PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Volume 93

December 31st 1887

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

ANOTHER "BUTLER;" OR, A THORNE IN HIS SIDE.

Taking for granted the improbabilities of Mr. Author Jones's plot—which seems to use up again the materials of Aurora Floyd, and one or two other novels, including the Danvers Jewels—and a certain maladroitness of construction, Heart of Hearts is both interesting and amusing. All the characters are distinctly outlined excepting one, and this one, strange to say, is James Robins, the hero of the piece, a part apparently written rather to suit Mr. Thomas Thorne's peculiarities, than to exhibit any marked individuality of character.

James Robins, Lady Clarissa Fitzralf's butler,—who is of course the intimate friend of Mr. and Mrs. Merivale's butler at Toole's Theatre round the corner,—has secretly married his mistress's sister, and her niece is openly to marry his mistress's son. Now, how about the character of James Robins? Is he honest? Hardly so. Is he sly? Certainly. Is he crafty? It cannot be denied. Yet the sympathy of the audience is with him. Why? Well, chiefly because he is played by Mr. Thorne, and secondarily, because he is very fond of his brother's child, whom he has brought up because his brother, having got into trouble and been compelled to "do his time," has delivered her into his care. This nice father returns, comes to see his child, and steals a ruby bracelet, this ruby being the "heart of hearts." Whereupon one Miss Latimer, a malicious schemer, fixes the theft on Lucy Robins. What more natural, considering the name? The father, Old Robins, has stolen the jewel; the daughter, Lucy Robins, has been accused of doing so. Quite a robbin's family. Of course exculpation and explanation wind up the play, though I regret to say I was compelled to leave before hearing how Mr. Authur Jones deals with that old reprobate Cock Robins, the parent bird, who, in view of the future happiness of Mary and Ralph, would be about as presentable a father-in-law to have on the premises as that old "unemployed" reprobate, Eccles, in Caste. I am sorry he wasn't somehow disposed of, having of course previously confessed his guilt to the bilious detective, March, and expired under the assumed name of Mister Masters. By the way, Authur Jones is not happy in nomenclature.

The dialogue is good throughout, even when it only indirectly developes character or helps the action, and so is the acting. Mr. Thorne as James is admirable; representing the character as a man gifted with an overpowering appreciation of the humorous side of every situation,—including his own as a butler,—in which either accident or design may place him. I do not believe that this was the author's intention, but this is the impression made upon me by Mr. Thorne's acting, and I am sure it could not be better played. Miss Kate Rorke is charmingly natural; Mr. Leonard Boyne is unequal, being better in the last Act than the first. My sensitive ear having been struck by the mellifluous accents of Lucy and the Corkasian,—I think, though, it may be Galwaisian,—tones of her lover, I could not help wondering why the author, after the first few rehearsals, did not slightly alter the dialect and lay the scene in Ireland. The play is well worth seeing, and begins at the easy hour of 8·45. There should be matinées of a new operetta, entitled The Two Butlers, characters by J. L. Torne and Thomas Thoole.

CORNET AND PIANO.

AT A JUVENILE PARTY.

Cornet. Ready? Yes, I'm ready—but I'm not going to begin before I'm asked. If they want us to strike up, let 'em come and ask us, d'ye see?

Piano. Well, but there are all the children sitting about doing nothing——

C. Let 'em sit! They'll see you and me sittin' all the evenin', strummin' and blowin' like nigger slaves, and a lot they'll care! Don't you make no mistake, young Pianner, there ain't no sense in doin' more than you're obliged—you'll get no credit for it, d'ye see? And don't keep that programme all to yourself. Ah, one Swedish, one Sir Roger, and a bloomin' Cotilliong—they'll take two hours alone! We shan't work this job off much before one, you see if we do. (To Hostess.) Commence now? By all means, Madam. Send us a little refreshment? Thank you, Madam, we shall be exceedingly obliged to you. (The refreshment arrives.) Here's stuff to put liveliness in us, Mate—Leminade!

[Puts jug under piano with intense disgust.

P. Well, I should think you'd lemon enough in you already.

C. I 'ate kids, there—and that's the truth of it! It makes me downright sick to see 'em dressed out, and giving themselves the airs and graces of grown-ups. (To Small Child.) Yes, my little dear, it's a worltz this time. (To Pianist.) Strike up, young P. and O! (A little later.) I'm blest if I don't believe you're enjoying this, Pianner, settin' there with that sort of a dreamy grin on your pasty countinance!

P. And if I am, where's the harm of it?

C. It's easy to see you ain't bin at it long, or you wouldn't take that interest in it. Much they thank you for takin' a interest, these bloated children of a pampered aristocracy! Why, they don't mind you and me more than the drugget under their feet. Even gutter kids have got manners enough to thank the Italian as plays the orgin for 'em to dance to. Are we ever thanked? I arsk you.

P. The Italian plays for nothing. We don't.

C. There you go, redoocin' everything to coppers. You're arguin' beside the question, you are. Ever see a well-dressed kid give a orgin a penny without there was a monkey a-top of it? I never did. If you chained a monkey to your pianner now, they might condescend to look at yer now and then—not unless.

P. Well, you can't deny they're a nice-looking set of children here. Look at that one with the long hair, in the plush—like a little Princess, she is.

C. And p'raps she ain't aware of it, either! Why, there's that little sister o' yours, that's got hair just as long, ah, and 'ud look as pretty too, if she'd a little more colour; but you can't have colour without capital. It's 'igh-feeding does it all, and money wrung from the working-classes, like you and me.

P. I don't know what you call yourself. I'm a professional, and see no shame in it.

C. You can be as purfessional as you please, but you needn't be poor-spirited. Come on; pound away! Ain't you got a uglier worltz than that?

At Supper.

C. I must say I 'ardly expected this—after the leminade. But you're eatin' nothin', young Pianner. (To Servant.) Thank 'ee, my pretty dear, you may leave that raised pie where it is; and do you think you could get us another bottle o' Sham, now—for my young friend here? (To Pianist. You needn't think you've made a conquest with that moony mug of yours. She's only lookin' after you to make me jealous,