DOI Heft:
November 15, 1873
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16937#0211
November 15, 1873.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
199
OUR REPRESENTATIVE MAN.
Regrets and Reports,
RLEND OF MV SOUL,
Life is full of
regrets. For your
sake, for the sake of
the public, I do re-
gret my inability up
to this present mo-
ment to visit the
Alexandra Theatre,
near Regent’s Park.
Day after day has
my eye fallen on the
advertisement, “ See
Aphdal,”—and ah!
Sir, I have not seen
her. Every morning
as I opened my Times,
there it was, growing
more and more re-
proachful in its as-
pect — “ See Aph-
dal.”
“ Aphdal ! ” I ex-
claimed. “ I come! ”
—but I didn’t.
Pleadingly the
advertisement has
lain before me. And
now I see, that ere
these lines shall have
fallen in pleasant
places, Aphdal will
have vanished for
ever, for the Opera
wherein she was per-
forming (I have as-
certained that Aph-
dal was of the femi-
nine gender) will have been withdrawn. Ah! Aphdal, gentle Aphdal, who
gave you that name ? How sweet, how soothing, how uncommonly like Robur,
The Tea Spirit. Strange ! I believe that Aphdal in the Opera was a Water-
Spirit, and if she were hut a Hot Water Spirit what an affinity then between
t£e timid Aphdal and the heroic Robtjr. There at once is your fairy story for
Christmas. Ah ! Why was it withdrawn ? Do you not see, Sir, how Robur would
have loved Aphdal, and after a brief period of mundane trial as Harlequin and
Columbine, they would have been married, and lived happily ever after F
And another Regret. The Persian Zuleika, described as “ the Country-
'■MS-
I ».
j ;wuinan of the Shah,” has' ffom the present moment
of writing only four or five nights more of stage exist-
ence, at the Charing Cross. Then she, too, will have
vanished, like a bright meteor, and have joined the
Resplendent Aphdal in the land of Spirits.
I cannot be everywhere at once. I often wish I could
be somewhere else when I’m where I am. I saw Sour
Grapes at the Olympic. I looked at it through a fog. The
fog had penetrated into the house—had filled it. It was
very foggy on the stage that night. Mr. Anson was very
good as the Country Bumpkin ; and so was Mr. Charles
Neville as the Villanous Aristocrat. There was the
Farmer and the Farmer’s wife—honest couple (at least
I believe so, only the fog was so thick I could not get
clearly at the story), and the Farmer’s daughter—virtu-
ous, and in love with a Lord. And there was the Lord in
love with the Farmer’s daughter, and disguising himself
in order to court her. And there was the usual Charles
his Friend, and the dashing young lady (Miss Fowler),
in a riding-habit, looking so bright in spite of the fog,
and having a telling exit speech, which brought me down,
and, after me, the house; and then there was the
Lawyer, with the will in his pocket, to he produced at
the right moment; and then there was the Haughty
Lady of high rank, who wouldn’t consent (strangely
enough) to the marriage of her son, the noble Lord,
with a Farmer’s daughter; and there were the two
“little bits of character ” thrown in because the Manager
wanted to show “the strength of his company; ” and,
in fact, there was everything and everybody that could
he wished for by any student of the pictures and plots
in the London Journal. How pleased and delighted
I was!
And then there came a good hit of fun called Riche-
lieu Redressed, written by Mr. R. Reece, wherein
there were “hits of the day,” from the rise of the
curtain to the fall. The day was hit very hard
indeed. It was not exactly a parody on Richelieu,
and Mr. Irving was only occasionally imitated. Per-
haps it was at one time hoped that the Lord Cham-
berlain would have interfered, and made the harm-
less satire a colossal success. But his Lordship knows a
trick worth two of that now. The theatres have their
licence : let them enjoy their liberty. Good taste is the
best censor; and if there is a question as to what is and
what is not good taste, I shall refer the question to you,
Sir, my, chief, as Your Representative.
Literary Announcement. — In the Press—Yester-
day’s Tablecloth.
A HEATHEN UNDERTAKING.
A rbmarkable instance of the vast inferiority of the Hindoos to
ourselves, in point of civilisation and enlightenment, is recorded in
the Times of India. According to that journal, there lately died at
Bombay one of the principal inhabitants of that city, Mr. Venaye-
crao Juggonathjee Sunkersett. The remains of this benighted
Hindoo were disposed of by his equally benighted relatives after
the barbarous fashion of the no less benighted antique Romans.
They were subjected to the unphilosophical process of cremation.
This was preceded by various ceremonies, of course more or less
absurd, and by superstitious recitations, which Brahmins are pleased
to caU prayers. Some money had necessarily been expended on the
pyre provided for this heathen funeral; but an English undertaker
would he shocked by the mean simplicity of the article of its furni-
ture thus described:—
. “.A word about the bier : it seemed to us to be a rather shabby affair, con-
sisting only of split bamboo sides and arms, and with a rush bottom ; but as
the bier itself was subsequently broken to pieces and burnt, it perhaps served
its purpose as well as a more ostentatious one would have done, and at no
expense worth mentioning.”
This was indeed worse than rather a shabby affair. It was a very
shabby affair indeed; altogether the reverse of “respectable,” as
our undertakers expressively call the expensive hut necessary fur-
niture which we do not burn and waste at once, but inter to moulder
m due time.
When we think of the advantage, derived by this country, in
point of ornament, use, and sanitary progress, from the continued
extension and encroachment of cemeteries on commons and open
spaces, we cannot fail to see how much more wisely we dispose of
our dead than those who do so as follows :—
Then the flames shot up into the ah, a canopy of smoke overhung the
spot, and all was over; the mourners dispersed, and by midnight nothing
remained of our well-known citizen but a handful of white ashes and a few
calcined bones.”
That is how the votaries of Juggernath use the form of organic
matter relinquished by the spirit of a Juggonathjee. They reduce it
in a few hours to phosphate of lime and other earthy salts, having,
in the meanwhile, driven off its combustible portion aloft in the
form of gases into the atmosphere. Thus they practise what
Mr. O’Braxlaghan calls atmospheric interment. We.more reason-
ably allow derelict organisms to decompose at their leisure, and the
products of their decomposition to mingle, some.of them, with the
air which we breathe, whilst others leak away into our wells and
constitute ingredients of the water which we drink. We have no
heathen prejudices.
RUSSIAN SCANDAL.
Russian Scandal is an amusing game. The Nord contains a letter
from St. Petersburg, and here is a slight extract. The Correspondent
states that the marriage of the Grand Duchess is fixed for January,
and that on the occasion the Court of the Czar will receive the visit
of the Prince and Princess of Wales,
“ du due de Cambridge, oncle de la Keine Victoria et generalissimo des
armees anglaises, et enfin de l’archeveque de Westminster et de son epouse,
dame d’honneur de la Keine d’Angleterre.”
We all know that the Duke of Cambridge is the Queen’s uncle,
of course, and that the Archbishop of Westminster has the
honour of crowning our royalties. But we did not know that Dr.
Manning was married, and, therefore, could not he supposed to be
aware that Mrs. Manning is dame d’honneur to our Queen. But a
continental journalist’s haughty contempt for facts is part of the
nobility of his character.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
199
OUR REPRESENTATIVE MAN.
Regrets and Reports,
RLEND OF MV SOUL,
Life is full of
regrets. For your
sake, for the sake of
the public, I do re-
gret my inability up
to this present mo-
ment to visit the
Alexandra Theatre,
near Regent’s Park.
Day after day has
my eye fallen on the
advertisement, “ See
Aphdal,”—and ah!
Sir, I have not seen
her. Every morning
as I opened my Times,
there it was, growing
more and more re-
proachful in its as-
pect — “ See Aph-
dal.”
“ Aphdal ! ” I ex-
claimed. “ I come! ”
—but I didn’t.
Pleadingly the
advertisement has
lain before me. And
now I see, that ere
these lines shall have
fallen in pleasant
places, Aphdal will
have vanished for
ever, for the Opera
wherein she was per-
forming (I have as-
certained that Aph-
dal was of the femi-
nine gender) will have been withdrawn. Ah! Aphdal, gentle Aphdal, who
gave you that name ? How sweet, how soothing, how uncommonly like Robur,
The Tea Spirit. Strange ! I believe that Aphdal in the Opera was a Water-
Spirit, and if she were hut a Hot Water Spirit what an affinity then between
t£e timid Aphdal and the heroic Robtjr. There at once is your fairy story for
Christmas. Ah ! Why was it withdrawn ? Do you not see, Sir, how Robur would
have loved Aphdal, and after a brief period of mundane trial as Harlequin and
Columbine, they would have been married, and lived happily ever after F
And another Regret. The Persian Zuleika, described as “ the Country-
'■MS-
I ».
j ;wuinan of the Shah,” has' ffom the present moment
of writing only four or five nights more of stage exist-
ence, at the Charing Cross. Then she, too, will have
vanished, like a bright meteor, and have joined the
Resplendent Aphdal in the land of Spirits.
I cannot be everywhere at once. I often wish I could
be somewhere else when I’m where I am. I saw Sour
Grapes at the Olympic. I looked at it through a fog. The
fog had penetrated into the house—had filled it. It was
very foggy on the stage that night. Mr. Anson was very
good as the Country Bumpkin ; and so was Mr. Charles
Neville as the Villanous Aristocrat. There was the
Farmer and the Farmer’s wife—honest couple (at least
I believe so, only the fog was so thick I could not get
clearly at the story), and the Farmer’s daughter—virtu-
ous, and in love with a Lord. And there was the Lord in
love with the Farmer’s daughter, and disguising himself
in order to court her. And there was the usual Charles
his Friend, and the dashing young lady (Miss Fowler),
in a riding-habit, looking so bright in spite of the fog,
and having a telling exit speech, which brought me down,
and, after me, the house; and then there was the
Lawyer, with the will in his pocket, to he produced at
the right moment; and then there was the Haughty
Lady of high rank, who wouldn’t consent (strangely
enough) to the marriage of her son, the noble Lord,
with a Farmer’s daughter; and there were the two
“little bits of character ” thrown in because the Manager
wanted to show “the strength of his company; ” and,
in fact, there was everything and everybody that could
he wished for by any student of the pictures and plots
in the London Journal. How pleased and delighted
I was!
And then there came a good hit of fun called Riche-
lieu Redressed, written by Mr. R. Reece, wherein
there were “hits of the day,” from the rise of the
curtain to the fall. The day was hit very hard
indeed. It was not exactly a parody on Richelieu,
and Mr. Irving was only occasionally imitated. Per-
haps it was at one time hoped that the Lord Cham-
berlain would have interfered, and made the harm-
less satire a colossal success. But his Lordship knows a
trick worth two of that now. The theatres have their
licence : let them enjoy their liberty. Good taste is the
best censor; and if there is a question as to what is and
what is not good taste, I shall refer the question to you,
Sir, my, chief, as Your Representative.
Literary Announcement. — In the Press—Yester-
day’s Tablecloth.
A HEATHEN UNDERTAKING.
A rbmarkable instance of the vast inferiority of the Hindoos to
ourselves, in point of civilisation and enlightenment, is recorded in
the Times of India. According to that journal, there lately died at
Bombay one of the principal inhabitants of that city, Mr. Venaye-
crao Juggonathjee Sunkersett. The remains of this benighted
Hindoo were disposed of by his equally benighted relatives after
the barbarous fashion of the no less benighted antique Romans.
They were subjected to the unphilosophical process of cremation.
This was preceded by various ceremonies, of course more or less
absurd, and by superstitious recitations, which Brahmins are pleased
to caU prayers. Some money had necessarily been expended on the
pyre provided for this heathen funeral; but an English undertaker
would he shocked by the mean simplicity of the article of its furni-
ture thus described:—
. “.A word about the bier : it seemed to us to be a rather shabby affair, con-
sisting only of split bamboo sides and arms, and with a rush bottom ; but as
the bier itself was subsequently broken to pieces and burnt, it perhaps served
its purpose as well as a more ostentatious one would have done, and at no
expense worth mentioning.”
This was indeed worse than rather a shabby affair. It was a very
shabby affair indeed; altogether the reverse of “respectable,” as
our undertakers expressively call the expensive hut necessary fur-
niture which we do not burn and waste at once, but inter to moulder
m due time.
When we think of the advantage, derived by this country, in
point of ornament, use, and sanitary progress, from the continued
extension and encroachment of cemeteries on commons and open
spaces, we cannot fail to see how much more wisely we dispose of
our dead than those who do so as follows :—
Then the flames shot up into the ah, a canopy of smoke overhung the
spot, and all was over; the mourners dispersed, and by midnight nothing
remained of our well-known citizen but a handful of white ashes and a few
calcined bones.”
That is how the votaries of Juggernath use the form of organic
matter relinquished by the spirit of a Juggonathjee. They reduce it
in a few hours to phosphate of lime and other earthy salts, having,
in the meanwhile, driven off its combustible portion aloft in the
form of gases into the atmosphere. Thus they practise what
Mr. O’Braxlaghan calls atmospheric interment. We.more reason-
ably allow derelict organisms to decompose at their leisure, and the
products of their decomposition to mingle, some.of them, with the
air which we breathe, whilst others leak away into our wells and
constitute ingredients of the water which we drink. We have no
heathen prejudices.
RUSSIAN SCANDAL.
Russian Scandal is an amusing game. The Nord contains a letter
from St. Petersburg, and here is a slight extract. The Correspondent
states that the marriage of the Grand Duchess is fixed for January,
and that on the occasion the Court of the Czar will receive the visit
of the Prince and Princess of Wales,
“ du due de Cambridge, oncle de la Keine Victoria et generalissimo des
armees anglaises, et enfin de l’archeveque de Westminster et de son epouse,
dame d’honneur de la Keine d’Angleterre.”
We all know that the Duke of Cambridge is the Queen’s uncle,
of course, and that the Archbishop of Westminster has the
honour of crowning our royalties. But we did not know that Dr.
Manning was married, and, therefore, could not he supposed to be
aware that Mrs. Manning is dame d’honneur to our Queen. But a
continental journalist’s haughty contempt for facts is part of the
nobility of his character.