Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, December 19, 1891

Sorry, indeed, are all London lovers of music at the sudden departure from our midst and mist of Cavalleria Rusticana, the Rustic Cavalier. It is no comfort to us to be told that the Rustic Cavalier will go into the provinces and appeal to the country. His province at present should have been to remain in London, where, with nothing to speak of in the way of mise-en-scène, he--that is, his composer, PIETRO MASCAGNI--has made a decided hit. Wise was our Signor LAGO "_al factotum_" in producing this, and knowing, too, must he be in his use of Windsor soap to have so speedily "taken the cake." Nay more, did not HER GRACIOUS MAJESTY absolutely retain a Royal Box at the Shaftesbury up to the last night of the run of this one-Act Opera? "_Ah, bravo, Figaro, bravissimo! Fortunatissimo_!" What a treat, too, to hear again the "_Che faro_." which brought down the Curtain, and brought down the House, on this termination to GLUCK's Orfeo. Strong, indeed, must be the Cavalleria to be successful after the Che taro: but it was.

The Overture, the solo sung, by way of novelty, behind the Curtain, by TURIDDU,--(what a name! like the commencement of a comic nonsensical chorus! TURIDDU ought to have been in love with Tulla Lieti and have behaved badly to Tralala. "But this is another story.")--the choruses, and most of the concerted pieces are charming; and, above all, the intermezzo, which, were the piece in two Acts, would he the overture to the Second Act is simply so fascinating, that without a dissentient voice from a full house it was warmly and heartily encored, and would have been called for a third time had the judicious Signor ARDITI shown the slightest sign of conceding a supply to a fresh demand. None of the solos, except the one sung behind the Curtain, are particularly catching, or dramatically effective. Mlle. ELANDI, as Santuzza, acts and sings well; and Signor BERTINI, with a good voice, is about as stiff in action as a rustic Cavalier would naturally be; while Signor BROMBARA's Alfio the Mule-driver is histrionically just about perfect. Of course it will not he long ere we hear it again, and under vastly improved conditions.

Last Thursday the Fishmongers gave a banquet in their hall to the Duke of BEAUFORT and other Masters of Hounds. But why should the Fishmongers thus publicly advertise themselves as "going to the dogs." What fishly a-fin-ity is there between hounds and herrings, except in the running of a drag? However, the Lord MAYOR improved the occasion, which we dare say judging from the liberal hospitality, or, in this instance hoss-pitality, of the Fishmongering Corporation, scarcely required improvement, to inform His Grace of BEAUFORT and other noble sportsmen that he too was a hunting man, and that Lord Mayors of London ought as a rule to he hunting men if they would keep up the ancient traditions of their office. Why doesn't his sporting and equestrian Lordship revive the "Lord Mayor's Hounds" of the time of GEORGE THE FIRST? The meet might be in Leadenhall Market, or in a still meater place, Smithfield, and a bag fox being turned out, they might, on a good scenting day, have a fine burst of a good forty minutes, taking Houndsditch in their stride away across Goodman's Fields then away across Bethnal Green, tally-hoing down Cambridge Road, and then with a merry burst, into Commercial Road East, gaily along Radcliff Highway, and running into sly Reynard in Limehouse Basin. Stepney! Yoicks! On hunting days there would be a placard on the Mansion House door with the words, "Gone Away!" And of course there would be a list of the meets appended to all the usual notices. Let the present Lord MAYOR start this, and his Mayoralty will indeed be a memorable one.

'Tis the voice of the Lobster, I hear him complain, That hypnotic suggestion is on me again; I was mesmerised once and behold, since that time, I have yielded myself to suggestions of crime: I have compassed the death of an innocent "dab," And attempted to poison an elderly crab.

You'll not wonder my tricks give my relatives shocks, And they're holding a meeting just now in the rocks To decide whether I, who was once quite a saint, Should be put, as the doctors say, under restraint. I intend to go there in the midst of a trance. And, may I be boiled, but I'll lead them a dance!

It's a terrible thing, when to virtue inclined. That some vile Mesmeriser debauches your mind; When awake I recoil from the things that I've done, Such as scrunching the poor little mussels for fun. In these fetters hypnotic a foe holds me fast, And you'll find that they'll hang me, in seaweed, at last.

Last Friday there appeared a startling paragraph, announcing the first appearance of a New Island. Appropriately, it was on the face of The Globe. The intelligence came to us viâ Marseilles. Did it come up to the surface ready furnished for occupation, as in our second National Anthem about "Britons never being slaves" Britain is described as doing? The quotation is:--"When Britain first at Heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main," (or words to that effect), She (the Island) came up with a ready-made charter, and was open to be taken furnished. If this is the case, with the new Island, the sooner some parties "who won't be missed" pack off, bag and baggage, and take possession of the property, the better. It's a chance. "Island to Let. Ready furnished. Quite ready for occupation when thoroughly dry. No Agents need apply. Ground-Swell Landlord, Neptune, C. district."

And thou shalt sit at ease, and mock The Tory Shepherds of the flock, The Squire and Parson, o'er whose fall The Primrose Dames already squall.

And I will give thee cots most cosy, Of structure sound and aspect rosy; True homes, salubrious if not garish, And proper influence in the parish.

One-Man-one-Vote, the Ballot, School, And rating on a fairer rule; A Charity less harsh and cold To warm thine heart when thou grow'st old.

A chance upon the land to dwell, Free, independent, faring well; And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love!

Though Tory Swains thy vote may crave To keep thee still the Landlord's slave, If freedom's joys thy mind may move, Come live with me and be my love!

THE NYMPH'S REPLY.

(Some way after Sir Walter Raleigh.)

If I were sure 'twere sooth thou'st sung, That truth were on thy silvery tongue; These pleasures must my passion move To live with thee and be thy love.

But art thou sure the Allotted Field A present paradise will yield, Making a lady of a thrall, As dreamed at the Memorial Hall?

Thy Village Council, Cottage cosy, Present in sooth a prospect rosy, But promises so oft are rotten; I've oft been wooed--and oft forgotten!

Free vote, fair rating, open school, Good wage, intelligent self-rule,-- These are enticements me would move To live with thee and be thy love.

If thy zeal last, if love, indeed, Fire thee my hapless lot to heed; Then such delights my mind shall move To live with thee and be thy love.

A LOST OPPORTUNITY.--During a recent cause célèbre in the Divorce Court the petitioner was asked by Sir CHARLES RUSSELL, Q.C., M.P., P.T.P.C., "Did he do anything?" to which the reply was, "He took up a salt-cellar and threw the contents in my face." Mr. FRANK LOCKWOOD, Q.C., M.P., V.P.T.P.C. has been lamenting ever since that he could not have appeared as amicus curiæ to point out that this testimony, until flatly contradicted, "must be taken as primâ facie evidence of a salting her."

One, two, crimson and blue; Two, three, treaclyness free; Three, four, gilding galore; Four, five, bogies alive; Five, six, spectres from Styx; Six, seven, angels from heaven; Seven, eight, big "extra plate"; Eight, nine, wassail and wine; Nine, ten, pencil and pen; Ten, eleven, commercial leaven; Eleven, twelve, "high-art" shelve; Thirteen, fourteen, pictures of sporting; Fifteen, sixteen, ghost-stories, fixt een; Seventeen, eighteen, advertisements great in; Nineteen, twenty, profit in plenty!

Publisher. We have given our best attention to your Manuscript of a three-volumed novel, called--let me see, what did you call it? Oh, yes, here it is!--called, Haunted by Sixteen Goblins, and we are afraid it won't do.

Literary Aspirant (pained). Won't do!

Pub. (calmly). No. Won't do a bit--at least, not in its present form. You see, you introduce a Pirate Chief, named Captain WILDFIRE, who lives at Singapore, and who murders the mate, the steward, five seamen, and all the Passengers of the Jolly Seamew, the vessel that he commands, and appropriates five million dollars belonging to his employers, the vessel's owners.

Lit. Asp. Quite so. I thought those incidents would be rather exciting. They're so new. Do you object to the murders, or what?

Pub. Oh, dear no! But now this name, Captain WILDFIRE. (Suspiciously.) Are you sure there is nobody whose name is at all like it, and who also resides at Singapore?

Lit. Asp. I took the name quite by chance. I've never been near Singapore in my life.

Pub. (relieved). Glad to hear it. One has to be so careful nowadays. Here's an Army List--let us see if anybody called WILDFIRE figures in it. Ha! What's this! "Major WILDMAN, 217th Hussars." (Gazes at Lit. Aspirant sternly.) Is your Captain WILDFIRE intended as a caricature of Major WILDMAN, Sir, or is it not?

Lit. Asp. (astonished). Why, of course not! I never heard of the man.

Pub. Very likely not. We should hear of him precious soon if we published your novel as it stands.