Chapter I: Front Matter

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOL. 98

JANUARY 4, 1890

London: Published at the Office, 85, Fleet Street, and Sold by All Booksellers. 1890.

* * * * *

It was a Midsummer Night, and Mr. PUNCH in his _sanctum_ dreamed a Dream! To adapt the Laureate's lay:--

He read, before his eyelids dropt their shade,
The _Lusiads_ of CAMOENS, long ago
Sung by the Lusitanian bard, who made
Great GAMA'S glories glow.

It was the wondrous tale of STANLEY which had turned the Sage's attention to the pages of the great Epic of Commerce.

He had read:--

"Afric behold! alas, what altered view!
Her lands uncultured, and her sons untrue;
Ungraced with all that sweetens human life,
Savage and fierce, they roam in brutal strife;
Eager they grasp the gifts which culture yields,
Yet naked roam their own neglected fields."

And though even Africa has considerably changed since the year of grace 1497, when "daring GAMA" went "incessant labouring round the stormy Cape," Mr. PUNCH thought of that great gloom-shrouded Equatorial Forest and its secular savage dwarf-denizens, and mused how much there was yet for our modern GAMAS to do in the Dark Continent.

Mr. PUNCH found himself in the lovely "Isle of Venus," the delicious floral Paradise which the Queen of Love, "the guardian goddess of the Lusian race," created "amid the bosom of the watery waste," as "a place of glad repast and sweet repose," for the tired home-returning GAMA and his companions.

"Of 'glad repast,'" said a familiar voice, "there is plenty and to spare; but for the 'sweet repose,' 'tis not to be found in this 'Isle of Banqueting.'"

"Mr. STANLEY, I presume?" said the Sage.

"You _cannot_ presume," rejoined H. M. neatly. "But some of these gregarious dinner-givers _do_, and sometimes,--yes, sometimes I'm afraid I let them see that I'm aware of it."

"As fame-preoccupied, country-loving GAMA, wearied of the 'feasts, interludes, and chivalrous entertainments,' with which 'the taste of that age demonstrated the joy of Portugal,' might perchance have snubbed some too importunate Don. 'The compliments of the Court and the shouts of the streets were irksome to him,' says the chronicle."

"SALISBURY is not quite a Prince HENRY apparently," remarked the modern GAMA. "He and his father JOHN did not find the discoveries and acquisitions of their heroic compatriot 'embarrassing.' 'The arts and valour of the Portuguese had now made a great impression on the minds of the Africans. The King of CONGO, a dominion of great extent, sent the sons of some of his principal officers to be instructed in arts and religion.' This was four hundred years ago! And now the Portuguese can be safely snubbed and sat upon, even by a SALISBURY! But if your prudent Premier doesn't 'stiffen his back' a bit, with regard to the tougher and tentative Teuton, 'the arts and valour' of the Britishers will not make as great an impression on the minds of the Africans as your ill-used East African Company could desire."

"Don't be _too_ downhearted, HENRY," smiled the Sage. "Much dining-out doth breed dyspepsia, and atrabilious views are apt to be a _leetle_ lop-sided."

"Right, _Mr. Punch!_" said a musical but somewhat mournful voice, that of the great but ill-starred LUIS DE CAMOENS himself. "I wrote much of my _Lusiadas_ in Africa.

"'One hand the pen, and one the sword employed.'

"_My_ reward was banishment, imprisonment, poverty, neglect, and a miserable death in an almshouse. 'Soon after, however,' says the record, 'many epitaphs honoured his memory: the greatness of his merit was universally confessed, and his _Lusiad_ was translated into various languages.' 'The whirligig of time brings its revenges,' as your own illustrious Singer saith. How think you myself and my friend VASCO de GAMA here look upon the fallen state of our beloved native land? In vain he ventured for her. In vain I warningly sang:--

"'Chill'd by my nation's cold neglect, thy fires
Glow bold no more, and all thy rage expires.
Shall haughty Gaul or sterner Albion boast
That all the Lusian fame in thee is lost!'"

Mr. PUNCH bowed low to the illustrious Poet and the indomitable Explorer. "Greatness," said he, courteously, "claims reverence, and misfortune respect. Your countrymen, Gentlemen, have been rather angry with me of late. But 'sterner Albion' may be proud indeed if she produces such men as GAMA to perform heroic deeds, and such poets as CAMOENS to sing them." The stately Shades saluted. "I wonder," said GAMA, "who will be the Laureate of the later Ulysses, and which of your singers will write the _Epic of Africa?_"

"I fear," said Mr. PUNCH, "that at present they are too busy smiting the Socialistic big drum, or tickling their sonorous native tongue into tinkling triolets. In this Island of Venus----"

"I beg pardon," interrupted STANLEY, with a sardonic smile. "This Island of _Menus_, you mean, Mr. PUNCH!"

Mr. PUNCH looked around. The Acidalian roses and myrtles, the purple lotos and the snowy thorn, the yellow pod-flowers and the waving palms, the vermeil apples and the primrosed banks, of CAMOENS' somewhat zone-confounding vision, had indeed vanished, and in their stead seemed to wave snowy _serviettes_, to flow champagne-streams, to glitter goblets, and to glow orchid-laden _épergnes_.

"Humph!" said the Sage. "The prose of the _Restaurateur_--which by the way sounds as if I were alluding to the literature of the Restauration,--hath insensibly superseded the poesy of the peerless Portuguese. Well, Gentlemen, in vain may 'sterner Albion' glory in the profusion of wealth and the pomp of 'glad repast,' unless also she breeds heroes to adventure and poets to celebrate. As you sang, my CAMOENS--

"'The King or hero to the Muse unjust,
Sinks as the nameless slave, extinct in dust.'

"For the present, STANLEY'S arm and Mr. PUNCH'S pen suffice to save the State from such abasement. But let our timid Premiers and our temporising Press remember the glories of GAMA and CAMOENS, and the fate of ungrateful and indolent Lusitania!"

"The Pen of Mr. PUNCH!" cried CAMOENS. "Ah, long have the valiant VASCO and myself desired to peruse its sparkling and patriotic outpourings.".

"And you, my STANLEY," proceeded Mr. PUNCH, "said to the banqueting Fishmongers, 'I am an omnivorous reader whenever an opportunity presents itself.' It presents itself here and now. Take, Illustrious Trio, the greatest gift that even PUNCH can bestow upon you, to wit his

"Ninety-Eighth Volume!"

* * * * *

* * * * *

JOURNAL OF A ROLLING STONE.

FOURTH ENTRY.

Have for a considerable time past been "eating dinners," preparatory to being "called" to the Bar. Understand now what people mean when they talk of a "_Digest_ of the Law."

Find myself (on dining for the first time this Term) in a mess with a highly-intelligent native of India, another man up from Oxford, and an African law-student. Latter black and curly, but good-natured. Says there is a great demand for English-made barristers on the Gambia, and he's going to supply the demand.

Have wild and momentary idea of going to the Gambia myself.

"Why," I ask this enterprising negro, "why don't English barristers--white ones, I mean--go and practise there?" Feel that reference to colour is not felicitous; still, difficult to express the idea otherwise.

African doesn't mind. Shows all his teeth in a broad grin, and says, "Inglis men die, die like flies, on the Gambia."

Curious to see the Hindoo law-student looking contemptuously at African ditto. Hindoo a shrewd fellow. Talks English perfectly. Rather given to gesticulate. Waves his arms, and incidentally knocks over a bottle of the claret--at twelve shillings a dozen--which the Inn kindly supplies to wash down the mutton and baked potatoes at our two-shilling meal. Hindoo laughs. Tells me, confidentially, that he has practised as a "Vakeel" (whatever that is) in some small country town in Bengal. Why has he come over here? Oh, to be called. Will get more work and more pay, when a full-fledged barrister. Gather that there are rival "Vakeels" in Bengal whom he wants to cut out. He intends "cutting out"--to India--directly he _is_ called.

Oxford man tells me in a whisper that "he believes he's a Baboo." Indeed! Don't feel much wiser for the information.

African getting jealous of Baboo's fluent talk. Rather a sportive negro, it appears. Says he goes to theatre nearly every night. Has a regular and rather festive programme for each day.

"Lecture, morning," he says; "afternoon, walk in Park, sometimes ride. Night, theatre or music-hall." He grins like an amiable gargoyle. In his own country African law-student must be quite a lady-killer--a sort of Gambia masher.

Incidentally mention to Hindoo difficulty of law of Real Property, especially "Rule in SHELLEY'S Case."

It seems Hindoo understands matter perfectly. Begins to explain the "Rule in SHELLEY'S Case." Does it by aid of two salt-cellars (to represent the parties) and a few knives (to represent collateral relatives).

African masher more jealous. Laughs at Baboo's explanation. He and Baboo exchange glances of hatred. African, who is carving, brandishes knife. Is he going to plunge it into heart of Baboo just as he's got through his explanation? Looks like it, as the shilling claret seems to have got into place where we may suppose African's brain to be. However, dinner ends without a catastrophe.

After attending the usual amount of legal lectures, the "Final" Exam. approaches.

Get through the papers pretty well. Thank goodness, no question asked so far about that "Rule in SHELLEY'S Case," which is my "_Pons Asinorum_!" It's a "rule" to which I take great exception.

There's a "_Vivâ Voce_" to come, however. Hate _vivâ voce._ Two examiners sit at end of Hall--students called up in batches of half-a-dozen at a time. Very nervous work. Find, when my turn comes, that the intelligent Baboo is in the same lot! Appears to like the position. From his manner I should judge that he'd been doing nothing all his life but being examined by fifties in a cave, like this.

Examiner who tackles me has an eye-glass.

"Now, Mr. JOYNSON," he remarks, putting it up to survey me better, "if you were a trustee, &c., &c., _what would you do?_"

Flattered at the supposition. Answer in a way which seems to partly satisfy Examiner, who passes on to next man with a new question. In a minute or two my turn comes round again.

"Now, Mr. JOYNSON," Examiner again observes cheerfully, "let me ask you quite an elementary question in Real Property. Just give me a brief, a very brief, explanation of what you understand by the Rule in SHELLEY'S Case!"

But I don't understand anything by it! It's a piece of hopeless legal gibberish to me. I stammer out some attempt at an answer, and see Baboo looking at me with a pitying, almost reproachful, glance. "Didn't I," he seems to say, "explain it all to you once at dinner? Do you really mean to say that you've forgotten the way in which I arranged the salt-cellars and the table-knives, and how I turned the whole case inside out for your benefit?"

I admit the offence. Examiner seems surprised at my ignorance--informs me that "it's as easy as A.B.C." It may be--to him and the Baboo.

Baboo, being asked the same question, at once explains the whole matter, this time without the aid of the salt-cellars and cutlery.

A few days later go to look at result of examination. Result, for me--a Plough!

Walking away dejectedly--("homeward the Plough-man wends his legal way"--as GRAY sympathetically put it)--meet African law-student, who grins insanely. _He_ doesn't sympathise in my defeat. Shows his fine set of ivories and says:--

"Me failed too. Me go back Gambia. You come back with me!"

Tell him I'm not "called" yet: certainly not called to Gambia.

"Then come to Alhambra!" he suggests, as a sort of alternative to a visit to the tropics.

African student evidently still a masher. Decline his invitation with thanks. Wouldn't be seen with him at a theatre for worlds! Depressed. Don't even look in at Gaiety Bar. No Gaiety for _me_--and no "Bar" either, it seems.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE BUSY (J.) B.

(_Not by Dr. Watts._)

How doth the busy Jerry Builder
Improve his shining hoard,
And gather money, basely earned,
From every opening Board!

How skilfully he scamps his "shells"!
How deftly spreads his sludge!
And labours to defend his sells
By special-pleading fudge!

With what serene, well-practised skill,
He "squares" Surveyors too!
For Jobbery finds some baseness still
For venal hands to do.

Whether for work or healthful play
His buildings will not last.
May he be called some day, some day,
To strict account at last!

* * * * *

PARLIAMENTARY INTELLIGENCE.--According to the announcement in the _Gazette_, the SPEAKER will take the Chair in the House of Commons on Tuesday, the 11th of February, when the new Session opens. But, as a matter of fact, _The Speaker_ will be on the book-stalls on Saturday next, the 4th of January, entering upon what promises to be a useful and prolonged Session. Thereafter _The Speaker_ will take the book-stall once a week regularly, there being Saturday sittings throughout the year. _The Speaker_ will, of course, be on the side of Law and "Order! Order!"

* * * * *

A BALLAD OF EVIL SPEED.

_A Cool Collation of Several Bards._

I would I had not met you, Sweet,
I wish you had been far away
From where, in Upper Wimpole Street,
We two foregather'd yesterday.
Somewhere in that unlovely street
Summer's lost beauty, hid away,
Woke at the music of your feet,
And sought the little girl in grey.
Around your head the sunbeams play--
Home to the depths of your deep eyes
Soft shadows of the woodland stray,
Then sparkle with a quick surprise,
As when the branch-entangled skies
Shake from the depths of woodland stream,
Awhile in laughing circles gleam,
Then spread to heaven's peace again.
Amber and gold, and feathery grey,
You suited well the Autumn day,
The muffled sun, the misty air,
The weather like a sleepy pear.
And yet I wish that you had been
Afar, beside the sounding main,
Or swaying daintily the rein
Of mettled courser on the green,
So I had passed, and passed unseen.

For I arose, from dreams of thee,
So late that morn, my matin tea
Was cold as mutton two days cooked;
As in the looking-glass I looked,
Methought the razor need not wreak
Its wonted vengeance on my cheek,
Nor clear the shadow from my chin
Till to the City I had been.
Thus, horrid with a nascent beard,
By chance through Wimpole Street I steered,
Trusting therein to shun contempt
Of who abhor a man unkempt.
For like a mother-bird, who's caught
The cant of modern woman's thought,
My restless tie refused to sit,
And restless fingers vainly sought
To soothe the silkworm's stubborn toil.
But only did its candour soil,
And suffered none the less from it.
For all my neck, and head no less,
Owned to a vague unquietness,
As when the vagrant spiderlet
Has spread at large her filmy net
To catch the moonbeams, wavering white,
At the front gate on Autumn night.

Then suddenly the sombre way
Rock'd like the darkness struck by day,
The endless houses reel'd from sight,
And all romance and all delight
Came thronging in a glorious crowd.
So, when the drums are beating loud,
The mob comes sweeping down the Mall,
Far heralding the bear-skins tall.
Glorious in golden clothing comes
The great drum-major with his drums
And sun-smit brass of trumpets; then
The scarlet wall of marching men,
Midmost of which great Mavors sets
The colours girt with bayonets.
Yes, there were you--and there was I,
Unshaved, and with erratic tie,
And for that once I yearn'd to shun
My social system's central sun.
How could a sloven slave express
The frank, the manly tenderness
That wraps you round from common thought,
And does not ask that you should know
The love that consecrates you so.
No; furtive, awkward, restless, cold,
I basely seemed to set at naught
That sudden bliss, undreamt, unsought.
What must she think, my girl of gold?
I dare not ask; and baffled wit
Droops--till sweet hopes begin to flit--
Like butterflies that brave the cold--
Perhaps she didn't notice it.

* * * * *

_She._ "HOW SILENT YOU ARE! WHAT ARE YOU THINKING OF?"

_He._ "_NOTHING!_"

_She._ "EGOTIST!"]

* * * * *

"JUST TO OBLIGE BENSON."

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--It was not a very happy thought to send me to the Globe Theatre at this festive season of the year to witness the representation of a piece, called by the management, for some reason or other, "a _faërie_ comedy." Now, I like a Burlesque, and I am fond of a Pantomime, but a mixture of blank verse and tom-foolery is rather too much for me, especially when that mixture is not redeemed by a plot of any interest. Nothing can be more absurd than the story (save the mark!) told in this particularly uninteresting play. It appears that a "Duke!" of Athens married the Queen of the Amazons, and during the nuptial rejoicings ordered the daughter of one of his subjects to "die the death" unless she transferred her affections from her own true love to a gentleman of her father's choice. The gentleman of her father's choice was beloved in his turn by a school friend of his would-not-be betrothed, and the play which lasted from eight until nearly midnight, was devoted to setting this simple (in more senses than one) _imbroglio_ right. By a clumsy device, _Oberon_ King of the Fairies bewitched the two pairs of lovers during their sleep in a wood, so that one lady had two admirers and the other none. All that was needed to bring the piece to a conclusion was to have another exercise of magic when the couples paired off, of course, in a manner calculated to give satisfaction to their friends and relations. This was the entire plot. There was now and again some attempts to turn amateur theatricals into feeble ridicule by the introduction of a party of village histrions, who were allowed to "clown" to their heart's content; and _voilà tout_!

The mounting is excellent. Nothing better than "a Wood near Athens," painted by Mr. HEMSLEY, has been seen since Professor HERKOMER startled the world with his representation of village life at Bushey. The music, too (chiefly from the works of MENDELSSOHN), is always charming, and frequently appropriate. Moreover, Mr. BENSON, no doubt feeling that his author required every possible support, has introduced a number of pretty dances, executed by comely maidens of ages varying from seven to (say) seven-and-twenty.

Of course, such a play required very ordinary acting. Mr. BENSON was, on the whole, a gentlemanly _Lysander_, Mr. OTHO STUART a dignified _Oberon_, and Mr. STEPHEN PHILLIPS quite the best of the village histrions. Miss GRACE GERALDINE was also fanciful in the _rôle_ of a sort of gnome. But, allowing for the music, and the scenery, and the acting, the piece itself was unquestionably dull. And now, having given you my unbiassed opinion, I beg to sign myself,

YOUR UNPREJUDICED CONTRIBUTOR.

P.S.--I am told that the author of _A Midsummer's Dream_ wrote a number of other plays of considerable merit. This I challenge, the more especially as those who swear by Mr. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE candidly admit that his name is a deterrent rather than an attraction on a play-bill.

* * * * *

1890 ALMANACK FOR FUNNY DOGS.--Evidently "Whitty Curs'
Almanack."

* * * * *

MR. PUNCH'S MORAL MUSIC-HALL DRAMAS.

No. II.--JOE, THE JAM-EATER.

_A Musical Spectacular and Sensational Interlude._ (_Dedicated respectfully to Mr. McDougall and the L. C. C._)

The Music-hall Dramatist, like SHAKSPEARE, has a right to take his material from any source that may seem good to him. _Mr. Punch_, therefore, makes no secret of the fact, that he has based the following piece upon the well-known poem of "_The Purloiner_," by the Sisters JANE and ANN TAYLOR, who were _not_, as might be too hastily concluded, "Song and Dance Duettists," but two estimable ladies, who composed "cautionary" verses for the young, and whose works are a perfect mine of wealth for Moral Dramatists. In this dramatic version the Author has tried to infuse something of the old Greek sense of an overruling destiny, without detriment to prevailing ideas of moral responsibility. Those who have the misfortune to be born with a propensity for illicit jam, may learn from our Drama the terrible results of failing to overcome it early in life.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

_Jam-loving Joe._ By that renowned Melodramatic Serio-Comic, Miss CONNIE CURDLER.

_Joe's Mother_ (_the very part for_ Mrs. BANCROFT _if she can only be induced to make her re-appearance_).

_John, a Gardener._ By the great Pink-eyed Unmusical Zulu.

_Jim-Jam, the Fermentation Fiend._ By Mr. BEERBOHM TREE (_who has kindly consented to undertake the part_).

_Chorus of Plum and Pear Gatherers, from the Savoy_ (_by kind permission of_ Mr. D'OYLY CARTE).

SCENE.--_The Store-room at sunset, with view of exterior of Jam Cupboard, and orchard in distance._

_Enter_ JOE.

"As JOE was at play, Near the cupboard one day, When he thought no one saw him but himself."--_Vide Poem._

_Joe_ (_dreamily_). 'Tis passing strange that I so partial am
To playing in the neighbourhood of Jam!

[_Here_ Miss CURDLER _will introduce her great humorous Satirical Medley, illustrative of the Sports of Childhood, and entitled, "Some Little Gymes we all of us 'ave Plied;" after which, Enter_ JOE'S _Mother, followed by_ JOHN _and the Chorus, with baskets, ladders, &c., for gathering fruit._

"His Mother and JOHN, To the garden had gone, To gather ripe pears and ripe plums."--_Poem._

_Joe's Mother_ (_with forced cheerfulness_)--

Let's hope, my friends, to find our pears and plums,
Unharmed by wopses, and untouched by wums.

[_Chorus signify assent in the usual manner by holding up the right hand._

_Solo_--JOHN.

Fruit when gathered ripe, is wholesome--
Otherwise if eaten green.
Once I knew a boy who stole some--
[_With a glance at_ JOE, who turns aside to conceal his
confusion.
His internal pangs were keen!

_Chorus_ (_virtuously_). 'Tis the doom of all who're mean,
Their internal pangs are keen!

_Joe's Mother_ (_aside_). By what misgivings is a mother
tortured!
I'll keep my eye on JOSEPH in the orchard.
[_She invites him with a gesture to follow._

_Joe_ (_earnestly_). Nay, Mother, here I'll stay till you
have done.
Temptation it is ever best to shun!

_Joe's M._ So laudable his wish, I would not cross it--
(_Mysteriously._) He knows not there are jam-pots in yon
closet!

_Chorus._ Away we go tripping,
From boughs to be stripping
Each pear, plum, and pippin
Pomona supplies!

When homeward we've brought 'em,
Those products of Autumn,
We'll carefully sort 'em
(_One of our old Music-hall rhymes_),
According to size! [_Repeat as they caper out._

[JOE'S Mother, _after one fond, lingering look behind, follows: the voices are heard more and more faintly in the distance. Stage darkens; the last ray of sunset illumines key of jam-cupboard door._

_Joe._ At last I am alone! Suppose I tried
That cupboard--just to see what's kept inside?
[_Seems drawn towards it by some fatal fascination._
There _might_ be Guava jelly, and a plummy cake,
For such a prize I'd laugh to scorn a stomach-ache!
[_Laughs a stomach-ache to scorn._
And yet (_hesitating_) who knows?--a pill?... perchance--a powder!
(_Desperately_). What then? To scorn I'll laugh them--even louder!

[_Fetches chair and unlocks cupboard. Doors fall open with loud clang, revealing Interior of Jam Closet_ (_painted by_ HAWES CRAVEN). JOE _mounts chair to explore shelves. Vide poem, "How sorry I am, He ate raspberry jam, And currants that stood on the shelf!"_

_Joe_ (_speaking with mouth full, and back to audience_).
'Tis raspberry--of all the jams my favourite;
I'll clear the pot, whate'er I have to pay for it!
And finish up with currants from this shelf....
Who'll ever see me?

_The Demon of the Jam Closet_ (_rising slowly from an immense pot of
preserves_). None--except Myself!

[_The cupboard is lit up by an infernal glare_ (_courteously lent by the Lyceum Management from "Faust" properties_); _weird music;_ JOE _turns slowly and confronts the Demon with awestruck eyes;_ N.B.--_Great opportunity for powerful acting here._

_The Demon_ (_with a bland sneer_). Pray don't mind _me_--I will await
your leisure.

_Joe_ (_automatically_). Of your acquaintance, Sir, I've not the
pleasure.
Who _are_ you? Wherefore have you intervened?

_The Demon_ (_quietly_). My name is "Jim-Jam"; occupation--fiend.

_Joe_ (_cowering limply on his chair_). O Mr. Fiend, I _know_ it's
very wrong of me!

_Demon_ (_politely_). Don't mention it--but please to come "along of"
me?

_Joe_ (_imploringly_). Do let me off this once,--ha! you're relenting,
You smile----

_Demon_ (_grimly_). 'Tis nothing but my jam fermenting!
[_Catches_ JOE'S _ankle, and assists him to descend._

_Joe._ You'll drive me mad!

_Demon_ (_carelessly_). I _may_--before I've done with you!

_Joe._ What do you want?

_Demon_ (_darkly_). To have a little fun with you!
Of fiendish humour now I'll give a specimen.

[_Chases him round and round Stage, and proceeds to smear him hideously with jam._

_Joe_ (_piteously_). Oh, don't! I feel _so_ sticky. _What_ a mess
I'm in!

_Demon_ (_with affected sympathy_). That _is_ the worst of jam--it's
apt to stain you.
[_To_ JOE, _as he frantically endeavours to remove the traces of his
crime._
I see you're busy--so I'll not detain you!

[_Vanishes down star-trap with a diabolical laugh. Cupboard-doors close with a clang; all lights down._ JOE _stands gazing blankly for some moments, and then drags himself off Stage. His Mother and_ JOHN, _with Pear- and Plum-gatherers bearing laden baskets, appear at doors at back of Scene, in faint light of torches._

_Re-enter Joe_ (_bearing a candle and wringing his hands_). Out, jammed spot! What--will these hands _never_ be clean? Here's the smell of the raspberry jam still! All the powders of Gregory cannot unsweeten this little hand.... (_Moaning._) Oh, oh, oh!

[_This passage has been accused of bearing too close a resemblance to one in a popular Stage Play; if so, the coincidence is purely accidental, as the Dramatist is not in the habit of reading such profane literature._

_Joe's Mother._ Ah! what an icy dread my heart benumbs!
See--stains on all his fingers, _and_ his thumbs!

"What JOE was about, His Mother found out, When she look'd at his fingers and thumbs."--_Poem again._

Nay, JOSEPH--'tis your mother ... speak to her!

_Joe_ (_tonelessly, as before_). Lady, I know you not (_touches lower part of waistcoat_); but, prithee, undo this button. I think I have jam in all my veins, and I would fain sleep. When I am gone, lay me in a plain white jelly-pot, with a parchment cover, and on the label write----but come nearer, I have a secret for your ear alone ... there are strange things in some cupboards! Demons should keep in the dust-bin. (_With a ghastly smile._) I know not what ails me, but I am not feeling at all well.

[JOE'S Mother _stands a few steps from him, with her hands twisted in her hair, and stares at him in speechless terror._

_Joe_ (_to the Chorus_). I would shake hands with you all, were not my fingers so sticky. We eat marmalade, but we know not what it is made of. Hush! if JIM-JAM comes again, tell him that I am not at home. Loo-loo-loo!

_All_ (_with conviction_). Some shock has turned his brine!

_Joe_ (_sitting down on floor, and weaving straws in his hair_). My curse upon him that invented jam. Let us all play Tibbits.

[_Laughs vacantly: all gather round him, shaking their heads, his_ Mother _falls fainting at his feet, as Curtain falls upon a strong and moral, though undeniably gloomy dénoûment._

* * * * *

THE SAVOYARDS.

MESSRS. GILBERT AND SULLIVAN'S _Gondoliers_ deserves to rank immediately after _The Mikado_ and _Pinafore_ bracketed. The _mise-en-scène_ is in every way about as perfect as it is possible to be. Every writer of _libretti_, every dramatist and every composer, must envy the Two Savoyards, their rare opportunities of putting their own work on their own stage, and being like the two Kings in this piece, jointly and equally monarchs of all they survey, though, unlike these two potentates, they are not their subjects' servants, and have only to consider what is best for the success of their piece, and to have it carried out, whatever it is, literally regardless of expense. And what does their work amount to? Simply a Two-Act Opera, to play two-hours-and-a-half, for the production of which they have practically a whole year at their disposal. They can go as near commanding success as is given to mortal dramatist and composer, and for any comparative failure they can have no one to blame but themselves, the pair of them.

Whatever the piece may be, it is always a pleasure to see how thoroughly the old hands at the Savoy enter into "the fun of the thing," and, as in the case of Miss JESSIE BOND and Mr. RUTLAND BARRINGTON, absolutely carry the audience with them by sheer exuberance of spirits.

Mr. RUTLAND BARRINGTON possesses a ready wit and keen appreciation of humour; and, as this is true also of Miss JESSIE BOND, the couple, being thoroughly in their element with such parts as _The Gondoliers_ provide for them, legitimately graft their own fun on the plentiful stock already supplied by the author, and are literally the life and soul of the piece.

On the night I was there a Miss NORAH PHYLLIS took Miss ULMAR'S part of _Gianetta_, and played it, at short notice, admirably. She struck me as bearing a marked facial resemblance to Miss FORTESQUE, and is a decided acquisition. Mr. DENNY, as the Grand Inquisitor (a part that recalls the Lord High Chancellor of the ex-Savoyard, GEORGE GROSSMITH, now entertaining "on his own hook"), doesn't seem to be a born Savoyard, _non nascitur_ and _non fit_ at present. Good he is, of course, but there's no spontaneity about him. However, for an eccentric comedian merely to do exactly what he is told, and nothing more, yet to do that, little or much, well, is a performance that would meet with _Hamlet's_ approbation, and Mr. GILBERT'S. Mr. FRANK WYATT, as "the new boy" at the Savoy School, doesn't, as yet, seem quite happy; but it cannot be expected that he should feel "quite at home," when he has only recently arrived at a new school.

Miss BRANDRAM is a thorough Savoyard; _nihil tetigit quod non ornavit_, and her embroidery of a part which it is fair to suppose was written to suit her, is done in her own quaint and quiet fashion.

A fantastically and humorous peculiarly Gilbertian idea is the comparison between a visit to the dentist's, and an interview with the questioners by the rack, suggested by the Grand Inquisitor Don ALHAMBRA who says that the nurse is waiting in the torture-chamber, but that there is no hurry for him to go and examine her, as she is all right and "has all the illustrated papers."

There are ever so many good things in the Opera, but the best of all, for genuinely humorous inspiration of words, music and acting, is the quartette in the Second Act, "In a contemplative fashion." It is excellent. Thank goodness, _encores_ are disencouraged, except where there can be "No possible sort of doubt, No possible doubt whatever" (also a capital song in this piece) as to the unanimity of the enthusiasm. There is nothing in the music that catches the ear on a first hearing as did "_The Three Little Maids_," or "_I've got a Song to Sing O!_" but it is all charming, and the masterly orchestration in its fulness and variety is something that the least technically educated can appreciate and enjoy. The piece is so brilliant to eye and ear, that there is never a dull moment on the stage or off it. It is just one of those simple _Bab-Ballady_ stories which, depending for its success not on any startling surprise in the plot, but on general excellence, may, especially on account of the music, be safely put down on the play-goer's list for "a second hearing."

CHRISTMAS BOX.

* * * * *

RUSSIAN ART.

From _The Morning Post_, last week, we learn that the Russian Imperial Academy of Arts, has passed a law prohibiting Jews to become members of its artistic body. By the Nose of _Mr. Punch_, but this is too bad, and too bigoted for any century, let alone the "so-called Nineteenth." If such a rule, or rather such an exception, could have been possible in England within the last twenty years, what a discouragement it would have been for all the Royal Academicians, who would thereby _have lost Hart!_ Dear good old SOLOMON! He was a poor HART that often rejoiced, and if he was not the best painter in the world, he was just about the worst punster. We hope to hear that our Royal Academicians, with their large-hearted and golden-tongued President at their head, will send a friendly expostulation to their Russian Brothers in oil, and obtain the abrogation of this unreasonable legislation, which is one effect of an anti-semitic cyclone, fit only for the _Jew-ventus Mundi_, but not for the world at its maturity.

* * * * *

"DOT AND GO ONE"--no, see _Dot_, and go several times
again to see our JOHNNIE TOOLE at his own Theatre,
before he leaves for the Antipodes. The good old farce
of _Toole in the Pigskin_ is well-mounted, and is, of
course, one of the pieces on which he will rely, as
especially appropriate to Horse-tralia.

* * * * *

_Young Lady._ "CAN YOU TELL ME WHERE THE MEET IS?"

_Butcher's Boy_ (_a recent importation from London_). "YES, MUM. I JIST TOOK IT HUP TO THE 'ALL THIS MORNIN'!"]

* * * * *

THE START.

Off! Yes; but inexperienced feet,
With pace that's fast and a style that's neat,
At first can scarcely be expected
O'er frozen waters to glide and fleet.

"_Have them on, Sir?_" Old Time was there,
With the shining steels and the ready chair.
His latest pupil is passing yonder,
No more the ice-locked waters to dare.

_His_ feet are tired and his knees are stiff,
_His_ breath comes low in a wheezy whiff.
He'll now "lay up," like a worn-out wherry.
'Tis yours to start like a new-launched skiff.

How many a novice that Skate-man old
Has helped to onset alert and bold!
How many a veteran worn seen vanish,
Aching with effort and pinched with cold!

And you, young novice, 'tis now your turn
Your skates to try and your steps to learn.
You long to fly like the skimming swallow,
To brave the breathless "scurry" you burn.

He knows, he knows, your aged guide!
The screws are fixed, and the straps are tied,
And he looks sharp out for the shambling stagger,
The elbows wobbling, the knees too wide.

But boyhood's hopeful, and youth has pluck;
And now, when scarcely your steel hath struck
The slithery ice in your first bold venture,
_Punch_, friendly watcher, will wish you luck!

He too has seen some novices start,
And knows, however you play your part,
The "outside edge," and attendant perils,
Will tax your sinews and test your heart.

But most on the ice does the old saw hold--
"Be bold, be bold, but be not _too_ bold!"
Though there's many a rotten patch marked "Danger!"
Young hearts are warm if the weather be cold.

Bravo, youngster! Steady! Strike out!
Caution, yes, but not palsying doubt.
Courage! and you--ere your course you finish--
May beat "Fish" SMART at a flying bout!

* * * * *

ROBERT'S KRISMUS HIM.

How werry warious is the reasons why
We welcoms Crismus with a ringing cheer!
The Skoolboy nos his hollidays is nigh,
And treats the hale stout Porter to sum Beer.

The Cook and Ousemaid smiles upon the Baker,
Who takes his little fee without no blush,
Likewise upon the Butcher and Shoo Maker
Who makes their calls dispite the Sno or Slush.

The Dustman cums a crying out for "Dust,"
But nos full well that isn't wot he seeks,
And gits his well-earned shilling with the fust,
And smiles on Mary as his thanks he speaks.

The Groser smart, as likewise his Green Brother,
In their best close cums with a modest ring,
And having got their orders, one and tother,
Smilingly asks for jest one other thing.

The Postman's dubbel nock cums to each door,
Whether he has a Letter got or no,
The stingy Master thinks his call a bore,
And gives his paltry shilling werry slow.

The jowial Waiter shows unwonted joy!
And hails his Crismus with becoming glee!
Knowing full well _his_ plezzurs newer cloy,
Who gets from ewery Gest a dubble fee!

Why are not all men like the jowial Waiter,
Allers content with what kind Fortune brings,
Whether it's Turtel Soop or a meer tater,
He sets a pattern to Lord Mares and Kings.

Then let us all while Crismus time we're keeping,
Whether we barsks in fortune's smile or frown,
Be thankful for the harwest we are reaping,
And give a thort to them whose luck is down.

ROBERT.

* * * * *

HISTORICAL PARALLELS.--Two Directories. The French
_Directoire_ was a short-lived stopgap of not unmixed
benefit to France, but our English Directory, yclept
KELLY'S, for 1890, directorily, or indirectorily,
supplies all our wants, comes always "as a boon and a
blessing to men," and is within a decade of becoming a
hale and hearty centenarian. _Vivat_ KELLY!

* * * * *

* * * * *

UNTILED; OR, THE MODERN ASMODEUS.

"Très volontiers," repartit le démon.

"Vous aimez les tableaux changeans: je veux vous contenter."

_Le Diable Boiteux._