Punch (77.1879)

September 27, 1879.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.' H3

EVIDENCE OLFACTORY.

Angelina {scientific). "Do you smell the Iodine from the Sea, Edwin? Isn't it refreshing?"

Old Salt [overhearing). "What you smell ain't the Sea, Miss. It's the Town-Drains as flows out just 'ere!"

Lord Beaconsfield would of accepting Tracy Turnerelli's crown.
The name of Mr. Edward Terry is now so thoroughly associated with
this stage, that it has come to he looked on as his terry-tory or his
terry firma. He is no relation to Miss Terry or Mr. Terris, though
this does seem a little wys-terry-ous. Though His-terry repeats
itself, Our Terry doesn't. All this is highly in-terry-esting. As
for Miss Nellie Farren—well, the public would miss Nellie
Farren if she weren't there. There's not an inch to spare in the
house when there 's a Nell and two feet on the stage. That she is as
sprightly as the liveliest French actress, is to he accounted for by her
being of farren extraction. The dancing of Miss Kate Vaughan is
deservedly Vaunted. When she vorn t there she was still more
vaunted. Judging from her activity, she is strong, though she looks
a little vorn. Mr. Royce is invaluable, specially when he appears
as a lively viveur or a Royce-terer. He is an indefatigable dancer,
and trains on a spare diet of bold royce pudding. He doesn't dance
unless there's an r in the month. " That's my rule," he explains
to the other Rule in Maiden Lane, " because it's not your oyce-stir
season." In the lobby of the theatre there is a great display of pic-
torial art—also of practical H&ri in the Box-office—photographs of
theatrical types on the walls, and a fine specimen of Talbotype in
the Manager's room. The Stalls are comfortable, and the forms are
elegant. There are various Gaiety theatres over the civilised world,
but by this " the Gaiety of nations is eclipsed." As the hymn of the
'' Church and Stage Guild » has it—

" Oh, let the laity
Go to the Gaiety ! "

GARRICK CLUB.—An Association of literary and dramatic
celebrities, as also of singers and composers—in fact, anybody of any
note. The hall is lighted by the brilliancy of the members, while
feats, jokes, bon mots, and witticisms sparkle and crackle all over
the place. Good things are on the sideboard and in everybody's
mouth. Here is a comedian lunching off "a bit of fat," and a
tragedian is at a side-table cutting a joke. The tres sec wine of La
Veuve Pommery sparkles in the glasses, and the library shelves
dazzle the eye with their splendid diamond editions. Here at the
side-tables are unequalled musical critics having their knife into a
round of beef, while another is picking a bone with a popular com-
poser in a corner. Clever journalists are writing their indefinite
articles, racing journalists are passing the Post, while a messenger

from the great Jupiter has just called for a leader—which.may turn
out to be, like its mythological namesake, a Miss-Leda. The Hall
itself is an Exchange of Wit, where you hear the latest quotations.
The Committee are distinguished by their costume of the time of
Garrick—being all dressed in garrick-ter. In the billiard-room all
the members dress as Paul Pry, ivhen they play Pool. The only
quiet place is the card-room, and over this door is the appropriate
word, "Pax." Through the Aristophanic clouds of the smoking-
room it is difficult to see a joke. Should you come in late, and miss
it, you will be told that " it is jest gone." The best day for strangers
to visit the Garrick is Wit Monday.

A BRITISH BALLAD.

[Inspired by a recent Correspondence.)

I cannot sing the old songs,

Although you get them cheap ;
Pathetic, tender, bold songs—

Oh yes, we have a heap.
But if you watch the little birds

As I have done, you '11 see
Their aim is not to give their words,

But to touch their upper C.
So bring me strains from other lands,
In tongues that no one understands!

You say, " Then try the new songs ;

They 're elegant indeed.
Why not select a few songs ? "

Pooh! Songs ain't meant to read!
You talk of " tears," and never weep,

But sweetly smile instead ;
And when you have to whisper " sleep,"

You shout to wake the dead.
So give us still, from foreign lands,
The Songs that no one understands!

Short for a Two-Shilling Piece.—A Bibob. A Crown might
be called a Fibob.