, the Gardens are ruined, but one must not forget
the inestimable advantage to the shareholders of the public
being able to get from Paddington to Chelsea in a tunnel for
twopence.

QUERY FOR NEXT ELECTION.—No man has a vote until he
has attained his majority. How about some districts where they
are nearly all Miners?

MEN WHO HAVE TAKEN ME IN—TO DINNER.

(By a Dinner-Belle.)

No. II.—DON JUAN SENIOR.

To share with men the prandial gloom

Of union forced that fatal custom

Decrees to wither “youth and bloom,”

(The phrase is from Sohrab and
Rustum)

I’ve suffered boredom to the full;

Professors dull—of Hindostani!

Dull wits, dull statesmen, dandies dull—

He wasn’t dull—was Don
GIOVANNI.

A widower fêted far and wide,

The jauntiest Rake who drinks the
waters,

Smartest of “smart” vulgarians, pride

And terror of his decent daughters;

Old Don GIOVANNI, fraught with warm

Flirtations, free to fling his cash
on

The dining Duchess, “mould of form!”

Antique, good-looking “glass of
fashion.”

He gossiped how the Viscount bets

(Some heiress he must really “pick
up”),

How noble dames smoke cigarettes

And noble heels in ballets kick up.

How “H.R.H.”—n’importe! my friend

Experience shows me that the
laches

Of such as air these letters tend

In the direction of their “H”‘s.

He chatted next of German Spas,

Of Continental, English “P.B.’s,”

And how our matchmaking Mammas

Are scared by Transatlantic Hebes,

How he with Royalties had graced

The latest function—genial
patrons—

While Beauty, perched on barrows, raced

Before the virtuous British matrons.

And then his compliments began

To rain like drops of Frangipanni,

A most insinuating man

He was, this ancient DON GIOVANNI.

You felt, if you could half believe,

You’d but to word a whim to find it,

You quite forgot he owned a sleeve,

And several teeth to laugh behind it.

There may be kindness, lofty souls,

Great Brains, and whatso ne’er grows
older,

Him the Material controls:

He shrugs a sleek, good-natured
shoulder.

Time scatters dalliance, joy, and joke;

Your choicest vintage passes; e’en
your

Supreme tobacco ends in smoke—

And so will poor DON JUAN, Senior.

MRS. MALAPROP is much puzzled at the announcement that it is
proposed to construct a new Tubercular Railway between England
and France.

SONGS BY A CYNIC.

LOVE.

REVELATIONS OF A REVELLER.

I revelled at the Albert Hall, which last week was given up
to a festival called “The Coming Race.” I was there at
the opening on Thursday, the 5th, when Princess BEATRICE,
attended by her husband, Prince HENRY of Battenberg, declared
the Bazaar open. A gay and festive scene. Here, there, and
everywhere, Egyptian houses made of cardboard, containing
stalls full of the most useful articles imaginable. On the
daïs, a number of sweet-faced ladies presenting purses
(containing £3 3s. and upwards) to the Princess, who
received them with an affability which won the hearts of all
beholders. On the floor of the building was a gaily-dressed
throng, which included many a distinguished person. The revelry
continued for three days, and was, I trust, the means of
obtaining funds for a charity which, no doubt, is most
deserving of support. And here, I may say, I revelled so much
at the Albert Hall, that I had no desire to revel anywhere
else.

FÊTE OR FATE?

OR, HOPPERS IN COVENT GARDEN, MARCH 4TH.

(By Mr. Punch’s Own Impressionist.)

SOMETHING MARVELLOUS IN THE NINETEENTH
CENTURY.—Revival of Charles the First!!! (at the
Lyceum).

ALL-ROUND POLITICIANS. No. 2.—ARTHUR
GOLFOUR.

MR. JONATHAN AND MISS CANADA.

GIVING A LODGER NOTICE TO QUIT.—Mr. Punch,
Perpetual Universal Grand Past, Present, and Future Master,
congratulates H.R.H., Grand Master of English Freemasons, on
his plucky and straightforward action with regard to the G.M.
of Otago and Southland, New Zealand, who, having contravened
the resolution of Grand Lodge, March 6, 1878, may now exclaim,
in bitterness of spirit, “O for a Lodge in some great
Wilderness!” “for,” says in effect, H.R.H., G.M., as the once
frequently quoted Somebody observed to a person whose name was
not Dr. FERGUSON, “you don’t lodge here!”

RECIPROCITY.—”MACE,” in The Illustrated London
News, says, sweepingly:—”No Under-Secretary ever has
any opinion of his own.” Perhaps that is why the Public seldom
has any opinion of an Under-Secretary!

AMERICAN “COPYRIGHT BILL” IN A NEW PART.

“DIE, VILLAIN!”

“The extinction of literary piracy
in America has been decreed.”—Times Leader, March
5.

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

House of Commons, Monday, March 2.—Navy
Estimates on to-night. Millions of money to be voted, and only
fourteen Members present. One, it is true, is HARCOURT; so
perhaps the most accurate enumeration of the aggregate would be
fifteen.

“Que diable allait-il faire dans ce jolly-boat?”
GEORGE HAMILTON asks, pausing for a moment in his incessant
occupation of tearing up strips of paper to glance across table
at portly figure reclining on Front Opposition Bench. Several
Admirals and Captains have spoken. Members generally have fled
the burning deck. Even OLD MORALITY’s sense of duty to his
Queen and Country cannot restrain his flight; but CASABIANCA
HARCOURT still remains. A little provoking for the Old Salts
descanting on Naval affairs to observe smile of pitying
toleration with which he listens. Doesn’t say they’re
all wrong, but smiles it. Even the voice of the Reverberating
COLOMB falters when, glancing round the great gaps of empty
Benches opposite, his eye falls on HARCOURT.

“Sir, I repeat,” he said, quite angrily, though no one had
contradicted him, “that during the period that has elapsed
since commencement of the present reign, the revenue of the
United Kingdom has increased only one-and-a-half times, while
that of the outlying Empire has multiplied five-fold.”

General admission that HARCOURT is a master in nearly every
department of human knowledge. Up to to-night fondly thought
that at least he knew nothing about the Navy. But he does;
knows more than Admiral FIELD, or Admiral MAYNE, or even
Colonel GOURLEY. Presently rose and delivered slashing speech,
laying low the Reverberating COLOMB as if he had been set up in
the Place Vendôme; reviewing the British Fleet in masterly
style; nimbly running up the mainmast and sighting Jerusalem
and Madagascar, to the absolute confounding of the First Lord
of the Admiralty.

Something more than his full
height.

“Well,” said KERANS, drawing himself up to something more
than his full height, “that’s the most remarkable exhibition I
ever heard, even from HARCOURT. We’ve nothing like it on our
side. HOWORTH knows a thing or two, and HANBURY isn’t lacking
in accomplishment; but for versatility, for profundity of
knowledge, for readiness of grasp, whether the object be a
lawyer’s brief, a Chancellor of the Exchequer’s ledger, the
hilt of a sword, or the tiller of a ship, give me
HARCOURT.”

Business done.—Committee on the Navy
Estimates.

Tuesday.—WOLMER asked OLD MORALITY what about
the Fog? Couldn’t something be done to lighten it, say by
appointment of Royal Commission? OLD MORALITY beamed across
House upon his young friend with expression of almost paternal
solicitude. WOLMER is Whip of the allied force. What did he
mean by suddenly springing this question on the First Lord of
the Treasury? Was there more in it than met the eye? Had it
something to do, however obscurely, with the maintenance of the
Union?

CHAMBERLAIN sat on the Front Bench opposite, staring
straight into space with Sphynx-like countenance. HARTINGTON,
with hat cunningly tipped over eyes, hid what secret may have
lain far in their pellucid depths. HENRY JAMES became suddenly
absorbed in the brown gaiters he has recently added to the
graces of his personal appearance, in pathetic admission that
the natural charms of youth are at length fading.

Nothing to be gained by the inspection. If the cause of the
Union really was at stake, the springs of motive were hidden
behind the smiling countenance of the Machiavellian WOLMER. The
only thing to do, and it is quite foreign to the habits of OLD
MORALITY, was to meet guile with guile. WOLMER’s question,
plain enough as it appeared in print on the prosaic Orders,
was, “Will Her Majesty’s Ministers consider the advisability of
appointing a Royal Commission to examine and report how far the
evil of Fog is one that may be mitigated by legislation?”

“Sir,” said OLD MORALITY, rising to the occasion, “I have to
assure my Noble Friend that Her Majesty’s Government are, in
common with other inhabitants of the Metropolis, extremely
sensible of the serious injury, disturbance, and hardship
inflicted by the increasing prevalence of fog. What, it may be
asked, is the cause of the London fog? These fogs, which occur
generally in the winter time, are occasioned thus: some current
of air, being suddenly cooled, descends into the warm streets,
forcing back the smoke in a mass towards the earth. But, my
Noble Friend might ask, why are there not fogs every night? I
will tell him, for this is a matter in which Her Majesty’s
Government have nothing to hide, or, I may add, to conceal. Our
wish is to meet the convenience of Hon. Gentlemen in whatever
part of the House they sit. Fogs—this I have no
hesitation in stating—do not supervene without
intermission on successive nights, because the air will always
hold in solution a certain quantity of vapour which varies
according to its temperature, and when the air is not
saturated, it may be cooled without parting with its vapour.
Yes, I know. My Right Hon. Friend, the Member
[pg 132] for West Birmingham, with
his usual acumen—which I am sure we all
recognise—asks me, In what circumstances do fogs occur
at night? I am much obliged to him for reminding me of the
point. Fogs happen at night, when the air has been saturated
with vapour during the day. When this is the case, it
deposits some of its superabundant moisture in the form
known in rural districts—as my Hon. Friend, the Member
for the Bordesley Division, is well aware—as dew. In
the Metropolis it is more familiar as fog. This process of
deposition commences as soon as the capacity of the air for
holding vapour is lessened by the coldness of advancing
night. I think I have now answered the question of my Noble
Friend fully, and, I trust, frankly. He will, I am sure,
upon consideration, see that this is not a matter with which
a Royal Commission could be expected successfully to cope,
and, therefore, I may add, Her Majesty’s Government do not,
after full consideration of their duty to the QUEEN and
Country, think it desirable to adopt the suggestion thrown
out by my Noble Friend.”

Feeling his Way through
the Fog.

BRAMSTON BEACH’s face during this subtle discourse a study;
remained very quiet for rest of sitting; told me at ten minutes
to eleven he thought he was beginning to grasp OLD MORALITY’s
meaning. “Yes,” he added, with more cheerfulness, “I’m feeling
my way through the fog.”

Business done.—STANSFELD’s Franchise Resolution
negatived by 291 Votes against 189.

Thursday.—In Lords to-night, three white
figures fluttered down gently on to red Benches, like virgin
flakes of snow. But, unlike snow, they didn’t melt. On close
examination, turned out to be three new Bishops; two of them
old friends, with new titles.

“Like Bottom, translated,” BRAMWELL growls.

Dr. MAGEE, walking out Bishop of Peterborough, comes back
Archbishop of York. The ceremony of their installation not
nearly so comic as that of ordinary Peers of Parliament. Garter
King-at-Arms does not appear; nor Black Rod; nor is there any
game of Follow-my-leader round the Benches.

“No, no,” said the MARKISS, who Mr. G. quite unjustly says
has no strain of reverence in his disposition, “that would
never do. Must be careful with our Bishops.”

The
Inflammable Liquor Bill.

So the three new-comers, having paid their respects to the
LORD-CHANCELLOR, straightway took their seats on the Episcopal
Bench, folded their hands over their surpliced knees, and lent
an added air of peace and purity to the precincts.

DENMAN bustling about, weighed down with cares of State. Had
promised to bring into Lords ATKINSON’s Muffin-Bell Bill,
limiting duration of Speeches. But Bill stuck in the Commons,
whilst ATKINSON turned his attention to his Dowagers Bill.

“ATKINSON’s a good fellow,” said DENMAN. “Have sometimes
thought an alliance between him and me, a sort of coalition
between two estates of the realm, might work great things. But
I’m beginning to lose confidence in him. At certain periods of
the lunar month he’s too comprehensive in his legislative
ambition. Why wasn’t he content with his Muffin-Bell Bill? Why
drag in the Dowager? These Dowagers, dear TOBY, have, if I may
say so—using the phrase strictly in Parliamentary
sense—got their arms round the neck of my friend
ATKINSON, and will pull him down. It’s a pity, for I think,
between us, we could have put things straight generally.”

Business done.—Navy Estimates in Commons.

Friday.—PHILIPPE EGALITÉ very rarely troubles
House with ordered speech. A good deal on his mind looking
after JACOBY, and keeping the Party straight. But his silence
doesn’t arise from incapacity to speak. This shown to-night in
his speech on Railway Rates and Charges. Full of good matter,
admirably delivered. After this, Dr. CLARK proposed to discuss
Home Rule; but House didn’t seem to care about it particularly.
So at Half-past Eight was Counted Out. This was the chief
Business done.

THE FINE YOUNG GERMAN EMPEROR.

(A New Song to an Old Tune.)

A ROUGH CROSSING.

That military-looking gentleman, with his arm in a sling,
and his head covered with bandages, has, I suppose, just
returned from fighting the Dacoits in Upper Burmah?

I certainly am surprised when you inform me that he
has only tried to cross a London street in a fog.

Do you really mean to say that the vehicle that just
thundered past at twenty miles an hour, in the mist, was
not a fire-engine, but only a covered Van?

Yes, I believe it is a fact that special beds in all
the Hospitals are now reserved for Van-victims.

Of course it is difficult for a man in the Van to look to
the Rear; still he need not swoop down on pedestrians quite so
much like a highwayman, saying, “Your collar-bone or your
life!”

If things go on as they are now doing, every covered Van
will have to carry its own Surgeon and ambulance about with
it.

What is that crowd for, and why is somebody shouting
angrily? Oh, I suppose the old gentleman, who has been run over
by the Coal-waggon and is lying bleeding on the asphalte, is
remonstrating with the driver?

What? Can it really be the case that the driver is abusing
the old gentleman for his stupidity in getting in his way?

I have heard that the Insurance Companies now insert
in their policies a condition forbidding the crossing of any
street in London, except under police escort.

And, finally, as nearly six thousand persons were run down
in the streets of the Capital last year, is it not almost time
that something were done to check the Van Mazeppa-Juggernaut in
his wild career?

NOTICE.—Rejected Communications or Contributions,
whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any
description, will in no case be returned, not even when
accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or
Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.