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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 108. JUNE 29, 1895.

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_




OPERATIC NOTES.

_Monday._--Tannhaeuserites disappointed. Signor VIGNAS indisposed.
_Tannhaeuser's_ understudy _Faust_ put up. House good. Performance
better. PLANCON,--once _Jupiter_ now _Mephistopheles_, the extremes
meeting in one singer,--excellent. MELBA quite the German Fraeulein.
BEVIGNANI, C. B., _i.e._, "Conducting Beautifully," in the chair.

_Tuesday._--Many other attractions, yet heart is true to Opera. M.
VICTOR MAUREL, as _Iago_, adds another leaf to his victor's wreath of
Laurel. MAGGIE MACINTYRE makes distinct advance, and sings, "O Willow,
we have missed you" most melodiously. TAM AGNO as _Misther O'Tello_,
the Irish <DW54> singer, uncommonly powerful. RICHARD GREEN, _Montano_,
greener than ever: quite fresh. PERCY MORDY a good _Roderigo Randomo_.
The highly Pole-ish'd OLITZKA a fair representative of _Emilia_. And
this cast, with Merry MANCINELLI manipulating musicians, makes the
Opera a delight to the _fine fleur_ of the Covent Gardenian Hot House.

[Illustration: Pagliacci.]

_Wednesday._--House crammed to see and hear ADELINA PATTI as _Rosina_
in the ever delightful _Barbiere di Siviglia_. ROSSINI for ever!
"Whar's your WULLIE WAGNER noo?" PATTI'S acting worth a third of the
money; her singing makes up t'other two-thirds. "Bonus" to audience in
"_Home, Sweet Home_." Wrapt attention! Here we are all of us out for
the night, so to speak, in silks and satins and jewels rare, and with
feathers and diamonds and all our war paint on, off afterwards
to routs, balls and supper-parties, and yet all hushed,
conscience-stricken as it were, in the midst of our gaiety, by sweet
voice warbling so distinctly "Home! Home! Home! Sweet Home! Wherever
(including the Opera Covent Garden) we wander (and we can't wander
when our attention is riveted on _la Diva_) there is no-oh-o-o place
like Ho-ome!" And then, second verse finished, a storm of rapturous
applause bursts over the singer! Yes! those are our sentiments. "Home!
Home!" by all means. Only--excuse us--we "_won't_ go Home Sweet Home
till morning, till daylight doth appear." But why, ADELINA
_mia_, didst thou sing at the end of the Opera that remarkably
anti-climaxious waltz of TI-TO-TUM MATTEI'S? TI-TO-TUM all very well
in his way, but not a ROSSINI. And then you sang it from a paper
in your hand as though doing penance in a music sheet? A mistake,
ADELINA, don't do it again, spin your TI-TO-TUM at a concert, but
not in ROSSINI'S _Barbiere_. BERTHA BAUERMEISTER obtained a rapturous
encore, but shook her finger at the audience as who would say "too
late! too late!" So BEVIGNANI bowed, and on we went again merrily.
PINI-CORSI good as pantaloon _Bartolo_. ANCONA a capital _Figaro_,
looking like one of _Cruikshank's_ comic characters. 'ABRY MUNDY,
fine _Basilio_ done in Italian oils; M. BONNARD, light and airy
French count, more of larker than lover. All Home-Sweet-Home-ing (or
elsewhere) about midnight, many being detained by the singers at the
Opera from getting to the SPEAKER'S "at Home," Sweet Home.

_Thursday._--_Pagliacci_, with Miss PAULINE JORAN appearing as
_Nedda_, and playing it in first-rate style. "Gee up! _Nedda!_"
_Query._ PINI-CORSI good as _Tonio_? _Answer._ 'CORSI was. T'others
not much, but Opera still charming. Yet this evening's programme
too trying for emotional persons. _Pagliacci_, tragedy; _Cavalleria
Rusticana_ tragedy also; tragedy from beginning to end; even the
celebrated _mezzo_ very like a wail! Not kind of DRURIOLANUS to
afflict us thus. Madame BELLINCIONI, "the original _Santuzza_,"
admirable. Honours easy between Madame CALVE and BELLINCIONI. The
latter played it first abroad; but the former had the start of her
_here_. In some of the action peculiarly characteristic of the type,
BELLINCIONI wins, not by a neck, but by two hands. CALVE more striking
(hands down) in her jealous agony. Signor VALENTINE FIGARO ANCONA
excellent as _Alfio_; the situation when VIGNAS, going strong as
_Turiddu_, catches _Alfio's_ ear, in order, as he says in Sicilian,
"Tu-rid-u of his presence" by subsequently killing him, more dramatic
than ever. GIULIA RAVOGLI admirable as quite the gay _Lola_ of the
Sicilian Seven Dials. After _intermezzo_ Bowing BEVIGNANI declines
_encore_.

_Friday._--Child _Harold_ allowed to sit up late for another night.
Composer COWEN ought to sing, "I love my ALBANI with an A, because
she's Admirable." _Harold_ improveth on representation. _William
Malet_ played by RICHARD GREEN. Nice of the librettist, Sir EDWARD
MALET, to keep the memory of his ancestor Green. It must make singers
rather nervous to have the composer _vis-a-vis_ conducting his own
work; as WAGSTAFF observes, "in this instance it must have the effect
of Cowin' them." 'Nother week gone.

       *       *       *       *       *

A SIESTA.

How sleepy I feel! It is this beastly influenza cold and headache. The
best thing to do for a headache is to have a little doze and sleep
it off. Not a very easy thing to do in a big Paris hotel in the
afternoon. However, it is quiet enough in my room, looking on to the
courtyard, away from the noises of the Boulevard.

Just dropping off. Crash! Only someone shutting a door. That is not an
unusual sound. In these big hotels no one closes a door, no one glides
along a passage, no one speaks in a soft voice, but everyone bangs,
and stamps, and shouts. If it is a woman, she screams. Another crash!
The man in the next room just come in. That's the Frenchman with the
awful cough. No one but a Frenchman could have a cough like that. Lie
and listen to his cough for some time. Various other doors banged. But
at last sink into unconsciousness. Good Heavens! What's happened now?
Oh, it's the American trunks being dragged out of the room on the
other side. Well, at any rate I shall not hear the American voices now
through that miserable door of communication, which, locked and bolted
ever so carefully, does not keep out sounds. But there is someone
talking there now. Of course the new comers. It must be two people.
No, twenty people. By Jove, they are Germans! And there's the
Frenchman's cough again. I shall never get to sleep. Yet somehow
the sounds get confused, I fancy the Germans are coughing and the
Frenchman is saying "_Ja, ja, ja,_" and then----

There, now I am awake again. Why, there's someone knocking at the
door. "_Pardon, monsieur, avez-vous recu votre linge?_" "_Mais, oui,
je l'ai recu hier._" "_Pardon, monsieur, il y a des faux-cols._"
"_Non, je les ai recus tous._" "_Mais, monsieur----_" "_Mais qu'est-ce
que vous me chantez la? Laissez-moi tranquille._" "_Mais, monsieur,
le monsieur en face m'a dit que monsieur a recu des faux-cols que
monsieur----_" Confound the collars! Get up, let in the _garcon_,
examine my collars and the collars of the _monsieur en face_, who is
just packing up, rectify the mistake of the washerwoman, and am again
alone. Now is it worth going to sleep or not? Will try once more.

What's that? "MARIE!" It's someone shouting outside my door. How fond
they are of shouting outside my door! "MARIE! _De l'eau chaude._" I
hope she won't think it's for me, or she'll wake me up if at last
I get a chance of dropping off. Then silence. Positively, absolute
silence. The coughing Frenchman must have been suffocated; the
Germans--no, nothing could stop the Germans from talking, only they
have gone out of hearing. And the _femme de chambre_ has hurried off
to fetch that hot water for somebody, and the _garcon_ is not banging
his broom about in this _couloir_, and there is no baggage coming or
going, and no door crashing; and, in the midst of profound peace, I
think drowsily of quiet country afternoons, when one hears only the
humming of the bees, and the whispering of the aspens, and then, and
then----Hullo! What's up now? There's someone else knocking. My last
chance gone. My head is aching more than ever. "_Eh bien?_" "_C'est
l'eau chaude que vous avez commandee, Monsieur._"

       *       *       *       *       *

THE ADVERTISEMENT FIEND.

(_Written in the Train by an Irate Traveller._)

    ["The English landscape is being transformed into a
    dumping-ground for catchpenny eyesores."--_See the "Nineteenth
    Century" for June._]

[Illustration]

  For Soap and Pill each English <DW72> and hill
  Is now a background, and the cry is, "Still
  They come;" these public nuisances, that mar
  The fair earth's face, like some unsightly scar.
  Who possibly can care, I ask, to learn
  That Juno Soap Saves Washing, or to turn
  A gaze disgusted on some blatant board,
  By which the devious tourist is implored
  To try the Lightning Pill that never fails
  To spot the Spot, or cure whatever ails?
  JOHN BULL, his missus and the kids, I hope,
  Do not entirely live on pills and soap.
  And yet you'd surely think so, when you've scanned
  The nostrum-signs that so adorn our land!
  Oh! heavily I'd tax 'em, if I might!
  And keep the landscape clear. Am I not right?

    [_Terminus. Exit, fuming._

       *       *       *       *       *

SOCIETY'S NEXT CRAZE.

(_As foreseen by Mr. Punch's Second-sighted Clairvoyant._)

    _It is the summer of 1896--or possibly '97. The scene is a
    road skirting Victoria Park, Bethnal Green, which Society's
    leaders have recently discovered and appointed as the_
    rendez-vous _for the Season, and where it is now the correct
    thing for all really smart people to indulge, between certain
    prescribed hours, in sports and pastimes that have hitherto
    been more characteristic of the masses than the classes. The
    only permissible mount now is the donkey, which must be ridden
    close to the tail, and referred to as a "moke." A crowd of
    well-turned-out spectators arrives from the West End every
    morning about eleven to watch the brilliant parade of
    "Mokestrians" (as the Society journalist will already have
    decided to call them). Some drive slowly up and down on
    coster-barrows, attended by cockaded and disgusted grooms.
    About twelve, they break up into light luncheon parties; after
    which they play democratic games for half an hour or so, and
    drive home on drags._

[Illustration]

_Mr. Woodby-Innett_ (_to the_ Donkey Proprietor). Kept a moke for me?
I told you I should be wantin' one every mornin' now.

_The Donkey Proprietor_ (_after consulting engagement-book_). I've
not got it down on my list, Sir. Very sorry, but the Countess of
CUMBERBACK has just booked the last for the 'ole of this week. Might
let you 'ave one by-and-by, if Sir HASCOT GOODWOOD brings his in
punctual, but I can't promise it.

_Mr. Woodby-Inn._ That's no good; no point in ridin' after the right
time. (_To himself, as he turns away._) Nuisance! Not that I'm so keen
about a moke. Not a patch on a bike!--though it don't do to say so.
Only if I'd known this, I'd have turned up in a tall hat and frock
coat; and then I could have taken a turn on the steam-circus. Wonder
if it would be any sort of form shyin' at cocoa-nuts in tweeds and a
straw hat. Must ask some chap who knows. More puzzlin' what to put on
this year than ever!

_Lady Ranela Hurlingham_ (_breathlessly to_ Donkey Proprietor). That's
mine, isn't it? Will you please put me up, and _promise_ me you'll
keep close behind and make him run. (_Suppliantly._) You will, _won't_
you?

_The Donkey Proprietor_ (_with a due sense of his own value_). Well,
I dessay I can come along presently, Lady 'URLINGHAM, and fetch 'im
a whack or two; jest now I can't, having engaged to come and 'old the
Marshiness of 'AMMERCLOTH'S on _'er_ moke; but there, you orter be
able to git along well enough by yourself now--_you_ ought!

_Captain Sonbyrne_ (_just home on leave from India--to_ Mrs.
CHESHAM-LOWNDES). Rather an odd sort of idea this--I mean, coming all
the way out here to ride a lot of donkeys, eh?

_Mrs. Chesham-Lowndes._ It used to be rather amusing a month ago,
before they all got used to riding so near the tail; but now they're
all so good at it, don't you know.

_Capt. Sonb._ I went down to Battersea Park yesterday to see the
bicyclists. Not a soul there, give you my word!

_Mrs. C.-L._ No; there _wouldn't_ be _this_ season. You see, all sorts
and conditions of people began to take it up, and it got too fearfully
common. And now moke-riding has quite cut it out.

_Capt. Sonb._ But why ride donkeys when you can get gees?

_Mrs. C.-L._ Oh, well, they're democratic, and cheap, and all that,
don't you know. And one really can't be _seen_ on a horse this
year--in town, at least. In the country it don't matter so much.

_First Mokestrian_ (_to second ditto_). Hullo, old chap, so _you_'ve
taken to a moke at last, eh? How are you gettin' on?

_Second Mokestrian._ Pretty well. I can sit on his tail all right now,
but I can't get into the way of keepin' my heels off the ground yet,
it's so beastly difficult.

_Fragments from Spectators._ That's rather a smart barrow, Lady
BARINRAYNE'S drivin' to-day.... Who's the fellow with her, with the
paper feather in his pot-hat? Bad style, _I_ call it.... That's Lord
FREDDY FUGLEMAN--best dressed man in London. You'll see everybody
turnin' up in a paper feather in a day or two.... Lot of men seem to
be using a short clay as a cigarette-holder now, don't they?... Yes,
RODDIE RIPPINGILL introduced the idea last week, and it seems to have
caught on. [_&c., &c._]

AFTER LUNCHEON; AT THE STEAM-CIRCUS, AND OTHER SPORTS.

_Scraps of Small-talk._ No end sorry, Lady GWENDOLIN; been tryin' to
get you a scent-squirt everywhere; but they're all gone; such a run on
'em for Ascot, don't you know.... Thanks; it doesn't matter; only dear
Lady BUCKRAM has just thrown some red ochre down the back of my neck,
and ALGY VERE came and shot out a  paper thing right in my
face, and I shouldn't like to seem uncivil.... Suppose I shall see
you at Lady BRABAZON'S "Kiss in the Ring" at Bethnal Green to-morrow
afternoon?... I believe she _did_ send us cards, but we promised to
look in at a friendly lead the Duchess of DILLWATER is giving at such
a dear little public she's discovered in Whitechapel, so we may be
rather late.... You'll keep a handkerchief-throw for me if you _do_
come on, won't you?... It will have