Book: Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 99., December 6, 1890
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Various >> Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 99., December 6, 1890
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 99.
December 6, 1890.
MODERN TYPES.
(_BY MR. PUNCH'S OWN TYPE WRITER._)
NO. XXII.--THE MANLY MAIDEN.
The Manly Maiden may be defined as the feminine exaggeration of those
rougher qualities which men display in their intercourse with one
another, or in the pursuit of those sports in which courage, strength,
and endurance play a part. In a fatal moment she conceives the idea
that she can earn the proud title of "a good fellow" by emulating
the fashions and the habits of the robuster sex. She perceives that
men have a liking for men who are strong, bluff, outspoken, and
contemptuous of peril, and she infers mistakenly, that the same
tribute of admiration is certain to be paid to a woman who, setting
the traditions of her sex at defiance, consciously apes the manly
model without a thought of all that the imitation involves. She
forgets that as soon as a woman steps down of her own free will from
the pedestal on which the chivalrous admiration of men has placed her,
she abandons at once her claim to that flattering reticence of speech,
and that specially attentive courtesy of bearing, which are in men the
outward and visible signs of the spiritual grace which they assume
as an attribute of all women. In spite of what the crazy theorists
of the perfect equality school may say, men still continue to expect
and to admire in women precisely those qualities in which they feel
themselves to be chiefly deficient. Their reverence and affection are
bestowed upon her whose voice is ever soft, gentle and low, and whose
mild influence is shed like a balm upon the labours and troubles of
life. Of slang, and of slaps upon the back, of strength, whether of
language or of body, they get enough and to spare amongst themselves,
and they are scarcely to be blamed if at certain moments they should
prefer refinement to roughness, and gentleness to gentlemen. However,
these obvious considerations have no weight with the Manly Maiden.
In fact they never occur to her, and hence arise failures, and
humiliations, and disappointments not a few.
[Illustration]
The Manly Maiden is not, as a rule, the natural product of a genuine
country life. The daughter of rich parents, who have spent a great
part of their lives in a centre of commercial activity, she is
introduced to a new home in the country at about the age of fourteen.
Seeing that all those who live in the neighbourhood are in one way or
another associated with outdoor sports, and that the favour in which
the men are held and their fame vary directly as their power to ride
or to shoot straight, she becomes possessed by the notion that she too
must, if she is to please at all, be proficient in the sports of men.
Merely to ride to hounds is, of course, not sufficiently distinctive.
Many women do that, without losing at all the ordinary characteristics
of women. She must ride bare-backed, she must understand a horse's
ailments and his points, she must trudge (in the constant society of
men) over fallows and through turnips in pursuit of partridges, she
must be able to talk learnedly of guns, of powders, and of shot, she
must possess a gun of her own, and think she knows how to use it, she
must own a retriever, and herself make him submissive by the frequent
application of a silver-headed dog-whip.
These attainments are her ideals of earthly bliss, and she sets out
to realise them with a terrible perseverance. Her father, of course,
knows but little of sport. He is, however, afflicted with the ordinary
desire to shine as a sportsman, and as a host of sportsmen. He
stocks his coverts with game, and invites large shooting parties to
stay with him. He himself takes to a gun as a hen might take to the
water; although, as his daughter contemptuously expresses it, he is
calculated to miss a hippopotamus at ten yards, he seems to imagine,
if one may be permitted to judge from the wild frequency of his shots,
that it is the easiest thing in the world to hit a pheasant or a
partridge flying at ten times that distance. From such a father the
Manly Maiden easily secures permission, first of all, to walk with the
men while they are shooting, and subsequently to carry a gun herself.
And now the difficulties of the situation begin to make themselves
felt, not, indeed, by her, for she remains sublimely unconscious to
the end, but by the men who are compelled to associate with her upon
her ventures. No man will ever hesitate to rebuke another for carrying
his gun in such a way as to threaten danger; but, when a lady allows
him to inspect the inside of her loaded gun-barrels, or shoots down
the line at an evasive rabbit, he must suffer in silence, and can only
seek compensation for restraining his tongue by incontinently removing
his body to a safe place, where he can neither shoot nor be shot. At
luncheon, however, he may be gratified by hearing the Manly Maiden
rally him on the poor result of his morning's sport. She will then
favour him, at length, with her opinions as to how a driven partridge
or a rocketing pheasant should be shot, flavouring her discourse with
copious extracts from the Badminton books on shooting, and adding here
and there imaginative reminiscences of her own exploits in dealing
death. In the hunting-field she will lose her groom, and babble sport
to the Master, with whom she further ingratiates herself by rating and
lashing one of his favourite hounds, or by heading the fox whenever
he attempts to break away. She then crosses him at an awkward fence,
and considers herself aggrieved by the strong language which breaks
irresistibly from the fallen sportsman's lips. Later on she astonishes
an elderly follower of the hounds by asking him for a draught from his
flask, and completes his amazement by complaining of the thoughtless
manner in which he has diluted his brandy.
In the evening she will narrate her adventures at length, amidst
a chorus of admiring comments from her fond parents, and their
parasites, and will follow up her triumphs of the day by pursuing the
men into the smoking-room, where she permits one of them to offer
her a cigarette, and imagines that she delights him by accepting it.
On such an occasion she will inform one of her friends that, on the
whole, she has but a poor opinion of Diana of the Ephesians, seeing
that she only hunted with women, and never allowed men to approach
her. From this it may be inferred that her stock of classical
allusions is not quite so accurate and complete as that of a genuine
sportswoman should be. Next morning she may be seen schooling her
horses in the park. She has a touching faith in the use both of spur
and of whip whenever the occasion seems least to demand them, and
she despises the man who rides without rowels, and reverences one who
attempts impossible jumps without discrimination. During the summer
she spends a considerable part of her time in "getting fit" for the
labours of the autumn and winter. Sometimes she even plays cricket,
and has been known to address the ball that bowled her in highly
uncomplimentary terms.
So the years pass on. She never learns that it is possible for a woman
on certain occasions to be in the way of men, nor does her accuracy
or her care with a gun increase. If she marries at all, she will marry
some feeble creature who has no feeling for sport, and over whom she
can lord it to her heart's content. But it is more probable that she
will remain unwedded, and will develop eventually from a would-be
harding-riding maiden, into a genuinely hard-featured old maid.
* * * * *
A MUSICAL POLE STAR.
The Irish Polar Star Musical, yclept our Paddy REWSKI, gave his last
"recital" at St. James's Hall, Thursday, November 27. Bedad, then,
'tis Misther Paddy REWSKI himself that is the broth of a boy entirely
at the piano-forte, but, Begorra, he's better at the _piano_ than
the _forte._ He gave us a nice mixture of HANDEL, BEETHOVEN, CHOPIN,
LISZT, and then a neat little compo of his own, consisting of a
charming theme, with mighty ingenious and beautiful variations, all
his own, divil a less. Great success for Paddy REWSKI. The Irish Pole,
or Pole-ished Irishman, has thoroughly mastered his art, but if he has
learnt how to master tune he has not yet perfected himself in _keeping
strict time_, as he took his seat at the piano just one quarter of
an hour late. Paddy REWSKI, me bhoy, when next you give us a recital,
remember that punctuality is the soul of business. _Au revoir_, Paddy
REWSKI!
Yours entirely, JIM KRO MESKI.
* * * * *
ADVICE GRATIS.--Go and see _London Assurance_, with "CHARLES our
friend" in it, at the Criterion. It has, probably, never yet been put
on the stage as it is _hic et nunc_. Well worth seeing as a _curio_.
But what tin-pot nonsense is the Tally-ho speech of _Lady Grace
Harkaway_. And yet it has always "gone," and _London Assurance_
itself, like the sly Reynard of the speech, has invariably shown good
sport, and given a good run for the money.
* * * * *
MAD WAGGERY.--_The Chequers_ is not the name of a wayside inn, but
of one of those modern inventions calculated to help to fill Colney
Hatch. A Puzzle it is, and it can be done--at least so say FELTHAM
& CO. Anyhow, they don't sell the solution, they only provide the
mystery.
* * * * *
AN OLD-FASHIONED CHRISTMAS NUMBER (_which is sure not to be
forgotten_).--Number One.
* * * * *
A CAUTION TO SNAKES.
[Illustration: Liberty, in a forest, flees a rattlesnake wearing an
Indian headdress.]
"There is, however, another opinion prevalent among the less educated
which gives to the Rattle-snake the vindictive spirit of the North
American Indian, and asserts that it adds a new joint to its rattle
whenever it has slain a human being, thus bearing in its tail the
fearful trophies of its prowess, just as the Indians wear the scalps
of slain foes."--_Wood's Natural History_.
* * * * *
"INGINS is Snakes!" And from its lair
This snake seems stirring. Who cries "Scare!"?
Well, they who hear the rattle
Close at their heels, its spring will dread,
And wary watch and cautious tread,
And arm as though for battle.
Even to drive the keen-fanged snake
From its old home in swamp or brake
Irks sensitive humanity;
But they who know the untamed thing,
Have felt its fang, have seen its spring,
Hold mercy mere insanity.
Untamed, untameable, it hides,
_Anguis in herba_, coils and glides,
And strikes when least expected,
And who shall blame its watchful foe
Who stands prepared to strike a blow,
When the swift death's detected?
In the dark jungle dim and damp
It lurks, and Civilisation's tramp
Disturbs its sanctuary.
Hard on the snake? Perchance, perchance!
But Civilisation, to advance,
Must ruthless be, as wary.
"Vindictive spirit" of the wild,
'Twixt you and Progress' pale-faced child
Fated vendetta rages,
And Pity's self stands powerless
To help you counter with success
The onset of the ages.
Long driven, lingeringly you lurk;
Steel and starvation ply their work
Of slow extermination.
Armed once again Columbia stands,
And who'd arrest avenging hands,
Must challenge--Civilisation.
* * * * *
[Illustration: MANNERS OF THE BAR.
A SKETCH IN THE LAW COURTS, SHOWING THE PATIENT AND RESPECTFUL
ATTENTION OF THE COUNSEL FOR THE PLAINTIFF DURING THE SPEECH OF
COUNSEL FOR DEFENDANT.]
* * * * *
The Archbishop of CANTERBURY's learned judgment in the Lincoln Case
was very much after the style in which His Grace parts his hair. It
was a first-rate example of the _Via Media_.
* * * * *
A PAGE FROM A POSSIBLE DIARY.
(_WRITTEN IN THE WILD WEST._)
_Monday_.--Well, here I am. Guess I have got together a pretty tidy
Army, that should beat BARNUM into small potatoes. The Arabs from
Earl's Court will soon go along straight enough. They seem to miss the
Louvre Theatre over yonder, where they were on the free list. Rather
a pity I can't start a Show here, but I calculate the country is too
disturbed.
_Tuesday_.--Nothing much doing. Sent along to SMALL BITE, and he has
promised to come round along with a few of the Ghost-Dancers to let
me see what I think of them. Fancy the _ballet_ has been done before.
That clever cuss GUS, must have used it at Covent Garden when he put
up _Robert the Devil_. It seems like the Nun Ballet--uncommonly.
_Wednesday_.--SMALL BITE is here. He's friendly enough, but his terms
are too high. Fancy they must have been trying to annex him for the
Aquarium. The Ghost-Dance is a fraud. Nothing in it. Might fake
it up a bit with national flags and red fire. But it's decidedly
disappointing. Altogether small pumpkins.
_Thursday_.--Settlers want to know when I am going to begin. They are
always in such a darned hurry. They ought to know I am the hero of a
hundred fights (see my Autobiography--a few copies of which may still
be had at the almost nominal price of half-a-dollar) and should rely
on me accordingly. Am to visit the Indian Camp to-morrow.
_Friday_.--Terms agreed. SMALL BITE and fifty braves engage themselves
for six months certain, sharing terms, travelling exes, and one clear
benefit. I find front of the curtain and advertising, they provide
entertainment, which is to include Ghost-Dance (with banners and
red fire) religious rites, war-dance, and scalping expedition
with incidentals (SMALL BITE says he knows "some useful knockabout
niggers") and procession in and out of towns. Think I can boom it.
_Saturday_.--My connection with war ended. Calculate I start to-morrow
with the Show across the herring-pond, to wake up the Crowned Heads of
Europe!
* * * * *
TO THE BIG BACILLICIDE.
O DOCTOR KOCH, if you can slay
Those horrid germs that kill us,
You'll be _the_ hero of the day,
Great foe of the Bacillus!
What champion may we match with you
In all the world of fable?
St. George, who the Great Dragon slew,
The Knights of ARTHUR's Table,
E'en gallant giant-slaying JACK,
The British nursery's darling;
Or JENNER, against whom the pack
Of faddists now are snarling,
Must second fiddle play to him
Who stayed the plague of phthisis,
And plumbed a mystery more dim
And deep than that of Isis.
For what are Dragons, Laidly Worms,
And such-like mythic scourges,
Compared with microscopic germs
'Gainst which the war he urges?
Hygeia, goddess, saint, or nymph,
We trust there's no big blunder,
And hope your votary's magic lymph
May prove no nine days' wonder.
We dare not trust each pseudo-seer
Who'd powder, purge, or pill us;
But pyramids to him we'll rear
Who baffles the Bacillus.
* * * * *
STRANGE TRANSFORMATION.--From the _Times_ Correspondent, U.S., we
learned, last week, that somebody who had been "a Bull," was now "a
Bear." What next will he be?--A donkey? Or did he begin with this, and
will he end by being a goose?
* * * * *
PROSPECT FOR CHRISTMAS.--"TUCK," i.e., RAPHAEL of that ilk. The
"Correct (Christmas) Card."
* * * * *
"A PAIR OF SPECTACLES."
[Illustration]
The first spectacle classic and Shakspearian: t'other burlesquian,
and PETTIT-cum-SIMS. The one at the Princess's, the other at the
Gaiety. _Place au_ "Divine WILLIAMS"! _Antony and Cleopatra_ is
magnificently put on the stage. The costumes are probably O.K.--"all
correct"--seeing that Mr. LEWIS WINGFIELD pledges his honourable
name for the fact. We might have done with a few less, perhaps, but,
as in the celebrated case of the war-song of the Jingoes, if we've
got the men, and the money too, then there was every reason why the
redoubtable LEWIS (whose name, as brotherly Masons will call to mind,
means "Strength") should have put a whole army of Romans on the stage,
if it so pleased him.
[Illustration: The Last Scene of Antony and Cleopatra.]
For its _mise-en-scene_ alone the revival should attract all
London. But there is more than this--there is the clever and careful
impersonation of _Enobarbus_ by His Gracious Heaviness, Mr. ARTHUR
STIRLING; then there is a lighter-comedy touch in the courteous and
gentlemanly rendering of _Octavius Caesar_ by Mr. F. KEMBLE COOPER--one
of the best things in the piece, but from the inheritor of two such
good old theatrical names, much is expected. And then there is
the _Mark Antony_ of Mr. CHARLES COGHLAN, a rantin', roarin' boy,
this _Antony_, whom no one, I believe, could ever have made really
effective; and finally. Her Graceful Majesty, Mrs. LANGTRY, Queen of
Egyptian Witchery. Now honestly I do not consider _Cleopatra_ a good
part, nor is the play a good play for the matter of that. I believe
it never has been a success, but if, apart from the really great
attraction of gorgeous spectacular effects, there is any one scene
above another which might well draw all London, it is the death of
_Cleopatra_, which to my mind is--after the fall of WOLSEY, and a long
way after, too,--one of the most pathetic pictures ever presented on
the stage. So lonely in her grandeur, so grand, and yet so pitiable in
her loneliness is this poor Queen of Beauty, this Empress-Butterfly,
who can conquer conquerors, and for whose sake not only her noble
lovers, but her poor humble serving-maids, are willing to die.
[Illustration: The Run of Cleopatra.]
Her last scene is beyond all compare her best, and to those who are
inclined to be disappointed with the play after the first Act is
over I say, "Wait for the end," and don't leave until the Curtain has
descended on that gracious figure of the Queen of Egypt, attired in
her regal robes, crowned with her diadem, holding her sceptre, but
dead in her chair of state. _Ca donne a penser_.
_The Gaiety_.--In calling their burlesque _Carmen up to Data_,
possibly the two dear clever boys who wrote it intended some
crypto-jocosity of which the hidden meaning is known only to the
initiated in these sublime mysteries. Why "_Data_"? On the other hand,
"Why not?"
However attractive or not as a heading in a bill of the play,
the Gaiety _Carmen_ is, on the whole, a merry, bright, and light
burlesque-ish piece, though, except in the costume and make-up of Mr.
ARTHUR WILLIAMS as _Captain Zuniga_, there is nothing extraordinarily
"burlesque" in the appearance of any of the characters, as the
appearance of Mr. HORACE MILLS as _Remendado_ belongs more to
Christmas pantomime than to the sly suggestiveness of real burlesque.
[Illustration: Scene from the Cigarette History of _Carmen_.]
As Miss ST. JOHN simply looks, acts, and sings as a genuine _Carmen_,
I can only suppose that her voice is not strong enough for the real
Opera; otherwise I doubt whether any better operatic impersonator of
the real character could be found. She is not the least bit burlesque,
and though the songs she has to sing are nothing like so telling
as those she has had given her in former pieces, yet, through her
rendering, most are encored, and all thoroughly appreciated.
[Illustration: In for a good Run on the "Bogie" System.]
Mr. ARTHUR WILLIAMS as _Zuniga_ is very droll, reminding some of us,
by his make-up and jerky style, of MILHER as the comic _Valentine_
in _Le Petit Faust_. Mr. LONNEN is also uncommonly good as the spoony
soldier, and in the telling song of "_The Bogie Man_;" and in the
still more telling dance with which he finishes it and makes his exit,
he makes _the_ hit of the evening,--in fact the hit by which the
piece will he remembered, and to which it owes the greater part of its
success.
In the authors' latest adaptation of the very ancient "business" of
"the statues"--consisting of a verse, and then an attitude, I was
disappointed, as I had been led to believe that here we should see
what Mr. LONNEN could do in the Robsonian or burlesque-tragedy style.
The brilliancy of the costumes, of the scenery, the grace of the four
dancers, and the excellence of band and chorus, under the direction
of that ancient mariner MEYER LUTZ, are such as are rarely met with
elsewhere.
Mr. GEORGE EDWARDES may now attend to the building of his new theatre,
as _Carmen up to Data_ will not give him any trouble for some time to
come.
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
[Illustration]
Only a Penny! And well worth every halfpenny of it. I am alluding
to the Christmas Number of the _Penny Illustrated Paper_, in which
appears _A Daughter of the People_, by JOHN LATEY, Junior, who is
Junior than ever in December. Capital Christmas Number, and will
attract an extraordinary number of Christmas readers.
_The Rosebud Annual_, published by JAMES CLARK & CO., is quite a
bright posy for our very little ones.
Turning from novels, it is a relief to come across so inviting a
little volume as the _Pocket Atlas, and Gazetteer of Canada_, which
will be found of the greatest possible value to eccentric Londoners
who purpose visiting the Dominion during the coming Winter.
"_Persicos odi_," but you won't agree with HORACE if you follow this
"_puer apparatus_" of G. NORWAY, who, in _Hussein's Hostage_, gives us
the exciting adventures of a Persian boy.
_'Twixt School and College_, by GORDON STABLES, has nothing to do
with horsey experiences, as suggested by the author's name, but is the
uneventful home-life of a poor Scotch laddie, who triumphs by dint of
pluck.
_Nutbrown Roger and I_, by J.H. YOXALL, a romance of the highway,
quite in the correct style of disguises and blunderbusses always so
necessary for a tale of this kind.
_Disenchantment_ is the--not altogether--enticing title of "an
everyday story," by F. MABEL ROBINSON, author of _The Plan of
Campaign_. It is rather a long tale to tell, for it takes 432 pages
in the unravelling. It ends with a beautiful avowal that "the heart
is no more unchanging than the mind, and that love's not immortal,
but an illusion." As the utterer of this truism is a young married
woman, it would seem that the foundation is laid for a sequel to
_Disenchantment_ that might be appropriately called _Divorce_.
_The Secret of the Old House_, by EVELYN EVERETT GREEN, who evidently
can't keep a secret to himself, will be so no longer when the children
have satisfied their curiosity by reading the book.
My faithful "Co." declares that he has been recently hard at work
novel-reading. He has been revelling in an atmosphere of romance.
He has been moved almost to tears by _Lady Hazleton's Confession_,
by Mrs. KENT SPENDER, which, he says, includes, amongst many moving
passages, some glimpses of Parliamentary life. _Friend Olivia_, in
one bulky volume, takes the reader back to the days of CROMWELL, when
people said "hath," instead of "has," and "pray resolve me truly,"
instead of "don't sell me;" and "Mr. JOHN MILTON" played upon the
organ. It has a fine old crusty Puritan flavour about it, which,
however, does not prevent the hero and heroine, in the last page,
reading a letter together, "with smiles, and little laughs, and sweet
asides, and sweeter kisses." Altogether, a book to read when a library
does _not_ contain WALTER SCOTT, ALEXANDRE DUMAS _pere_, G.P.R. JAMES,
or HARRISON AINSWORTH. _Two Masters_ deals with passages in the life
of a young lady who is described as "a Boarding-school Miss" in Volume
I., and "a young she-fiend" in Volume III. However, it is only right
to say, that the last compliment is paid to her by a gentlemanly
murderer, who takes poison and a cigarette, with a view to escaping a
justly-deserved death on the gallows. From this it may be seen, that
the novel is at times slightly sensational. Fearing that his Christmas
might be saddened by this last ghastly incident, were not the
impression created by it partially removed by less highly-seasoned
fare, my faithful "Co." has also read _Mary Hamilton, a Tale for
Girls, My Schoolfellows_, and _Bonnie Boy's Soap Bubble_. He considers
the first admirably adapted to the comprehension of the readers to
whom it is addressed, only the girls, he says, should be _very_ young
girls. _My Schoolfellows_ he intends reading again when he has reached
his second childhood, when he fancies he will be better pleased with
the humours of "_Guzzling Gus_" and "_Ned Never Mind_." In conclusion,
he admits that he is a little doubtful about the merits or demerits of
_Bonnie Boy's Soap Bubble_. He explains, that while he was reading it
he "fell a thinking," and that when he woke up, the volume was lying
on the floor. Since then, he adds, he really has not had the leisure
to pick it up.
_The Snake's Pass_, by BRAM STOKER, M.A. (SAMPSON LOW), is a simple
love-story, a pure idyl of Ireland, which does not seem, after all, to
be so distressful a country to live in. Whiskey punch flows like milk
through the land; the loveliest girls abound, and seem instinctively
to be drawn towards the right man. Also there are jooled crowns to be
found by earnest seekers, with at least one large packing-case crammed
with rare coins. The love-scenes are frequent and tempting. BRAM has
an eye to scenery, and can describe it. He knows the Irish peasant,
and reproduces his talk with a fidelity which almost suggests that he,
too, is descended from one of the early kings, whereas, as everyone
knows, he lives in London and adds grace and dignity to "the front" of
the Lyceum on First Nights and others. He is perfectly overwhelming
in his erudition in respect of the science of drainage, which, if all
stories be true, he might find opportunity of turning to account in
the every-day (or, rather, every-night) world of the theatre. In his
novel he utilises it in the preliminaries of shifting a mighty bog,
the last stages whereof are described in a chapter that, for sustained
interest, recalls CHARLES READE's account of the breaking of the
Sheffield Reservoir. The novel-reader will do well not to pass by _The
Snake's Pass_. THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS & CO.