Punch, Or The London Charivari

Punch, Or The London
Charivari, Vol. 103, September
10, 1892

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Title: Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 103, September 10, 1892
Author: Various
Release Date: February 28, 2005 [EBook #15196]
Language: English
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PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 103.

September 10, 1892.

WHY I DON'T WRITE PLAYS.
(_FROM THE COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF A NOVELIST._)
Because it is so much pleasanter to read one's work than to hear it on
the Stage.
Because Publishers are far more amiable to deal with than
Actor-Managers.
Because "behind the scenes" is such a disappointing place--except in
Novels.
Because why waste three weeks on writing a Play, when it takes only
three years to compose a Novel?
Because Critics who send articles to Magazines inviting one to
contribute to the Stage, have no right to dictate to us.
Because a fairly successful Novel means five hundred pounds, and a
fairly successful Play yields as many thousands--why be influenced by
mercenary motives?
Because all Novelists hire their pens in advance for years, and have no
time left for outside labour.
And last, and (perhaps) not least, Why don't I send in a Play? Because I
have tried to write one, and find I can't quite manage it!
* * * * *
According to recent accounts, the attitude of the Salvation Army in

Canada may be fairly described as "Revolting."
* * * * *
[Illustration: EQUIVOCAL.
Rising Young Physician (_who cured so many Patients in last year's
Epidemic_). "NOT MUCH CHANCE OF MORE INFLUENZA IN
ENGLAND THIS WINTER, I FANCY!"
_His Wife._ "LET US HOPE FOR THE BEST, DEAREST!"]
* * * * *
A DIARY OF THE DEAD SEASON.
(_SUGGESTED BY THE CONTENTS BILLS._)
_Monday._--First appearance of "the Epidemic." Good bold line with
reference to Russia. Not of sufficient importance to head the Bill, but
still distinctly taking.
_Tuesday._--Quite a feature. Centre of the Bill with sub-lines of
"Horrible Disclosures," and "Painful Scenes." Becoming a boom. To be
further developed to-morrow.
_Wednesday._--Bill all "Epidemic." Even Cricket sacrificed to make
room for it. "News from Abroad." "Horrors at Hamburg." No idea it
would turn out so well. A perfect treasure-trove at this quiet season of
the year!
_Thursday._--Nothing but "Epidemic"--"Arrival in
England"--"Precautions Everywhere." Let the boom go! It feeds itself!
Nearly as good as a foreign war!
_Friday._--Still "the Epidemic," but requires strengthening. "Spreading
in the Provinces," but still, not like it was. Falling flat.
_Saturday._--A good sensational Murder! The very thing for the

Contents Bills. Exit "the Epidemic," until again wanted.
* * * * *
SONGS OF SOCIETY;
I.--INTRODUCTORY. TO MY LYRE.
["Smoothly written _vers de Société_, where a boudoir decorum is, or
ought always to be, preserved; where sentiment never surges into
passion, and where humour never overflows into boisterous
merriment."--_Frederick Locker's Preface to "Lyra Elegantiarum."_]
[Illustration]
Dear Lyre, your duty now you know! If one would sing with grace and
glow Songs of Society, One must not dream of fire, or length, Or vivid
touch, or virile strength, Or great variety.
Among the Muses of Mayfair A Bacchanal with unbound hair, And
loosened girdle, Would be as purely out of place As Atalanta in a race
O'er hedge or hurdle:
Our Muse, dear Lyra, must be trim, Must not indulge in vagrant whim,
Of voice or vesture. Boudoir decorum will allow No gleaming eye, no
glowing brow, No ardent gesture.
Society, which is our theme, Is like a well-conducted stream Which
calmly ripples. We sing the World where no one feels Too pungently,
or hates, or steals, Or loves, or tipples.
And should you hint that down below The subtle siren all men know Is
hiding her face, Our answer is: "That may be true, But boudoir bards
have nought to do Save with the surface."
And therefore, though Society feel The Proletariat's heavy heel Its kibe
approaching, Some luxuries yet are left to sing, The Opera-Box, the
Row, the Ring, And Golf, and Coaching.

Not e'en the Socialistic scare The dandyish and the debonair Has quite
demolished; Whilst Privilege hath still a purse, There's yet a chance for
flowing verse, And periods polished.
If IBSEN, BELLAMY, and GEORGE, Raise not the boudoir critic's
gorge Beyond all bearing, Light lyrics may she not endure, On social
ills above her cure, Below her caring?