The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari Volume 107, September 22nd, 1894, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Punch, or the London Charivari Volume 107, September 22nd, 1894 Author: Various Editor: Francis Burnand Release Date: July 24, 2014 [EBook #46396] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH *** Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Malcolm Farmer, Wayne Hammond and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
133
(With some Notes on a Detective Melodrama at the Ambigu.)
Dear Mr. Punch,—When I announced my intention of running over to Paris for a few days, my friend Buzzard looked at me with a stony contempt. "To Paris?" he said, "at this time of year! Why, you must be mad. What on earth are you going to do there?" I tried to explain to Buzzard, whose frigid superiority frightens me, that I liked Paris, that I was going there pour me dégourdir; that it was just as possible to breakfast at Ledoyen's or Voisin's, and to dine at Durand's or Joseph's in September as at any other time; that a few theatres were still open; that the Boulevards were there for the flâneur; but I failed to penetrate his scorn, even with the most idiomatic French at my command. However, I determined that Buzzard, like the weight of the elephant in the problem, must be neglected; and here I am in the Rue de Rivoli with another madman like unto myself. We take our café complet in bed; we wear beautiful French ties, made of foulard, with two vast ends floating like banners in the Parisian breeze—in a word, we are thoroughly enjoying ourselves in an entirely non-British fashion—which I take, indeed, to be of the essence of a pleasant holiday. What care we for the echoes of the Trades Union Congress; for the windiest of Keir Hardie's blatancies; for the malignities of Mr. Chamberlain, or the failure of Lord Rosebery's Ladas at Doncaster? We are in Paris, and the sight of a cuirassier trotting past with his great black crinière waving behind, or of the lady bicyclists scudding by in knickerbockers, excites us more than even the latest ravings of the newest woman in London. Buzzard be blowed! You may tell him I said so.
I want to let Mr. Conan Doyle know that there is a great opening for him here. If I may judge by the latest detective drama, the ideas of the Parisian public with regard to the acumen and general power of a detective are still very primitive. Yet Gaboriau did something in this line, and, in the Vicomte de Bragelonne, did not d'Artagnan show himself on the occasion of a certain duel to be a detective of unmatchable force? Still the fact remains that the play-going Parisian public is easily satisfied in the matter of detectives. Listen, if you doubt me, to a plain unvarnished account of "La Belle Limonadière," the "Grand drame nouveau en cinq actes, huit tableaux," which is now running gloomily, but with immense success, at the Ambigu.
Madame de Mazerolles, a wealthy widow, is, in the first Act, robbed and brutally murdered by her stepson, Roland, a dissipated young man, who is incited to the commission of the crime by his wicked mistress Sabine. Vidocq, the great representative of the new school in detection (circa A.D. 1820), is away at the time, and in his absence the investigation falls to his rival Yvrier, who belongs to the old school. In the chamber of death Yvrier soon makes up his mind that the guilty person is one Henri Lebrun, a faithful and gigantic old soldier, much given to beating his breast with both fists and talking at large about his services to his country, his immaculate honesty and his domestic virtues. Suddenly Vidocq enters. He discovers that the assassin has entered by a certain door because a cobweb has been disturbed, he picks up a red flower dropped by the assassin, he pours contempt on the crass stupidity of Yvrier—all quite in the best Sherlock Holmes style. But nothing comes of it all. Poor Henri Lebrun, still beating his breast with fists, is arrested, and after a painful interview with his only daughter (whom he discovers to have been the mistress of George, the son of Madame Mazerolles), he becomes sublime, accuses himself quite unnecessarily of the murder he had never committed, and is marched off to prison amid the execrations of the populace, the triumph of the crass Yvrier, and the loudly expressed determination of Vidocq to bring the guilty to justice and save the life of the innocent Lebrun. Time passes. Lebrun, overwhelmed by an entire absence of proofs, is tried and condemned to death. It is the morning appointed for his execution. The curtain rises in the upper floor of a restaurant commanding an extensive view of the guillotine. The sight-seers troop in. First of all comes Roland, the murderer, disguised in black as a wicked Marquis, and accompanied by the infamous Sabine. Hélène Lebrun, the daughter of the condemned man, also troops in to slow music in black. There is a commotion at the door, and the obsequious innkeeper backs on to the stage ushering in Milord Sir John Stilton and his son "Shames." Sir John is dressed in an enormous green swallow-tailed coat with brass buttons, a striped yellow waistcoat, a pair of yellow knickerbockers, and stockings brilliantly striped with red and black. On his head he wears a low-crowned hat. In one hand he carries an umbrella, while a telescope dangles from his Shoulders by a strap. In short, he is tout-ce-qu'il-y-a de plus Anglais. His son Shames is even more aggressively British. Sir John orders lunch: "vous donner moa bifteck" is the obvious formula. Shames concurs with a "Yehs, Pappah," which provokes roars of laughter. But stay, what is this? Sir John takes Shames aside: they talk in beautiful French. Can it be? Yes, by Heaven, it is the great Vidocq with his faithful Coco-Latour! We breathe again, for now we know that the innocent man is safe. The procession, however, approaches. The condemned man speaks from below to his daughter in the balcony. He declares his innocence. Now good Vidocq, to the rescue. Display all your arts, convict the guilty, disguised Marquis, and save the estimable Lebrun! But Vidocq looks on impassive, a dull thud is heard and the head of the innocent rolls into the basket. Immediately afterwards Yvrier staggers in. Too late, he says, he has been convinced of Lebrun's innocence. At the last moment Lebrun looked at him with eyes in which there was no trace of guilt. That last look did it, and now Yvrier in a passion of repentance offers himself to help Vidocq, even in the most subordinate capacity, to track down the guilty, and to remove the stain from Lebrun's name. I pass over the padding, during which Vidocq appears, for no earthly reason, in numerous disguises, and come to the last scene. Roland has all but killed George Mazerolles in a duel, he has murdered Sabine, who, before dying, rounds on him, and he is now, by a strange conjunction of circumstances, in the very room in which he murdered Madame Mazerolles. Thither also comes everybody else. Vidocq, who is tracking Roland, discovers, through a paper belonging to the late Madame Mazerolles, that Roland, her murderer, was her son, not her step-son, and that he, Vidocq, is the father of Roland. In his youth Vidocq had been a soldier. Somewhere he had met Madame Mazerolles. "Nous nous sommes aimés entre deux batailles, entre deux victoires," and Roland was the fruit of their love. Horror of horrors! What is he to do? First he tells Roland that he killed, not his step-mother, but his mother. At this awful intelligence, Roland faints in an armchair for precisely ten seconds. Recovering himself, he is fain to escape. Vidocq, all his fatherly instincts aroused, says he shall. The weak Yvrier consents, when suddenly, from behind a curtain, appears Hélène Lebrun in black. The murderer of her father must not escape, she declares, whereupon the great detective, vowing that his son shall never be food for the guillotine, shoots him dead with a toy pistol in the region of the left waistcoat pocket. Tableau! Curtain!
There, Mr. Punch, you have the French Sherlock on the stage. A wonderful man, is he not?
Yours, as always,
(By a Western Wonderer.)
I am glad to see the "Bystander" in the Graphic has recently uttered a startled protest against the fashion, now somewhat overdone, and occasionally objectionably done, of lady-begging for charitable purposes in the London streets. On the sudden apparition of one of these merry half-sisters of charity (were not the Pecksniffian daughters Charity and Merry?) Mr. Ashby Sterry became well-nigh hysterrycal, and his generosity being temporarily paralysed, he fled, with pockets tightly buttoned. For the moment he was no longer the "Bystander," whose motto is that of Captain Cuttle, "Stand by," but, as though he had heard the command to "Stand and deliver," our sturdy "Bystander" became a fugitive from before the face of the giddy charity girl, and thus at one "go" saved his halfpence and his honour. For his reputation would have suffered had he impolitely rebuffed his fair unfair assailant. He did well to flee, he did still better to write and publicly complain. We trust that this process adopted by the Sterry O'Type (a fine old Irish title by the way) may have its due influence, and that the abuse, which has become thus Sterry O'Typed, of a fashion good in itself and its origin, may soon cease to exist. En attendant, Mr. Punch is pleased to know that the "Bystander" is still running on, and not likely to come to a standstill. 134 135
Dear Mr. Punch,—Will you afford me a small portion of your space to put on record once and for ever a most extraordinary coincidence? Last Wednesday afternoon I was taking a country walk, when all at once my eye was suddenly caught by a throstle. At the same time I accidentally looked at my watch. It had stopped at 12.10. When I got home I mentioned both of these circumstances to my wife.
Later in the evening I bought an evening paper, and was amazed to find that the St. Leger had been won by Throstle (the bird I had seen), which had started at 50 to 1 (the exact minute at which my watch had stopped)! Could the force of coincidence farther go? The Society of Psychical Research and Mr. Stead are welcome to this incident. The only thing which troubles me at all is that the evidence (other than my own) is a little slender. My wife is deaf, and never heard what I told her. The bird has flown. My watch is going again.
I inclose my card, and am,
Yours Stead-y to a degree,
One who Won Nothing on the Race.
["I wish," said Mr. Lane, the North London magistrate, "to express my sense of the very great courage and resolution exhibited by Constable Piper in this case, under circumstances of considerable pressure, danger, and exhaustion."—Times' Police Report, Sept. 12.]
Probable Announcement.—New Book:—A Mischievous Medlar. By Leslie Keith, the fruitful Author of A Troublesome Pair.
MANNERS.
"Oh, then I must be on my Best Behaviour, I suppose?"
"Certainly not. Be Natural, whatever you are."
(See "Indignant's" Letter in "Westminster Budget.")
Ingoldsby's Question.
Modern Idiot's Answer.
A very Un-Virgilian Pastoral Eclogue.
Interlocutors—Ceres and a Northern Farmer, newest style.
["In several instances last week the prices for new wheat were quoted at 16s. to 19s. per quarter in Lincolnshire and Yorkshire, and the general average for the whole country last week was actually only 27s. 7d. It is over two hundred years since anything like so low a price has been quoted for wheat in England."—Westminster Gazette.]
Farmer (throwing down newspaper).
Ceres (entering).
Farmer.
Ceres.
Farmer.
Ceres.
Farmer.
Ceres.
Farmer.
Ceres.
Farmer.
Ceres (sadly).
Farmer (furiously).
A HOPELESS CASE.
Ceres. "There, my Friend, I have given you a Golden Harvest this Year!"
Farmer. "It's very kind of you, Marm; but 'tain't much good if I can't get Gold for it!"
136
(A Story in Scenes.)
PART XII.—DIGNITY UNDER DIFFICULTIES.
Scene XXI.—The Housekeeper's Room at Wyvern; Mrs. Pomfret, the Housekeeper, in a black silk gown and her smartest cap, is seated in a winged arm-chair by the fire, discussing domestic politics with Lady Culverin's maid, Miss Stickler. The Chef, M. Ridevos, is resting on the sofa, in languid converse with Mlle. Chiffon, Miss Spelwane's maid; Pilliner's man, Louch, watches Steptoe, Sir Rupert's valet, with admiring envy, as he makes himself agreeable to Miss Phillipson, who is in demi-toilette, as are all the other ladies' maids present.
Miss Stickler (in an impressive undertone). All I do say, Mrs. Pomfret, ma'am, is this: if that girl Louisa marches into the pew to-morrow, as she did last Sunday, before the second laundry maid—and her only under-scullery maid—such presumptiousness should be put a stop to in future!
Mrs. Pomfret (wheezily). Depend upon it, my dear, it's her ignorance; but I shall most certainly speak about it. Girls must be taught that ranks was made to be respected, and the precedency into that pew has come down from time immemoriable, and is not to be set aside by such as her while I'm 'ousekeeper here.
Mlle. Chiffon (in French, to M. Ridevos). You have the air fatigued, my poor friend! Oh, there—but fatigued!
M. Ridevos. Broken, Mademoiselle, absolutely broken. But what will you? This night I surpass myself. I achieve a masterpiece—a sublime pyramid of quails with a sauce that will become classic. I pay now the penalty of a veritable crisis of nerves. It is of my temperament as artist.
Mlle. Chiffon. And me, my poor friend, how I have suffered from the cookery of these others—I who have the stomach so feeble, so fastidious! Figure to yourself an existence upon the villainous curry, the abominable "Iahristue," beloved by these barbarians, but which succeed with me not at all—oh, but not at all! Since I am here—ah, the difference! I digest as of old—I am gay. But next week to return with Mademoiselle to the curry, my poor friend, what regrets!
M. Rid. For me, dear Mademoiselle, for me the regrets—to hear no more the conversation, so spiritual, so sympathetic, of a fellow-countrywoman. For remark that here they are stupid—they comprehend not. And the old ones they roll at me the eyes to make terror. Behold this Gorgon who approaches. She adores me, my word of honour, this ruin!
[Miss Stickler comes up to the sofa smiling in happy unconsciousness.
Miss Stick, (graciously). So you've felt equal to joining us for once, Mossoo! We feel it a very 'igh compliment, I can assure you. We've really been feeling quite 'urt at the way you keep to yourself—you might be a regular 'ermit for all we see of you!
M. Rid. For invent, dear Mees, for create, ze arteeste must live ze solitaire as of rule. To-night—no! I emairge, as you see, to res-tore myself viz your smile.
Miss Stick, (flattered). Well, I've always said, Mossoo, and I always will say, that for polite 'abits and pretty speeches, give me a Frenchman!
M. Rid. (alarmed). For me it is too moch 'appiness. For anozzer, ah!
[He kisses his fingers with ineffable grace.
Phillipson (advancing to meet Miss Dolman, who has just entered). Why, I'd no idea I should meet you here, Sarah! And how have you been getting on, dear? Still with——?
Miss Dolman (checking her with a look). Her grace? No, we parted some time ago. I'm with Lady Rhoda Cokayne at present. (In an undertone, as she takes her aside.) You needn't say anything here of your having known me at Mrs. Dickenson's. I couldn't afford to have it get about in the circle I'm in that I'd ever lived with any but the nobility. I'm sure you see what I mean. Of course I don't mind your saying we've met.
Phill. Oh, I quite understand. I'll say nothing. I'm obliged to be careful myself, being maid to Lady Maisie Mull.
Miss Dolm. My dear Emma! It is nice seeing you again—such friends as we used to be!
Phill. At her Grace's? I'm afraid you're thinking of somebody else. (She crosses to Mrs. Pomfret.) Mrs. Pomfret, what's become of the gentleman I travelled down with—the horse doctor? I do hope he means to come in; he would amuse you, Mr. Steptoe. I never heard anybody go on like him; he did make me laugh so!
Mrs. Pomfr. I really can't say where he is, my dear. I sent up word to let him know he was welcome here whenever he pleased; but perhaps he's feeling a little shy about coming down.
Phill. Oh, I don't think he suffers much from that. (As the door opens.) Ah, there he is!
Mrs. Pomfr. (rising, with dignity, to receive Undershell, who enters in obvious embarrassment). Come in, Sir. I'm glad to see you've found your way down at last. Let me see, I haven't the advantage of knowing your—Mr. Undershell, to be sure! Well, Mr. Undershell, we're very pleased to see you. I hope you'll make yourself quite at home. Her ladyship gave particular directions that we was to look after you—most particular she was!
Undershell. You are very good, Ma'am. I am obliged to Lady Culverin for her (with a gulp) condescension. But I shall not trespass more than a short time upon your hospitality.
Mrs. Pomfr. Don't speak of it as trespassing, Sir. It's not often we have a gentleman of your profession as a visitor, but you are none the less welcome. Now I'd better introduce you all round, and then you won't feel yourself a stranger. Miss Phillipson you have met, I know.
[She introduces him to the others in turn; Undershell bows helplessly.
Steptoe (with urbanity). Your fame, Sir, has preceded you. And you'll find us a very friendly and congenial little circle on a better acquaintance—if this is your first experience of this particular form of society?
Und. (to himself). I mustn't be stiff, I'll put them at their ease. (Aloud.) Why, I must admit, Mr. Steptoe, that I have never before had the privilege of entering the—(with an ingratiating smile all round him) the "Pugs' Parlour," as I understand you call this very charming room.
[The company draw themselves up and cough in disapprobation.
Stept. (very stiffly). Pardon me, Sir, you have been totally misinformed. Such an expression is not current here.
Mrs. Pomfr. (more stiffly still). It is never alluded to in my presence except as the 'Ousekeeper's Room, which is the right and proper name for it. There may be some other term for it in the Servants' 'All for anything I know to the contrary—but if you'll excuse me for saying so, Mr. Undershell, we'd prefer for it not to be repeated in our presence.
Und. (confusedly). I—I beg ten thousand pardons. (To himself.) To be pulled up like this for trying to be genial—it's really too humiliating!
Stept. (relaxing). Well, well, Sir; we must make some allowances for a neophyte. You'll know better another time, I daresay. Miss Phillipson here has been giving you a very favourable character as a highly agreeable rattle, Mr. Undershell. I hope we may be favoured with a specimen of your social talents later on. We're always grateful here for anything in that way—such as a recitation now, or a comic song, or a yumorous imitation—anything, in short, calculated to promote the general harmony and festivity will be appreciated. 137
Miss (Stick acidly). Provided it is free from any helement of coarseness, which we do not encourage—far from it!
Und. (suppressing his irritation). You need be under no alarm, Madam. I do not propose to attempt a performance of any kind.
Phill. Don't be so solemn, Mr. Undershell! I'm sure you can be as comical as any playactor when you choose!
Und. I really don't know how I can have given you that impression. If you expect me to treat my lyre like a horse-collar, and grin through it, I'm afraid I am unable to gratify you.
Stept. (at sea). Capital, Sir, the professional allusion very neat. You'll come out presently, I can see, when supper's on the table. Can't expect you to rattle till you've something inside of you, can we?
Miss Stick. Reelly, Mr. Steptoe, I am surprised at such commonness from you!
Stept. Now you're too severe, Miss Stickler, you are indeed. An innocent little Judy Mow like that!
Tredwell (outside). Don't answer me, Sir. Ham I butler 'ere, or ham I not? I've a precious good mind to report you for such a hignorant blunder.... I don't want to hear another word about the gentleman's cloes—you'd no hearthly business for to do such a thing at all! (He enters and flings himself down on a chair.) That Thomas is beyond everything—stoopid hass as he is!
Mrs. Pomfr. (concerned). La, Mr. Tredwell, you do seem put out! Whatever have Thomas been doing now?
Und. (to himself). It's really very good of him to take it to heart like this! (Aloud.) Pray don't let it distress you; it's of no consequence, none at all!
Tred. (glaring). I'm the best judge of that, Mr. Undershell, Sir—if you'll allow me; I don't call my porogatives of no consequence, whatever you may! And that feller Thomas, Mrs. Pomfret, actially 'ad the hordacity, without consulting me previous, to go and 'and a note to one of our gentlemen at the hupstairs table, all about some hassinine mistake he'd made with his cloes! What call had he to take it upon himself? I feel puffecly disgraced that such a thing should have occurred under my authority!
[The Steward's Room Boy has entered with a dish, and listens with secret anxiety on his own account.
Und. I assure you there is no harm done. The gentleman is wearing my evening clothes—but he's going to return them——
[The conclusion of the sentence is drowned in a roar of laughter from the majority.
Tred. (gasping). Hevenin' cloes! Your hevenin'—— P'raps you'll 'ave the goodness to explain yourself, Sir!
Stept. No, no, Tredwell, my dear fellah, you don't understand our friend here—he's a bit of a wag, don't you see? He's only trying to pull your leg, that's all: and, Gad, he did it too! But you mustn't take liberties with this gentleman, Mr. Undershell, he's an important personage here, I can tell you!
Und. (earnestly). But I never meant—if you'll only let me explain——
[The Boy has come behind him, and administers a surreptitious kick, which Undershell rightly construes as a hint to hold his tongue.
Tred. (in solemn offence). I'm accustomed, Mr. Hundershell, to be treated in this room with respect and deference—especially by them as come here in the capacity of Guests. From such I regard any attempt to pull my leg as in hindifferent taste—to say the least of it. I wish to 'ave no more words on the subjick, which is a painful one, and had better be dropped, for the sake of all parties. Mrs. Pomfret, I see supper is on the table, so, by your leave, we had better set down to it.
Phill. (to Undershell). Never mind him, pompous old thing! It was awfully cheeky of you, though. You can sit next me if you like.
Und. (to himself, as he avails himself of this permission). I shall only make things worse if I explain now. But, oh, great Heavens, what a position for a Poet.
"Broken, Mademoiselle, absolutely broken."
Art was once defined as "the creation of new forms of beauty." Our juvenile geniuses have altered all that. "The New Art" is better defined as "the creation of novel forms of ugliness." Its inspiration is Corruption, its auxiliaries are the two hideous imps, Scratch and Smudge. Old Art, with its bosh about beauty, its rot about romance, its fudge about finish, its twaddle about taste, will be good enough to take a back seat. Apollo the Inspirer must give way to the sooty imp and incubus, New Scratch!—
"Again he urges on his wild Korea."—Mazeppa.
["In my time at Eton it was the custom with one's tutor to supply us with what was disrespectfully called 'nonsense' material for some suggested theme."—James Payn, in "Our Note-Book" in "The Illustrated London News."]
Mad as a Hatter.—The Drapery World says that "the New Woman's hat" is much like the Ordinary Man's "topper," only a little smaller, and a little more cheeky. The phrase might fitly be transferred to the "New Woman" herself. She looks so much like an ordinary man, only a little smaller and a little more cheeky. By the way, is there much difference between "the New Woman's hat" and the woman's new hat? The query would make a good one for a French Exercise Book.
Instrument for an Anti-Birmingham Band.—The Ban-Joe. 138
A YOUNG CYNIC.
Dorothy. "I wonder why Men take their Hats off in Church, and Women don't!"
Michael. "Oh, Dorothy, just think of all the Looking-glasses there'd have to be in every Pew!"
["Immediately after the death of his father, the Duke of Orleans addressed the following telegram to all the Sovereign Princes of Europe:—
'A sa Majesté, &c.—J'ai la douleur de faire part à Votre Majesté de la mort de mon père Philippe, Comte de Paris, pieusement décédé à Stowe House le huit Septembre. Philippe.'
Great significance is attached to the fact that the Duke signs himself with regal simplicity 'Philippe.' His father under similar circumstances, on the occasion of the death of the Comte de Chambord, signed 'Phillipe, Comte de Paris,' thus ignoring his Sovereign rank."—The Daily Graphic.]
Madame la République museth:—
THE YOUNG PRETENDER.
Madame a République.
(By an Absent-minded Sportsman.)
Query.—Would an ideal barrister be a
counsel of perfection?
139
140
141
Or, the March of Civilisation.
(By a Disgusted Backer.)
Scientific Gossip.—In spite of the great number of bathers at all our most frequented sea-side resorts there has been no appreciable diminution in either the quality or quantity of the sea-water.
STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE.
Mr. Hippopotamus as he might have been.]
Lex Talionis.—Mr. Lang, turned speculative law-giver, suggests that we should tax literature. Well, that's only quid (or so much in the "quid") pro quo; seeing how literature (lots of it) taxes us. A high rate on literary rubbish would yield "pretty pickings," especially if the producers thereof were allowed to "rate" each other! In this age of sloppiness, sniff and snippets there is a lot of "literature" which should be tariffed off the face of the earth.
"My dear," said Mrs. R., "I had to discharge my gardener, for when I questioned him about the sale of the vegetables his answers were far too amphibious."
Unhappy Thought by an Invalid.—What a dreadful thing to become the Permanent Head of a Department with a Permanent Headache!
On being asked to play Croquet, A.D. 1894.
["It is impossible to visit any part of the country without realising the fact that the long-discredited game of Croquet is fast coming into vogue again.... This is partly owing to the abolition of 'tight croqueting.'"—Pall Mall Gazette.]
142
II.
ONE THING AT A TIME.
Genial Master (under the painful necessity of discharging his Coachman). "I'm afraid, Simmons, we must part. The fact is, I couldn't help noticing that several times during the last Month you have been—Sober; and I don't believe a Man can attend properly to the Drink if he has Driving to do!"
A little less than M'Kinley, but more than Unkind.—President Cleveland has had to allow the Gorman Act to become law without formally assenting to it. He has had, in fact, to swallow what he would fain reject, an act of involuntary political Gormandising which must be unpleasant.
(A Symposium à la Mode.)
I am much flattered by your kind invitation to discuss the Advanced Woman, but an initial difficulty suggests itself to me. Can one discuss the Advanced Woman if this Advanced Woman herself is non-existent? I am aware, of course, that she has stridden large of late in the pages of feminine fiction, but is she not as extinct (before she has ever existed) as her Dodo title? Let me make my own confession. I have used, if I did not invent, the A. W. I have secured a remunerative public. Once on a time I wrote of life as I found it. I used my eyes and ears, and endeavoured to let the world have the result in the old-fashioned, wholesome story. It was a dreary failure. The critics commended my style, and the public let me severely alone. Nous avons changé tout cela. A theatrical manager who finds his musical piece begin to drag, saves the situation by a New Edition—in other words, by two new songs and some fresh dances. In a similar way I secured a reputation by dragging in (at times by her very heel) the Advanced Woman. True that she resembles no one in actual existence, true, indeed, that she is outrageously and offensively improbable, but the public were not happy till they got her. They're happy now. So am I.
I should have thought that my views on the Advanced Woman were sufficiently well known; but, since you ask my opinion, I may say at once that I lose no opportunity of inveighing against this fin-de-siècle abomination. Once on a time it was not thought unbecoming for a woman to be modest and retiring. She knew her sphere, and, queen in her own selected world, she did not aspire to a sovereignty which naturally belonged to others. If they were alive to-day (and, after all, some of them are), our grandmothers would hardly know their Grand children—the Heavenly Twins. I am glad that I am permitted to keep burning the sacred lamp of the Old Womanhood. Indeed, it looks as if the jeers which a thoughtless world has hitherto reserved for the Old Maid were being transferred to the Old Woman. Yet to those who have never yielded to the spell of the latter-day notions, there is only dismay in the spectacle of the Advanced Woman sweeping triumphantly on, with her mind full of sex-problems she has not brains enough to understand, and her breath stained with the trace of cigarettes she does not care to conceal. Wholesomeness dies at being dubbed old-fashioned; Modesty does not survive the disgrace of not being up to date. It's a bad world, my masters, and I'm never tired of saying so.
The fact that you have invited my opinion with full knowledge of what I shall say, emboldens me to speak out. Man's day (which, like every dog, he has had) draws to an end. For centuries he has had Woman at his mercy. What she is to-day, that he has made her. And what is she? His Doll, his Slave, his "Old Woman." But Man made one fatal mistake. In a weak moment he consented to allow Woman to earn her own living. From that moment our ultimate triumph was assured. Now we know our strength. Told of old that we were brainless, we now become Senior Wranglers. Condemned aforetime to inactivity, we now realise that in life's struggle there are no prizes we are not competent to secure, though, of course, we are not always permitted. We have precipitated ourselves out of a yellow miasma of stagnant sloth into an emancipated, and advanced day. The Advanced Woman has come to stay—but not with any husband. She will be as free as the air, as strong as the eagle. I must stop, as to do any more fine writing would be to anticipate my next novel. Be sure to get it. It will be called—— [No; I can stand a good deal, but not that.—Ed.] 143
That holiday cruise on board the good steamship Cannie Donia! Did I dream it? or was it a reality? "Are there wisions about?" It seems like yesterday or like years ago, and I know it was neither. "Old Kaspar's,"—or let us say middle-aged Kaspar's,—"work was done" pro tem., and he could not neglect so great an opportunity, nor refuse so inviting an invitation as that sent him by Sir Charles Cheerie, the Chairman, to come aboard for the trial trip of the G.S.S. Cannie Donia. So I, middle-aged Kaspar, work done as aforesaid, did then and thereby become Tommy the Tripper, and, as such, went aboard the gallant SS. abovementioned, all-to-the-contrary, nevertheless, and notwithstanding.
And what a goodly company!
Sir Charles and Lady Cheerie, perfect host and hostess in themselves. Here too was our Toby, M.P., waggish as ever. "I am not down on the official list of guests as 'Tobias,'" quoth he. "And why?" I gave it up. "Because," says he, answering his own conundrum, "I am a free and independent scribe, and there is nothing to bias me. Aha!" The sea air agrees with Toby, M.P. "And where would the Member for Barkshire be," he asks, propounding as it were another and a better puzzle, "but aboard a bonnie barque? My bark," he continues gaily, "may be worse than my bite, but——" Here the bugle-call to breakfast sounds, and from ocular evidence I can roundly assert that whatever his bark may be, I will back his bite—and this without backbiting, of which, as I trust, neither of us is capable—against that of any two of his own size and weight. Yet Toby en mangeant is not the dog in a manger, no, not by any means! With one eye to the main chance, and another to the corresponding comfort of his co-breakfasters, so pursueth he his steadfast course, as indeed do we all, to the astonishment of most of us, through the shoals of toast and butter; over the shallows of eggs; safely through the Straits of Kipper and Kurrie; with a pleasant time in Hot Tea Bay; then through a Choppy sea, between the dangerous rocks of Brawn and Bacon; into the calm Marmaladean Sea, where we ride at anchor and all is well.
After breakfast, the cigar, or pipe, with conversational accompaniment, what time we pace the quarter-deck. Prognostications as to probable weather are "taken and offered" by nautically-attired guests, who, in a general way, may be supposed from their seagoing costume "to know the ropes." Here is the ever amiable and truly gallant Sir Peter Plural, looking every inch the ideal yachtsman, as honorary member of the Upper House of Cowes and Ryde Piers. Wonderful man Sir Peter! knows everybody, is liked by everybody; has been yachting and sailing and voyaging for any number of years; knows even the smallest waves by sight, and, if asked, could probably tell you their names! One day he will publish his reminiscences!
We anchor off Queenstown. The estimable, jovial Valentine Vulcan, M.P., from the North, must ashore to purchase some trifling knickknacks by way of mementoes of the visit. Instead of "knickknacks" he lays in a stock of "knock-knocks," yclept "shillelaghs," which are served out to him by a delicately pale beauty of Erin, dark-haired, slim waisted, and as elegant as might be any natty girl from County Trim. She shows us some dozen shillelaghs with hard, murderous-looking, bulbous knobs.
"Phew!" whistles Valentine Vulcan, M.P., weighing one of these dainty sticks in his hand. "You might get rather a nasty crack from this." I agree with him, and the sad daughter of Erin regards us sadly and sympathetically.
"Maybe," I think to myself, "she has lost a friend or a lover in one of these confounded O'Capulet and O'Montague rows. Poor girl!" And I eye her with a look wherein admiration is tempered with pity. It occurs to me that I will say something appropriate, just to show her how I, a stranger and a Saxon, feel for her. It may lead her to express her hearty detestation of these faction-fights, and of these deadly fracas with the armed constabulary. So I say, with a touch of deep indignation in my tone, "It's a shame," say I, "that such things as these"—and I nod frowningly at the shillelaghs, which Vulcan, M.P., is twirling meditatively, one in each hand, as if right and left were about to fight it out—"it's a shame that such things as these should be permitted!" The pale, sad, beautiful daughter of Erin, regards me mournfully, and then, in a tone expressive of astonishment blended with firm remonstrance, she asks,—
"An' what would the poor Boys use, an' they not allowed fire-arms?"
That was all. No smile is on the lips of Erin's pale daughter. She is apparently in earnest, though both Vulcan and myself, talking it over subsequently, unite in opinion that, perhaps, she had been availing herself of this rare and unique opportunity of "getting at" the Saxon.
So she went on recommending sticks and photographs, and did a good bit of business with our generous Vulcan, M.P., who returned, laden with gifts for various fellow-guests aboard the good SS. Cannie Donia.
What amusing nights and delightful days! The ladies—bless 'em!—all charming, and very Barkisses in their perpetual "willingness" to do anything and everything that might give pleasure and afford amusement. Two fairy-gifted maidens entertain us mightily with a capital dramatic sketch of their own composition; others follow suit, playing the piano; and a sestette perform, without previous rehearsal, glees, madrigals, part-songs, and choruses to popular plantation melodies, under the leadership of that masterly musician Tom Tolderol, whose only regret is that he has not been able to bring on board with him his sixteen-horse-power-fifty-stopped-sixteen-pedal organ (designed and made by the eminent firm of Bellows, Blower & Co., at a cost of some few thousand pounds), though, as he explains to us, he would have done so, had this musical mammoth been only compressible within the limits of an ordinary carpet bag.
However, à propos of organs, we have with us a representative of one of the greatest organs—of the Press—full of wise saws and modern instances; as jolly as a sandboy, or rather as a schoolboy out for a holiday. A sailor every inch of him, and this is saying a great deal, as he must be over six feet, and broad in proportion.
Appropriate, too, as aboard "the craft," is the presence of the Great Grand Secretary, Mr. Benjamin Boaz, A.M., P.G.M., &c., &c., and the still Greater, Grander Something Else, P.P.M., &c., Sir Jonathan Jachin, mysterious officers, Arcades ambo, of the Secret Rites of Masonry, fall of nods, winks, becks, wreathed smiles, signs, secrets, fun, frolic, and tales galore.
Ah! the happy days! And the happy evenings! What excellent "toasts" and "returnings of thanks" by my Lord Affidavit, by Sir Poseidon À Vinklo (President of the Anchorite Court), by Andrew McJason (senior of the Argonautic Firm that built the good ship Cannie Donia), and the sprightliest speech of all by Sir Charles Cheerie!
Round to Falmouth, up the Fal, "with our Fal, lal, la," as singeth our brilliant sestette to piano, or, to quote Sir Jonathan, "our P. an' O." accompaniment.
Then S'uth'ards! Then.... But "here break we off."
Thus do I briefly make some record of a "trial trip"; and may no trip that any of us may make, whether involving a trial or not, have worse results than has this, of which, beginning and finishing happily and gloriously as it has done—and such be the Cannie Donia's fate evermore—I am privileged to write this slight record, and proud to account myself henceforth as
Saxon (referring to the shillelaghs). "It's a shame that such things as these should be permitted!"
Daughter of Erin (plaintively). "An' what would the poor Boys use, an' they not allowed Fire-arms?"
144
AN IMPORTANT 'JUNCTION.
"You mind your Fader gets my Boots reddy by Four o'clock, 'cos I'm goin' to a Party!"
["To Poets.—£5 offered for a One-Act Opera Libretto, subject to conditions," &c.—Advertisement in "Morning Post."]
A Paradox of Theatrical Success.—At the Criterion very difficult to get into Hot Water.
(To a Friendly Adviser.)
(After a Long Course of Cynicism.)
Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari Volume
107, September 22nd, 1894, by Various
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