Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 100, March 21, 1891 written by Various
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Various >> Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 100, March 21, 1891
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 100.
March 21, 1891.
MY LADY.
She is not fair to outward view
As many maidens be;
(And into _such_ a rage she flew
On learning this from me;)
And yet she's lovely, nay divine,
Judged by her own peculiar line.
She's deeply read. She knows as much
As average sixth-form boys;
But not the greatest sage could touch
The high, aggressive joys
That imp her wing, like bird of prey,
When in my dates I go astray.
Not only learning's pure serene
Her soaring mind can charm;
The tradesman, shrinking from a scene,
Regards her with alarm,
And many a 'bus conductor owns
The pow'r of her metallic tones.
Contentiously content, she takes
Her strident way through life,
And goodness only knows what makes
Her choose to be my wife.
Courage, poor heart! Thy yearnings stifle.
She's not a girl with whom to trifle.
* * * * *
KENSINGTON CORRESPONDENCE.
I.
[Illustration]
Instead of the Sub-Kensington Gardens Railway scheme as proposed,
why not a Sub-Serpentine Line? Start it from the South Kensington
Station, District-cum-Metropolitan system, run it with one station
well-underground in the middle of Exhibition Road, whence an easy
ascent to the Imperial Exhibition, when passengers would come up to
"carp the vital airs," then right away again, branching off left
and right, thus bringing the mild Southerners into rapid, easy
communication, at all reasonable hours, and at reasonable prices,
with the rugged denizens of the Northern districts, East and West.
If Kensington Gardens are to be touched at all--and, not being sacred
groves, there is no reason why they should not be, _faute de mieux_--a
transverse tunnelling from Kensington High Street to Queen's Road
would do the trick. We will be happy to render any assistance in our
power, and are,--Yours truly,
WILL HONEYCOMB, MOLE, FERRET & CO.,
(_Burrow-Knights_.)
II.
O sir,--Pleese don't let us ave no nasty railwaies and tunels in
Kinsinton Gardins, were we now are so skludid, and the childern
can play about, an no danger from nothink sep dogs, wich is mosley
musseled, or led with a string, an we ain't trubbled about them, an
can ave a word to say to a frend, or a cuzzin, you unnerstan, unner
the treeses, so nice an quite, wich it wold not be wen disterbd by
ingins, an smoke, skreeges, an steem-wizzels. O, _Mr. P._, don't let
um do it.
Yours obeegentlee, SARA JANE, (_Unner Nursrymade_.)
III.
Sir,--The Railway underneath Kensington Gardens won't be noticed
if only taken down deep enough below the surface. No blow-holes, of
course. No disfigurement. Take it under the centre path, _where there
are no trees_, then turn to the left outside the gate and burrow away
to S. Kensington Station. I can then get across the park in three
minutes for a penny; and now I have to walk, for which I haven't the
time, or take a cab, for which I haven't the money.
Yours, A PRACTICAL PAUPER.
IV.
Sir,--I take this opportunity of pointing out that if anything at
all is to be done with Kensington Gardens, _why not make a real good
Rotten Row there?_ That would he a blessing and a convenience. We're
all so sick and tired of that squirrel-in-a-cage ride, round and round
Hyde Park, and that half-and-half affair in St. James's Park. No, Sir;
now's the time, and now's the hour. There's plenty of space for all
equestrian wants, without interfering with the sylvan delights of
nurserymaids, children, lovers of nature, and all sorts of lovers too.
For my part, if this is not put forward as an alternative scheme, I
shall vote for tunnelling under the Gardens out of simple cussedness.
If the reply, authoritatively given, be that the two schemes can go
and must go together, then I will vote for both, only let's have the
equestrian arrangement first.
Yours, JOLTIN TROTT,
_Mount, Street, W, Captain 1st Lights and Liver Brigade_.
* * * * *
THE TRIUMPH OF BLACK AND WHITE.
"After all, the best of KEENE's life-work is to be found in the
innumerable cuts which he contributed to _Punch_ during a period of
nearly forty years; and still more in the originals of these, the
masterly pen-and-ink drawings which are now for the first time shown
in a collected form to the Public."
So says Mr. CLAUDE PHILLIPS, in his "Prefatory Note," to the
"Catalogue of a Collection of Drawings of the late CHARLES KEENE," now
on view at the Rooms of the Fine Arts Society, 148, New Bond Street.
If the British Public possess that "taste for Art" and that "sense of
humour" which some claim for and others deny to it, it (the B.P.) will
throng the comfortable and well-lighted Gallery in New Bond Street,
where hang some hundreds of specimens of the later work of the most
unaffected humorist, and most masterly "Black-and-White" artist of
his time. Walk up, Ladies and Gentlemen, and see--such miracles of
delineation, such witcheries of effect, as were never before put on
paper by simple pen-and-ink!
It is difficult to realise sometimes that it _is_ pen and ink, and
that only--all the delightful display of fresh English landscape and
unsophisticated British humanity, teeming with effects of distance,
hints of atmosphere, and suggestions of colour. Many a much-belauded
brush is but a fumbling and ineffective tool, compared with
the ink-charged crowquill handled by CHARLES KEENE. Look at
"_Grandiloquence_!" (No. 220) There's composition! There's effect!
Stretch of sea, schooner, PAT's petty craft, grandiloquent PAT
himself, a nautical Colossus astride on his own cock-boat, with stable
sea-legs firmly dispread, the swirl of the sea, the swish of the
waves, the very whiff of the wind so vividly suggested!--and all in
some few square inches of "Black-and-White!"
Look, again, at the breadth of treatment, the power of humorous
characterisation, the strong charm of _technique_, the colour, the
action, the marvellous ease and accuracy of street perspective in No.
16 ("_The Penny Toy!_"). Action? Why, you can _see_ the old lady jump,
let alone the frog! Fix your eye on the frightened dame's foot, and
you'll swear it jerks in time to the leap of the "horrid reptile."
Or at that vivid bit of London "hoarding," and London low life, and
London street-distance in "_'Andicapped!_" (No. 25.) Good as is the
"gaol-bird," is not the wonderfully real "hoarding" almost better?
Who now can draw--or, for that matter, _paint_--such a shopkeeper,
_such_ a shop, _such_ a child customer as those in "_All Alive!_" (No.
41), where the _Little Girl_ a-tip-toe with a wedge of cheap "Cheddar"
at the counter, comes down upon him of the apron with the crusher,
"Oh, mother's sent back this piece o' cheese, 'cause father says if
he wants any bait when he's goin' a fishin', he can dig 'em up in our
garden!"
Are _you_ a fisherman, reader? Then will you feel your angling as well
as your artistic heart warmed by No. 75 ("_The Old Adam_") and No.
6 ("_Wet and Dry_"), the former especially! What water, what Scotch
boys, _what_ a "prencipled" (but piscatorial) "Meenister"! Don't _you_
feel your elbow twitch? Don't _you_ want to snatch the rod from SANDY
McDOUGAL's hand, and land that "fush" yourself, Sawbath or no Sawbath?
But, bless us, one wants to describe, and praise, and _purchase_
them all! A KEENE drawing, almost _any_ KEENE drawing, is "a thing of
beauty and a joy for ever" to everyone who has an eye for admirable
art and adorable drollery. And good as is the _fun_ of these drawings,
the graphic force, and breadth, and delicacy, and freshness,
and buoyancy, and breeziness, and masterly ease, and miraculous
open-airiness, and general delightfulness of them, are yet more marked
and marvellous. Time would fail to tell a tithe of their merits. An
essay might be penned on any one of them--but fate forbid it _should_
be, unless a sort of artistic CHARLES LAMB could take the task in
hand. Better far go again to New Bond Street and pass another happy
hour or two with the ruddy rustics and 'cute cockneys, the Scotch
elders and Anglican curates, the stodgy "Old Gents" and broad-backed,
bunchy middle-class matrons, the paunchy port-swigging-buffers,
and hungry but alert street-boys, the stertorous cabbies, and
chatty 'bus-drivers, the "festive" diners-out and wary waiters, the
Volunteers and _vauriens_, the Artists and 'Arries, the policemen
and sportsmen, amidst the incomparable street scenes, and the equally
inimitable lanes, coppices, turnip-fields and stubbles, green glades
and snowbound country roads of wonderful, ever-delightful, and--for
his comrades and the Public alike--all-too-soon-departed CHARLES
KEENE!
Nothing really worthy of his astonishing life-work, of even that part
of it exhibited here, _could_ be written within brief compass, even
by the most appreciative, admiring, and art-loving of his sorrowing
friends or colleagues. Let the British Public go to New Bond Street,
and see for itself, in the very hand-work of this great artist, what
he made manifest during so many years in the pages of _Punch_, namely,
the supreme triumph of "Black-and-White" in the achievements of its
greatest master.
* * * * *
[Illustration: KING STORK AND KING LOG.
AN OLD FABLE REVERSED.]
The Frogs, who lived a free and easy life
(As in the ancient fable)
Though not quite clear from internecine strife,
Fancied they were well able
To do _without_ a King. Batrachian wisdom
Disdains the rule of fogeydom and quizdom,
And Frogs as soon would take to bibs and corals,
As ask a "King who might inspect their morals"
From Jupiter. Then 'twas _Juventus Mundi_;
The true King-maker now is--Mrs. GRUNDY,
And _she_ insisted that our modern Frogs
Should have a King--the woodenest of King Logs.
At first this terrified our Frogs exceedingly,
And, sometimes passionately, sometimes pleadingly,
They grumbled and protested;
But finding soon how placidly Log rested
Prone in the pool with mighty little motion,
Of danger they abandoned the wild notion,
Finding it easy for a Frog to jog
On with a kind King Log.
But in the fulness of the time, there came
A would-be monarch--Legion his fit name;
A Plebs-appointed Autocrat, Stork-throated,
Goggle-eyed, Paul-Pry-coated;
A poking, peering, pompous, petty creature,
A Bumble-King, with beak for its chief feature.
This new King Stork,
With a fierce, fussy appetite for work;
Not satisfied with fixing like a vice
Authority on Town and Country Mice,
Tried to extend his sway to pools and bogs,
And rule the Frogs!
But modern Frogdom, which had champions able,
Had read old-AEsop's fable,
And of King Stork's appearance far from amorous,
Croaked forth a chorus clamorous
Of resonant rebellion. These, upreared
On angry legs, waved arms that nothing feared;
King Log defending. Great CRAUGASIDES,
Among batrachian heroes first with ease,
With ventriloquial vehemence defied
The long-beaked base usurper. At his side
His fond companion, PHYSIGNATHUS swelled
Cheeks humorously defiant;
The ruddy giant
CRAMBOPHAGUS, as tall as is a Tree,
Flouted King Stork with gestures fierce and free,
Sleek CALAMINTHIUS, aper deft of eld,
Against the foe a pungent dart impelled;
HYDROCHARIS too,
(Most Terryble to view),
Fared to the front, whilst smaller, yet as brave
Tiny batrachian brethren, dusk of hue,
PRASSOPHAGUS, PRASSOEUS, staunch and true,
Webbed hands did wildly wave
With the frog-host against the beaky bird--
"_He_ be our King?" they loudly cried.
"Absurd!
Not Mercury, nor Jupiter _we_ beg
For a devouring despot, lank of leg,
Of prying eye, and frog-transfixing beak;
Though singly we seem weak,
United we are strong to smite or scoff.
Off, would-be tyrant, off!!!"
* * * * *
CHURCH AND STAGE.--Let no rabid Churchmen, of any school of thought,
ever again take exception to the irreligious character of playhouse
entertainments. Let them read the advertisement of the Lyceum Theatre
in _The Times_ for March 13:--"During Holy Week this theatre will be
closed, re-opening on Saturday, March 28, with _The Bells_, which
will also be played on Easter Monday night." Could any arrangement
be more thoroughly in harmony with general ecclesiastical practice?
Any liturgical student knows that the bells are played once on Holy
Saturday, and that they should be played on Easter Monday is a matter
of course.
* * * * *
TRACKS FOR THE TIMES.
[A Magistrate has just decided that the Police have a right
to interfere with the growing practice of using the public
roads of the Metropolis at night-time as running-grounds for
athletes.]
I come from haunts of smoke and grime,
I start in some blind alley,
And race each night against Old Time
Enthusiastically!
I dodge past frightened City gents,
And sometimes send them flying,
Which makes them cherish sentiments
Not wholly edifying.
I wind about, and in and out,
Along the crowded pavement,
While here and there the mockers flout
My costume and behavement.
I slip, I slide, I flash, I flee
Amid the teeming traffic,
And drivers often use to me
Idioms extremely graphic.
I murmur when a Lawyer's view
Absurdly tries to hinder
My turning public roads into
A private path of cinder.
Yet still to "spurt," agile, alert,
Shall be my one endeavour;
For Cits may stare, and Jehus swear,
But I run on for ever!
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE BLIZZARD.
MRS. SELDOM-FESTIVE "AT HOME" (AND THE BEST PLACE TOO!), MARCH 9,
1891.
(_10 to 1 Nobody turns up._)]
* * * * *
A DIARY OF DOVER.
_March, 1891_.--Fearful storm in the Channel, when the _Victoria_
is all but lost. Proposals in all the newspapers for the immediate
commencement of an adequate harbour.
_April, 1892_.--Hurricane in the Channel, when seventeen ships are
lost, and the Club Train Boat (without passengers) is carried, high
and dry, as far as Amiens, by the force of the weather. Renewed
suggestions for the immediate building of an adequate harbour.
_May, 1893_.--Cyclone in the Channel, in which the British Fleet
disappears. The newspapers once more urge the immediate commencement
of the proposed adequate harbour.
_June, 1894_.--Disaster in the Channel. Every single vessel swamped,
owing to the terrific weather. Again the Press invites commencement of
an adequate harbour.
_July, 1895_.--Members of both Houses of Parliament, invited to take
part in a State function at Calais, having been put to considerable
inconvenience, immediate orders are given for the prompt commencement
of the much-needed adequate harbour at Dover.
_August, 19--_.--Proposed adequate harbour having employed the hands,
night and day, of thousands of workmen, at enormous expense (owing to
urgent pressure), is at length opened to the public, amidst universal
rejoicing.
* * * * *
MR. PUNCH'S POCKET IBSEN.
(_CONDENSED AND REVISED VERSION BY MR. P.'S OWN HARMLESS IBSENITE._)
NO. I.--ROSMERSHOeLM.
ACT I.
_Sitting-room at Rosmershoelm, with a stove, flower-stand,
windows, ancient and modern ancestors, doors, and everything
handsome about it, REBECCA WEST is sitting knitting a large
antimacassar which is nearly finished. Now and then she looks
out of a window, and smiles and nods expectantly to someone
outside. Madam HELSETH is laying the table for supper._
_Rebecca_ (_folding up her work slowly_). But tell me precisely, what
about this White Horse? [_Smiling quietly._
_Madam Helseth_. Lord forgive you, Miss!--(_fetching cruet-stand, and
placing it on table_)--but you're making fun of me!
_Rebecca_ (_gravely_). No, indeed. Nobody makes fun at Rosmershoelm.
Mr. ROSMER would not understand it. (_Shutting window._) Ah, here is
Rector KROLL. (_Opening door_.) You will stay to supper, will you not,
Rector, and I will tell them to give us some little extra dish.
_Kroll_ (_hanging up his hat in the hall_). Many thanks. (_Wipes his
boots._) May I come in? (_Comes in, puts down his stick, sits down,
and looks about him._) And how do you and ROSMER get on together, eh?
_Reb._ Ever since your sister, BEATA, went mad and jumped into the
mill-race, we have been as happy as two little birds together. (_After
a pause, sitting down in arm-chair._) So you don't really mind my
living here all alone with ROSMER? We were afraid you might, perhaps.
_Kroll_. Why, how on earth--on the contrary, I shouldn't object at all
if you--(_looks at her meaningly_)--h'm!
_Reb._ (_interrupting, gravely_). For shame, Rector; how can you make
such jokes!
_Kroll_ (_as if surprised_). Jokes? We do not joke in these parts--but
here is ROSMER.
[Illustration: "Taking off his gloves meaningly."]
[_Enter ROSMER, gently and softly._
_Rosmer_. So, my dear old friend, you have come again, after a year's
absence. (_Sits down._) We almost thought that--
_Kroll_ (_nods_). So Miss WEST was saying--but you are quite mistaken.
I merely thought I might remind you, if I came, of our poor BEATA's
suicide, so I kept away. We Norwegians are not without our simple
tact.
_Rosmer_. It was considerate--but unnecessary. REB--I _mean_, Miss
WEST and I often allude to the incident, do we not?
_Reb._ (_strikes Taendstickor_). Oh, yes, indeed. (_Lighting lamp_.)
Whenever we feel a little more cheerful than usual.
_Kroll_. You dear good people! (_Wanders up the room._) I came because
the Spirit of Revolt has crept into my School. A Secret Society
has existed for weeks in the Lower Third! To-day it has come to my
knowledge that a booby-trap was prepared for me by the hand of my own
son, LAURITS, and I then discovered that a hair has been inserted in
my cane by my daughter HILDA! The only way in which a right-minded
Schoolmaster can combat this anarchic and subversive spirit is to
start a newspaper, and I thought that you, as a weak, credulous,
inexperienced and impressionable kind of man, were the very person to
be the Editor.
[_REB. laughs softly, as if to herself. ROSMER jumps up and
sits down again._
_Reb._ (_with a look at Rosmer_). Tell him now!
_Rosmer_ (_returning the look_). I can't--some other evening. Well,
perhaps-- (_To KROLL._) I can't be your Editor--because (_in a low
voice_) I--I am on the side of LAURITS and HILDA!
_Kroll_ (_looks from one to the other, gloomily_). H'm!
_Rosmer_. Yes. Since we last met, I have changed my views. I am going
to create a new democracy, and awaken it to its true task of making
all the people of this country noblemen, by freeing their wills, and
purifying their minds!
_Kroll_. What _do_ you mean? [_Takes up his hat._
_Rosmer_ (_bowing his head_). I don't quite know, my dear friend; it
was REB--I should say. Miss WEST's scheme.
_Kroll_. H'm! (_A suspicion appears in his face._) Now I begin to
believe that what BEATA said about schemes--no matter. But, under the
circumstances, I will _not_ stay to supper.
[_Takes up his stick, and walks out._
_Rosmer_. I _told_ you he would be annoyed, I shall go to bed now. I
don't want any supper. [_He lights a candle, and goes out; presently
his footsteps are heard overhead, as he undresses. REBECCA pulls a
bell-rope._
_Reb._ (_to Madam HELSETH, who enters with dishes_). No, Mr. ROSMER
will not have supper to-night. (_In a lighter tone._) Perhaps he is
afraid of the nightmare. There are so many sorts of White Horses in
this world!
_Mad. H._ (_shaking_). Lord! lord! that Miss WEST--the things she does
say! [_REB. goes out through door, knitting antimacassar thoughtfully,
as Curtain falls._
ACT II.
ROSMER's _study. Doors and windows, bookshelves, a
writing-table. Door, with curtain, leading to ROSMER's
bedroom. ROSMER discovered in a smoking-jacket cutting
a pamphlet with a paper-knife. There is a knock at the
door. ROSMER says, "Come in." REBECCA enters in a morning
wrapper and curl-papers. She sits on a chair close to ROSMER,
and looks over his shoulder as he cuts the leaves. Rector
KROLL is shown up._
_Kroll_ (_lays his hat on the table and looks at REB. from head to
foot_). I am really afraid that I am in the way.
_Reb._ (_surprised_). Because I am in my morning wrapper and
curl-papers? You forget that I am _emancipated_, Rector KROLL.
[_She leaves them and listens behind curtain in ROSMER's
bedroom._
_Rosmer_. Yes, Miss WEST and I have worked our way forward in faithful
comradeship.
_Kroll_ (_shakes his head at him slowly_). So I perceive. Miss WEST
is naturally inclined to be forward. But, I say, _really_ you know--
However, I came to tell you that poor BEATA was not so mad as she
looked, though flowers _did_ bewilder her so. (_Taking off his gloves
meaningly._) She jumped into the mill-race because she had an idea
that you ought to marry Miss WEST!
_Rosmer_ (_jumps half up from his chair_). I? Marry--Miss WEST!
my good gracious, KROLL! I don't _understand_, it is _most_
incomprehensible. (_Looks fixedly before him_.) How _can_ people--
(_looks at him for a moment, then rises._) Will you get out? (_Still
quiet and self-restrained._) But first tell me why you never mentioned
this before?
_Kroll_. Why? Because I thought you were both orthodox, which made all
the difference. Now I know that you side with LAURITS and HILDA, and
mean to make the democracy into noblemen, and accordingly I intend to
make it hot for you in my paper. _Good_ morning! [_He slams the door
with spite as_ REBECCA _enters from bed-room._
_Rosmer_ (_as if surprised_). You--in my bedroom! You have been
listening, dear? But you _are_ so emancipated. Ah, well! so our pure
and beautiful friendship has been misinterpreted, bespattered! Just
because you wear a morning wrapper, and have lived here alone for
a year, people with coarse souls and ignoble eyes make unpleasant
remarks! But what really _did_ drive BEATA mad? _Why_ did she jump
into the mill-race? I'm sure we did everything we could to spare her!
I made it the business of my life to keep her in ignorance of all our
interests--_didn't_ I, now?
_Reb._ You did--but why brood over it? What _does_ it matter? Get on
with your great, beautiful task, dear, (_approaching him cautiously
from behind_), winning over minds and wills, and creating noblemen,
you know--_joyful_ noblemen!
_Rosmer_ (_walking about, restlessly, as if in thought_). Yes, I
know. I have never laughed in the whole course of my life--we ROSMERS
don't--and so I felt that spreading gladness and light, and making
the democracy joyful, was properly my mission. But _now_--I feel too
upset to go on, REBECCA, unless-- (_Shakes his head heavily._) Yes, an
idea has just occurred to me--(_looks at her, and then runs his hands
through his hair_)--oh, my goodness, no--I _can't_.
[_He leans his elbows on table._
_Reb._ Be a free man to the full, ROSMER--tell me your idea.
_Rosmer_ (_gloomily_). I don't know what you'll say to it. It's this.
Our platonic comradeship was all very well while I was peaceful and
happy. Now that I'm bothered and badgered, I feel--_why_, I can't
exactly explain, but I _do_ feel that I must oppose a new and living
reality to the gnawing memories of the past. I should, perhaps,
explain that this is equivalent to an Ibsenian proposal.
_Reb._ (_catches at the chairback with joy_). How? at _last_--a rise
at last! (_Recollects herself._) But what am I about? Am I not an
emancipated enigma? (_Puts her hands over her ears as if in terror._)
What are you saying? You mustn't. I can't _think_ what you mean. Go
away, do!
_Rosmer_ (_softly_). Be the new and living reality. It is the only way
to put BEATA out of the Saga. Shall we try it?
_Reb._ Never! Do not--_do_ not ask me why--for I haven't a notion--but
never! (_Nods slowly to him and rises._) White Horses would not induce
me! (_With her hand on door-handle._) Now you _know_! [_She goes out._
_Rosmer_ (_sits up, stares thunderstruck at the stove, and says to
himself_). Well--I--_am_-- [_Quick Curtain._
[The remaining two Acts of this subtle psychological study
unavoidably held over.]
* * * * *
"KEEP YOUR HARE ON!"
[Illustration: Hare's Theatre.]
In not following the advice given in the headline to this article,
clever Mr. PINERO has made a mistake. _Lady Bountiful_ with only a
very little HARE is a disappointment. The majority of those who go to
"Hare's Theatre" (they don't speak of it as "The Garrick") go to see
the Lessee and Manager in a new part: and they go to see a lot of him:
they don't ask merely for a small piece of HARE, if you please, though
they might be satisfied with HARE in a small piece. Everyone goes
expecting to see him in a good part in a good Comedy, his good part
being equal to the better part of the whole entertainment; and if they
don't so see him, they are disappointed. Why was Mr. GRUNDY's happy
translation of _Les Oiseaux_ peculiarly successful? because it was
a light, fresh, and pretty piece, wherein the occasional phrase in
a minor key was so artistically introduced as to be a relish to our
enjoyment of the humour of the characters and of the situations; but
all this would have gone for comparatively little had it not been
for the excellence of Mr. HARE's rendering of the first-rate part
of _Goldfinch_, which did not consist of occasional flashes, only to
collapse and disappear in the penultimate Act, but continued right
through to the end, dominating everything and everybody. This is not
so with _Lady Bountiful_. The appearance of _Roderick Heron_, who is
no creation of the Author's, as he admits, but merely _Mr. Skimpole_
under another name, raises hopes at the commencement, which are
blighted long before the finish. The part gutters out, as does Mr.
CHARLES GROVE's _John Veale_, another "promise of spring." Young Mr.
GILBERT HARE makes a most creditable first appearance as _Sir Lucian
Brent, Bart_. He is easy and natural.