DOI Heft:
January 5, 1889
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17687#0022
12
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[January 5, 1889.
THOUGHTS
On gazing at a Cook’s Tourist Ticket. (By a Person
How many times
Must I, who was so obviously planned
To boss, and thus to bless, my native
Scuttle to other climes F
Again, and ever yet again I come—
Whitewashed by time, by hope, by
exile—home,
Deeply resolved to play a game discreet,
Sober as Bacon, though with beans
replete ;
And then what happens ? Scarce do I
begin
To show the nobler mood that I am in—
To prove myself a man misunderstood,
Who, sternly great, can yet be sweetly
good,
Than all is lost once more! The imp
in me,
Seizing the very opportunity
That should my loftier attributes
display,
Rises to make hay !
Hay will he make, the imp in me, of all
My vows as home-returning Prodigal,
My penitential oaths henceforth to be
A Chesterfield of wise humility,
My xorudent resolutions to forgive
And evermore in gentilesse to live, [a glance
One glimpse of St-nh-pe —(wizen youth!)—
At G-sch-n’s testudinean countenance ;
Snelgroye to meet; only to be awhile
Involved in Marshall’s cat-of-Cheshire smile,
And all my store of resolutions sage
Is fired by mischief and explodes in rage.
And is it to be ever thus ? Am I,
In the full manhood and maturity
Of genius vast, ever to be foredone
By that survival in my mother’s son,
Her most outrageous Pickle of a boy ?
So must I fear : and, therefore, farewell joy
Ho more for me the exquisite delight
Of flooring Dignities to left and right;
of Quality.)
Bigwigs from place no longer meekly go,
Obedient to my indicative toe ;
And while my wooing’s vain, ’tis vainer
yet
? To kick my way into the Cabinet.
Thrice have I played the terrorising
game,
Twice have I bolted in excess of shame ;
And now a fresh fiasco bids me fly
Ear from that terror to me, the mocking
eye.
Just one more kick at parting, and I
pack;
And when I do—ay, when I do come
back,
This gang of goitered idiots shall see
What comes of sniggering o’er the wall
at Me ! [to say ?
But softly ! Shall I go ? Why, who’s
As soon as I am well upon my way,
Some bloody news from Black Land yet
may come
To make me curse the hour I turned
from home.
That I will not; far too good the
chance
Bestowed on me by timely circumstance.
I will remain! And why I do not go,
Let Gr-ne-ll stumble and the gang shall
know!
From thy resounding halls, my Paddington,
Such lava-floods of rignteous ire shall run,
That Greenlands smug, that Hatfield’s loathly
sties,
Shall scorch at the reflection in the skies !
Go ?
OUR B0OKINGr-OFFICE.
What is against Mr. Farjeon’s clever story of Devlin the Barber,
is its grotesque title, and its burlesque frontispiece representing the
Mephistophelian hero of the tale. It seems a mistake to have
given Devlin such a theatrically diabolic make-up, but, on the
other hand,the novelist must have chuckled
over the artful manner in which he has
misled his readers as to the real character
of the man. The plot is simple, but it is
quite a boite a surprise, and Devlin the
Barber is-, well, you’ll see. Read it.
There is a good short article on Pickwick
,1 in the December number of the Cornhill,
1 illustrating the hap-hazardiness of genius
D in the matter of details. Pickwick was
started with no idea in the author’s mind
Exhibiting a Strong Grasp except of writing up to Seymour’s illus-
of the Subject. trations; the story grew; the Pickwick Club
practically ceased to exist after the “ Bill
Stumps his mark ” incident, and the Pickwickians went on a roving
commission, with powers to add to their number such characters as
the author chose to introduce them to. Contradictions and irrecon-
cilable difficulties are of frequent occurrence, and yet what did it
matter to the first readers, and what does it matter to us now, except
as one more among the many conclusive proofs that genius—writing
currente calamo— is above rules. Pickwick is immortal.
Excellent in illustration, and interesting in matter, is the Double
Humber for Christmas of the English Illustrated Magazine, especially
the article on Macbeth, anent its revival at the Lyceum.
There is rather a De Quincey-ish article in the Fortnightly by
Oscar Wilde on Wainewright, the penman, pencilman, and
poisoner. When I say De Quincey-like, I mean that it reminds me of
that bizarre “Essay on Murder considered as one of the Fine Arts,”
which, with another on a certain historical character, I wish the
Opium-eater had never written. Yet there is a weird fascination
about De Quincey’s cynicism as there is about Thackeray’s
detestable Catherine. 0. W.’s article is “not too De Quincey-ish,
but just De Quincey-ish enough.” In the same magazine Edmund
Gosse gives a fair enough literary criticism of Ibsen’s Social
Dramas, but wisely does not attempt to treat them from an English
practical dramatist’s point of view. As we have them, not one
could be placed in its entirety on the stage without wearying an
audience, and I fancy not more than two would repay the trouble.
Of these two The Pillars of. Society would be one, and powerful
writing (beyond mere adaptation), ingenious stage-management and
rare acting would be required to make it a success. As long as
Ibsen’s Dramas are not placed on the English stage, they will be
enthusiastically praised by a certain clique, who flatter themselves
on knowing a great deal of everything, especially the drama. To a
Manager I should say, “Trust them not, they’re fooling thee.
Beware! beware! The Baron de Book Worms.
THE MOAH OF THE MOHSTROSITY.
[The Islington Vestry warts to put down the public exhibitions of “ giants,
dwarfs, and abnormally fat women.”]
Pity a poor Monstrosity! Hope’s gone,
If on our trade the Yestry works its -will.
What once was known as “ Merry Islington ”
Is down upon us ! ’Tis a bitter pill!
Giants and dwarfs, fat women and the rest,
Till now could earn a pittance—in a Show.
But, if they treat us as a public pest,
What shall we do, wherever shall we go ?
Inimical to public morals ? Gracious !
We never looked upon ourselves as such.
’Tis true our pictures are not quite veracious,
But then a penny is not very much.
We never knew the Public was a sinner
Because its coppers to our Show ’twould give ;
And then a dwarf, though small, requires some dinner,
And e’en a Living Skeleton must live.
Think of it, Yestrydom! Your high pomposity
O’erlooks the piteous fate we now must dread.
If Bumble had been born a poor Monstrosity,
How, how would he have earned his daily bread ?
“The Mayer the Merrier” at this festive season is M. Mayer,
who has revived that very comic piece, Tricoche et Cacolet, at the
Royalty. M. Mayer has rightly Cacolated upon its success.
A Genuine Bear-backed Steed.—The horse that carries Bruin
round the Circus at Co vent Garden.
The “Lock Out’
music to Macbeth.
at the Lyceum.—The omission of Lock’s
Jodrell Theatre.—Patti Rosa only a “ Bob and. vet she is a
little dear!
NOTICE.—Ecyccted Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will
in no case Da returned, not eves when accompanied by a Stamped aa4 Addressed Envelops, Cover, or Wrapper, To this ruis
there will he no exception,
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[January 5, 1889.
THOUGHTS
On gazing at a Cook’s Tourist Ticket. (By a Person
How many times
Must I, who was so obviously planned
To boss, and thus to bless, my native
Scuttle to other climes F
Again, and ever yet again I come—
Whitewashed by time, by hope, by
exile—home,
Deeply resolved to play a game discreet,
Sober as Bacon, though with beans
replete ;
And then what happens ? Scarce do I
begin
To show the nobler mood that I am in—
To prove myself a man misunderstood,
Who, sternly great, can yet be sweetly
good,
Than all is lost once more! The imp
in me,
Seizing the very opportunity
That should my loftier attributes
display,
Rises to make hay !
Hay will he make, the imp in me, of all
My vows as home-returning Prodigal,
My penitential oaths henceforth to be
A Chesterfield of wise humility,
My xorudent resolutions to forgive
And evermore in gentilesse to live, [a glance
One glimpse of St-nh-pe —(wizen youth!)—
At G-sch-n’s testudinean countenance ;
Snelgroye to meet; only to be awhile
Involved in Marshall’s cat-of-Cheshire smile,
And all my store of resolutions sage
Is fired by mischief and explodes in rage.
And is it to be ever thus ? Am I,
In the full manhood and maturity
Of genius vast, ever to be foredone
By that survival in my mother’s son,
Her most outrageous Pickle of a boy ?
So must I fear : and, therefore, farewell joy
Ho more for me the exquisite delight
Of flooring Dignities to left and right;
of Quality.)
Bigwigs from place no longer meekly go,
Obedient to my indicative toe ;
And while my wooing’s vain, ’tis vainer
yet
? To kick my way into the Cabinet.
Thrice have I played the terrorising
game,
Twice have I bolted in excess of shame ;
And now a fresh fiasco bids me fly
Ear from that terror to me, the mocking
eye.
Just one more kick at parting, and I
pack;
And when I do—ay, when I do come
back,
This gang of goitered idiots shall see
What comes of sniggering o’er the wall
at Me ! [to say ?
But softly ! Shall I go ? Why, who’s
As soon as I am well upon my way,
Some bloody news from Black Land yet
may come
To make me curse the hour I turned
from home.
That I will not; far too good the
chance
Bestowed on me by timely circumstance.
I will remain! And why I do not go,
Let Gr-ne-ll stumble and the gang shall
know!
From thy resounding halls, my Paddington,
Such lava-floods of rignteous ire shall run,
That Greenlands smug, that Hatfield’s loathly
sties,
Shall scorch at the reflection in the skies !
Go ?
OUR B0OKINGr-OFFICE.
What is against Mr. Farjeon’s clever story of Devlin the Barber,
is its grotesque title, and its burlesque frontispiece representing the
Mephistophelian hero of the tale. It seems a mistake to have
given Devlin such a theatrically diabolic make-up, but, on the
other hand,the novelist must have chuckled
over the artful manner in which he has
misled his readers as to the real character
of the man. The plot is simple, but it is
quite a boite a surprise, and Devlin the
Barber is-, well, you’ll see. Read it.
There is a good short article on Pickwick
,1 in the December number of the Cornhill,
1 illustrating the hap-hazardiness of genius
D in the matter of details. Pickwick was
started with no idea in the author’s mind
Exhibiting a Strong Grasp except of writing up to Seymour’s illus-
of the Subject. trations; the story grew; the Pickwick Club
practically ceased to exist after the “ Bill
Stumps his mark ” incident, and the Pickwickians went on a roving
commission, with powers to add to their number such characters as
the author chose to introduce them to. Contradictions and irrecon-
cilable difficulties are of frequent occurrence, and yet what did it
matter to the first readers, and what does it matter to us now, except
as one more among the many conclusive proofs that genius—writing
currente calamo— is above rules. Pickwick is immortal.
Excellent in illustration, and interesting in matter, is the Double
Humber for Christmas of the English Illustrated Magazine, especially
the article on Macbeth, anent its revival at the Lyceum.
There is rather a De Quincey-ish article in the Fortnightly by
Oscar Wilde on Wainewright, the penman, pencilman, and
poisoner. When I say De Quincey-like, I mean that it reminds me of
that bizarre “Essay on Murder considered as one of the Fine Arts,”
which, with another on a certain historical character, I wish the
Opium-eater had never written. Yet there is a weird fascination
about De Quincey’s cynicism as there is about Thackeray’s
detestable Catherine. 0. W.’s article is “not too De Quincey-ish,
but just De Quincey-ish enough.” In the same magazine Edmund
Gosse gives a fair enough literary criticism of Ibsen’s Social
Dramas, but wisely does not attempt to treat them from an English
practical dramatist’s point of view. As we have them, not one
could be placed in its entirety on the stage without wearying an
audience, and I fancy not more than two would repay the trouble.
Of these two The Pillars of. Society would be one, and powerful
writing (beyond mere adaptation), ingenious stage-management and
rare acting would be required to make it a success. As long as
Ibsen’s Dramas are not placed on the English stage, they will be
enthusiastically praised by a certain clique, who flatter themselves
on knowing a great deal of everything, especially the drama. To a
Manager I should say, “Trust them not, they’re fooling thee.
Beware! beware! The Baron de Book Worms.
THE MOAH OF THE MOHSTROSITY.
[The Islington Vestry warts to put down the public exhibitions of “ giants,
dwarfs, and abnormally fat women.”]
Pity a poor Monstrosity! Hope’s gone,
If on our trade the Yestry works its -will.
What once was known as “ Merry Islington ”
Is down upon us ! ’Tis a bitter pill!
Giants and dwarfs, fat women and the rest,
Till now could earn a pittance—in a Show.
But, if they treat us as a public pest,
What shall we do, wherever shall we go ?
Inimical to public morals ? Gracious !
We never looked upon ourselves as such.
’Tis true our pictures are not quite veracious,
But then a penny is not very much.
We never knew the Public was a sinner
Because its coppers to our Show ’twould give ;
And then a dwarf, though small, requires some dinner,
And e’en a Living Skeleton must live.
Think of it, Yestrydom! Your high pomposity
O’erlooks the piteous fate we now must dread.
If Bumble had been born a poor Monstrosity,
How, how would he have earned his daily bread ?
“The Mayer the Merrier” at this festive season is M. Mayer,
who has revived that very comic piece, Tricoche et Cacolet, at the
Royalty. M. Mayer has rightly Cacolated upon its success.
A Genuine Bear-backed Steed.—The horse that carries Bruin
round the Circus at Co vent Garden.
The “Lock Out’
music to Macbeth.
at the Lyceum.—The omission of Lock’s
Jodrell Theatre.—Patti Rosa only a “ Bob and. vet she is a
little dear!
NOTICE.—Ecyccted Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will
in no case Da returned, not eves when accompanied by a Stamped aa4 Addressed Envelops, Cover, or Wrapper, To this ruis
there will he no exception,