Punch, Or the London Charivari
Volume 107, November 17, 1894
edited by Sir Francis Burnand

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TO MOLLY.

(By Q. H. Gladstonius Flaccus, Junior.)

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Clearly not the Leader of the Flock.—Of course, the reverend gentleman cannot be considered as a shepherd as long as his name is Head-lam.

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LETTERS TO A DÉBUTANTE.

Dearest Gladys,—You have made immense progress since you first came out. Still, you will be all the better for an occasional hint from your more sophisticated friend. Your brief engagement to the serious young stamp-collector was—whatever may be said against it—at least, an experience, and I don't at all disapprove of Cissy, and Baby Beaumont, and the other clever boys, but—why call Captain Mashington "Jack"? That wonderful tennis-player, Mrs. Lorne Hopper has merely, tacitly, lent him to you, she will soon be in London again, and then, shooting and theatricals over, "Jack" will also go back to the city of mist and fog. You will be obliged to return him, whether "with thanks" or not. He is definitely charming, but charmingly indefinite, and, in fact, he is playing with you as you and Oriel played with each other, as Miss Toogood is now playing with Oriel, and as someone (let us hope) will, some day, play with Miss Toogood. Of course, as long as you both know it's a game and "play the rules" it's all right.

I enjoyed your letter telling me how "splendidly" the theatricals went off, and that "everyone said it was a great success." My dear child, you are delightful—quite refreshing; and have kept, in all its early bloom, your astonishing talent for believing that people mean, literally, what they say. How on earth can you, or any of the other performers, know whether it was a success or not? Of course everyone said it was. Quite so; who would be rude enough to say it was a failure? The more atrocious the performance, the more praise it would get. Guests invariably flatter amateurs to their faces; and, on the other hand, however admirable it may have been, they never fail to abuse it to everyone else. I don't know whether it's jealousy, or simply irritation at being obliged to sit still (generally in the dark), and look on while others are showing off and enjoying themselves; but I do know that they criticise severely, without exception, all amateur entertainments. As I am your most intimate friend, of course people think it safe to disparage you to me, and I have had various accounts. All the men agreed that it was "awful rot," and the women that it was quite absurd, very dull, and as long as the Cromwell Road; that our dear Cissy was quite too ridiculously conceited as a manager, attempting effects, suitable only for Drury Lane, on a tiny drawing-room stage; for instance, those dreadful stone steps, on which you were to "trip down," and over which you tripped up. You see, my informant caught you tripping!

Cissy, poor incompetent darling, made, it seems, touching attempts to be "topical," and "up to date," by allusions of the tritest and lamest description to the Empire, the Czar, and dynamite, and by wearing a huge green carnation. The whole thing completely missed fire, I am told; and was the usual tedious exhibition of complacent young vanity. You're too sensible to be offended, dear, especially as I can no more form a judgment from their description than from yours—knowing you all to be prejudiced. However, I quite believe you looked sweet in your pretty costume, and I wish I had been there to see the fun.

Last night, at dinner, I met your old admirer, Mr. Goldbeiter. He told me he wanted to be married, and asked me "to look out for a nice wife for him." I am afraid the sort of man who says that lives to be an old bachelor. I could have looked after him better, but that on my other side was a person in whom I take great interest; that is to say, someone I have only just met. The Lyon Taymers would like him. He is a writer, perfectly "new"; and at present the cause of great disputes as to who discovered him. He is beautiful, of course young, and will be very agreeable when he has settled on his pose; at present, he's a little undecided about it.

Not having read a line of his, or even knowing he was an author, I began with my usual formula, "I am so interested in your work, Mr. de Trouvaille" (he's French by descent). He was a little doubtful of me at first, but I think we shall become friends. He said nothing about having met me in a previous existence, did not ask if I believed in instantaneous sympathy, and omitted to inquire which was not my day at home. So, you see, he is not quite like

everyone else. Before the end of dinner, he had spoken, very respectfully, but not unfavourably, of my eyes, and he is going to send me his book, Enchantment. He belongs to the new literary school they call "Sensitivists." I wonder what it means! Good-bye, dear.

Ever your loving Marjorie.

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"Nullis Medicabilis Herbis," &c.—A youthful author suffering from a violent attack of the critics.

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A POLITICAL CONFERENCE.

Scene—The interior of a classic Country Villa. Present—An aged, illustrious, but retired, Statesman and Leader, engaged now in thrumming a lyre. To him enter his youthful successor, with certain scrolls.

Senex (eagerly). My dear Primula! So glad you have come! The very man I wished to see. Be seated.

Juvenis (depositing scrolls). A thousand thanks. Delighted to see you looking so well, my dear Gladstonius.

Senex (cheerily). Never better, thank the gods!—and the ocularius!

[Twangles nimbly.

Juvenis. Ah! Cincinnatus, in retirement, pleased himself with the plough; your recreation was wont to be the axe or the banjo; now I perceive it is the—harp!

Senex (sharply). Not at all, Primula, not at all. This is not a harp!

[Plays and sings.

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Juvenis (astounded). Charming, I'm sure!

Senex (beaming). Think so? I fear you flatter.

Juvenis. Not at all. You may say, with your new favourite—

Senex (modestly). Very pretty! But I fear the ever-youthful Muses may disdain an Old Man's belated wooing.

Juvenis (slily). Even a Grand Old Man's?

Senex (shuddering). Nay, no more of that, an' you love me. By the way, I wanted to consult you on a little musical matter.

Juvenis (dubiously). Ah! Concerning yon Hibernian Harp, I presume?

Senex (impatiently). Dear me, no! The Hibernian Harp be—jangled. As, indeed, it is, and unstrung into the bargain.

Juvenis (relieved). Why, have you then, like the other Minstrel Boy, "torn its chords asunder"?

Senex. Well, no, not that exactly. I fear its native thrummers will spare others that trouble. But—ahem!—it is the Horatian Lyre that interests me at present.

Juvenis. I see:—

Senex (musingly). Hum! I have not yet tried the Tibia—the shrill pipe—but I may.

Juvenis. Doubtless; and you are quite equal to it.

Senex (drily). Thanks! But I've no wish, my dear Primula, "to play the rôle of elderly Narcissus." At present my part is only that of Echo—to the Venusian's vibrant voice.

[Muses.

Juvenis (taking advantage of the opportunity). Well, my dear Gladstonius, there are one or two little matters upon which I want to take your opinion. For example, Cæcilius——

Senex (quickly). "Cæcilius, who provoked the populace to such a degree, that Cicero could hardly restrain them from doing him violence." Do you want me to play the part of Cicero?

Juvenis (taken aback). Well—ahem!—hardly that, perhaps. But——

Senex (interrupting him). My dear Primula, as I have already said in response to an appeal from a friend of the modern Orbilius (not like Horace's pedagogue, "Plagosus," though), "After a contentious life of fifty-two years, I am naturally anxious to spend the remainder of my days in freedom from controversy."

Juvenis. Oh! Quite so—of course. But ahem!—the people are a little pressing——

Senex. Eh? To hurtful measures? What says Augustus's "pleasant mannikin" again, à propos?

[Thrums.

Juvenis. Doubtless. One such as yourself, "retired from business," like your beloved Horace on his Sabine farm.

But of me it cannot—yet—be said—

Senex. Hah! Sir John Beaumont's version. Not so bad, but might be improved, I think. By the way, why should not you and I do the "Satires"—together?

Juvenis. Charmed, I am sure. Just now, however, I fear I'm a little too busy.

Senex. Pooh! Only occupies one's odd moments, and is as easy as shaving, or shaping a new Constitution. For example, I'll give you an impromptu version—call it adaptation if you like—of the first "Ad Mæcenatem":

class="poetry">

Juvenis. Oh! thanks, so much! Only——

Senex. It won't take ten minutes. Listen!

[Tunes up and sings.

Ad Roseberiam.

There! What think you of that—for an impromptu?

Juvenis (rousing himself). Oh, excellent—most excellent! How do you do it? And now, my dear Gladstonius, with your kind permission, we will go——

Senex (promptly). To dinner! Exactly, my dear Primula.

Come along, my boy!!!

[Skips away, followed slowly by his guest.

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FASHION AND FELONY.

Mr. Punch, Sir,—Magistrates are beginning, not a moment too soon, to protest against the ridiculous pockets in ladies' dresses, which afford such a temptation to the felonious classes! I should like to draw attention to an invention of my own which, I think, quite meets the difficulty. It is called the "Patent Unpickable Electrical Safety Pneumatic Combination Purse-Pocket," and it does not matter in the least in what part of the dress this pocket is placed. No sooner is the thief's hand in contact with the purse than a powerful voltaic circuit is at once formed, and by the principle of capillary attraction, coupled with that of molecular magnetisation, the hand is firmly imprisoned. Scientific readers will readily understand how this happens. In his efforts to release his hand the thief touches a button, when an electrical search light of five thousand candle-power is at once thrown around, a policeman's rattle of a peculiarly intense tone is set going, several land torpedoes discharge simultaneously from all sides of the dress, while the voice of a deceased judge issuing from a concealed phonograph pronounces a sentence of seven years' penal servitude on the now conscience-stricken depredator.

Yours, Edison Junior.

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John Walter.

Born 1818. Died November 3, 1894.

["The unique characteristic of Mr. Walter's life was his relation to The Times."—Obituary Notice in the Times Newspaper.]

power—and care,
He, too, has passed, and left a void
None else can fill. A life employed
In arduous duty to that page
Which holds the history of an age,
Is sound State-service, and demands
Acclaim from British hearts and hands.
A sober, serious Englishman,
Steadfast of purpose, firm of plan,
He held his great inheritance
With strong clean hands, with cool clear glance.
Unmoved by the hot moment, blown
By no chance wind, he held his own
Determined course, despite disfame
From lips whose praise he held as shame,
Or right or wrong, his high intent,
Shaken by no weak sentiment,
To manly souls was manifest;
And now he passes to his rest
Punch lays his laurel on the bier
Of one whom sorrow shook, not fear;
Whose record o'er earth's realms and climes
Lives in those words "He was The Times!"

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

A deputy-assistant of the Baron has been perusing with great contentment The Catch of the County, by Mrs. Edward Kennard, a lady who is already responsible for The Hunting Girl; Wedded to Sport, and a number of other romances dear to the heart of those who follow the hounds. The deputy-assistant reports that he was delighted with the newest of the authoress's novels, and found the three volumes rather too short than too long. Now that London is in the midst of November and its fogs, those who dwell near the frosted-silvery Thames can take a real pleasure in stories of the country. To sum up, The Catch of the County must (to adopt the slang of the moment) have "caught on." A fact that must be as satisfactory to Mrs. Kennard as to her readers. And when both supply and demand are pleased, Messrs. F. V. White & Co., the publishers, must also (like Cox and Box) be "satisfied."

A Baronitess writes: "Gaily-bound Christmas books have been facing me for some time, and, with an insinuating look, seem to say, 'Turn over a new leaf.' We do; many new leaves."

Blackie and Son could be called first favourites in the boys' field of literature. They make a good start with Wulf the Saxon and In the Heart of the Rockies, both by G. A. Henty. They are both capital specimens of the Hentyprising hero.

In Press-Gang Days. By Edward Pickering. A story, not a newspaper romance, though it is a new edition of the type of the wicked uncle, who makes use of "the liberty of the Press" to have his nephew bound—as if he were a book worth preserving—and taken off to sea. This proceeding made an impression on our good brave youth, who, after fighting with Nelson, learnt that "an Englishman should do his duty," escapes a French prison, and returns to "give what for" to his uncle.

Most interesting and practical is The Whist Table, edited by Portland, especially to those whose only idea of the game is after the style of the man in Happy Thoughts who knows that the scoring had something to do with a candlestick and half-a-crown. In this book they will find a helping hand which gives the "c'rect" card to play. Both these books, published by John Hogg, are pig-culiarly good.

"A powerful finish," quoth the Baron, leaning upon the chair-arm, and, like the soldier in the old ballad, wiping away a tear which he had most unwillingly shed over the last chapter of Children of Circumstance, "a very powerful finish. There is some comedy, too, in the story (which, I regret to say, is spun out into three volumes)—rather Meredithian perhaps, but still forming some relief to the sicknesses, illnesses and deaths—there are certainly three victims of Iota's steel and one doubtful—of which the narrative has more than its fair share." Of the comedy portion, the courtship of Jim and Rica is excellent. But where other novels err in superfluity of description and lack of dialogue, the fault of this one is just the other way, and the dialogues may be, not "skipped," but bounded over. Nothing of the earlier portion, nor the powerful final chapter of this story can be missed: as for the intermediate stage, when the intelligent and experienced novel-reader has once grasped the characters, he can drop in on them now and then, in a friendly way, and see how they are getting on.

The Baron congratulates Messrs. Macmillan on a charming little book called Coridon's Songs, which are not all songs sung by that youthful Angler-Saxon whose parent was Izaak Walton, but also songs by Gay, Fielding, and Anonymi. To these worthy Master Austin Dobson hath written a mighty learned and withal entertaining preface, the gems of the book being the illustrations, done by Hugh Thomson in his best style, "wherewith," quotes the incorrigible Baron, "I am Hughgely pleased." 'Tis an excellent Christmas present, as, "if I may be permitted to say so," quoth the Baron, sotto voce, "to those whom Providence hath blest with friends and relatives expecting gifts in the coming 'festive season,' is also a certain single volume entitled Under the Rose, an illustrated work, not altogether unknown, as a serial, in Mr. Punch's pages, and highly recommended by

The Judicious Baron de Book-Worms."

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Rus in Urbe.—Fancy there being a "Rural Dean of St. George's, Hanover Square"! His name was mentioned one day last week in the Times' "Ecclesiastical Intelligence." It is the Rev. J. Storrs. Not "Army and Navy Storrs," nor "General Storrs," but "Ecclesiastical Storrs."

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Happy Application.—Our Squire has a shooting party every Saturday to stay till Monday, and longer if they can. He calls it "The Saturday and Monday Pops."

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GISMONDA.

(To Mr. Punch.)

Dear Mister,—To you, who are a so great lover of the theatre, english and french, I send my impressions of the first of the new drama of Mister Sardou. It is to you of to spread them in the country of the immortal Shikspir. Allow that I render my homages to this name so illustrious, me who have essayed since so long time to speak and to write the language of that great author. And see there, in fine I can to do it!

It wants me some words for to praise the put in scene of this new drama at the theatre of Mistress Sarah Bernhardt. Gismonda! It is magnificent! It is superb! It is a dream! Ah! if your Shikspir could see this luxury of decorations, this all together so

glorious! Him who had but a curtain and an etiquette! And Molière? And Racine? Could they make to fabricate of such edifices, of such trees, of such furniture? They had not these—how say you in english—"proprieties," which belong to the proprietor? Yes, I think that I have heard the phrase, "offend against the proprieties." We never offend against them in the theatres of Paris; they are always as it should be. But here, at the Renaissance, Mistress Bernhardt has done still more. Each scenery is a picture of the most admirables, a veritable blow of the eye.

I go to give you of them a short description. The first picture is the Acropolis, under the domination of the Florentines at the end of the fourteenth century. What perfume of poetry antique! What costumes! That has the air of an account of Boccaccio, of a picture of Botticelli. One sees there the figures of Angelico, the colours of Veronese. It is an Alma-Teddama of the middle age. And when Mistress Bernhardt and her following, all resplendent of costume, are assembled upon the scene, one can see realised a group from the Decameron. And the second picture, and the third, and the fourth? Can I say more of them? They are superb. In the fourth there is a cypress high of six yards, there, alone, at the middle of the scene. One says he is natural. That may be. In any case he is marvellous. But the fifth picture, it is sublime! One cannot more! It is the last word of the modern theatre! It wants me the words, it wants me the place for to speak of it. Shikspir alone would have could to render justice to this picture so ravishing.

As to the action of the piece, you will desire to know something. Frankly I tell you I observed it not. In the middle of this luxury of decorations there wander here and there some persons, dressed at the mode the most beautiful, who speak in effect not too shortly. There are veritable discourses—how say you "conférences"?—on florentine history, of the most interestings, but a little long. The brave Frenchmans pronounce the Italian names in good patriots. They imitate not the accent of our perfidious neighbours of the Triple Alliance. Ah no! They say them as in french. And what names! Acciajuoli! It is like a sneeze. And Mistress Bernhardt is gentle, caressing, passionate, contemptuous, and terrible turn to turn; she murmurs softly, and at the fine she screams. And Mister Guitry is severe and menacing; he speaks at low voice, and at the fine he shouts. But after all what is that that is that that? One thinks not to it. The decorations, the costumes! See there that which one regards, that which one applauds, that which one shall forget never!

Be willing to agree the assurance of my high consideration.

Strapontin.

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MAYEN-AISY-NOW!

Misther Punch, Sorr,—Frinchmen are that consaited they think no one can invint anything but thimselves. It's as well known as the story of Mulligan's leather breeches that the first Earl of Mayo inwinted Mayernase sauce (ah! bother the spellin' now), and called it after himself and his eldest son, Lord Naas; faix, there ye have it, Mayonaas; and isn't it called Paddy Bourke's butther to this day all over County Kildare; and many a bite of could salmon have I ate wid that same; and don't believe, Sorr, thim that tell you it's onwholesome, for, if you'll get the laste sup of the crathur wid it, it's just as harmless as new milk from the cow; and shure it's meself that ought to know, bein' cook to a lady that has the best blood of ould Ireland in her body; and her husband—God help him, poor man!—is an Englishman; but we can't be all perfect, and whin I make thim sauces to his taste he just sends me out a glass of wine, wid his compliments, and wid mine to your honour,

I remane your honour's obadient Servant,

Betsey Durney.

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***This Correspondence must now cease. This is the second time we've said this.—Ed.

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A TOUCHING APPEAL.

Air—"The Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò."

guard he could not keep,
From his eyes he scarce could peep,
And the nose grew crimson—deep—
Of poor Younghy-Bung-Boo-Hoo!

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