Punch (95.1888)

144 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [September 22, 1888.

"OH, DON'T HE LOVE HIS MUMMER!"

In" Mr. Harry Quilter's Universal Revieio for September, Mr.
George Moore runs a-muck against " Mummer "Worship." The
well-worn theme of "the status of the Actor " is to the author of that

" But More of More Hall,
"With, nothing at all,
He slew the Dragon of Wantley ! "

strong Zola-esque novel, The Mummer''s Wife,—in which, bytheway,
while spades are called something more than spades, there is much
unpalatable truth,—like the proverbial red rag to the bull, or the
ankles of the timid stranger to George Meredith's " distraught goose."

All that Mr. George Moore has to say about the "Stage as a
profession" has been said, without mincing matters, long ago in
Sir. Edmund Yates's Time (a Magazine), and in the Fortnightly
Review, in Mr. Escott's time. Mr. Moore wanders away from his
text of Mummer-worship, and needlessly and inconsequently attacks
Mr. Charles Wyndham and Miss Mast Moore for their Continental
tour with David Garrick. That Actor and Actress should be
received into " Society " at all " does make him sowild." "Well, he
needn't meet them. He can keep aloof from Society, and the loss
will, of course, be Society's.

" Because I have cakes and ale," Mr. Moore seems to say to the
Actors, "therefore you shan't be virtuous." And "you shan't even
be respectable, if I can help it," is his implied determination ; for-
getting that " respectability is the homage paid by vice to virtue,"
with which cynical definition Mr. Moore should be satisfied, as
covering all his ground of complaint,

The artistic temperament is innately Bohemian, and it feels itself
ridiculous when attempting to shine with the veneer of bourgeois
respectability. But the ostentatious Bohemianism which Mr. George
Moore considers the proper colour for the Actors to live and die
in, with its inordinate vanity, vulgar self-consciousness, affected
bonhomie, and flippant profanity, is more repulsively snobbish and
revoltingly caddish, than the best silk-hatted, frock-coated Respec-
tability can ever be.

The craze of Actor-worship is rapidly passing away. _ Buffalo
Bill's popularity with "Society" hit the histrion a serious blow;
so did the momentary success of the athlete. The fault is in the
worshippers, not in the object of their adoration. Mr. George
Grossmith laughs pleasantly at the craze in his amusing shillings-
worth, entitled, The Clown in Society.

Let the Actor enjoy himself with his Dukes and Duchesses, his
supper and champagne, and do you, Mr. Moore, enjoy yourself
too, with your "couple of Princesses and a Duchess" (which is
your own modest allowance foryourself " in perspective"), but you
needn't throw stones through the window panes, merely because you
catch sight of Comedians in the Duke's drawing-room.

If the Actor's vanity hungrily craves for recognition in what is
termed " Society," then, like the little boy in the bath, "he won't
be happy till he gets it." And if that makes him happy, Mr. George
Moore, "happy man be his dole." But why envy him ? Why blame
him ? Blame Society,—and your task is futile and endless.

THE Morning'Post, last Wednesday, mentioned a "Firework
Drama," by Mr. Brock, at the Crystal' Palace. Of course the lead-
ing Lady was Miss Catherine Wheel. There must have been
several Stars. Probably the show concluded with a political Squib.
The next novelty in. the Pyrotechnic Theatrical line will be an
adaptation of one of Planche's old Fairy-tale Extravaganzas, to
be entitled, Rochet with the Tuft.

A TALE OE ONE HUNDRED CIGAES.

Sir,— The ordinary Englishman may fondly imagine that he can
pass his cherished Savannas, up to, say, one hundred, through that
remarkable institution known in France as the Douane. That's
where he's wrong. He can't! At all events, he can't, if he tries to
be honest, as I did, and disclose the fact that his paquet contains
Havanna cigars. As is well known, the French Government is a
paternal one, and in its infinite wisdom does not permit anything
but cabbage, choux, to be smoked in La Belle France. Real tobacco
is considered deadly. However, let me at once proceed to the recital
of the One Hundred Cigars.

First week of August I wrote, enclosing cheque, to the Army and
Navy Stores, from Royat-les-Bains, to order one hundred of the for-
bidden fruit, I should say, weeds. By return I get receipt from
Stores, and note to say that "the goods shall be forwarded with all
practicable dispatch." So far, so good. Four days after this I
receive from Monsieur le Chef de Gare du Nord at Paris the following
most bewildering communication:—

Grande Vitesse 1. Trafic International. Paris.

Monsieur,—J'ai l'honneur de vous informer qu'il est arrive a
votre adresse, en grande vitesse [observe the sarcasm], clans les
magasins du douane, a. la Gare du Nbrd, expedies par M. Army
Wavy [sic), a Londres, les colis ci-apres designes :^ 100 cigarres.

Vous devrez signer l'une des deux formules ci-dessous, selon que
vous prendrez livraison en gare ou que vous preferez vous faire livrer
la marchandise a domicile par le camionage de la Compagnie.

I do so. Sign the "formule" which permits, apparently, the
delivery of our one hundred chez nous. Alas ! how little I knew of
the ways, and means, of the Douane. Daily we (myself and
expectant friends) journey down to the Gare de Royat, "pour
demander si les cigarres [why two r's ?] de Monsieur sont arrives."
" Non, Monsieur, pas de paquet pour vous." Quoi faire f Nous
attendons. On a Wednesday in August we receive a billet-doux from
the Chef de Gare, as follows :—

" Hons avons recu votre lettre. Les cigarres etant prokibes, veuil-
lez adresser une demande d'autorisation d'entree sur x^apier timbre
a M. le Directeur de la Douane pour obtenir 1'entree des cigarres con-
formement aux instructions, jointes a notre avis 338 du 11 courant."

I fly—always with my friends, who are now beginning to doubt
whether I ever ordered any cigars at all, and are rather less generous
with their own towards me than they were—to the post-office to
purchase the cherished "pcCpier timbre." Wearetold, " Vous trouvez
qu chez le marehand de tabac." Thither we wend our weary way, to
learn that "II rCy en a pas ici. C'est a Clermont (town twenty minutes
by carriage from Royat) que vous trouvez ca. Rue Saint Esprit."

My friends will not quit me, so we all go together. Arrived at
Clermont, we find the marehand de tabac, Rue Saint Esprit, and
are, on payment of soixante centimes, armed with the formidable
papier timbre. So off we walk to the nearest cafe, demand ink
and pen, and indite in our most classic French a humble petition to
the Directeur de la Gare du Nord, a Paris. In five minutes more
it is in the letter-box, and we are wending our way back to the iron
waters of Royat. We feel we require tonics. This ends our labours
on Thursday. Allons! du courage ! Enfin c'est toujours possible
que M. le Directeur de la Douane finira par nous envoyer nos pauvres
cigarres.

Seated at dinner on the following Saturday evening, we learn,
to our dismay (a heavy rain-storm is at the moment doing its best
to wash the town away), that the ill-fated cigars have at length
arrived at the hotel, but the well-meaning though officious Con-
cierge has sent them away, because he did not know if Monsieur
(meaning the humble individual who now addresses you, '' moi qui
parle ") was prepared to pay the trifling sum of thirty-six francs
duty on one hundred cigars ! Having explained that I was ready to
pay double, he secured the cigars ; and thus, after much time, labour,
journeying, lamenting, and heart-ache, I was rewarded by the receipt
of my One Hundred Cigars! How sweet was the first one (slightly
damp, it is true), but real tobacco! All's well that ends well.

Moral.—When endeavouring to pass a cigar through the Douane,
allow at least a fortnight for the function. Ah! Mr. Punch, 1
know you smoke, like myself, good cigars, and I feel that, in your
kind heart, I shall find some of that sympathy which may soothe my
shattered nerves. Vale, amice ! Yours, A Mere Baoca Tell.

" Quite English, you Know !"—We see a new Opera announced
for the 25th at the Crystal Palace. It is an English Opera, Libretto
by an Englishman, C. Bradberry (never seen it spelt like this
before—"put it down a ' u,' my Lord "), and the music by another
Englishman, Mr. George Fox. The subject is The Corsican Brothers.
Mr. Fox ought to play Chateau-Renard. Of course he can, Brothers,
if he pleases. With the usual white face, corked eyebrows, and
Mephistophelian moustache, he might come out as a sort of Guy
Fox, Success to the English Composer.

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