Punch (100.1891)

January 3, 1891.]

VOCES POPULI.

THE IMPROMPTU CHARADE-PARTY.

Scene—The Library of a Country-House ; the tables and chairs are
heaped icith brocades, draperies, and properties of all kinds,
which the Ladies of the company are trying oh, while the men
rack their brains for a suitable Word. In a secluded corner,
Mr. Nightingale and Miss Rose are conversing in whispers.

Mr. Whipster {Stage-Manager and Organiser—self-appointed).
No—but I say, really, you know, we must try and decide on some-
thing—we've been out half an hour, and the people will be getting
impatient! {To the Ladies.) Do come and help; it's really no
use dressing up till we've settled what we're going to do. Can't
anybody think of a good Word ?

Miss Larkspur. We ought to make a continuous story of it, with
the same plot and characters all through. We did that once at
the Grange, and it was awfully good—just like a regular Comedy I

Mr. Whipster. Ah, but we've got to hit on a Word first. Come
—nobody got an idea? Nightingale, you're not much use oyer
there, you know. I hope you and Miss Rose have been putting
your heads together?

Mr. Nightingale {confused). Eh? No, nothing of the sort! Oh,
ah—yes, we've thought of a lot of Words.

Miss Rose. Only you've driven them all out of our heads again !

[They resume their conversation.

Mr. Wh. Well, do make a suggestion, somebody I Professor,
won't you give us a Word ?

Chorus of Ladies. Oh, do, Professor—you're sure to think of
something clever!

Professor Pollen {modestly). Well, really, I've so little expe-
rience in these matters that- A Word has just occurred to me,

however; I don't know, of course, whether it will meet with
approval—{he beams at them with modest pride through his spec-
tacles)—'^?, " Monocotyledonous."

Chorus of Ladies. Charming ! Monocottle-Oh, can't we do

that?

Mr. Wh. {dubiously). We might—but— er—what's it mean f
Prof. Pollen. It's a Bimple botanical term, signifying a plant

which has only one cup-shaped leaf, or seed-lobe. Plants with two

are termed-

Mr. Wh. I don't see how we're going to act a plant with only
one seed-lobe myself—and then the syllables—" mon"-" oh "-
" cot"-" till"—we shouldn't get done before midnight, you know !

Prof. Pollen. {With mild pique). Well, I merely threw it out as a
suggestion. I thought it could have been made amusing. No doubt I
was wrong ; no doubt.

Mr. Settee (nervously), I've thought of a word. How would—er
—"Familiar" do?

Mr. Wh. {severely). Now, really. Settee, do try not to footle like
this! [Mr. Settee subsides amidst general disapproval.

Mr. Flinders. {With a flash of genius). I've got it— Gamboge !
Mr. Wh. Gamboge, eh? Let's see how that would work: —
" Gam "-" booge." How do you see it yourself ?

[Mr. Flindebs discovers, on reflection, that he doesn't see it, and
the suggestion is allowed to drop.
Miss Pelagia Rhys. I've an idea. Familiar! " Tame "-" ill "-
'' liar," you know. [ Chorus of applause.

Mr. Wh. Capital! The very thing—congratulate you, Miss Rhys !
Mr. Settee (sotto voce). But I say, look here, I suggested that,

you know, and you said-1

Mr. Wh. {ditto). What on earth does it matter who suggests it, so
long as it's right ? Don't be an ass, Settee ! {Aloud.) How are we
going to do the first syllable " Fame," eh ? [Mr. Settee sulks.

Mr, Pushington. Oh, that's easy. One of us must come on as a
Poet, and all the ladies must crowd round flattering him, and making
a lot of him, asking for his autograph, and so on. I don't mind doing
the Poet myself, if nobody else feels up to it.

[He begins to dress for the part by turning his dress-coat inside
out, and putting on a turban and a Liberty sash, by way of
indicating the eccentricity of genius ; the Ladies adorn them-
selves with a similar regard to realis?n, and even more care
for appearances.

Afteb the Fibst Si liable.
The Performers return from the drawing-room, followed
by faint applause.
Mr. Pushington. Went capitally, that syllable, eh ? {No response.)
You might have played up to me a little more than you did—you
others. You let me do everything!
Miss Larkspur. You never let any of us get a word in !
Mr. Pushington. Because you all talked at once, that was all.
Now then—"ill." I'll be a celebrated Doctor, and you all come to
me one by one, and say you 're ill—see ?

[Attires himself for the role of a Physician in a dressing-gown
and an old yeomanry helmet.

3

MODERN VERSION OF "PAUL AND VIRGINIA."

Mr, Whipster {huffily). Seems to me I may as well go and sit with
the audience—I'm no use here .'

Mr. Pushington. Oh, lyes, Whipsteb, I want you to be my con-
fidential butler, and show the patients in.

[Mr. W. accepts—with a view to showing Pushington that other
people can act as xcell as he.

Afteb the Second Syllable.

Mr. Pu&hiyigtm. Seemed to drag a little, somehow! There wa9 no
necessity for you to make all those long soliloquies, Whipsteb. A
Doctor's confidential servant wouldn't chatter so much!

Mr. Whipster. You were so confoundedly solemn over it, I had to
put some fun in somewhere !

Mr. P. Well, you might have put it where someone could see it.
Nobody langhed.

Professor Pollen. I don't know, Mr. Pushington, why, when I
was describing my symptoms—which I can vouch for as scientifically
correct—you persisted in kicking my legs under the table—it was
unprofessional, Sir, and extremely painful!

Mr. Pushington. I was only trying to bint to you that as there
were a dozen other people to follow, it was time you cut the interview
short, Professor—that one syllable alone has taken nearly an hour.

Miss Buckram. If I had known the kind of questions you were
going to ask me, Mr. Pushington, I should certainly not have
exposed myself to them. I say no more, but I must positively decline
to appear with you again.

Mr. Pushington. Oh, but really, you know, in Charades one gets
carried away at times. 1 assure you, I hadn't the remotest ($■<?., $c.
—until Miss Buckbam is partly jnollified.) Now then—last syllable.
Look here, I '11 be a regular impostor, don't you know, and all of you
come on and say what a liar I am. We ought to make that
screamingly fanny!

Afteb the Thibd Syllable.

Mr. Pushington. Muddled ? Of course it was muddled—you all
called me a liar before I opened my mouth !

The Rest.—But you didn't seem to know how to begin, and we
had to bring the Word in somehow.

Pushington. Bring it in ?—but you needn't have let it out. There
was Settee there, shouting '1 liar " till he was black in the face. We
must have looked a set of idiots from the front. I shan't go in again
{muttering). It's no use acting Charades with people who don't
understand it. There ; settle the Word yourselves! ..,

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.