Punch (95.1888)

226

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[November 10, 1888.

PARLIAMENTARY.

Pedestrian (in a hurry). "Hi ! 'Give you Five Shillings to get me to "Westminster
by Twelve o'clock."

Cabby. " Oh, you may corrupt me, SlR. jump in. If we can only secure this old

Hoss's Vote, we may carry it I"

OUE ■BOOKING-OFFICE.

A Volume of Ibsen's Plays (belonging to "the Camelot Series," of whose existence I am
hereby made aware) has been lent me by a simple trusting friend. The good simple sotil
has written his name in the fly-leaf, with a date; hut there is sufficient space to write
above his signature:—" To my dear friend the Baron de Bookworms, from his sincerely
attached, _ and here will come in, quite neatly and appropriately, his own name in his own
handwriting. I have only had time to read the first two plays, The Pillars of Society,
and Ghosts. Ihe first of these, until the middle of the Second Act, is troublesome reading,
the dialogue being diffuse, commonplace, and the stage-directions ridiculous. _ But when the
interest really commences, and the reader is on speaking terms with the various characters,
then, as the story is gradually worked out, the plot proves to be as strong as the characters
are original. Properly condensed and well acted, it ought to he a powerful play, for which
able exponents should he found on the English stage. The translation is evidently truthful
and very close, but the hand of a practical playwright is needed to put it into proper form.
It is a pure-minded, manly-spirited, noble play, pointing a moral without any cant of

goody-goodiness. Nor is it deficient in
material for good low comedy or eccentric
character, without which it is difficult for
the best intentioned play to be anything hut
a burden to the most sympathetic and patient
audience. The dramatic possibilities in The
Pillars of Society are great, hut the play
as it stands certainly wouldnot do for the
stage, and the bald translation makes it a
tedious study taken as literature.

As to Ohosts, the second play, the trans-
lation here given may he close, but the
dialogue is even more diffuse than in The
Pillars, and it is pointless, and irrita-
tingly wearisome to read. Here and there
a situation in the painfully repulsive
story is undoubtedly dramatic, yet, as a
play, whether for an English audience or
any other, I sincerely hope its production
is impossible. The subject could be power-
fully treated in a Charles-Reade-ian novel •
but it requires the touch of a master hand
to adorn the pitiful tale, and point the moral.
So, on consideration, I shall not inscribe my
name on the fly-leaf, but shall return the
book to my friend to prove to him that he has
not shown misplaced confidence in his friend,
and then he will perhaps lend another and
more valuable book to the honest

Baron de Book-Worms.

BALLADS OF TO-DAY.

"ONE AT A TIME."
By Bungham Down.
Heavily through the Casino

The fumes of the roses float;
Heart of my heart! How could he know

She had come by the tidal-boat ?
As stiff as a royal merino,
Or the fur of the sea-side goat ?

[Andante hideoso.)
And he danced on one and the other,

He was far too ugly to care, .'
And Beauty her shrieks would smother,

And Valour forget to swear,
For he was a famous Poet,

And rich and debonair.

{Tempo di Valse.)
" One at a time, love, one at a time.'.
Ever he murmured the old sweet rime ;
One at a time, love ; fair is fair,
Haro ! and motley's the only wear ! "

[Puffo ma non troppo.)
And he leaned from the lush Casino,

And scanned the sounding sea;
Like the salt of a fruitless Eno,

It cream'd with a mocking glee,
Or moaned like the Moning Congou

At a foggy Five o'Clock Tea.

They play'd at the little horses,

But little of them reck'd he,
As he yearn'd for the stars in their courses

And*the moon in her crescentrie,
And his pulses reserv'd their forces,

For there in the dusk was She!
(Twingiamente.)
And the vacant space where his heart had

Throbb'd with a fancied pain, [place
As the phantom hoot on a long-lost foot

"Wakes bygone griefs again.

(Maestoso giocoso.)
There's a lonely tomb where surges boom

And the griddering pebbles grind,—
But he dances on one and the other,

He is far too ugly to mind.
" One at a time, love, one at a time.
Softly he murmurs the sweet, old rime;
One at a time, love; fair is fair,
Haro ! and motley's the only wear,"