Public-domain ebook
Punch, Or the London Charivari, Volume 107, October 27th, 1894
by Various
Language: en306 downloads on Project Gutenberg
Subjects
In: Humour·British Literature·Journals
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #46784.
The opening · free to read
My Dear MARJORIE,--You remember CECIL CASHMORE? Of course no theatricals could be a success unless he took the entire management. He is a celebrated private performer, and his name is frequently seen in "Amateur Dramatic Notes," where he is freely compared to COQUELIN, ARTHUR ROBERTS, IRVING, and CHARLES KEAN, in his earlier manner--I mean CHARLES KEANE'S earlier manner, not CECIL'S. He always greets me with, "Oh, I'm so afraid of you. I believe you're very cross with me"; and his parting words are invariably "_Good_-bye; I'm coming to see you so soon!" CISSY--everyone calls him CISSY--seems to be a little particular, not to say fidgetty.
BABY BEAUMONT heard him say to his valet, "Take away that eau-de-cologne--it's corked." He seems to think himself ill, though he looks blooming; and says he has neurasthenia. He's always going through some "course," or "treatment." One hears him cry to the footman who hands him a forbidden dish, "Good Heavens, my dear man, don't offer me _that_--I'm under JOWLES!"
We wanted to act The School for Scandal, but CISSY has persuaded us to get up a burlesque of his own--_Red Riding Hood_. I am to be Red Riding Hood!!! I am delighted. I have never acted before; but they say I have only to trip on with a basket. BABY declared he would be a Proud Sister. In vain he was told there were no Proud Sisters in Red Riding Hood; he seemed to have set his heart on it so much that CISSY has written one in for him. Now BABY is happy, designing himself a gorgeous frock, and passing hours in front of a looking-glass, trying various patterns against his complexion. All the strength of the piece falls upon CISSY, who plays the Wolf, and has given himself any amount of songs and dances, lots of "serious interest," and all the "comic relief." He says it's not an ordinary burlesque, but a mixture of a problem play and a comic opera. Captain MASHINGTON is to play the Mother, so I see a good deal of him. (The LORNE HOPPERS are in Scotland). We had had sixteen rehearsals when LADY TAYMER suddenly horrified us by saying it seemed so much trouble--why not give it up, and if we wanted a little fun, black our faces and pretend to be niggers!! Of course, we would not listen to her. I hear Captain MASHINGTON rehearsing his part every morning, quietly, in the billiard-room. He never can remember the lines
"Good bye, my dear, now mind you're very good, And shun the dangers lurking in the wood."
He thinks the mother ought to kiss Red Riding Hood before she starts. I think not. We asked CISSY. He says it's optional.... CISSY rose with the owl to-day, and said he was not well. A little later he came and told us complacently that he had been looking it up in the Encyclopedia, and found he had "every symptom of acute lead-poisoning." He added that there was nothing to be done.
"I thought there was something wrong with you yesterday," said BABY. "You declined all nourishment between lunch and tea."
"By the way," said CISSY, pretending not to hear, "MASHINGTON really is not quite light enough for the Mother. You should persuade him to go through a course, Miss GLADYS."
"He's just been through a course," I said, "at Hythe."
"My dear lady, I don't mean musketry. He ought to consult CASTLE JONES, the specialist. No soup, no bread, no potatoes--saccharine. What are you allowed?" turning to BABY, who was sitting on a window seat eating marrons-glacés out of a paper-bag.
This sight seemed to infuriate our manager. He made a wild dart at BABY, saying, "Oh, look at this; it's fatal, positively fatal!" snatched violently at the bag, secured a chestnut, and calmly walked out of the room eating it and saying it was delicious.
I had just come home from a very nice drive with JACK--I mean Captain MASHINGTON--when I found a letter from ORIEL. He says he is engaged to Miss TOOGOOD. The matter is to be kept a profound secret for the present.... He asks me, for the sake of the past, to try and get him a stamp of the Straits Settlements, in exchange for a Mauritian.... She collects stamps too--it must have been the bond of union.... How fickle men are! It's enough to disgust one with human nature. I know I broke it off, but still----
Ever your loving friend, GLADYS.
I wonder if Miss TOOGOOD will have a bangle. I should like to advise her not to have it rivetted on. It's such a bother getting them filed off.
You hope you don't intrude? PROWLINA PRY You do, you do! In ignorance it may be, The rôle of RHADAMANTHUS you would try, With scarce the fitness of a bumptious baby. With folly's headlong haste you would rush in Where well-tried wisdom treads with fear and trembling. Gregarious Silliness would cope with Sin; But when geese swarm what comes of such assembling?
Cackle, and cant, and chaos! Needless noise, Meddling and mischief and sheer moral muddle! Reformers must not act like gutter-boys Who rake up mud, stir each malodorous puddle. Life's purlieus are defiled; will it avail To grub and rake in reeking slum and by-way, Until the foul infection loads the gale, And pestilence stalks boldly in the highway?
PROWLINA PRY, your purview is too small; Life is not plumbed by microscopic peeping, And Nature is too large for nursery-thrall. The globe is not in Mrs. GRUNDY'S keeping. Clear sense, and not lop-sided sentiment, Must front Society's perplexing puzzles; Humanity, when roused, has ever rent Partington policies of mops and muzzles.
Humanity is a most complex thing, Not simple as a gag or feeding-bottle. You, lest it stray, would rob it of its wing. Lest it feed ill would simply close its throttle. The Puritanic plan in a new guise!-- A female Praise-God-Barebones now would rule us. We Britons, who have baffled our male Prys, Are little like to let she-ones befool us.
Unclean! Unclean! 'Twas the old lepers' cry, You'd silence them and call it--purifying! Drive swine possessed of devils from their sty, And bid them spread infection as they're flying! Did some steep place lead down into the sea Of dead oblivion and sheer extirpation, 'Twere well to scourge them thither. What if, free, They carry foul contagion through--a nation?
Thousands of fellow-creatures flung from work At the mere pen-stroke of a hasty censor!-- An unconsidered trifle Zeal may shirk! But Sense may not, nor Justice! They are denser Than Punch imagines, our new Bumble-band, If Mistress PRY'S decision they abide by; But should they fail us, Punch throughout the land Will wake the People prudes and prigs are tried by!
Petticoat-government, PROWLINA PRY, Of this peculiar sort will scarcely suit us. Such cases clear collective sense must try, Not a she-DRACO or a lady-BRUTUS. To sweeten our poor world we all may strive, But life's not one long Puritanic Sunday; And the great World while manhood is alive, Shall not be wholly swayed by Mrs. GRUNDY.
PROWLINA PRY Society's festering ills Will not be healed by your pragmatic plaster. Tare-rooting that the growing corn-crop kills Was not the plan or counsel of the Master. You with rash hand would wield the whip of cords He raised but once in righteous indignation. Heed the great lesson that the fact affords, And leave our woes to Wisdom's mild purgation.
That afternoon when first you burst Upon my quite bewildered eyes, I seemed in London; you are too Confusing in that strange disguise.
The very clothes of blue! It's true In black kid gloves you are arrayed, No truncheon at your side you hide, A sword is openly displayed.
That vile black helmet yet you get, Most dismal head-dress ever planned. In Venice this! Where once doge, dunce, Dame, doctor, all were gay and grand.
In that prosaic dress! Oh, bless The man, why wear such awful things? In Venice long ago, we know, The costermongers looked like kings.
Italians love what's new, so you Suit buildings all, de haut en bas, Restored and new--how bad and sad! But you're a still worse novità.
A peeler pacing here--how queer! A copper checking crimes and larks, When gleams on lone lagoon the moon! A bobby's beat beside St. Mark's!
BY A BIRKENHEAD MAN.--The LEVER, though strong, could not quite lift the Liberal minority into power, but it brought the Conservative majority down to its LEES!
Spurrell (to himself). I must say it's rather rough luck on that poor devil. I get his dress suit, and all he gets is my booby-trap! (PHILLIPSON, wearing a holland blouse over her evening toilette, approaches from the other end of the passage; he does not recognise her until the moment of collision.) EMMA!! It's never you! How do you come to be here?
Phillipson (to herself). Then it was my JEM after all! (Aloud, distantly.) I'm here in attendance on Lady MAISIE MULL, being her maid. If I was at all curious--which I'm not--I might ask you what you're doing in such a house as this; and in evening dress, if you please!
Spurr. I'm in evening dress, EMMA, such as it is (not that I've any right to find fault with it); but I'm in evening dress (with dignity) because I've been included in the dinner party here.
Phill. You must have been getting on since I knew you. Then you were studying to be a horse-doctor.
Spurr. I have got on. I am now a qualified M.R.C.V.S.
Phill. And does that qualify you to dine with bishops and countesses and baronets and the gentry, like one of themselves?
Spurr. I don't say it does, in itself. It was my Andromeda that did the trick, EMMA.
Phill. Andromeda? They were talking of that downstairs. What's made you take to scribbling, JAMES?
Spurr. Scribbling? how do you mean? My handwriting's easy enough to read, as you ought to know very well.
Phill. You can't expect me to remember what your writing's like; it's so long since I've seen it!
Spurr. Come, I like that! When I wrote twice to say I was sorry we'd fallen out; and never got a word back!
Phill. If you'd written to the addresses I gave you abroad----
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