PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 100.

May 30, 1891.

MR. PUNCH’S POCKET IBSEN.

(Condensed and Revised Version by Mr. P.’s Own Harmless
Ibsenite.)

No. IV.—THE WILD DUCK.

ACT III.

HIALMAR’s Studio. A photograph has just been
taken, GINA and HEDVIG are tidying
up.

Gina (apologetically). There should
have been a luncheon-party in this Act, with Dr. RELLING and
MÖLVIK, who would have been in a state of comic “chippiness,”
after his excesses overnight. But, as it hadn’t much to do with
such plot as there is, we cut it out. It came cheaper. Here
comes your father back from his walk with that lunatic, Young
WERLE—you had better go and play with the Wild Duck.
[HEDVIG goes.

Hialmar (coming in). I have been for a walk
with GREGERS; he meant well—but it was tiring. GINA, he
has told me that, fifteen years ago, before I married you, you
were rather a Wild Duck, so to speak. (Severely.) Why
haven’t you been writhing in penitence and remorse all these
years, eh?

Gina (sensibly). Why? Because I have had other
things to do. You wouldn’t take any photographs, so I
had to.

Hialmar. All the same—it was a swamp of deceit.
And where am I to find elasticity of spirit to bring out my
grand invention now? I used to shut myself up in the parlour,
and ponder and cry, when I thought that the effort of inventing
anything would sap my vitality. (Pathetically.) I
did want to leave you an inventor’s widow; but I never
shall now, particularly as I haven’t made up my mind what to
invent yet. Yes, it’s all over. Rabbits are trash, and even
poultry palls. And I’ll wring that cursed Wild Duck’s neck!

Gregers (coming in beaming). Well, so you’ve
got it over. Wasn’t it soothing and ennobling, eh? and
ain’t you both obliged to me?

Gina. No; it’s my opinion you’d better have minded
your own business, [Weeps.

Gregers (in great surprise). Bless me! Pardon
my Norwegian naïveté but this ought really to be quite a
new starting-point. Why, I confidently expected to have found
you both beaming!—Mrs. EKDAL, being so illiterate, may
take some little time to see it—but you, HIALMAR, with
your deep mind, surely you feel a new consecration,
eh?

Hialmar (dubiously). Oh—er—yes. I
suppose so—in a sort of way.

[HEDVIG runs in, overjoyed.

Hedvig. Father, only see what Mrs. SÖRBY has given,
me for a birthday present—a beautiful deed of gift!
[Shows it.

Hialmar (eluding her). Ha! Mrs. SÖRBY, the
family Housekeeper. My father’s sight failing! HEDVIG in
goggles! What vistas of heredity these astonishing coincidences
open up! I am not short-sighted, at all events, and I
see it all—all! This is my answer. (He takes
the deed, and tears it across.) Now I have nothing more to
do in this house. (Puts on overcoat.) My home has fallen
in ruins about me. (Bursts into tears.) My hat!

Gregers. Oh, but you mustn’t go. You must be
all three together, to attain the true frame of mind for
self-sacrificing forgiveness, you know!

Hialmar. Self-sacrificing forgiveness be blowed!

[He tears himself away, and goes out.

Hedvig (with despairing eyes). Oh, he said it
might be blowed! Now he’ll never come home any more!

Gregers. Shall I tell you how to regain your father’s
confidence, and bring him home surely? Sacrifice the Wild
Duck.

Hedvig. Do you think that will do any good?

Gregers. You just try it! [Curtain.

ACT IV.

Same Scene. GREGERS enters, and finds GINA
retouching photographs.

Gregers (pleasantly). HIALMAR not come in yet,
after last night, I suppose?

Gina. Not he! He’s been out on the loose all night
with RELLING and MÖLVIK. Now he’s snoring on their sofa.

Gregers (disappointed.)
Dear!—dear!—when he ought to be yearning to wrestle
in solitude and self-examination!

Gina (rudely). Self-examine your
grandmother!

[She goes out; HEDVIG comes in.

Gregers (to Hedvig). Ah, I see you haven’t
found courage to settle the Wild Duck yet!

Hedvig. No—it seemed such a delightful idea at
first. Now it strikes me as a trifle—well,
Ibsenish.

Gregers (reprovingly). I thought you
hadn’t grown up quite unharmed in this house! But if you really
had the true, joyous spirit of self-sacrifice, you’d have a
shot at that Wild Duck, if you died for it!

Hedvig (slowly). I see; you mean that my
constitution’s changing, and I ought to behave as such?

Gregers. Exactly, I’m what Americans would term a
“crank”—but I believe in you, HEDVIG.

[HEDVIG takes down the pistol from the mantelpiece,
and goes into the garret with flashing eyes; GINA
comes in.

Hialmar (looking in at door with hesitation; he is
unwashed and dishevelled). Has anybody happened to see my
hat?

Gina. Gracious, what a sight you are! Sit down and
have some breakfast, do. [She brings it.

Hialmar (indignantly). What! touch food under
this roof? Never! (Helps himself to bread-and-butter
and coffee.) Go and pack up my scientific uncut books, my
manuscripts, and all the best rabbits, in my portmanteau. I am
going away for ever. On second thoughts, I shall stay in the
spare room for another day or two—it won’t be the same as
living with you!

[He takes some salt meat.

Gregers. Must you go? Just when you’ve got
nice firm ground to build upon—thanks to me! Then there’s
your great invention, too.

Hialmar. Everything’s invented already. And I only
cared about my invention because, although it doesn’t exist
yet, I thought HEDVIG believed in it, with all the strength of
her sweet little shortsighted eyes! But now I don’t believe in
HEDVIG!

[He pours himself out another cup of coffee.

Gregers (earnestly). But, HIALMAR, if I can
prove to you that she is ready to sacrifice her cherished Wild
Duck? See!

[He pushes back sliding-door, and discovers
HEDVIG aiming at the Wild Duck with the butt-end
of the pistol. Tableau.

Gina (excitedly). But don’t you see?
It’s the pigstol—that fatal Norwegian weapon which, in
Ibsenian dramas, never shoots straight! And she has got
it by the wrong end too. She will shoot herself!

Gregers (quietly). She will! Let the child
make amends. It will be a most realistic and impressive
finale!

Gina. No, no—put down the pigstol,
HEDVIG. Do you hear, child?

Hedvig (still aiming). I hear—but I
shan’t unless father tells me to.

Gregers. HIALMAR, show the great soul I always
said you had. This sorrow will set free what is noble in
you. Don’t spoil a fine situation. Be a man! Let the child
shoot herself!

Hialmar (irresolutely). Well, really I don’t
know. There’s a good deal in what GREGERS says. Hm!

Gina. A good deal of tomfool rubbish! I’m illiterate,
I know. I’ve been a Wild Duck in my time, and I waddle. But for
all that, I’m the only person in the play with a grain of
common-sense. And I’m sure—whatever Mr. IBSEN or GREGERS
choose to say—that a screaming burlesque like this ought
not to end like a tragedy—even in this queer
Norway of ours! And it shan’t, either! Tell the child to put
that nasty pigstol down and come away, do!

Hialmar (yielding). Ah, well, I am a farcical
character myself, after all. Don’t touch a hair of that duck’s
head, HEDVIG. Come to my arms and all shall be forgiven!

[HEDVIG throws down the pistol,—which goes off
and kills a rabbit—and rushes into her father’s
arms. Old EKDAL comes out of a corner with a fowl on
each shoulder, and bursts into tears. Affecting family
picture.

Gregers (annoyed). It’s all very pretty, I
dare say—but it’s not IBSEN! My real mission is to be the
thirteenth at table. I don’t know what I mean—but I fly
to fulfil it! [He goes.

Hialmar. And now we’ve got rid of him, HEDVIG,
fetch me the deed of gift I tore up, and a slip of paper, and a
penny bottle of gum, and we’ll soon make a valid instrument of
it again!

[He pastes the torn deed together as the Curtain
slowly descends.

WHY SHOULD LONDON WAIT?

OR, THE SLIGHTED METROPOLIS AND THE DISAPPOINTED MEDICAL
STUDENT.

[Sir RICHARD QUAIN (seconding the proposal of Lord
HERSCHELL “that the draft Supplemental Charter for the
University of London be approved”) said that with respect
to Medical Degrees, those who were not in the profession
could not realise the grievance which the Medical Students
of London felt themselves to be sustaining by not being
able to obtain their Degrees in the Metropolis. Hundreds of
capable men were driven to seek in Scotland, at Newcastle,
and elsewhere the Medical Degrees which they ought to have
obtained in London.]

AIR—”The University of Gottingen.” London,
loquitur:—

[Weeps, and pulls out report of stormy meeting of
Convocation of University of London, where new draft
charter (of which Lord HERSCHELL and Lord
Justice FRY were the most prominent advocates) was
rejected by 461 votes against 197.

[At the repetition of this line young—but
degreeless—Medical Student groans in cadence.

[During the last stanza, M.S. beats his breast with
his stethoscope and goes off—like coals—to
Newcastle, or like mustard—to Durham—to waste
valuable time in getting in those colossal provincial
centres what “Poor Little London” cannot grant him.

BREAKFAST TABLE-TALK.

(From Edison’s Phrase-Book.)

Good gracious! what was that horrible noise? It sounded like
the falling of a leg of mutton!

Oh! that was only the blow delivered by the Hackney
Cockchafer on the eye of the Midland Wrap-Rascal. It’s the best
fight I’ve seen for a long time.

I wish, then, you would take it with you into another room.
I can scarcely catch a single word of the Rev. JABEZ FISHE’s
delightful sermon, to which I am endeavouring to listen.

Heavens! why all the windows are broken! And the mirrors are
shattered! And the chandelier has come down!

Well, my dear, I am very sorry, but I was much interested in
the firing of this new 137-ton gun, and they have just let it
off. That’s all.

Geographical.

“Low-lying” districts are much talked about just now as
breeding-grounds for the pestiferous Influenza microbe. The
worst “low-lying” districts Punch knows are the
editorial offices of certain scurrilous journals, and the
social pestilences they engender and disseminate sorely need
abatement. Perhaps when they have duly fumigated the House,
they will turn their attention to the Office.

A JUDGE OF CHARACTER.

Sympathetic Friend
(to Sweeper). “WHAT’S THE USE O’ ARSTIN’ ‘IM,
BILL? ‘E DON’T GIVE AWAY NOTHINK LESS THAN A
GOVER’MENT APPOINTMENT, ‘E DON’T!!”

THE BITTER CRY OF OUTCAST COMPETITION.

“The breakfast at St. James’s Hall, which we reported
yesterday, and which was held in order to allow those who
partook of it to discuss the possibility of establishing in
this country a ‘non-competitive system of university
examination,’ was, in some respects, a natural outcome of
the revolt against competition which has of late years made
itself felt in many different quarters.”—The
Times.

OUR PARTICULAR TIP FOR THE DERBY.

(Furnished by the Odd Man Out.)

Looking through the List of Probable Starters (who are all
coming on well, and might therefore be called, in the quaint
turf Italian, “comeystarters“), I cannot help feeling
that this year the Blue Riband of the Turf will fall to the
flower of the flock—as, indeed, it should. But if it does
not, why, there are other really sound horses that are sure to
give a good account of themselves. We may take it, that the
winner will be out of the common. As the glorious animal passes
the post, the cheers will be so deafening, that there will be a
universal cry, “This must be ordinance!” As the fun of the
Derby of late times has seen some revival, the hero of the hour
will, par excellence, be the doll, which, in spite of
many rivals, has never ceased to be popular. Not that the fun
will be fast and furious—not at all; the days of the
Mohawks are over, and I am, therefore, in a position to
declare, that the day when it is past and gone, will be
appropriately called a dorcas meeting. And this I can say with
the less hesitation as I rely on the power of a deemster. To
everyone the occasion will be pleasant, both to wise men and
persons of a simple sort; to adopt the words of the historical
Pieman, “for this meeting fits Simon.” And here let me remark,
that I am an enthusiastic admirer of the perambulating
gentleman who outwitted the pastie purchaser; in fact, “I go
solid for the Simonian.” If the field is dusty on the morning
of the race, it will be following precedent. When I think of
the Derby, I cannot help remembering HENRY THE EIGHTH, for it
was to hold the Field of the Cloth of Gold that that eminent
monarch had to raise the dust. Well might FRANÇOIS PREMIER have
observed (as I do), “Bravo, Gouverneur!” If DICKENS’s
naval hero, the Captain whose words were always worth “making a
note of,” were to use the belt of Orion as a support in a sea
of trouble, I should applaud his wisdom. In fact, I should
observe, that the occasion was worthy of the Cuttle’s tone. And
now to come to business. For after all, what I have written
above is merely a hint to those who require no telling. A
prophet to be believed must be mysterious. But that the
simplest understanding may comprehend, I give my final tip.
Here it is. This year’s Derby will be won by one of two. It
will either fall to the Favourite or—the Field!

OPERATIC NOTES.

Tuesday, May 19.—With pleasant recollections of
MARIE ROZE and BARTON McGUCKIN, and, as I think, a Mr. SCOBELL
playing the swaggering relative, I went to see Manon, at
Covent Garden, Miss SIBYL SANDERSON being the Heroine, and M.
VAN DYCK the Hero.

Rehearsing for an amateur performance of the Christy
Minstrels, under the direction of Count Four-in-a-bar. “Now
then, Gentlemen, all together!”

Wednesday.—Speaking as an opera-goer of some
thirty years’ sitting, I am inclined to assert that the
performance last Wednesday of Les Huguenots beats the
record, as will be allowed by all whose memory runneth not to
the contrary, “nevertheless” and “notwithstanding” being
included. Except MARIO, as Raoul, and some add, except
DORUS GRAS as the Queen, never was seen and heard so fine a
performance as is this to-night; and this deponent witnesseth
that no such ensemble has ever been seen for this really
grand Opera. Strange to hear sweet little Manon one
night, and the next these overpowering Huguenots. It is
well worth the while, in Mr. Punch’s pages, to record
this exceptionally brilliant cast. First, Madame ALBANI for the
heroine Valentina, superb alike in singing and in
acting; GIULIA RAVOGLI as Urbano, the page, a memorable
page in operatic history; Conte di San Bris, by M.
LASSALLE, not to be bettered, as may be also said of Signor
MIRANDA (by kind permission of SHAKSPEARE’s Tempest,
probably a descendant) as De Retz, afterwards converted,
and appearing as Il Padre Basso, Superior of a
Theatrical Order, one of the exceptional Orders admitted after
seven. Then M. MAUREL, with his highly Maurel tone,
cannot be beaten as the high-minded Conte de Nevers; and
EDOUARD DE RESZKÉ, taken altogether—and there’s a lot of
him—is quite the best Marcello that has been heard
and seen for some considerable time. Herr FORMES and MABINI
were the rugged Huguenot soldier to the life, but they weren’t
the Harmonious Blacksmith that NED DE RESZKÉ is. JEAN DE RESZKÉ
methinks lacketh impassioned tenderness in the great duet
scene, where ALBANI is inimitable; otherwise JEAN is a gallant
Raoul. Ensemble as already said, which term
includes chorus, mise-en-scène, and orchestra under the
energetic rule of Signor BEVIGNANI, simply perfect. Those who
this season miss seeing Les Huguenots with this
unexampled cast, will be justly upbraided by their children and
grandchildren. Mr. COVENT-GARDENIA HALL with the Gladstone
flower in his button-hole, almost weeps to think that his
much-loved leader is unable to come from Dollis Hill and bestow
his liberal praise upon Les Huguenots. DRURIOLANUS may
well beam upon the crammed house, viewing a portion of it with
his nose over the ledge of the stall gangway portal; well may
he smile, hum the melodies to himself (what better audience can
he have for the performance!) expand in full bloom and speak
joyously out of the very fulness of his heart and pocket; nay,
for the moment he may even look upon the sheriffship and all
its glory as a mere vanity of vanities, in comparison with the
proud position of being DRURIOLANUS OPERATICUS MAGNIFICISSIMUS,
who has given opera-goers this new and rare edition of Les
Huguenots. The gloved hand and the lorgnette of H.R.H. are
visible in the omnibus-box, where our music-loving Prince is
happily congratulating himself on another little FIFE being
added to the harmonious Royal Band, while the loyal public is
mightily pleased thus to have it proved to ocular
demonstration, that the subtle villain, Influenza, has been
baulked in his traitorous attempt on the Royal Personage, and
they sincerely hope that the insidious poisoner, being thus
arrested in his course, may, with all his treacherous
bacilli, be for ever banished this happy and generally
healthy realm.

COMPETITION IN THE FUTURE.

SCENE—A Barrack-Room.
PRESENT—President and Members of a Board of
Examiners, sitting to pass Candidates for Commissions in
the Line.

President. Now, Gentlemen, I think we are agreed that
cramming is to be discouraged. We want an officer who can
command a company, and not a scholar who can floor a paper for
high-class honours—that is the general idea, Gentlemen,
isn’t it?

Chorus of Members. Quite so.

Pres. Exactly. Orderly, pass the word that we will
see Mr. MUGGER. (The word is passed, when enter First
Candidate.) Glad to see you, Sir. Pray sit down. I think
you were at school?

First Candidate (nervously). Yes, Sir, at
Eton.

Pres. Humph! (Aside, to his Colleagues.)
Rather an unpromising commencement. However, he may have
devoted more of his time to cricket or football in the Playing
Fields than to anything else. (Aloud.) I hope you have
not been to the University?

First Can. (almost moved to tears). Alas,
Gentlemen, my father would send me to Christchurch, and
I am sorry to say I took a Double First!

Pres. (courteous, but sad). I am afraid that
will do. (Exit First Candidate, striving in vain to suppress
a burst of unmanly emotion.) I am deeply grieved,
Gentlemen, but I fear that we can do nothing further in this
matter?

Chorus of Members. Utterly impossible!

Pres. Exactly. Orderly, call Mr. SHIRKWORKS.
(Second Candidate enters.) Glad to see you, Sir. Pray
sit down. I think you were at school?

Second Can. (with confidence). Never, Sir, and
allow me to add that I can scarcely read, don’t know how to
spell, and have a firm impression that two and two make either
three or five—I forget which.

Pres. (beaming). Excellent! (After a brief
consultation with his colleagues.) Mr. SHIRKWORKS, I have
much pleasure in informing you that we shall be glad to
recommend you for a Commission. (Curtain.)

A RARE CHANCE.

Mr. Snobbin hiring a Hack to ride
down to the Derby.
Horse-Owner. “I’LL CHARGE YOU THIRTY BOB FOR THE
DAY, GUV’NOR; OR—LOOK HERE!—GIMME TWO POUND,
AND YOU MAY KEEP HIM!”

CODLINGSBY JUNIOR;

OR, A CHIP OF THE OLD BLOCK.

Being Fragments of a Forthcoming Political Prize
Novel.

[In a letter to The Times on “Party
Organisation,” Mr. CONINGSBY DISRAELI vigorously rallies
the Tory Party on their “eternal and infernal apathy.” He
says, “Since we have borrowed some Liberal principles, let
us borrow some Liberal tactics, and introduce what I would
call the Schnadhorstian methods into our councils of war.
They, at least, have the merit of success.”]

It was CODLINGSBY JUNIOR, who saved the Vraibleusian Party
after the battle of Bahborough. By sending a stern and
staccato epistle to the “Jupiter Tonans”; by praising
(and imitating) Colonel DE CAUCUSINE, the real inspiring spirit
in the camp of the victorious GRANDOLMAN, the march of the
Hubbabub army was stopped—the menaced empire of
Vraibleusia was saved from the flowing tide of Radical ruin;
the Marquis of STROKEFOGIES appeared in a blaze of triumph that
outblazed even the Berlin “Peace with Honour” business, and
CODLINGSBY JUNIOR “took the cake.”

The dinner over, the young men rushed from their Club
(White’s), flushed, full fed, and eager for battle. If the
Blues were angry, the Buffs were also on the alert.

“I can have a dinner at any hour,” said CODLINGSBY JUNIOR;
“but a Blue and Buff row”—(a shillelagh here flying
through the window crashed “the cake” from CODLINGSBY’s
hand)—”a Blue and Buff row is a novelty to me. The Buffs
have the best of it, clearly, though; the Cads outnumber the
Swells. Ha! a good blow! How that burly Caucusite went down
before yonder slim young fellow in the primrose pants!”

“That is the Lord TIDDLEMPOPS,” said a companion. “A light
weight, but a pretty fighter,” CODLINGSBY remarked. “Well hit
with your left, Lord TIDDLEMPOPS; well parried, Lord
TIDDLEMPOPS; claret drawn, by Jingo!”

“He never can be going to match himself against that
Wirepuller!” CODLINGSBY exclaimed, as an enormous
Caucusite—no other than SCHNADDY, indeed, the famous
ex-Brummagem bruiser, before whose fists the Blues went down
like ninepins—fought his way up to the spot where,
pluckily, but a little too negligently, TIDDLEMPOPS and one or
two of his young friends were bringing aristocratic laissez
faire to bear against the fortiter in re of the
fighting Caucusite Cads.

The young noble faced the huge champion with the languid
gallantry of his race, but was no match for the enemy’s brawn
and biceps, and went down in every round. His organisation, in
fact, though fine, was not sufficiently firm and well-knit to
face the sinewy and skilful SCHNADDY. The brutal fellow, who
meant business, had no mercy on the lad, who meant larks. His
savage treatment chafed CODLINGSBY JUNIOR, as he viewed the
unequal combat from White’s window.

“Hold your hand!” he cried to the Goliath. “Don’t you see
he’s but a novice?”

“Down he goes again!” the wiry Wirepuller cried, not heeding
the interruption. “Down he goes again! I like whopping a
swell!”

“Coward!” shouted CODLINGSBY. “The sight makes me feel quite
Dizzy. A CODLINGSBY to the rescue!” and to fling open the
window, amidst a shower of malodorous missiles, to vault over
the balcony, and slide down one of the pillars to the ground,
baring his steely biceps in the process, and shying the
“castor” from his curly looks with all the virile grace of the
Great Earl, was the work of exactly five-sixths of a
second.

At the sixth-sixth he stood before the enormous
Wirepuller.

“SCHNADDY, my boy,” he exclaimed, “I’m going to fight you
with your own weapon—and wallop you. Look to yourself,
churl Caucusite!”

“DIZZY’s Double, by all that’s theosophical!”
faltered SCHNADDY, shrinking at once to half his previous size,
under the influence of the startling sight, and the yet more
startling “spank” from young DIZZY’s dexter bunch-of-fives.

When SCHNADDY, after six weeks’ bed and bandaging, at last
came out of hospital, his occupation as Wirepuller was gone.
CODLINGSBY JUNIOR had stepped into his shoes, and the late
“Organiser of Victory” and his Party had not “the least little
bit of a look in.”

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

The Baron’s Assistant Reader has been dipping into Robert
Browning—Essays and Thoughts, by JOHN T. NETTLESHIP.
(ELKIN MATHEWS, Vigo Street.) He advises all other readers to
grasp his nettleship boldly. At last the Baron’s A.R. thinks he
understands “Childe Roland,” after reading the twenty-five
pages which Mr. NETTLESHIP devotes to the explanation of this
noble but tantalising poem. Mr. NETTLESHIP’s attitude is that
of a fervent, but humble disciple, for whom his Master’s every
word possesses deep and subtle meanings. He believes with
GEORGE ELIOT that “the words of genius bear a wider meaning
than the thought which prompted them.” That of course gives him
unlimited scope, and sometimes makes the explanations long; but
every lover of BROWNING will find in the book a great deal of
sound and helpful criticism well expressed. Buy the book and
see for yourself, says the Baron’s A.R.

The Art of Lying.

Fascinating is OSCAR WILDE’s paper “On the Decay of Lying,”
which is the first essay in a book of his entitled
Intentions. If it be true that the art of lying is
decaying—but, stay! how can anyone take the word of a
professor of the art of lying for this or any other fact? No,
his motto must be, “See me reverse.” Not that by suggesting
this motto I would for a moment be understood as expressing a
wish for OSCAR’s once again dropping into poetry—that
OSCAR should once again take to the other sort of Lyre; far
from it. No; let him remain the head professor of the gay
science of mendacity in the Cretan College. Now, when a
Professor and double M.A., i.e., Master of the
Mendacious Art in the Cretan College, says or writes one thing,
he must be taken as meaning exactly the opposite. Otherwise he
is no Cretan, and must be degraded from his Professorship.
Bearing this in mind, the essay is, as I have said, in matter
most amusing, and in style charming. Remember, my reader, that
whosoever and whatsoever is blamed, abused, or flouted in this
essay, is really being praised, lauded, and adulated to the
skies by the Cretan critic. But when the M.M.A. writes on other
subjects, are we to trust him? there’s the difficulty. So after
the first essay, which is hereby recommended by the Faculty,
the Baron puts the book aside. “Caute legendum,”
says

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

AN OLD-FASHIONED BUFFER ON BALFOUR’s BILL.

OUR ARTISTS ARE SOMETIMES COMPENSATED FOR ALL THEY HAVE
TO PUT UP WITH.

Young R.A. (newly-elected). “WHAT, NOT
SEEN OUR ROYAL ACADEMY YET, MISS VON THUMP! DON’T YOU CARE
FOR PICTURES, THEN?” Fair American. “WELL, SOME. BUT
YOUR ROYAL ACADEMY’S RATHER CROWDED, YOU KNOW!”

Pictor Ignotus (who hates the Academy like
poison), “PERHAPS MISS VON TRUMP PREFERS OUR NATIONAL
GALLERY. THAT’S NOT INCONVENIENTLY CROWDED!”

Fair American. “WELL, YES. I LIKE TO GO AND SIT
IN A NICE, COOL, QUIET, DESERTED SPOT, LIKE YOUR NATIONAL
GALLERY,—WITH A BOUND-UP VOLUME OF PUNCH!
THAT’S MY IDEA OF PICTURES!”

“GENERAL ELECTION STAKES.”

A COLLOQUY ON THE COURSE.

“GENERAL ELECTION STAKES.”

MR. P. “WHAT! RUNNING HIM IN BLINKERS?”

G-SCH-N (Trainer). “YES; IT’S THE ONLY CHANCE OF
A WIN.—ESPECIALLY WITH THAT JOCKEY UP!”

IT’S A GREAT THING FOR A MAN TO KNOW WHEN HE’S WELL
OFF.

Salisbury’s Version.

(See the Premier’s Speech at Glasgow.)

“FRENCH AS SHE IS SPOKE.”—The indefatigable
international entrepreneur, Mr. M.L. MAYER,—who
announces himself as “Sole Manager,” evidently, therefore, a
fishmonger, and, according to Hamlet, a representatively
“honest man,”—intends to save Londoners the trouble and
expense of visiting Paris by giving them three weeks, from June
15th to July 4th, of French plays, performed by the Théâtre
Français Company, including Mesdames REICHENBERG and DUDLEY,
three COQUELINS, one FEBVRE, and one MOUNET SULLY, at the
Royalty Theatre. Those whose hobby is the French Theatre, will
be delighted to assist at the start of the well-trained MAYER,
who has achieved the curious feat of “saddling himself” with
this responsibility.

PARLIAMENTARY DIAGNOSIS.—”Inflammation”—of
temper—is the preliminary of “Congestion”—of
business, and these threaten to culminate in
“Collapse”—of credit.

LEAVES FROM A CANDIDATE’S DIARY.

May 13th.—Expenses keep mounting up. On
Saturday received a letter from BLISSOP (Secretary of the
Association), stating that it was deemed necessary to take a
new Committee-room in Main Street, and asking me if they might
draw on me for the cost of furnishing it, a matter of about
£15. Replied that I must take time to consider whether such
expenditure was proper. Three more charitable institutions
claim me as an annual subscriber, and the Billsbury Free
Hospital Committee have informed me that CHUBSON always gives
them £10 a year. Have had to do ditto.

May 14th.—Had an extraordinary letter from
VULLIAMY this morning. He is staying at Billsbury—but the
letter explains itself. Here it is:—

MY DEAR PATTLE, (Confidential.)

I am asked to let you know that a Committee Meeting has
been called for Friday 16th, and it is hoped that, at all
costs, you will make it convenient to attend. You know how
great an interest I have always taken in your career. I
have always told you that any experience I may have gained
in electioneering matters (and I have been at it for about
twenty years now) is entirely at your service. You will
therefore forgive me if I speak quite frankly to you on
some questions which intimately concern your Candidature. I
don’t meet you as often as I should wish, and I am
therefore impelled to write to you on matters which require
your serious consideration, and on which you ought to be
prepared to make a definite statement on Friday next. I
have used the opportunity of my stay here to see how the
land lay with regard to you. Hitherto you have done very
well, but mere public meetings will not win an election,
and you must make up your mind ere very long to come and
stay here, so as to canvass each ward, under the guidance
of the proper “officers.”

Then there is the question of money! The Registration
must he paid for by the Candidate. It will be heavy
this year. You can talk it over with the Committee, but
certainly £100 to £150 will be absolutely necessary.
Whatever the sum is, you must be prepared to pay it. I
trust you will excuse my being candid with you, both for
your own sake and the Party’s. If £200 or £300 more or less
is any object to you, and if you (or your friends)
are not prepared to do certain things, such as bringing up
voters, &c., it is useless your hoping to win. I don’t
suggest bribery and corruption, but certain things not
immoral, though perhaps illegal, must be done. That is why
I once suggested to you that someone from here should have
an interview with some friend who might represent you. You
did not respond to this. You do not appear willing to be
guided by your Committee even in the expenditure of £15 for
chairs and tables for your new Committee-room; and I must
repeat that such excessive caution will not be followed by
success. You will only waste your time, and the Party here
will be defeated. If you do not feel willing to be guided
by the old Leaders of the Party here, who know what is
needed, far better reconsider your position, and resign
while there is yet time.

Now, in addition to your legal election expenses
(between £500 and £600), there will be the Registration
which, however, is a permissible payment. But, above all,
railway fares, conveyances, and sundry other expenses which
are forbidden by the Act, must be met by your friends, or
success is hopeless. Young HARRISON is standing at
Chursfield. His father intends him to win, and he will see
to the needful!! That is the way to work it, and to win.
You must be prepared to pay at least £150 (or to get
someone to pay it for you) for sundries. Even thus
your expenditure will not reach £1000; dirt cheap for a
safe borough. Formerly a borough contest used to mean
£3,000, and a county anything up to £50,000!

I know you will believe me when I say that I have
written entirely in your own interest. Yours sincerely,

HENRY PARKINSON VULLIAMY.

What an old rascal! I answered very shortly, merely stating
my intention of coming to Billsbury on the 16th, in order to
interview the Committee. I must nip all this in the bud, or
chuck the whole business.

Friday, May 16th, “George Hotel,”
Billsbury.—Came down to Billsbury this afternoon. Had
interview with a delegation from the Committee in the Hotel.
MOFFAT, BLISSOP, and JERRAM were there. They laid their views
before me. Much the same as VULLIAMY’s letter. “Shame to wreck
the ship for want of a ha’porth of tar,” said BLISSOP.
“Gentlemen,” I said, “if you think I’m going to handle any of
this tar, or do any dirty work, you are mistaken. I am willing
to help in the Registration and to pay proper subscriptions,
but I won’t budge a step outside the Corrupt Practices Act, so
far as my election expenses are concerned. If you want someone
who will make illegal payments, go somewhere else. I’m quite
willing to resign. Now you know my opinion, and I leave you to
confer with your colleagues.” With that I left them. Met them
again two hours later. All three looking thoroughly ashamed of
themselves. Said they had reconsidered the matter, and begged
me to think no more about it. They were determined, they said,
to use only legal means in fighting the election. So that blew
over. Afterwards each of them came to me in private, to beg my
pardon, and put the fault on the others. MOFFAT said it was
BLISSOP, BLISSOP declared it was JERRAM, and JERRAM swore that
such a thing would never have entered his mind if MOFFAT hadn’t
insisted on it.

Wrote to VULLIAMY that I found he had entirely misjudged the
local feeling, and that, in any case, his suggestions were
quite impracticable. He’ll detest me, but I don’t care a brass
farthing.

ALL-ROUND POLITICIANS—SAMPLES OF SALISBURY.

THE NEWEST NOSTRUM.

[Mr. AUBERON HERBERT and other amiable enthusiasts held
a “Breakfast” at St. James’s Hall, over which Sir NATHANIEL
STAPLES presided, to advocate the principle of Voluntary
Taxation.]

QUEER QUERIES.

CENTRAL AFRICA.—I have a longing to be an Explorer in
the wildest and densest jungles of the Dark Continent. I feel
certain that this is my true rôle in life, although some
of my relatives, acting—I believe—purely from
jealousy, try to discourage me. Unfortunately I have no money,
and only a vague idea of how to get there. The voyage out would
probably do wonders for my health, which is not strong; in fact
at present I can hardly walk upstairs, and the Doctor says I
need a warm climate. I fancy Africa would be warm enough to
suit me. I should be glad to be told of any Capitalist who
would advance a few hundred pounds to enable me to carry out my
design. He would not lose his money, as I would repay him by
sending home the skins of all the lions and tigers that I
shot—also ivory,—as well as realistic accounts of
slave caravans, &c., which any Publisher would be glad to
buy.

LIVINGSTONE JUNIOR.

OUR BORES, NATIVE AND FOREIGN.

“ACH! I SCHBEAGUE
ENKLISH NOT VELL, NOT VELL AT ALL! POT, PY A LEADLE
BRACTICE, I IMBROVE VER KVK K! VAIT TILL I HAF TALK TO YOU
FOR A GOPPLE OF HOURS, AND YOU SHALL SEE!”

ROBERT AT THE ACADEMY.

Witsuntide being a rayther slack time with us Hed Waiters,
coz our principle paytrons is all out of Town, I naterally
slected that week for my annewal yearly wisit to the Royal
Academy. I never coud quite hunderstand why it was called a
Academy, which I bleeves is a rayther swell name for a Skool,
but I hadn’t bin there long larst week afore I soon dishcovered
the reason. In course it stands to reason that lots of the
werry wust of the bad picturs is the work of werry young
pupils, who haven’t yet left skool, so that’s why they calls it
a Academy insted of a Hinstitooshun or a Hexebishun.

The fust thing as struck me wos the emense number of
portraits of peeple as noboddy never heard of, and therefore
didn’t want for to see, and I wunders how the poor peeple woud
like for to be obliged to wark about the rooms and hear the fun
as the peeple makes on ’em. One on ’em looks so werry cross,
that a Gent by me said as how he must ha’ bin taken when the
bad news came from India. Another looks so savage, that amost
everybody asks him why he don’t have it out and done with it!
Another werry savage sojer looked at me as much as to say,
“What are you staring at, Stupid?” which wasn’t at all perlite.
Professor HUXLEY, I am told, is a werry great man, and so he
most suttenly seems for to think by the looks on him, and ain’t
he jist got a lot of big books for to read! I was surprised to
find as there wasn’t not no Lord Mare among the lot. His
Lordship’s state robes wood have lighted up the hole place. And
now for the reel picters.

Fust and foremost of all the lot stands “The Flock of
Sheep,” by Mr. COOPER, and as this happens to be one of the
things as I does understand, I makes no hesitation in saying,
that there’s about a dozen of the werry finest saddles of
mutton there as I ewer seed, ewen at the honored Manshun House!
Next comes the grand pictur called “One and Twenty.” Ah!
ain’t they jest a jolly set, and ain’t they all a drinking the
young swell’s health, and manny appy returns of the day? Why
you can amost hear ’em.

And now jest a word and a hint to all our great Painters.
Pray what is picters painted for? Is it to make peeple werry
sollem, and werry sorry, and werry unappy? Ain’t we got reel
trubbles, and reel sorrows enuff in the world, without painting
sham ones? And yet I do declare that, arter looking at them two
wundurful picters of “The Crisis,” and “The
Doctor,” and feeling as there wasn’t not no chance for
either of the poor things to recover, that the kind Doctor’s
trubble was all in wain, and that the poor Mother wood soon
have to bear the awfullest trubble as she coud ewer know, I
left the place as fast as I coud get out, for fear the peeple
shoud notice the big round tears as woud run down my silly old
cheeks. Oh, Mr. FILDES, Mr. FILDES, to think that jest a few
little delicate touches of your magic brush woud have sent away
thousands of appy hearts, instead of hundreds of miserable
ones, ort to make you resolve always to put jest a gleam of
hope in your wunderful pictures in future.

There was about the same number of staggerers as ushal, and
I again arsks, who has the hordacity to buy ’em? I wunder what
Mrs. ROBERT woud say if I took one home to my sober dwelling!
But, jest as I was a coming away, I seed one of the most
howdacions of the lot, and it was named “The Judgment of
Paris”! I had often heard as the French was werry free and
bold in all these sort of things, but I newer coud have thort
that our Royal Academy swells coud have so lowered theirselves
as to condescend to submit the whole of the Picters in the
Exhibition to the judgment of the Paris Painters, or that they
wood have slected the greatest staggerer as the one in their
judgment the most worthy of the werry fust prize. I don’t think
as it says much for their taste.

ROBERT.

Obvious.

The Times says, sagely, “There is a good deal of
human nature in Ireland.” That would not so much matter if
there were less of inhuman nature—as exemplified
in “carding” women, “houghing” cattle—and ruthlessly
evicting rack-rented tenants.

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

House of Commons, Thursday, May 21.—House
resumed to-day, after so-called Whitsun holidays. Weren’t to
have come back till Monday. OLD MORALITY settled that before he
went off to Southern climes. But next day WINDBAG SEXTON and
JOKIM got to loggerheads. WINDBAG insisted that Committee
should specially sit to hear him move new Clause. JOKIM
demurred; pointed out that luxury might be enjoyed by House
only upon condition of shortening holidays. WINDBAG didn’t see
any objection to that; sure House only too glad to give up half
its holiday in order to hear few more speeches from him. JOKIM,
meaning to frighten WINDBAG, said, “Very well; then we’ll
adjourn till Thursday.” WINDBAG, not believing JOKIM was
serious, said he didn’t care; game of bluff commenced; played
so awkwardly that, in end, House jockeyed out of half its
holiday.

Toby’s Remedy
for Influenza.

But OLD MORALITY got all his; off before this blundering
business took place; too far gone to be called back.
CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN suggests that we shall change his name; call
him “The JUDICIOUS HOOKER.” Certainly he “hooked it” a day
before holidays commenced, and won’t return till several days
after they have prematurely closed. Still remnant of House here
to-night, though growling and discontented, does not grudge him
his holiday.

More than half Members on both sides away ill. The Whips
severely hit; MARJORIBANKS here as usual, making a bright space
in the lobby with his genial presence and his smiling
countenance. But AKERS-DOUGLAS still away with most of his men,
including the Mountainous HILL.

“Yes,” his man is reported to have said, in reply to
inquiries, “Lord ARTHUR is still HILL, but gettin’ better.”

Lord Arthur ‘Ill—but getting better.

Only cheerful man on the premises is PLUNKET. Beaming with
health; glowing with vitality.

“The secret of it?” he said, when I asked him how he managed
to look so well. “Why, it’s exercise and fumigation. Whilst you
fellows have been making holiday, I’ve stuck to the House night
and day. I’ve fumigated every chamber with sulphur; I’ve
sprinkled every wall with eucalyptozone. The tiled floors I
have washed with carbolic-soap, and the libraries I have
purified with Thiocamp. It was a little stiff at first; but, as
Mr. G. says, there’s no rest like variety of occupation. When I
got tired of Eucalyptozone, I turned to with Thiocamp, and then
went through a course of taking up carpets and thumping
hair-cushions. Quite sorry it’s over.”

Business done.—In Committee on Land Purchase
Bill.

Friday.—”Do you like IBSEN?” ATTORNEY-GENERAL
for IRELAND asked Prince ARTHUR just now, à propos of
new Clause moved by SEXTON.

Pelly-Melly.

Curious man is MADDEN. Lives a sort of dual life. In House
regarded as serious person, steeped in knowledge of Irish
Question in its multiform aspects. Really a
fin-de-siècle Attorney-General; knows everything; is in
everything; acquainted with IBSEN, misses few bazaars or
drawing-room concerts, and was on speaking terms with the late
Madame BLAVATSKY.

“Do you like Hedda Gabler?” he continued, nudging
Prince ARTHUR, who on this, the hundred-and-third night in
Committee on the Irish Land Bill, showed signs of
drowsiness.

“Haven’t time to go to the theatre,” said Prince ARTHUR.
“Never perform out of Westminster, where we keep our own
HEADACHE GABBLER on the premises”; and he looked wearily across
at SEXTON monotonously piping, not without dread suspicion of
the WINDBAG having been newly leathered.

But the end comes to the man who lives to wait, and
to-night, at twenty minutes past ten, LEWIS PELLY sitting bolt
upright, awakened out of peaceful slumber by a sudden cheer;
knew that the Land Bill was at last through Committee.

Business done.—Land Bill through Committee.

NOTES ON THE ROYAL ACADEMY OF 2091.

“Richard, Duke of Gloucester, refusing the Crown.”
This picture will be interesting to the historical student, as
it affords a solution to a knotty point that has puzzled
commentators for the last five centuries. The wily humpback is
represented in his dressing-gown and slippers, having evidently
been called from his bath to listen to the suggestion of the
courtiers, who desire him to accept the regal dignity. The
umbrella of the Lord Mayor, we fancy, is of a later date than
the supposed period of the painting, but no doubt the artist
has authority for the introduction of the quaint old lamp-post
illumined with the electric light, which began to be used some
little time after the Battle of the Roses.

“Charles the Second in the Oak.” This is also
interesting to those who delight in folklore. According to the
legend (for no doubt the story was merely a legend), the
deposed monarch was escaping from the Parliamentary troops,
when he had to seek shelter in the spreading branches of the
tree that still is emblematic of England. The artist has placed
the leafy refuge near a stream, where CHARLES seems to have
been bathing. A tragic side (not entirely free from quaintness)
is given to the tale by the discovery of the temporarily
discarded wearing apparel of the STUART by the soldiers, who
are hunting him to the death. CHARLES, with his traditional
good humour, is smiling at an accident which causes him
seemingly more amusement than apprehension.

“The Battle of Trafalgar.” The very clever
arrangement of smoke in this painting prevents the flesh-tints
of the sailors from assuming a prominence that might be
objectionable to persons of fastidious tastes. No doubt the
artist felt that, if he had studied the traditions of the
British Navy at the commencement of the nineteenth or twentieth
century (the battle was fought in that period), he would have
shown the gallant tars serving the guns in a costume not more
elaborate than that assumed by the nude inhabitants of the
North Pole. It is amusing to note in this connection that,
until the discovery of the summit of the earth, it was supposed
that the centre of the Arctic Regions was bitterly cold. Our
ancestors in the remote ages had no idea that that fiery region
was, in reality, hotter than the tropics!

“Hullo, Sunny! where were you on Whit Monday?”

“Why, off for MY Bank Holiday, to be sure!”

“Portrait of an English Gentleman of the Nineteenth
Century.”—We are not quite sure that we like the
unconventional treatment of the accessories in this picture. It
is perfectly true that we find from contemporary records that
an invitation to dinner was frequently accompanied by the
expressed wish that the guest “was not to dress;” but still
such hints at the strange manners and customs of a bygone age
may be carried out too literally.

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.