Punch (99.1890)

192 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [October 18, 1890.

interest amongst the reviewing herd, a booklet whereof the title
furnished little if any indication to the contents. The Spinster s
Reticule, for so the name ran, came forth with no blare of journalistic
trumpets challenging approval from the towers of critical sagacity.
It appeared and lived. But between its cardboard covers the bruised
heart of Joanna beats before the world. She shines most in these
aphorisms. Her private talk, too, has its own brilliancy, spun, as
it was here and there, out of a museful mind at-the cooking of the
dinner or of the family accounts. She said of love that "it is the
sputter of grease in a frying-pan ; where it falls the fire burns with
a higher flame to consume it." * Of man, that "he may navigate
Mormon Bay, but he cannot sail to Khiva Point." The meaning is
too obvious it may be, but the thought is well imaged.

She is delightful when she touches on life. "Two," she says,
" may sit at a feast, but the feast is not thereby doubled." And,
again, "Passion may lift us to Himalaya heights, but the hams
are smoked in a chimney." And this of the soul, " He who fashions
a waterproof prevents not the clouds from dripping moisture.'1 Of
stockings she observes that, " The knitting-needles are long, but the
turn of the heel is a teaser." Here there is a delightful irony of
which matrons and maids may take note.

Such, then, was our Joanna—Joanna Mebesia Spbatt, to give
her that full name by which posterity is to know her—an ardent,
bubbling, bacon-loving girl-nature, with hands reaching from earth
to the stars, that blinked egregiously at the sight of her innocent
beauty, and hid themselves in winding clouds for very love of her.

Chapiee III.

Sie John Speatt had fashions that were peculiarly his own.
Vain it were to inquire how, from the long-perished Speatts that
went before him, he drew that form of human mind which was his.
Laws that are hidden from our prying eyes ordain that a man shall
be the visible exemplar of vanished ages, offering here and there a
hook of remembrance, on which a philosopher may hang a theory for
the world's admiring gaze. Far back in the misty past, of which
the fabulists bear record, there have swum Speatis within this
human ocean, and of these the ultimate and proudest was he with
whose life-story we are concerned. It was his habit to carry with him
on all journeys a bulky note-book, the store in which he laid by for
occasions of use the thoughts that thronged upon him, now feverishly,
as with the exultant leap of a rough-coated canine companion,
released from the thraldom of chain and kennel, and eager to seek
the Serpentine haunts of water-nymphs, and of sticks_ that fell with
a splash, and are brought back time and again whilst the shaken
spray bedews the onlookers ; now with the staid and solemn progres-
sion that is beloved of the equine drawers of four-wheeled chariots,
protesting with many growls against a load of occupants.

He had met Joanna. They had conversed. "An empty table, is
it not?" said she. "Nowhere!" said he, and they proceeded.
His " Nowhere! " had a penetrating significance—the more signifi-
cant for the sense that it left vague.

And so the marriage was arranged, the word that was to make
one of those who had hitherto been two had been spoken, and the
celebrating gifts came pouring in to the pair.

Sir John walked home with triumph swelling high in his heart.
Overhead the storm-clouds gathered ominously. First with a patter,
then with a drenching flood, the prisoned rain burst its bars, and
dashed clamouring down to the free earth. He paused, umbrella-
less, under a glimmering lamp-post. The hurrying steeds of a
carriage, passing at great speed, dashed the gathered slush of the
street over his dark-blue Melton over-coat. The imprecations of the
coachman and his jeers mingled strangely with the elemental roar.
Sir John heeded them not. He stood moveless for a space, then
slowly drawing forth his note-book, and sharpening his pencil, he
wrote the following phrase:—"Laid Brother to Banjo, one, two,
three, 5 to 4."

Chapiee IV.

A year had gone by, and with the spring that whispered softly
in the blossoming hedge-rows, and the melancholy cry of the female
fowl calling to her downy brood, Joanna had learnt new lessons of
a beneficent life, and had crystallised them in aphorisms, shaken
like dew from the morning leaf of her teeming fancy.

They sat at table together. Binns, the butler, who himself
dabbled in aphorism, and had sucked wisdom from the privy perusal
of Sir John's note-book, had laid before them a dish on which
reposed a small but well-boiled leg of one that had trod the South-
downs but a week before in all the pride of lusty life. There was
a silence for a moment.

" You will, as usual, take the fat ? " queried Sir John.

"Lean for me to-day," retorted Joanna, with one of her bright
flashes.

"Nay, nay," said her husband, "that were against tradition,
which assigns to you the fat."

* I guarantee all these remarks to be intensely humorous and brilliant. If
you can't see it, so much the worse for you. They are screamers,—G. Y.

Joanna pouted. Her mind rebelled against dictation. Besides,
were not her aphorisms superior to those of her husband ? The cold
face of Sir John grew eloquent in protest. She paused, and then
with one wave of her stately arm swept mutton, platter, knife, fork,
and caper sauce into the lap of Sir John, whence the astonished
Binns, gasping in pain, with much labour rescued them. Joanna
had disappeared in a flame of mocking laughter, and was heard
above calling on her maid for salts. But Sir John ere yet the
sauce had been fairly scraped from him, unclasped his note-book,
and with trembling fingers wrote therein, "Poole's master-pieces
are ever at the mercy of an angry woman."

Chapiee V.

Bui the world is hard, and there was little mercy shown for
Joanna's freak. Her husband had slain her. That was all. She
with her flashes, her gaiety, her laughter, was consigned to dust.
But in Sir John's note-book it was written that, "The hob-nailed
boot is but a bungling weapon. The drawing-room poker is better."

' THE GRASSHOPPERA» AT THE LYRIC.

Nothing prettier than La Cigale at the Lyric Theatre has been
seen in London for a very long time. The dresses are perfect, and
the three stage pictures which illustrate the graceful story could not
be better. Then the boak is admittedly a model libretto, set to music
at once fresh and charming. What more
could be desired ? Why capable exponents.
Here, again, Mr. Sedgeb is in luck's way.
With Miss Geraldjne IXlmab as the Grass-
hopper, and Miss Effie Clements as the
Ant, who could ask for more ? Without
replying to the question, it may be said at
once that " more " is excellently represented
by Mr. Eeic Lewis as a Duke, Mr. Lionel
Bbotjgb: as a Landlord (by the way the
Uncle of the Ant), and Mr. E. W. Gabtjen
as the Bill of the Play. Perhaps on the first
night the Chevaltee Scovel as the Chevalier
, de Bernheim was not quite at home in his
lurned on the ioe. new surr0undings. Accustomed to a more
biia/cspeare. serious kind of entertainment, he appeared a
trifle heavy, and his tenor notes (not unsuggestive of the Bank of
Elegance) were sometimes of doubtful value. By this time, how-
ever, no doubt, he has regained his normal composure, and sings as
successfully as any of his colleagues.

After the last Act everyone was called, inclusive of the composers
and the author ; the latter, being at that very moment on his way to
France, could not respond to the hearty applause with which his name
was greeted, and must accordingly await the personal congratula-
tions of the audience until his return from foreign parts. Mr. Caeyll
who had done so much to musically illustrate the Christmas Tree
Scene (thus meriting the title of Mr. Christmas Cabyll), was also
not to be found when wanted, and so the Sole Lessee and Manager had
nothing more to do than return thanks for all concerned, and make
up his mind to a rua that seems likely to keep him on his legs until
Easter.

TO MR. STANLEY.

[At a meeting of the Cardiff Corporation on Tuesday, October 7, a letter
was read from Mr. H. M. Stanley stating;, that he would he unable to
fulfil his engagement to visit Cardiff and accept the freedom of the borough.
All preparation for the ceremony had been made, and a costly silver casket,
which is now useless, was specially ordered. Mr. Stanley's excuse was
pressure of business in preparing for his American tour.—Daily Faper.']

The Council at Cardiff looked angry and glum,

Their chagrin was so great it was useless to mask it,

They had only just heard you were not going to come,
And alack! and alas! they had ordered the casket!

The address had been settled; the language was tall,
The phrases were apt and so beautifully rounded,

They had told of your pluck so well known to us all,
And your praises, of course, they had suitably sounded.

And then you can't come!—But it scarcely avails

To become of excuses a common concocter,
For if "pressure of business" will keep you from Wales,

Why go down to Cambridge to pose as a Doctor ?

Yes, think once again of your promise, and so

Just alter your mind, it would be much too hard if

You left unfulfilled your engagement to go
And receive (in a casket) the Freedom of Cardiff,

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