Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 101, December 5, 1891 written by Various
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Various >> Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 101, December 5, 1891
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 101.
December 5, 1891.
QUITE FABULOUS!
(_A STORY OF THE TIMES, DEDICATED TO PROFESSOR MUNRO._)
KING COLE, although described as a "merry old soul," was in reality
a tyrant. He had a number of subjects who used to work underground,
and their labour was to bring to the surface the black diamonds of
the earth. It was not altogether a pleasant occupation, but still,
the task had to be accomplished. His Majesty was fond of ferocious
practical jokes, and perchance this may have been the origin of
the jocular description attached to his name. One day, some of his
subjects complained that their hours of labour were too many.
"How long do you work?" asked the King.
"May it please you, Sire, sixteen," was the reply.
"Try what you can do with twelve," and they were about to depart
rejoicing, when the Monarch called them back and added, "But mind you,
I shall expect just as many black diamonds to be unearthed as before."
So the King's subjects worked only twelve hours, and strange to say,
quite as many black diamonds were produced as in the olden days. Then
the workmen began to grumble once more, and the King again interviewed
them.
"Do you still work twelve hours?" he asked the deputation.
"Certainly, Your Majesty; but we think half would be quite enough,"
returned the spokesman.
"By all means--why not make it three hours?" and again his subjects
were departing, rejoicing, when once more he added, "But I shall
expect just the same output as before."
And he got it, for the men worked harder than ever. And then they
came yet again to him. Once more they considered the hours of labour
excessive. They thought sixty minutes plenty.
"So do I," replied the Monarch, "not only plenty, but too many. But
as it is scarcely worth while employing you only half an hour a day,
I shall make other arrangements."
And from that time forth he brought up his black diamonds from the
centre of the earth by machinery!
* * * * *
NOT "HALF A CHAP."--A well-known Clergyman, who "does nothing by
halves." i.e., Dean HOLE.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "WHEN A MAN DOES NOT LOOK HIS BEST."--NO. 4.
WHEN HE JUST BEGINS TO REALISE WHAT A SUFFERING HE WOULD HAVE SAVED
HIMSELF, IF HE HAD ONLY HAD THE _COURAGE_ TO SAY "_MEDIUM_" INSTEAD OF
"HARD."]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
[Illustration: The Baron's Retainers, Mesdames Blythe and Gay, giving
him the results of their readings.]
In the Christmas Numbers of the numerous picture-papers it is at first
rather difficult to discover which is the genuine article illustrated,
and which the advertisement, likewise illustrated. In the outside
picture of the Christmas Number of _The Penny Illustrated Paper_,
which represents a couple dancing together, I am not yet quite sure
that the handsome Hebraic gentleman, dancing with a fair Anglo-Saxon
girl, is not assuring his frightened-looking partner that "Epps's
Cocoa is Grateful--Comforting," as stated in the paragraph immediately
beneath the aforesaid picture. On the next page is a sad illustration
entitled, "The Curse of Revenge. Lost to Human Aid." which turns out
to be not a Christmas story at all, but an advertisement for Fruit
Salt. Then opposite this commences a story by GEORGE R. SIMS; and at
the foot of this page some one replies, "Mr. DOOLAN! There's no one
of that name here now, Sir." Whereupon, being interested, the reader
turns over page 1 to find at the head of page 2, not the continuation
of the above interesting story in the shape of some remark on the part
of the inquirer, nor any account of what happened after this reply
had been given, but simply "Benson's Watches" followed by "Fry's
Chocolate," then a picture (not an advertisement) facing that, and
then on page 4 the remainder of the dialogue. It doesn't much matter
perhaps, as the excitement aroused by the story is not violent, and
the mistake of giving somebody else's card for your own does not occur
here for the first time as the motive of a plot. CUTHBERT BEDE's name
is to a "Christmas Carol," and Mr. JOHN LATEY's to a dramatically told
tale called "Mark Temple's Trial," in which the imaginary heroine
pays a visit to a very real person of the name of Madame KATTI
LANNER, whose pupils are represented as all assembled, with bouquets
and posies, to do honour to the birthday of their "well-loved
mistress," who is at the same time, "the acknowledged mistress of the
choreographic art." In this story, the author is to be complimented
on his invention of the name, "Lord Morgagemore" as an ancient looking
and highly aristocratic Irish title.
"Up to any game at Christmas, if it's not too high," says the Baron
of Hampershire, who detests all game that is lofty, but is glad to
welcome a Shakspearian Revival by MYERS & Co. in the shape of a _Nine
Men's Morris_, a title the Baron recommends to the notice of Mr.
WILLIAM MORRIS, yclept "BILLY," when he is making another bouquet of
poesies. By the way, BIM BROS.' Almanac Cards, one of the Baron's
Lady Helps describes as "decidedly dainty." Christmas is specially a
card-playing season, a time of _Pax_ to everybody.
From the _Gordon Stables_ of HUTCHINSON & Co. issues the nightmare
tale of _The Cruise in the Crystal Boat_; when finished, try their
_Family Difficulty_, by SARAH DOUDNEY. Send to the Deanery of DEAN AND
SON, ask for _Baby's Biography_ and _The Little One's Own Beehive_.
The Spindleside department of the Baron's Booking-Office recommends
both the above for the Tiny Trots; while the Spearside tells the
boys to go in for MANVILLE FENN's _Burr Junior_ and Mrs. R. LEE's
_Adventures in Australia_. Then for all-comers, procure BEATRICE
HARRADEN's _New Book of Fairies_, for, our "Co." thus puts it, "This
is all concerning those poor little Fairies, about whom no one takes
any trouble, and who are left out in the cold at Christmas time."
Thus for this week conclude the duties of Mesdames BLYTHE and GAY,
the Baron's Lady Assistant Perusers. "I trust my gentle Public will
benefit by their advice," quoth,
Theirs truly,
THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.
* * * * *
"NOW YOU'RE QUITE THE GENTLEMAN!"
(_A BALLAD OF BIRMINGHAM._)
["You will not find an alliance in which the weaker side has
been so loyal, so straight, so single-hearted, so patriotic
as the Liberal Unionists have been during the last five
years.... Birmingham is the centre, the consecration of this
alliance."--_Lord Salisbury at Birmingham._
"Now I neither look for nor desire reunion" (with the
Gladstonian Liberals.)--_Mr. Chamberlain at Birmingham._]
[Illustration]
AIR--"_YE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND_."[1]
Ye Gentlemen of England,
Who follow SALIS-BU-RY,
How little did you count upon
Assistance from J.C.!
Give ear unto his speeches old,
And they will plainly show
Once he'd scorn to be borne
Where the Tory breezes blow,
Where the Lilies and Primroses bloom,
And the Tory zephyrs blow.
If once he did oppose you,
To-day he is at war
With GLADSTONE and his Items.
Faith, JOE has travelled far!
The Primrose Dames shall teach him
True patriot "form" to know.
He is leal, and will kneel
To the "Lilies" in fair row;
To the pretty, winsome Primrose girls,
Who buttonhole Brum JOE.
Ye Gentlemen of England,
Whom once he did deride,
How safe ye are, and how serene,
With JOSEPH on your side.
He talks no more of "Ransom"
('Tis P-e-n-s-i-o-n rather now),
Brum JOE will not go
Where the Hawarden winds do blow;
Where HARCOURT thunders loud and long,
And Gladstonians blare and blow.
The Orchid from his button
JOE's willing to displace,
To take the Primrose posy
That's proffered by Her Grace.
O gentle dame and dainty,
What man could answer "No!"
As you prest to his breast
The most blessed flowers that blow,
The blossoms loved by BEACONSFIELD
The bravest blooms that blow?
O (Brummagem) Tory Beauty,
'Tis yours to consecrate
The holiest Alliance
Our land hath seen of late.
Shall he reject its symbol,
Or answer "Not for JOE!"?
Nay, sweet girl, such a churl
Were no "Gentleman" you know;
And JOE is "quite the Gentleman,"
Brum BRUMMEL in full blow!
Then courage, all brave Unionists,
And never be afraid
Whilst Brummagem Republican
Is witched by Primrose Maid.
There is soft fascination
In radiant rank, we know;
And a posy, though primrosy,
From soft hands makes soft hearts glow,
Lilies--though they toil not nor spin
Are beauteous--in full blow!
[Footnote 1: Mr. CHAMBERLAIN was once reported to have congratulated
himself upon his co-operation with "English Gentlemen."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Chappie_ (_after missing his fourth Stag, explains_).
"AW--FACT IS, THE--AW--WAVING GRASS WAS IN MY WAY."
_Old Stalker._ "HOOT, MON, WAD YE HAE ME BEING OUT A SCYTHE?"]
* * * * *
LORD LYTTON.
BORN NOV. 8, 1831. DIED NOV. 24, 1891.
Were clever wise, were grandiose great,
How many a servant of the State
Had left a more enduring name.
But all is not for all; 'tis far
From flaming meteor to fixed star,
From notoriety to fame.
Picturesque son of brilliant sire,
It wanted but the touch of fire
Prometheus only knows to bring
The flame divine in him to wake
Who moved our plaudits when he spake,
But stirred no passion when he'd sing.
The Orient pageantry he loved,
The histrio not the hero moved,
The _dilettante_ not the sage.
Hence in our England's East his hand
Turned, in a story sternly grand,
A motley mock-heroic page.
He by the Seine found fitter place
For courtly wit and modish grace,
Than by the Indus. There right well
His facile talent served his Chief;
And England hears with genuine grief
That sudden-sounding passing bell.
* * * * *
NEW NAME.
Who prizes Literature? All sorts and sizes
Of literary wares now hang on "prizes."
'Tis not prose fictionists or poem-spinners
The public rush for; no, 'tis "all the winners!"
Letters in lotteries find support most sure--
Let us be frank, and call them _Lottery_ture!
* * * * *
SUITOR RESARTUS.
_A SENTIMENTAL DILEMMA._
[Illustration]
How can I woo you in this ancient suit?
You do not notice it, of course; I know it.
My soul is burdened with a shapeless boot,
Your heart is singing welcome to your poet.
Here in the shadowy settle I can sit
And sparkle with you, brightly confidential,
But when into the lamp-bright zone you flit,
I shrink into some corner penitential.
A well-dressed crowd, their tailors all unpaid,
Throng round you there, and cuffs and collars glisten;
Of pity's blindness, as of scorn, afraid,
I shun the merry fray, and darkling listen,
For who could urge the timidest of suits,
Conscious of such indifferent clothes and boots?
You think me quite as good as other men;
Nay, more, I think you think me vastly better;
Your candid glances seem to ask me when
I'll seek to bind you in a willing fetter.
Is this presumption? Not from friend to friend,
Whose souls unite like clasping hands of lovers;
Yet can I breathe no word of love, to end
The delicate doubt that o'er the unspoken hovers.
If I were hopeless that you loved me not,
My hopeless love, confess'd, myself would flatter,
But should the blissful dream be true, I wot
That love confess'd the joy of love would shatter.
My Queen, indeed as king I'd love to lord it;
I cannot tell you that I can't afford it.
* * * * *
POSSIBLE EXPLANATION:--"For many months nothing has been heard of
Lieutenant IVANITCH," was the remark of our leading journal _a propos_
of Russian disappearances. Is it not probable that IVANITCH, unable to
find a post to suit him, has gone on tour with a "scratch company"?
* * * * *
THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.
NO XVII.
SCENE--_Under the Colonnade of the Hotel Grande Bretagne,
Bellagio. CULCHARD is sitting by one of the pillars, engaged
in constructing a sonnet. On a neighbouring seat a group of
smart people are talking over their acquaintances, and near
them is another visitor, a Mr. CRAWLEY STRUTT, who is
watching his opportunity to strike into the conversation._
_Mrs. Hurlingham._ Well, she'll _be_ Lady CHESEPARE some day, when
anything happens to the old Earl. He was looking quite ghastly when we
were down at SKYMPINGS last. But they're frightfully badly off _now_,
poor dears! Lady DRIBLETT lets them have her house in Park Lane for
parties and that--but it's wonderful how they live at all!
[Illustration: "I don't know if you're acquainted with a paper called
the _Penny Patrician_?"]
_Colonel Sandown._ He looked pretty fit at the Rag the other day. Come
across the SENLACS anywhere? Thought Lady SENLAC was going abroad this
year.
_Mr. Crawley Strutt._ Hem--I saw it mentioned in the _Penny Patrician_
that her Ladyship had--
_Mrs. Hurl._ (_without taking the slightest notice of him_). She's
just been marryin' her daughter, you know--rather a good match, too.
Not what I call pretty,--smart-lookin', that's all. But then her
_sister_ wasn't pretty till she married.
_Col. Sand._ Nice family she married into! Met her father-in-law, old
Lord BLETHERHAM, the other morning, at a chemist's in Piccadilly--he'd
dropped in there for a pick-me-up; and there he was, tellin' chemist
all the troubles he'd had with his other sons marryin' the way they
did, and that. Rum man to go and confide in his chemist, but he's like
that--fond of the vine!
_Mr. C.S._ Er--er--it's becoming a very serious thing, Sir, the way
our aristocracy is deteriorating, is it not?
_Col. S._ Is it? What have they been up to now, eh? Haven't seen a
paper for days.
_Mr. C.S._ I mean these mixed marriages, and, well, their general
goings on, I don't know if you're acquainted with a paper called the
_Penny Patrician_? I take it in regularly, and I assure _you_--loyal
supporter of our old hereditary institutions as I am--some of the
revelations I read about in high life make me blush--yes, downright
_blush_ for them! [_Mrs. HURLINGHAM retires._
_Col. S._ Do they, though? If I were you I should let 'em do their own
blushin', and save my pennies.
_Mr. C.S._ (_deferentially_). No doubt you're right, Sir, but I _like_
the _Patrician_ myself--it's very smartly written. Talking of that,
do you happen to know the ins and outs of that marriage of young Lord
GOSLINGTON's? Something very mysterious about the party he's going to
marry--who _are_ her people now?
_Col. S._ Can't say, I'm sure--no business of mine, you know.
_Mr. C.S._ There I venture to think you're wrong, Sir. It's the
business of everybody--the _duty_, I may say--to see that the best
blood of the nation is not--(_Col. S. turns into the hotel; Mr. C.S.
sits down near CULCH._)--Remarkably superior set of visitors staying
here, Sir! My chief objection to travel always is, that it brings
you in contact with parties you wouldn't think of associating with at
home. I was making that same remark to a very pleasant little fellow
I met on the steamer--er--Lord UPPERSOLE, I think it was--and he
entirely concurred. Your friend made us acquainted.--(_PODBURY comes
out of the hotel._)--Ah, here _is_ your friend.--(_To PODB._)--Seen
his Lordship about lately, Sir?--Lord UPPERSOLE, I _mean_, of course!
_Podb._ UPPERSOLE? No--he's over at Cadenabbia, I believe.
_Mr. C.S._ A highly agreeable spot to stay at. Indeed, I've some idea
myself of--Exceedingly pleasant person his Lordship--so affable, so
completely the gentleman!
_Podb._ Oh, he's affable enough--for a boot-maker. I always give him a
title when I see him, for the joke of the thing--he likes it.
_Mr. C.S._ He _may_, Sir. I consider a title is not a thing to be
treated in that light manner. It--it was an unpardonable liberty to
force me into the society of that class of person--unpardonable, Sir!
[_He goes._
_Podb._ Didn't take much _forcing_, after he once heard me call him
"Lord UPPERSOLE"! Where are all the others, eh? Thought we were going
up to the Villa Serbelloni this afternoon.
_Culch._ I--er--have not been consulted. Are they--er--_all_ going?
[_With a shade of anxiety._
_Podb._ I believe so. You needn't be afraid, you know. HYPATIA won't
have the chance of ragging you now--she and Miss TROTTER have had a
bit of a breeze.
_Culch._ I rather gathered as much. I think I could guess the--
_Podb._ Yes, HYPATIA's rather uneasy about poor old BOB; thinks Miss
TROTTER is--well, carrying on, you know. She is no end of a little
flirt--_you_ know that well enough!--(_C. disclaims impatiently._)
Here you all are, eh?--(_To Miss P., Miss T., and BOB._)--Well, who
knows the way up to the villa?
_Miss T._ It's through the town, and up some steps by the church--you
cann't miss it. But Mr. PRENDERGAST is going to show me a short cut up
behind the hotel--aren't you, Mr. PRENDERGAST?
_Miss P._ (_icily_). I really think, dear, it would be better if we
all kept together--for so _many_ reasons!
_Culch._ (_with alacrity_). I agree with Miss PRENDERGAST. A short cut
is invariably the most indirect route.
_Miss P._ (_with intention_). You hear what Mr. CULCHARD says, my dear
MAUD? He advocates direct ways, as best in the long run.
_Miss T._ It's only going to be a short run, my love. But I'm vurry
glad to observe that you and Mr. CULCHARD are so perfectly harmonious,
as I'm leaving him on your hands for a spell. Aren't you ever coming,
Mr. PRENDERGAST?
[_She leads him off, a not unwilling captive._
_A PATH IN THE GROUNDS OF THE VILLA SERBELLONI._
_Podb._ (_considerately, to CULCHARD, who is following Miss
PRENDERGAST and him, in acute misery_). Look here, old fellow, Miss
PRENDERGAST would like to sit down, I know; so don't you bother about
keeping with us if you'd rather _not_, you know!
[_CULCHARD murmurs an inarticulate protest._
_Miss P._ Surely, Mr. PODBURY, you are aware by this time that Mr.
CULCHARD has a perfect mania for self-sacrifice!
[_CULCHARD drops behind, crushed._
_AMONG THE RUINS AT THE TOP OF THE HILL._
_Culch._ (_who has managed to overtake Miss T. and her companion_).
Now _do_ oblige me by looking through that gap in the pines towards
Lecco. I particularly wish you to observe the effect of light on those
cliffs--it's well worth your while.
_Miss T._ Why, certainly, it's a view that does you infinite credit.
Oh, you _didn't_ take any hand in the arrangement? But ain't you
afraid if you go around patting the scenery on the head this way,
you'll have the lake overflow?
_Bob. P._ Ha-ha-ha! One in the eye for _you_, CULCHARD!
_Culch._ (_with dignity_). Surely one may express a natural enthusiasm
without laying oneself open--?
_Miss T._ Gracious, yes! I should hope you wouldn't want to show your
enthusiasm _that_ way--like a Japanese nobleman!
_Culch._ (_to himself_). Now that's coarse--_really_
coarse!--(_Aloud._)--I seem to be unable to open my mouth now without
some ridiculous distortion--
_Miss T._ My!--but that's a serious symptom--isn't it? You don't feel
like you were going to have lock-jaw, do you, Mr. CULCHARD?
[_CULCHARD falls back to the rear once more. Later--Mr.
VAN BOODELER has joined the party; HYPATIA has contrived
to detach her brother, CULCHARD has sought refuge with
PODBURY._
_Miss T._ (_to VAN B._). So that's what kept you? "Well, it sounds
just too enchanting. But I cann't answer for what Miss PRENDERGAST
will say to it. It mayn't suit her notions of propriety.
_Mr. Van B._ I expect she'll be superior to Britannic prejudices of
that kind. I consider your friend a highly cultivated and charming
lady, MAUD. She produces that impression upon me.
_Miss T._ I presume, from that, she has shown an intelligent interest
in the great American novel?
_Mr. Van B._ Why, yes; it enlists her literary sympathies--she sees
all its possibilities.
_Miss T._ And they're pretty numerous, too. But here she comes. You'd
better tell her your plan right now.
_Miss P._ (_in an earnest undertone to BOB, as they approach,
followed by CULCH. and BOB_). You _must_ try and be sensible about
it, BOB; if _you_ are too blind to see that she is only--
BOB (_sulkily_). All _right_! Haven't I _said_ I'd go? What's the good
of _jawing_ about it?
_Mr. V.B._ (_to Miss P._) I've been telling my cousin I've been
organising a little water-party for this evening--moonlight,
mandolins, Menaggio. If you find that alliteration has any
attractions, I hope you and your brother will do me the pleasure of--
_Miss P._ I'm afraid not, thanks. We have all our packing to do. We
find we shall have to leave early to-morrow.
[_Van B.'s face falls; BOB listens gloomily to_ Miss T.'s
rather perfunctory expressions of regret; PODBURY looks
anxious and undecided; CULCHARD does his best to control an
unseemly joy._
* * * * *
THE GOOD NEW "TIMES."
Nobody, after visiting Terry's Theatre, can apply to Mr. PINERO's
piece the hackneyed phrase,--used apologetically by an unconscionable
reader after detaining the leading journal for three-quarters of an
hour,--"Oh, there's nothing in _The Times_," for, in Mr. PINERO's
piece there is plenty of amusement, if not of absorbing interest.
[Illustration]
The story is that of a _parvenu_, whose sole object in life, to
be recognised by "Society," is thwarted by the marriage of his
good-for-nothing son with the daughter of an Irish lodging-house
keeper. The struggles of _Mr. and Mrs. Bompas_ to conceal this
_mesalliance_, and the assistance given them in their difficulties by
the _Hon. Montague Trimble_, constitute the motive of the play. But
the question that must occur to the critical mind is, "Did the author
mean this piece for high comedy, or farcical comedy?" If the former,
then Mr. TERRY is wrong in his conception of the part; if the latter,
everybody else is wrong in their conception of their parts.
It seems to me as if, in the course of rehearsal, the peculiarities
distinguishing the character of _Percy Egerton Bompas, M.P._, had
gradually become assimilated with the individualities of the actor,
Mr. EDWARD TERRY. If Mr. PINERO so meant it, if he so wrote it for Mr.
TERRY and for Mr. TERRY only, then there is nothing more to be said;
Mr. PINERO's ideal is realised. But if the author did _not_ intend Mr.
TERRY's impersonation, then he must be content to sacrifice the ideal
to the real, shrug his shoulders, and pocket his profits. Yet, as if
making an appeal to the public to judge between the auctorial abstract
and the representational concrete, Mr. PINERO not only publishes his
playbook, but sells it in the theatre. Visitors to TERRY's, who buy
the book, will judge the play by its stage interpretation that has had
the advantage of the author's personal supervision and direction. The
representation, therefore, is either more or less in accordance with
his teaching, or flatly contradicts it.
[Illustration: One of the Leaders in _The Times_.]
The publication of the book of a comedy in a theatre may be thankfully
received as a present help to the audience, and an aid to memory
afterwards, or it may be considered as a protest on the part of the
author who says, "Here's what I have written. See how they act it:
whether it be farce or comedy, judge for yourselves. You pay your
money, and you take your choice." Suffice it, then, to record that, on
the night of this deponent's visit, the piece played from eight till
past eleven, and that the audience from first to last was generally
amused, but, I should be inclined to say, particularly disappointed
at the collapse of Mr. TERRY's part in the last Act (the principal
portion of which he passes curled up on a sofa, with the top of
his forehead powdered white! Why?), and mystified by the sudden and
apparently unnecessary revelation, made by _Miss Cazalet_, to the
effect that _Lucy Tuck_ (a mentally and physically short-sighted girl)
is her illegitimate daughter; and these two last-named personages,
though essential to the plot, fail unfortunately in rousing any
sentiment of pity or of sympathy.
Mr. ELLIOT is excellent as the _Hon. Montague Trimble_; nothing
better, apart from Mr. HARE's eccentric characters, has been seen on
the stage for some considerable time. I hope the author is of the same
opinion. Mr. FRED THORNE is capital as the Irish Member; and as _Mrs.
Hooley_, an obtrusively Irish eccentricity of Thackerayan extraction,
Miss ALEXES LEIGHTON is very good, for the character, as drawn by
the author, _is_ obtrusive, and is so meant to be. The _Mrs. Egerton
Bompas_ of Miss FANNY BROUGH is _the_ woman to the life, and, in my
humble judgment, Miss BROUGH's impersonation is well-nigh faultless.
Whether, if the part of _Egerton Bompas_ were played as high comedy,
this would still improve Miss BROUGH's impersonation of _Mrs. Bompas_
or not, it is difficult to decide; but I am inclined to think this
would be the result. What does the author think? Most likely he will
continue to "think"; it is the wiser course. Mr. HENRY V. ESMOND makes
the lad, _Howard Bompas_, unnecessarily repulsive; but if, in doing
so, he is only exactly carrying out the author's idea, i.e., "Master's
orders," then he is no longer responsible for the overcharged
colouring. The probable fate of this unhappy pair, an impulsive
uneducated kind of Irish orange-girl married to a contemptible
young sot, is not a pleasant termination to the story, nor is the
anticipatory sadness felt for the future of this ill-assorted couple
in any way dissipated by the stereotyped and perfunctory offer of
marriage made by the young London Journal Nobleman to the daughter of
the utterly crushed snob just before the Curtain descends.