DOI issue:
March 3, 1883
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17754#0108
March 3, 1883.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
101
lines which from time to time are lugged in. to attract the
attention of the audience to the word. “ Caste,” as if he
himself was doubtful as to the congruity of the title with
the story, and was anxious to lose no occasion of connecting
it with the action, as if the whole thing were a charade.
Perhaps we may
he hypercritical,
if so, it must be
set down to obli-
quity of vision
from the fact of
having a “Caste”
in our eye when
we went to the
Haymarket. But,
be this as it may,
the performance
is well worth
seeing, the play
is charming, and
the evening
passes only too
quickly ; laugh-
ter and tears
alternate, and in
view of its being
shelved for
Fedora, we ad-
vise everyone to
see it while they
can, or hereafter those who have missed the chance will
regretfully own that “ they have lost Caste.’’
As we were leaving the theatre, a friend, deeply
interested in the play, observed thoughtfully to us—“ I
wonder what the future of all these people would be in a
Fourth Act.” He has since thought it out, and the
following is the result:—
Tne Ma-quizzy-ing them.
ACT IV.
The Scene represents the drawing-room of a nine-roomed
Villa at Brixton Rise. Esther discovered sewing
together little diagonal pieces of brightly-coloured
satin, and embroidering them with spangles. Enter
Pollt, quietly but handsomely dressed.
Polly (announcing herself). “ Mrs. Samuel Ger-
ridske.” Where’s your butler ?
Esther. Ah, Polly, it isn’t always a butler that
makes the true happiness of married life.
Polly, No; it’s his livery. Happy ? Why, you
haven’t even got your title on the door-plate !
Esther. No, indeed not. For my brave and reflective
George is so good. He says that as he has discovered
it is quite impossible that I can ever live up to his rank,
he will do his best and try and live down to mine,
j He is going on the Stage. See —[holding up her work)—
I am making him his first Harlequin’s dress !
Polly. I hope it’s loose.
Esther. It is, dear. But now tell me about Sam.
Polly. Samuel, if you please. Don’t cut him in half
like an over-sized orange. You forget that I’m in
Society, and that he’s up for the Junior Carlton.
Enter D’Alroy. He is carrying a baby in his arms, and
is followed by five other children, ranging respectively
in age from six downwards, and all more or less
bruised, and covered with mud.
D'Alroy. Ah, my darling ; we ’ve had such a glorious
morning in Kennington Park! I’ve been lyiDg on my
back and kicking all the children into the air. Look
at them ! I should have balanced the baby, only the
Police interfered.
Esther. My brave, dear, clumsy, but daring George !
My husband! Who would have thought that when I
married you I should .ever have lived to be the mother
of the talented D' Air oy Troupe !
D'Alroy (kissing her). My own dear, true, little
vulgar-minded wife (taking down his regimental sword).
By the bye, this may as well find its way to Atten-
| borough’s—eh?
Esther. No, darling. Keep it, and swallow it—for
my sake ! [They embrace.
Enter Hawtree. lie has on a mechanic's brown-paper
cap and soiled brown holland apron.
Polly. Good gracious! What is the matter with the
j Major r ”
Hawtree. Gas. Fact. Gone in for trade, you know. Couldn’t pull along
with that good fellow, Gerridge, in any other way. Aw—no !
D'Alroy. But I thought you had been trying to do the Park with him ?
Hawfree. Aw—yaas.
D'Alroy. And got cut by every fellow you met ?
Hawtree. Aw—yaas.
D'Alroy. And so then you put him up at the Club ? Eh ?
Hawtree. Aw—yaas.
D' Alroy. And he has been thunderingly pilled ?
Haivtree. Aw—yaas.
Polly. Well, then, the firm is henceforth Gerriuge, Hawtree & Co. ? I
rather like the sound of it. How odd, that you should finish up with gas!
D’you know now you always did look to me something like a lamp-post.
Hawtree. Aw—firm-footed—I suppose ?
Polly. No. Light-headed. [They go up the stage.
Enter Gerridge with the Marquise BE St. Maur on his arm.
Marquise (releasing him). Thanks! Ah, George, my dear boy, you know
that 1 have long been endeavouring to accommodate myself to the unique
circumstances and surroundings of your new connections, with all the hereditary
tact and determination of our race. Hitherto I have only partially succeeded.
To-day, it is true, on my way here, at the earnest solicitation of this
charmingly original young man, I stopped and partook of a recherche little
dejeuner sans fourcliette of whelks at a stall in the Borough Road.
Gerridge. 1 stood ’em.
Marquise [smiling). And no Bayard could have done more. But I am now
going to crown my efforts by a supreme act the like of which even my old
friend Froissart has not yet had to chronicle. I owe you all restitution and
apology for feelings cruelly wounded in the past. I can think of no reparation
so fitting and complete as this. [She opens door, and leads in Eccles. He is
perfectly sober, respectably dressed, a?id decorated with the badge of the Blue
Ribbon Army.) Once, in a fit of foolish pride, I said there was “no Eccles.”
I know there is an Eccles now. George, behold your future stepfather !
George. This is indeed, dear mother, a pleasure and a surprise! Can it
really be true ?
Eccles. Yes, my boy ! [Sings) “ They have married me to a Martjuizzy.”
Marquise. And you see he is already voue au Ruban bleu !
Eccles. Just so. And as I don’t happen to have a friend awaiting round the
corner, I shouldn’t mind a gallon or two of tea, if there’s any going.
Polly. Of course. Come along all of you. This is my day. Five o’clock—
shrimps.
All. With pleasure. [They prepare to adjourn.
Hawtree. By Jove! And after this people talk of—Caste !
Curtain.
Soldiers oh “ French Leave.”—The Orleans Dukes have scored a victory.
Although “ in retreat,” they have gained ground.
New Edition oe an Old Legal Puzzle.—Sir Percy “ Shelley’s Case.”
CRUISE OF THE CREWS.
By Dumb-Cravibo Junior.
A Short Spell. “ The Crew were more lively on the
he turn Journey.”
Vol. 84.
4
101
lines which from time to time are lugged in. to attract the
attention of the audience to the word. “ Caste,” as if he
himself was doubtful as to the congruity of the title with
the story, and was anxious to lose no occasion of connecting
it with the action, as if the whole thing were a charade.
Perhaps we may
he hypercritical,
if so, it must be
set down to obli-
quity of vision
from the fact of
having a “Caste”
in our eye when
we went to the
Haymarket. But,
be this as it may,
the performance
is well worth
seeing, the play
is charming, and
the evening
passes only too
quickly ; laugh-
ter and tears
alternate, and in
view of its being
shelved for
Fedora, we ad-
vise everyone to
see it while they
can, or hereafter those who have missed the chance will
regretfully own that “ they have lost Caste.’’
As we were leaving the theatre, a friend, deeply
interested in the play, observed thoughtfully to us—“ I
wonder what the future of all these people would be in a
Fourth Act.” He has since thought it out, and the
following is the result:—
Tne Ma-quizzy-ing them.
ACT IV.
The Scene represents the drawing-room of a nine-roomed
Villa at Brixton Rise. Esther discovered sewing
together little diagonal pieces of brightly-coloured
satin, and embroidering them with spangles. Enter
Pollt, quietly but handsomely dressed.
Polly (announcing herself). “ Mrs. Samuel Ger-
ridske.” Where’s your butler ?
Esther. Ah, Polly, it isn’t always a butler that
makes the true happiness of married life.
Polly, No; it’s his livery. Happy ? Why, you
haven’t even got your title on the door-plate !
Esther. No, indeed not. For my brave and reflective
George is so good. He says that as he has discovered
it is quite impossible that I can ever live up to his rank,
he will do his best and try and live down to mine,
j He is going on the Stage. See —[holding up her work)—
I am making him his first Harlequin’s dress !
Polly. I hope it’s loose.
Esther. It is, dear. But now tell me about Sam.
Polly. Samuel, if you please. Don’t cut him in half
like an over-sized orange. You forget that I’m in
Society, and that he’s up for the Junior Carlton.
Enter D’Alroy. He is carrying a baby in his arms, and
is followed by five other children, ranging respectively
in age from six downwards, and all more or less
bruised, and covered with mud.
D'Alroy. Ah, my darling ; we ’ve had such a glorious
morning in Kennington Park! I’ve been lyiDg on my
back and kicking all the children into the air. Look
at them ! I should have balanced the baby, only the
Police interfered.
Esther. My brave, dear, clumsy, but daring George !
My husband! Who would have thought that when I
married you I should .ever have lived to be the mother
of the talented D' Air oy Troupe !
D'Alroy (kissing her). My own dear, true, little
vulgar-minded wife (taking down his regimental sword).
By the bye, this may as well find its way to Atten-
| borough’s—eh?
Esther. No, darling. Keep it, and swallow it—for
my sake ! [They embrace.
Enter Hawtree. lie has on a mechanic's brown-paper
cap and soiled brown holland apron.
Polly. Good gracious! What is the matter with the
j Major r ”
Hawtree. Gas. Fact. Gone in for trade, you know. Couldn’t pull along
with that good fellow, Gerridge, in any other way. Aw—no !
D'Alroy. But I thought you had been trying to do the Park with him ?
Hawfree. Aw—yaas.
D'Alroy. And got cut by every fellow you met ?
Hawtree. Aw—yaas.
D'Alroy. And so then you put him up at the Club ? Eh ?
Hawtree. Aw—yaas.
D' Alroy. And he has been thunderingly pilled ?
Haivtree. Aw—yaas.
Polly. Well, then, the firm is henceforth Gerriuge, Hawtree & Co. ? I
rather like the sound of it. How odd, that you should finish up with gas!
D’you know now you always did look to me something like a lamp-post.
Hawtree. Aw—firm-footed—I suppose ?
Polly. No. Light-headed. [They go up the stage.
Enter Gerridge with the Marquise BE St. Maur on his arm.
Marquise (releasing him). Thanks! Ah, George, my dear boy, you know
that 1 have long been endeavouring to accommodate myself to the unique
circumstances and surroundings of your new connections, with all the hereditary
tact and determination of our race. Hitherto I have only partially succeeded.
To-day, it is true, on my way here, at the earnest solicitation of this
charmingly original young man, I stopped and partook of a recherche little
dejeuner sans fourcliette of whelks at a stall in the Borough Road.
Gerridge. 1 stood ’em.
Marquise [smiling). And no Bayard could have done more. But I am now
going to crown my efforts by a supreme act the like of which even my old
friend Froissart has not yet had to chronicle. I owe you all restitution and
apology for feelings cruelly wounded in the past. I can think of no reparation
so fitting and complete as this. [She opens door, and leads in Eccles. He is
perfectly sober, respectably dressed, a?id decorated with the badge of the Blue
Ribbon Army.) Once, in a fit of foolish pride, I said there was “no Eccles.”
I know there is an Eccles now. George, behold your future stepfather !
George. This is indeed, dear mother, a pleasure and a surprise! Can it
really be true ?
Eccles. Yes, my boy ! [Sings) “ They have married me to a Martjuizzy.”
Marquise. And you see he is already voue au Ruban bleu !
Eccles. Just so. And as I don’t happen to have a friend awaiting round the
corner, I shouldn’t mind a gallon or two of tea, if there’s any going.
Polly. Of course. Come along all of you. This is my day. Five o’clock—
shrimps.
All. With pleasure. [They prepare to adjourn.
Hawtree. By Jove! And after this people talk of—Caste !
Curtain.
Soldiers oh “ French Leave.”—The Orleans Dukes have scored a victory.
Although “ in retreat,” they have gained ground.
New Edition oe an Old Legal Puzzle.—Sir Percy “ Shelley’s Case.”
CRUISE OF THE CREWS.
By Dumb-Cravibo Junior.
A Short Spell. “ The Crew were more lively on the
he turn Journey.”
Vol. 84.
4