"Pictures fromPunch!" Good lack! How one's memories backward it carries.This artful collection ofBriggses, andTompkinses,Roberts, and'Arries!Forage of fifty years from Art—granaries fuller than Coptic!What first pleased our grandfather's eye may now brighten our grandchild's blue optic!Art that's humane never ages, and humour that's human's perennial.Turn to these pages and try! You'll perceive that impeccableTennielMoved men to mirth in the Fifties that folks in the Nineties continue;Your midriff indeed must be numb if his Yeomanry Major won't win you;And such "Illustrations to Shakspeare," so finely drawn and so funnily,Might tickle MissDelia Bacon, and knock sawdust out of "crank"Donnelly.Why praise those plump, "pretty girls," with their cheeks round and rosy as peaches,And as full of fun as of beauty, well known to the world asJohn Leech's?All the fan of theFair! Still their arch eyes attractively flash onThe British male creature, although hemaygrowl at the follies of Fashion.But e'en fashion cannot kill fun. If you'd enter the evergreen Smile-Lands,Turn over to page twenty-one and accompanyBriggsto the Highlands!Br-r-r-r! There's a happy explosion in each individual picture!"Sport" such asBriggs'sescapes the most "humanitarian" stricture.Keane—gentleCarlo! again! His braw feeshermen—even o' Sundays!—Might soften a Scotch Sabbatarian. Even the grimmest ofGrundiesMustsmile at his topers and tubthumpers, while, as for true English scenery,Whereisthe magical touch that could so render gay breadths of greenery?Drawing-room humours, and daintytechnique, do you favour? Fame'slaurier,Everyone knows—as here proved—for all that falls on subtleDu Maurier."Dicky Doyle's" opulent fancy, quaintSambourne'sexhaustless invention—But there, 'tis a "Humorous Art Gallery" by "Great Hands" too many to mention.When you have feasted onTennielandKeane, then ofPartridgethe turn is,And fed full onJohn Leech's"fire," you will find lots of ditto inFurniss."Pictures fromPunch!" That means pictures from full half a century's story;Humours, and fashions, and fads, English Mirth—English Girls—English Glory!Victoria'sreign set to laughter; a gay panorama of Beauty!Buy Britons, study, enjoy! 'Tis your interest, aye, and your duty!Here are "England—Home—Beauty" in one, and at sixpence a month. That's not much, man!If 'tis not your duty to "see that you get it," thenPunchis a Dutchman!
"Pictures fromPunch!" Good lack! How one's memories backward it carries.This artful collection ofBriggses, andTompkinses,Roberts, and'Arries!Forage of fifty years from Art—granaries fuller than Coptic!What first pleased our grandfather's eye may now brighten our grandchild's blue optic!Art that's humane never ages, and humour that's human's perennial.Turn to these pages and try! You'll perceive that impeccableTennielMoved men to mirth in the Fifties that folks in the Nineties continue;Your midriff indeed must be numb if his Yeomanry Major won't win you;And such "Illustrations to Shakspeare," so finely drawn and so funnily,Might tickle MissDelia Bacon, and knock sawdust out of "crank"Donnelly.Why praise those plump, "pretty girls," with their cheeks round and rosy as peaches,And as full of fun as of beauty, well known to the world asJohn Leech's?All the fan of theFair! Still their arch eyes attractively flash onThe British male creature, although hemaygrowl at the follies of Fashion.But e'en fashion cannot kill fun. If you'd enter the evergreen Smile-Lands,Turn over to page twenty-one and accompanyBriggsto the Highlands!Br-r-r-r! There's a happy explosion in each individual picture!"Sport" such asBriggs'sescapes the most "humanitarian" stricture.Keane—gentleCarlo! again! His braw feeshermen—even o' Sundays!—Might soften a Scotch Sabbatarian. Even the grimmest ofGrundiesMustsmile at his topers and tubthumpers, while, as for true English scenery,Whereisthe magical touch that could so render gay breadths of greenery?Drawing-room humours, and daintytechnique, do you favour? Fame'slaurier,Everyone knows—as here proved—for all that falls on subtleDu Maurier."Dicky Doyle's" opulent fancy, quaintSambourne'sexhaustless invention—But there, 'tis a "Humorous Art Gallery" by "Great Hands" too many to mention.When you have feasted onTennielandKeane, then ofPartridgethe turn is,And fed full onJohn Leech's"fire," you will find lots of ditto inFurniss."Pictures fromPunch!" That means pictures from full half a century's story;Humours, and fashions, and fads, English Mirth—English Girls—English Glory!Victoria'sreign set to laughter; a gay panorama of Beauty!Buy Britons, study, enjoy! 'Tis your interest, aye, and your duty!Here are "England—Home—Beauty" in one, and at sixpence a month. That's not much, man!If 'tis not your duty to "see that you get it," thenPunchis a Dutchman!
"Pictures fromPunch!" Good lack! How one's memories backward it carries.
This artful collection ofBriggses, andTompkinses,Roberts, and'Arries!
Forage of fifty years from Art—granaries fuller than Coptic!
What first pleased our grandfather's eye may now brighten our grandchild's blue optic!
Art that's humane never ages, and humour that's human's perennial.
Turn to these pages and try! You'll perceive that impeccableTenniel
Moved men to mirth in the Fifties that folks in the Nineties continue;
Your midriff indeed must be numb if his Yeomanry Major won't win you;
And such "Illustrations to Shakspeare," so finely drawn and so funnily,
Might tickle MissDelia Bacon, and knock sawdust out of "crank"Donnelly.
Why praise those plump, "pretty girls," with their cheeks round and rosy as peaches,
And as full of fun as of beauty, well known to the world asJohn Leech's?
All the fan of theFair! Still their arch eyes attractively flash on
The British male creature, although hemaygrowl at the follies of Fashion.
But e'en fashion cannot kill fun. If you'd enter the evergreen Smile-Lands,
Turn over to page twenty-one and accompanyBriggsto the Highlands!
Br-r-r-r! There's a happy explosion in each individual picture!
"Sport" such asBriggs'sescapes the most "humanitarian" stricture.
Keane—gentleCarlo! again! His braw feeshermen—even o' Sundays!—
Might soften a Scotch Sabbatarian. Even the grimmest ofGrundies
Mustsmile at his topers and tubthumpers, while, as for true English scenery,
Whereisthe magical touch that could so render gay breadths of greenery?
Drawing-room humours, and daintytechnique, do you favour? Fame'slaurier,
Everyone knows—as here proved—for all that falls on subtleDu Maurier.
"Dicky Doyle's" opulent fancy, quaintSambourne'sexhaustless invention—
But there, 'tis a "Humorous Art Gallery" by "Great Hands" too many to mention.
When you have feasted onTennielandKeane, then ofPartridgethe turn is,
And fed full onJohn Leech's"fire," you will find lots of ditto inFurniss.
"Pictures fromPunch!" That means pictures from full half a century's story;
Humours, and fashions, and fads, English Mirth—English Girls—English Glory!
Victoria'sreign set to laughter; a gay panorama of Beauty!
Buy Britons, study, enjoy! 'Tis your interest, aye, and your duty!
Here are "England—Home—Beauty" in one, and at sixpence a month. That's not much, man!
If 'tis not your duty to "see that you get it," thenPunchis a Dutchman!
HIS OPPORTUNITY.Young Hawkins (finding young Mr. Merton, the model of his office, in an unexpected haunt). "Hullo, Merton, what are you doing here? Have a Sherry and Bitters?"Young Merton. "No, thank you, Hawkins; I'm afraid it would go to my Head."Hawkins. "So much the better, Old Man. Nature abhors a Vacuum. you know."
Young Hawkins (finding young Mr. Merton, the model of his office, in an unexpected haunt). "Hullo, Merton, what are you doing here? Have a Sherry and Bitters?"
Young Merton. "No, thank you, Hawkins; I'm afraid it would go to my Head."
Hawkins. "So much the better, Old Man. Nature abhors a Vacuum. you know."
(The kind of Novel Society likes.)
"Sling me over a two-eyed steak,Bill," saidBobo.
Billcomplied instantly, for he knew the lady's style of conversation; but LordCokaleekrequired to be told that his Marchioness was asking for one of the bloaters in the silver dish in front of his cousin,Bill Splinter.
Now, dear reader, I 'm not going to describe Cokaleek House, in the black country, orCokaleek, orBobo, orBill. If you are in smart society you know all about them beforehand; and if you ain't you must puzzle them out the best way you can. The more I don't describe them the more vivid and alive they ought to seem to you. As forBobo, I shall let her talk. That's enough. In the course of my two volumes—one thick and one thin—which is a new departure, and looks as if my publisher thought thatBobowould stretch to three volumes, and then found she wouldn't—you will be told, 1, thatBobohad brown eyes; 2, that she was five foot eight; and that is all you 'll ever know about the outside ofBobo. But you'll hear her talk, and you'll see her smoke; and if you can't evolve a fascinating personality out of cigarettes, and swears, and skittish conversation, you are not worthy to have knownBobo.
I am told that some people have taken "Bobo" for a vulgar caricature of a real personage. If they have, I can only say I feel flattered by the notion, as it may serve to differentiate me from the vulgar herd of novelists who draw on their imagination for their characters.
Chapter I.(and others).
Bobobegan her bloater.
"Why the beast has a hard roe!" she cried. "Cokaleek, you shall have the roe;" and she dropped it into his tea before he could object. "You're not eating any breakfast. Put the mustard-spoon in his mouth,Bill, if he insists upon keeping it wide open while he stares at me. Ain't I fascinating this morning? Why the devil don't you notice the new feather in my hat? I always wear feathers when I'm going out clubbing, because I plume myself upon being smart. Here, somebody see if my spur's screwed on all right."
"I wish your head was screwed on half as well," saidBill, asBoboplanted her handsome Pinet boot, No. 31z, on the breakfast-table.
Cokaleeklooked on and smiled, with his mouth still open. It was all he had to do in life. He had married her because she wasBobo; and the more she out-Bobo'dBobo, the better she pleased him. He was a marquis, and a millionaire, but he had only one drawing-room at his country-seat; and the smoking-room was upstairs—obviously because there was no room for it on the ground-floor. And there was only one piano in the house, at whichBobo'sgifted young friend,Sallie Rengaw, was engaged in the early morning, picking out an original funeral march with one finger, and throwing breakfast-eggs about in the fury of inspiration.
Anœuf à la coquecame flying across the passage at this moment, through the open door of the dining-room, and hitBill Splinteron the nose.BillwasCokaleek'sfirst-cousin, and heir-presumptive; in love,pour le bon motif, withBobo.
"You should always giveSalliepoached eggs," he remonstrated, holding his nose; "they make a worse mess when she pitches them about, but they only hurt the furniture."
"Does she always chuck eggs?" askedCokaleek, mildly.
It wasBobo'sfirst autumn at Cokaleek House, and the Marquis wasn't used to the ways of her gifted friends. She had another friend, besides the musical lady, a MissMiranda Skeggs, whose conversation was like a bad dream; and these two, withBill Splinter, were the house-party.Cokaleek, waking suddenly from an after-dinner nap, used to think he was in Hanwell.
"She chucks anything," answeredBobo; "kidneys, chops, devilled bones. How can she help it? That's the divine afflatus."
"Itsoundslike ta-ra-ra-boomdeay," saidCokaleek, who thought his wife meant the melody thatSallie'smuscular forefinger was thumping out on the concert-grand.
"Come, come along, every manjack of you!" shriekedSallie, from the other side of the passage. "Ain't this glorious? Ain't it majestic? Don't it bangBeethoven, and knockSullivaninto a cocked-hat? Hark at this! Ta-ra-ra!largo, for the hautboys and first fiddles. Boom! cornets and ophicleides. De——ay! bassoons, double-basses, and minute-guns on the big drum. There's a funeral march for you! With my learned orchestration it will be as good asSebastian Bach."
"Back? Why he's never been here in my time," falteredCokaleek. "I don't know any feller calledSebastian."
"Rippin'!" criedBobo; "and now we'll have the funeral. Get all the cloaks and umbrellas off the stand,Miranda.Bill, bring me the coal-scuttle—that's for the coffin, doncherknow.Cokaleek, you andBillare to be a pair of black horses; and me andMiranda'll be the mourners. Play away,Sallie, with all your might. We're doing the funeral."
Out flewBobointo the garden, drivingBillandCokaleekbefore her, scattering coals all over the gravel walk, and slashing at the two men with her pocket-handkerchief. She rushed all round the house, past the windows of the back parlour, kitchen, and scullery; and then she suddenly remembered the cub-hunting, andtore off to the stables, tally-ho-ing toCokaleekandBillto follow her. The next thing they all saw was a shower of baking-pears tumbling off the garden-wall, asBobotook it on her favourite hunter. She had been essentiallyBoboall that morning.
Chapter XIII.
"Bill," saidBobo, one winter twilight, by the smoking-room fire, after her fourteenth cigarette, "I want you to run away with me."
"Rot," answeredBill.
"Yes, I do. I've ordered the carriage for half-past ten this evening. We shall catch the mail to Euston."
"You won't catch this male," saidBill. "No,Bobo, you're very good fun—in your own house, but I don't want you in mine. You are distinctlyBobo, but that's all. It isn't enough to live upon. It won't pay rent and taxes."
"You're a cur."
"No, I'm trying to be a gentleman. Besides, what's the matter withCokaleek? Hasn't he millions, and a charming house in the heart of the collieries?"
"He's all that's delightful, only I happen to hate him. Directly I leave off chaffing him I begin to think of arsenic, and, brilliant as I am, I can't coruscate all day. It's very mean of you not to want to elope."
"I daresay; but I'm the only rational being in the book, and I want to sustain my character."
Chapter the Last.
Bobostayed, andBillwent in the carriage that had been ordered for the elopement; and then there happened an incident so rare in the realms of fiction that it has stamped my novel at once and for ever as the work of an original mind.
Cokaleek, the noble, unappreciated husband, got himself killed in the hunting-field. He went out withBoboone morning, and she came home, a little earlier than usual, without him, and smoked cigarettes by the fire, while he stayed out in the dusk and just meekly rolled over a hedge, with his horse uppermost. He wasn't likeGuy Livingstone; he wasn't a bit like dozens of heroes of French novels, who have died the same kind of death. He was just as absolutelyCokaleekas his wife wasBobo.
And didBillmarryBobo, orBoboBill?
Not she! Another woman might have done it—but notBobo. She knew too well what the intelligent reader expected of her; so she jiltedBill, in a thoroughly cold-blooded andBobo-ish manner, and got herself married to an Austrian Prince at half-an-hour's notice, by special licence from the A. of C.
FOLLOWING THE EXAMPLE OF MR. GLADSTONE AND MR. GOSCHEN, MR. PUNCH VISITS EDINBURGH.
Le Preux Chevalier Encore!—After a little dinner atFrascati's, which is still "going strong," we paid a visit to the Renovated and Enlarged Royal Music Hall, Holborn, and were soon convinced that the best things Mr.Albert Chevalierhas yet done are the coster songs, not to be surpassed, including the "Little Nipper," in which is just the one touch of Nature that makes the whole audience sympathetically costermongerish. "My Old Dutch" was good, but lacking in dramatic power, and the latest one "The Lullaby," sung by a coster to his "biby" in the cradle, wouldn't be worth much if it weren't for Mr.Chevalier'sreputation as a genuine comedian. It is good, but not equal to the "Little Nipper." "Full to-night," I observed to LordArthur Swanborough, who is Generalissimo of the forces "in front" of the house. "Yes," replies his Lordship, casually, "it's like this every night. Highly respectable everywhere. Only got to have in a preacher, we'd supply the choristers, and you'd think it was a service—or something like it."
By Our Own Philosopher.—Woe to him of whom all men speak well! And woe to that seaside or inland country place for which no one has anything but praise. It soon becomes the fashion; its natural beauties vanish; the artificial comes in. Nature abhors a vacuum; so does the builder. Yet Nature creates vacuums and refills them; so does the builder. Nature is all things to all men; but the builder has his price. Man, being a landed proprietor and a sportsman, preserves; but he also destroys, and the more he preserves so much the more does he destroy. Nature gives birth and destroys. Self-preservation is Nature's first law, and game preservation is the sporting landlord's first law.
Pain in Prospect.—SaysAugustus Druriolanus(Advertiscus), "A Life of Pleasurewill last until it is crowded out by the Christmas pantomime." Epigramatically, ourDruriolanusmight have said, "A Life of Pleasurewill last till the first appearance ofPayne."
"Take My Ben'son!"—"Don't! Don't!" a moral antidotal story as a sequel to "Dodo."
A very bad"Scuttle Policy."—The Coal Strike.
Allan à Daly, Robin Hood's Chief Forester.
Allan à Daly, Robin Hood's Chief Forester.
If it be true that "a thing of beauty is a joy for ever," thenThe Forestersat Daly's Theatre ought to have a good run, instead of being limited to a certain number of representations. Rarely has a scene of more fairy-like beauty been placed on the stage thanMaid Marian'sdream in Sherwood Forest. The peculiar light in which the fairies appear gives a marvellous elfinesque effect to the woodland surroundings. SirArthur Sullivan'smusic, too, may be reckoned as among some of his happiest efforts, and the gay Savoyard (who has only one rival, and he is at the Savoy) is fortunate in such principals as theFirst Fairy, MissGaston Murray, and MissHaswellasTitania. The Fairy Chorus and the Forester Chorus are remarkably efficient. Mr.Lloyd DaubignyasYoung Scarletthe Outlaw, is bright both as tenor and actor. Mr.Bourchieris an easy-going representative of theEarl of Huntingdon, with just enough suggestion of "divilment" in his face to account for his so readily and naturally taking to robbery as a profession.
The Villain of the Piece.
The Villain of the Piece.
AsMaid Marian, MissAda Rehanis at once dignified yet playful, and as Tennysonianly captivating in her boy's clothes (there were ready-made tailors to hand in the days ofIsaacof York), which is of course "a suit of male," as she is when, asRosalind, she delights us in her doublet and hose. Fortunate is Tailor-Maid Marianto obtain a situation in the country where so many "followers are allowed"!Little John,Will Scarlet,Old Muchwho does little, but that little well, with many others, make up the aforesaid "followers," who are of course very fond of chasing every little dear they see among the greenwood trees. MissCatherine LewisasKate, with a song, one of SirArthur'sextra good ones, about a Bee (is it in the key of "B," for SirArthurdearly loves a merrie jest?), obtained a hearty encore on the first night. Not only her singing of the bee song is good, but her stage-buzzyness is excellent.
Mr.Hann's('Arrythinks there's a "lady scene-painter 'ere, and her name isHann") and Mr.Ryan'sscenery is first-rate; and if the business of the fighting were more realistic, if the three Friars were a trifle less pantomimic, and the three grotesquely-got-up beggars (worthy ofCallot'spencil) would aim at being less actively funny, with one or two other "ifs," includingFriar Tuck'sgeneral make-up which might be vastly improved, and if the last Act were shortened, and the Abbot and the Sheriff and the Justiciary were compressed into one, or abolished,—any of which alterations may have been effected by now, seeing the piece was produced just a week ago,—then the attractions ofMaid Marianand the fairy scene and the music are of themselves sufficient to draw all lovers of the poetic musical drama to Daly's for some weeks to come, unless Mr.Dalyclips the run with the scissors of managerial fate,
"For be it understoodIt would have lived much longer if it could,"
"For be it understoodIt would have lived much longer if it could,"
"For be it understood
It would have lived much longer if it could,"
and so banishes his own outlaws from the elegant and commodious theatre in Leicester Square.
New Novel.—"The Mackerel of the Dean," by the author of "The Soul of the Bishop."
Transcriber Notes:Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. Those words were retained as-is.The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs or articles.Errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected unless otherwise noted.On page 178, "cubbing" was replaced with "clubbing".
Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. Those words were retained as-is.
The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs or articles.
Errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected unless otherwise noted.
On page 178, "cubbing" was replaced with "clubbing".