Punch (77.1879)

August 2, 1879.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

41

COSTUME AND COIFFURE A LA GEENOUILLE,

Appropriate to the Wet Weather.

TWO IDOLS.

(An Alexandrine Idyl.)

[It has teen stated that, before returning to Paris, Mile. Sarah Bern-
hardt received from Lord Beaconsfield a commission to execute his bust.]

Sarah. Milord, you honour me!

Benjamin. Fair Sculptress, say not so!

The Sun receives not light, nor Genius honour ! No ;

Its rule is to impart.
Sarah {aside). Vieux blagueur ! {Aluud.) Ah! Milord,

Genius so opulent as yours may then afford

Some rays on me to waste ; and, in your climate dun,—■

All that there is of triste, where man ne'er sees the Sun,—

How trebly welcome such illumination!
Benjamin. Aye!

This dull, damp, dingy land, isle of the inky sky

And sempiternal shower, to you must surely be

As Hades' sombre gloom to poor Persephone.
Sarah. Yes, but here Plutus reigns, not Pluto !
Benjamin. Very true!

Our clouds are dense and dark, they shut out Heaven's own
blue,

Yet are they lined with gold, and rain a Danae's shower
On those who learn the trick of winning praise.

Sarah. Or power.

Yuu sway the dullards well!

Benjamin. A long-learned part I play,

You came, saw, and were seen, and conquered.

Sarah. For a day.

Well, the day's wage is good ; my triumph was not small,
Among your Duchesses, those hours in what you call
Your Salle d> Albert. Ha ! ha! Your Charite, I think,
Is charming, for it can not only smile, but ivink.

Benjamin. At aught that is the rage.

Sarah. As we are—you and I.

Ah! great is will!
Benjamin. Yet greater race. Its mastery

Makes itself felt in all, in Art, in power, in pelf,

Witness Pachel and you, the Pothschilds, and—myself.
Sarah. Pachel ! An Artist, too, mats tant soit peu grossiere !

Would she have witched your London ?
Benjamin. Not had you been there.

She could act, but she could not paint, nor sculp.

Sarah. I trust

Milord will be content when he beholds the bust.
Benjamin, fa va satis dire.'

Sarah. Ah, no! Well done 'twould make a third—
How few could take that place, and not appear absurd— ^
With those we late invoked, your Shakspeare, our Moliere,
In Alexandrines by young Aicard hailed. To share
His fame, by help of yours!--

Benjamin. Ah, pardon me, you know

In English those same Alexandrines will not flow.
Pombastic, stiff of joint, not e'en your magic tongue
Could make them musical in Saxon said or sung.

Sarah. Non ? Well, perhaps a wreath--

Benjamin [hastily). I pray you name it not.

Wreath me no wreaths henceforth!
Sarah (aside). Methinks the Earl grows hot.

How have I galled him ? (Aloud.) Ah ! the laurel Caesar
wore-

Benjamin, He had no Ttjrnerelli—blind and blatant bore!

Applause is turned to shame by such fools' lips out-bawled.

No ; sculp me as I am, not like great Julius, bald

Or bay-begirt.
Sarah (aside). Aha! j}y suis ; the aged Earl

Is proud of his black locks and frontal corymb-curl;

They are not vain, these men! (Aloud.) Milord, Hyperion's
^ brow,

Needs not the bays indeed.
Benjamin (sadly). More like a Welsh wig now.

Once, in the D'Orsay days, e'en Sarah's chisel,—tush !

The Circe of La Comedie I fear will blush

At senile vanity, though retrospective,—
Sarah. Nay,

Genius knows not age.
Benjamin. Well, what did Gladstone say ?

His age is his pet theme, after the Greeks and Turks.

I hear he petted you, and warmly praised your works.

Fancy that bilious Nestor coaxing you, ma chere,—

" Sceur pale d'Ariel qui vaflottante dans Pair " /
Sarah. Quel bon vieillard ! paternal, and so prosy ! No !

He is not of our kin,—and we are kin !
Benjamin. Just so.

Pace links such souls more than mere nationality—_

That accident of place—we share one fate and quality;

Hated while idolised—the doom of all that rule—

The envy of the prig, the wonder of the fool!

Kin ? Me they caU poseur and you poseuse !
Sarah. What then ?

Are we not proof 'gainst mots whilst we may master men ?

Spite is stupidity's blind tribute paid to wit :

The more you wrest from fate the more you earn of it—

Success's surest proof!
Benjamin. Your earnings must be large.

Sarah. And yours ?

Benjamin. Nor praise nor blame strikes through the

cynic targe.

Age gilds achievement.
Sarah. Ah ! I fear my bust must fail,

Without the laurel wreath to tell your triumph's tale.
Benjamin. Nay, an you love me, nay ! Sooner the cap-and-bells !
Sarah. Vrai ! Well, farewell, Milord!

Benjamin (with effusion). Ah ! saddest of farewells !

[Exeunt severally, smiling mysteriously.

"Eques," if Ever there was One.

Where is the hero ever earned his spurs by service in the field
better than Archibald Forres by his fifteen hours' ride with the
news of the victory of Ulundi ? After such a gallop he deserves to be
Knight of the Path—if only by perspiration.

Horace Adapted.

(For T. T. By S. D.)

Garrttlas abstrudo adulationes;
Displicent auro et foliis corona):
Mitte sectari rubra quo locorum

iEra morentur.
Simplici lauro nihil adlabores_
Tracy mi, euro: neque me ministrum
Dedecet laurus neque te per omnes

Pisum adhibentem.

Insanity in Excelsis.—Sky clouded, with a few lucid intervals.