Talking with a Mr. Such Granville, who was on the stage and said to Gilbert: "My name is Such, but I act as Granville," he at once replied: "I wish your name were Granville and you'd act as such."
A young lady who was always known as "Nelia" was about to be married. Gilbert was congratulating her, adding that her Christian name would join charmingly with her forthcoming surname; the girl then told him that her first name was really "Cornelia." Gilbert at once replied: "Oh, I see, you've cut your corn."
Once, in my presence, Gilbert was being questioned by an ardent playgoer as to one of his serious plays, and was finally asked how it ended; its author immediately answered that it had ended in a fortnight.
On another occasion I arrived at the Garrick Club on foot as Gilbert drove up in a hansom: when he alighted he handed the driver half-a-crown. The cabman asked, "What's this?" Answer: "It's your fare." Cabman: "This ain't my fare." Gilbert took back the half-crown, saying: "I beg your pardon, I made a mistake, there's your fare"—as he gave the man a florin. Tableau.
Someone remarked to him what an extraordinary title Henry Arthur Jones had given a new play of his. Gilbert asked: "What is it?" The Princess's Nose. Gilbert hoped it would "run."
The fashion of the "hobble skirt" was being discussed in Gilbert's presence, who said that it reminded him of the boards outside a prospering theatre—"standing room only."
In long past days what was called a shilling subscription was got up by the Daily Telegraph as a testimonial to W. G. Grace. At one time there was a fine cricket ground known as Prince's, which was a rival to the Oval and Lord's, and stood upon the land now occupied by Pont Street and Lennox Gardens. At an afternoon party the question of the testimonial was being discussed, and a young girl asked Gilbert if Grace was anything besides a great cricketer. The brilliant tongue at once replied: "Oh, yes, my dear, he is lord of Lord's and the only ruler of Prince's."
As a rule I have been careful in the choice of guests and successful in seating them to ensure good companionship, for what you put on the chairs is quite as important as what you place on the table, but let me confess to a terrible blunder when I invited Gilbert and Burnand to the same dinner. At an early stage of it, when all was going well, a loud-voiced guest said: "Tell me, Mr. Burnand, do you ever receive for Punch good jokes and things from outsiders?" This was not long after he had been elected to the editor's chair, and Burnand replied, cheerfully: "Oh, often." Gilbert sharply grunted from the opposite side of the table, over his knife and fork: "They never appear!" The rest was silence. This is the true version of an otherwise much-told tale.
Editors of "Punch"
The allusion to Punch reminds me that I can readily tell how many weeks old I am, as we were born in the same year; and not many people now can say they have known all its editors: Mark Lemon—when he was old and I was young, Shirley Brooks—who was my proposer at the Garrick Club, Tom Taylor, Frank Burnand and Owen Seaman. What pleasure they have given, and how incomplete the week would be without the charm of Mr. Punch's infinite pen and pencil!