Part 1

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOLUME 105, JULY 22nd 1893

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

A LONDON PEST.

To an impartial observer the public, philanthropic, and municipal attempts to honour the memory of the great and good, if sometimes mistaken, Earl of SHAFTESBURY, appear to have been singularly unfortunate. The West-End Avenue that bears his name is more full of music-halls, theatres, pot-houses, and curious property, than any street of equal length and breadth in the whole Metropolis. Lord SHAFTESBURY may not have been a Puritan, but he was essentially a serious man, and his sympathies were more with Exeter Hall than with the Argyle Rooms; and yet, in the street which is honoured by his name, it has been found impossible to remove the old title of this historic place from the stone _facade_ of the Trocadero.

The fountain at Piccadilly Circus, which has been unveiled as the second of the SHAFTESBURY memorials, is surmounted by--what? Some writers have called it a girl, some have called it a boy; many of the public, no doubt, regard it as a mythological bird, and it certainly looks like the Bolognese Mercury flying away with the wings of St. Michael. We are told, on authority, that it represents Eros, the Greek god of love, and his shaft is directed to a part of London that, more than any other part, at night, requires the bull's-eye and the besom of authority. The "Top of the Gaymarket" is in just as bad a condition as it was when _Punch_ directed attention to it more than ten years ago, and the _virus_ since then has extended as far eastward as St. Martin's Lane. Moll Flanders' Parade now begins at St. James's Church and ends with Cranbourne Street. It is unfortunate, to say the least of it, that Eros has been selected to point at this London Pestiduct, and the sooner it is thoroughly cleansed and the neighbourhood made worthy of the Shaftesbury Fountain, the better.

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DELENDA EST DRUBILANA!--The Drury Lane Committee, headed by the dauntless JAMES O'DOWD, have decided upon approaching the Duke of BEDFORD with a protest against his Grace's present expressed intention of pulling down the Old Theatre within the next two years. Probably the result of this, the latest incident in the interesting annals of Old Drury, will simply be to make another addition to the well-known collection of "Rejected Addresses."

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OUR OPERA.

To hear sweet strains by GLUeCK or GOUNOD, MASCAGNI, WAGNER, one must, you know, Pass slums; at dark it Is nice in Endell Street and Bow Street; Still better in that fragrant nose treat-- "Mudsalad Market."

Inside, say, _Orpheus_ sings in Hades To gallant men and noble ladies-- Rank, wealth, and beauty; Outside, Elysium is forgotten. To clear away these slums, half rotten, Is no one's duty.

Inside, MASCAGNI'S _Intermezzo_, Though heard in many places, yet so Delightful ever; Outside, cab touts and paper sellers, And other people's pert _Sam Weller's_, Delightful never!

Inside, some day, the newest, _Falstaff_, Will occupy a far from small staff Of band and chorus; Outside, as now, old slums ill-smelling, And costermongers, shouting, yelling, Will be before us.

Once someone started building greatly, Walls rose, arranged to form quite stately House, _foyers_, lobbies. They stopped, extremely gaunt and lonely, And, now the site is used, it's only A haunt of bobbies.

So still Euterpe's home is hidden In ill-paved slums, through which we've ridden With jolts that jerk us. How unlike Paris! Did we follow Her taste, we should enshrine Apollo At Regent Circus.

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JUST CAUSE.

I love you for your splendid hair, Your violet eyes, your swaying waist, Whose curves exactly suit my taste; Your radiant smile, your dimples rare.

I love you for your store of pelf, Of course; but most of all, my sweet, Because of this--whene'er we meet, _You let me talk about myself!_

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ODE DE KNILL--AND CO.

_Making Something of Nothing!!_--Lord Mayor KNILL has been created a Baronet. Sheriffs WILKIN and RENALS, as being next to Nil, have been knighted.

"Nobodies" have been Baronets, but still 'Tis wondrous to create one out of _Nil_! The Middlesex Artillery Volunteers Will "make the _Wilkin_ ring" with hearty cheers. And for the last, he'll bear his honours meekly, He's RENALS "going strong," not "_Renals Weakly_."

(For the last, understand _Reynolds' Weekly_.)

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GOOD EGG-SAMPLE!--One egg was sold the other day for L60 18_s._ _Vide Times_ of Wednesday last. The egg was a perfect specimen of that _rara avis in terris_, the gigantic _Aepyornis Maximus_ of Madagascar. What did Mr. STEVENS do with it? Did he have it made into several omelettes for a breakfast-party of a dozen? Of course it was a perfectly fresh egg, and the only thing at all high about it was the price.

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FROM THE CAMP.--Just now Riflemen are Bis'ley engaged.

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A FALLEN ART.

[A "lady palmist" has been fined ten shillings and costs for fortune-telling.--_Daily News._]

She lived, this prophetess, too late, And plied an art that's out of date, Another age had seen her gain Her reputation not in vain, Had seen a crowd respectful wait Upon the arbiter of fate, While kings and rulers brought her gold To have futurity unrolled!

In some Greek court where fountains play, Or dwelling by the Appian way, The prophetess would surely be Besought by each Leuconoe, And if for these she sometimes drew A future pleasanter than true, At least she gave them, you'll confess, Anticipated happiness!

Ah! times are changed, and nowadays Such divination hardly pays; There comes no more the crowds that used, The fees are terribly reduced! And if our policemen caught the Sphinx Propounding "Missing Words," one thinks Our British justice could not fail To send her speedily to gaol!

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IMPY AND GARRY.--Colonel SAUNDERSON, "speaking as an Irishman" (did anyone ever hear the gallant Colonel speak as an Englishman?), didn't object to being classed among his countrymen, whom Mr. BRODRICK had styled "impecunious and garrulous." He might have quoted the name of one of their own national airs as emphasizing, by descriptively []abreviating, these two epithets, namely, "_Garryowen_." "_Garry_" is clearly the short for "_garrulous_," and "_owen_" is the oldest form of _"not payin'_."

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_Sultan (amicably)._ Welcome, dear ABBAS! Take a seat, and a pipe--take anything you have a mind to, and "make yourself at home," as the accursed Giaours say.

_Khedive (squatting)._ Thanks, my dear--Suzerain! Yildiz Kiosk feels, indeed, very home-like. More than my own Cairo does--when CROMER'S there. This Nichan-i-Imtiaz Order is really very becoming. Pity you and I, ABDUL, have to take "orders" from anybody west of Alexandria!

_Sultan (sotto voce)._ And why _should_ we?

_Khedive (sulkily)._ Well, the sons of burnt fathers _have_ got the upper hand of the Faithful, somehow--confound them!

_Sultan (reading)._ "Intelligence received here of late, from trustworthy quarters in Egypt, indicates that the KHEDIVE'S journey is to be made the point of departure for a _grande action diplomatique_ against British influence in the Valley of the Nile." That's from the _Times_, my ABBAS!

_Khedive (moodily)._ Humph! Wish the Egyptian quarters _were_ "trustworthy." _Grande action diplomatique?_ Quite makes one's mouth water!

_Sultan._ _Doesn't_ it? The same infernal--but influential--news-sheet says: "The young KHEDIVE knows that not only would he meet with a personally kindly reception, but that the grievances he is known to be anxious to pour out would fall on ready ears." There, at least, the Giaour "rag" is right. Pour away, my ABBAS! "Keep your eye on your father--or Suzerain--and he will pull you through." [_Winks and whiffs._

_Khedive (whiffing and winking)._ Will he, though? And that Turkish Bodyguard?

_Sultan (warmly)._ At your service at any moment, my dear ABBAS!

_Khedive (smoking furiously with closed eyes)._ Ah! if they would only let me alone, let me rule my subjects in my own Oriental way--as you do yours in Armenia, for example--then, indeed, I could have a good time, and plenty of treasure.

_Sultan (significantly)._ Out of which my little formal trifle of Tribute might come easily and _regularly_--eh, ABBAS?

_Khedive._ Quite so, Padishah! Bah! These brutal, blundering Britishers don't understand the Art of Government as adapted to Eastern Ideas.

_Sultan (soothingly)._ Well, never mind, ABBAS. We'll lay our heads together, anon, now you _are_ here, and--who knows? Meanwhile, let's enjoy ourselves. Something like a "Turkish Occupation" this--eh? And how do you like this Turkish tobacco?

_Khedive (blowing vigorously)._ Smokes easily, and makes a big cloud. In which I fancy I can see myself driving the British Lion out of the Nile Valley at the point of the bayonet.

_Sultan (dreamily)._ And I picture myself comfortably replenishing my Treasury with that Tribute! Like music, ABBAS?

_Khedive (uneasily)._ Ye-e-e-s. Why!

_Sultan (promptly)._ Then I'll tip you something soothing. [_Sings._

I'll sing thee songs of Arabi, And tales of far Cash ne-ar! Strange yarns to move thee to a smile, Or melt thee to a te-ar! And dreams of delight shall hover bright, And smoke-born vi-i-sions rise Of artful "fake," which well may wake Wild wonder in thine eyes. I'll move thee to a smile With dreams of far Cash ne-e-e-e-ar!

[_Left dreaming._

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A VISION OF ROYALTY.

(_Written after a surfeit of the Illustrated Papers._)

Ye Royalties of England, how beautiful ye are! The special artists claim you, they track you from afar. In uniforms and diamonds, with sceptre and with crown, In many a picture-paper those artists set you down.

And thus the British public may gaze upon its Queen-- They make her small, but dignified, of most majestic mien. She smiles--the artist marks her; she frowns--the artist quails, And soothes himself by drawing H.R.H. the Prince of WALES.

He draws him at foundation stones, a trowel in his hand (The point of silver trowels I ne'er could understand); He draws him opening railways, or turning sods of grass, And he draws him as a Colonel, in helmet and cuirasse.

We see him dressed for London, a-riding in the Row-- I wonder if he ever finds his London pleasures slow; And we see him down at Sandringham, his country-home in Norfolk, Where the Royal pair are much beloved, especially by poor folk.

And oft at public dinners, in Garter and in Star, We see his Royal Highness enjoying his cigar. I wish they wouldn't vary quite so much his Royal figure. For they sometimes make him leaner, and sometimes make him bigger.

But, be that as it may, I feel that, while my life endures, I know by heart my Prince's face, my future King's contours. A stiff examination in the Prince of WALES I'd pass, And in all his princely attitudes they'd give me a first-class.

The Duke of YORK, our Sailor Prince, I think I've got him pat; I've never seen him face to face, but what's the odds of that? In illustrated papers I have watched him every day Since he went and popped the question to the pretty Princess MAY.

I've seen them plain or coloured in fifty different styles, Just like a pair of turtle-doves, all bills and coos and smiles. I never saw a turtle-dove that smiled upon its pet afore, But he who writes of bridal pairs is bound to use the metaphor.

Oh, Princess MAY, oh, Princess MAY, in crayon or in oil you Are loveable and beautiful, they can't avail to spoil you. They did their worst, and did it well, those special-artist wretches, To make you like a stolid block in all their special sketches.

So this, my meek petition, to those artists is addressed, Give Royalties of every sort a little welcome rest. I cannot bear my Royal ones--of loyalty I'm full-- To look like wax and sawdust, with limbs of cotton-wool.

And thus, when next you draw them (oh, may the time be long) To make them human beings will surely not be wrong. And if you'll take a hint from me you'll earn a nation's thanks, By drawing these prize princely ones a little less like blanks.

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LINES IN PLEASANT PLACES.--_Sala's Journal_, full of interesting and entertaining matter, has lately been giving very sensible advice as to Palmistry, which is again in vogue. The Palmists appear to be doing so uncommonly well just now, that this year will be memorable, for them at least, as "the Palmy days" of chiromancy.

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SEEING THE ROYAL WEDDING PRESENTS.

(_A Sketch at the Imperial Institute_.)

SCENE--_The North Gallery on a Saturday afternoon, with the thermometer at considerably over 80 deg. in the shade. The presents are arranged behind a long barrier, in front of which the Spectators form a double "queue," the outer rank facing in the opposite direction to the inner line, and both moving at an average rate of one foot every five minutes._

_The Attendants (spasmodically)._ Pass along there, please. Keep moving!

[_The crowd close to the barrier either cannot or will not pay the slightest attention to these injunctions, and remain placidly gazing at whatever happens to be in front of them; the people in the outside line, who can see just enough to tantalise them, begin to exhibit signs of impatience._

_A Sour-looking Spinster._ Well, I'm sure! They _might_ remember there's others that would like to have a look besides themselves! Some of them seem to have made up their minds to spend the whole _day_ here! (_With a withering glance at a stout lady in the inner rank._) How anyone can call herself a lady and spend fifteen minutes downright gloating at nothing but cigarette cases--well, I should be sorry to be so disobliging _myself_!

[_The stout lady, who has exhausted the cigarette cases long ago, but can't move on until those in front of her have thoroughly inspected the jewels, fans herself with a pocket-handkerchief, and pretends not to have heard._

_A Cheery Old Lady (to her Grand-daughter)._ Well, they _do_ make you wait, there's no denying--but we shall see everythink some time or other. 'Ot, MINNIE? Yes, it _is_ 'ot, and they're pushing in front as well as beyind, now; but lor, my dear, we must put up with sech things when we come out like this. And you can ketch a glimpse in and between like, as it is. I can see the top of a Grandfather's Clock. It won't take us 'alf an hour now, at the rate we're going, to git round the turn, and then we shall be next the barrier, and 'ave a little more room. There, they're beginning to move a bit. (_The line advances about a yard._) Now we're getting along beautiful!

_A Purple-faced Old Gentleman (in a perspiration)._ It's scandalous! These people inside aren't _attempting_ to move along. (_To the inner rank._) Will you kindly pass on, and give others a chance? _Do_ pass along there! (_The people in the inner row maintain a bland unconsciousness, which is too much for his feelings._) D--n it! why can't you pass along when you're asked to?

_The Usual Comic Cockney._ It's no good torkin' perlitely to 'em, guv'nor; you touch some on 'em up with your umberella. Why, there's two old ladies aside o' me that 'ave gone and 'ipnotised theirselves starin' at silver kendlesticks!

_A Plaintive Female (to a smart young constable)._ Oh, Mr. Policeman, _do_ make 'em 'urry up there!

[_The constable prudently declines to attempt the impossible, and merely smiles with pitying superiority._

_Mrs. Lavender Salt (who has insisted on her husband escorting her)._ LAVENDER, what a frightful crush! I don't believe we've moved for the last twenty minutes, and I'm nearly dead with the heat!

_Mr. L. S. (with irritating common sense)._ Well, MIMOSA, you don't suppose _I'm_ enjoying myself? After all, if you don't like the crush, the remedy's simple. You've only to step out of it into the grounds, you know--there is some air _there_!

_Mrs. L. S._ What? and give up our places after going through so much? No, LAVENDER, it would be too absurd to have to go away without seeing the Royal Presents after all!

_Mr. L. S._ But is it worth all this pushing and squeezing? Why, you can see much the same sort of thing any day in perfect comfort by simply walking down Bond Street!

_Mrs. L. S._ You wouldn't say so if you had the least scrap of imagination! It isn't the things themselves one comes to see--it's the sentiment _attached_ to them!

_Mr. L. S._ Oh, is _that_ it? Well, I can make out the upper part of a weighing machine over your shoulder, but I can't say I discover any particular sentiment attached to _that_.

_Mrs. L. S. (impatiently)._ Oh, if you choose to sneer at _everything_, of course you can, but it's looking at things like these that makes us the loyal nation we are, LAVENDER!

_Mr. L. S._ My dear MIMOSA, I give you my solemn word that if I remain opposite those Chippendale bookcases ten minutes longer I shall become a gibbering anarchist! Surely we can be loyal without such a painful resemblance to a box of dried figs.

[Mrs. L. S. _shudders at these revolutionary sentiments_.

_A New Comer (arriving with a friend, and craning curiously over the shoulders of the spectators_ in posse, _to their intense indignation_). 'Ere they are, JOE. I can see a lot o' silver inkstands. We'll get a view if we shove in 'ere.

[_He attempts to edge through the double rank._

_The Purple-faced Old Gentleman._ I protest against your pushing in here, Sir. We're hot enough already without that. It's monstrously unfair!

_The New Comer._ I s'pose I've got as much right to see the bloomin' Presents as what _you_ 'ave?

_The P.-f. O. G._ You've no right to push in out of your turn, Sir. You must take your proper place down at the end of the _queue_ and wait, like everybody else.

_The New Comer._ What, all the way down there, and 'ow long might I have to wait, now?

_The P.-f. O. G. (with tremendous dignity)._ That I can't say, Sir. I can only tell you this--that I have been standing here myself for over three-quarters of an hour without advancing ten yards or seeing anything distinctly, and so have all these ladies and gentlemen.

_The New Comer._ Hor, hor, hor! D'jear that, JOE? Ten yards in three-quarters of an hour! What price snails, eh? Well, Sir, if that's _your_ ideer of amusin' yourself on a warm afternoon, it ain't mine, so you'll excuse me and my friend 'ere joinin' your little percession. Don't lose 'art, Sir, keep on at it. You'll _git_ there afore bedtime if you don't overexert yourselves. Take it easy now!

[_They pass on with ribald laughter, to the general relief. Eventually, after infinite delay and maddening exhortations to "keep moving," the outer queue succeed to the barrier and to the unpopularity enjoyed by their predecessors._

ALONG THE BARRIER.

Now we shan't be _nearly_ so squeeged, MINNIE! There's nothing partickler to look at just yet, except kerridges.... It's not the smallest use telling us to hurry, my good woman, because we can't move till those in front choose to go on.... Look at the 'arness, MINNIE--pretty 'arness, ain't it? with their crest on it and all!... Well, I call it shabby givin' 'em a kerridge without even so much as a old moke to dror it. I'd ha' done it 'ansome, or not at all.... Lor, look at the dust on all the furniture--it _will_ want cleanin' up!... That's a beautiful gong, MINNIE; see, that's the thing they 'it it with.... Ain't that a comfortable looking chair in red moroccer? That'll be for the 'all porter to set in, I expect--there's a 'at in it. Lor no, my dear, it 'ud ha' been a better lookin' 'at than what that is, if it was one of the presents, depend on it! There's a weighin' machine.... Fancy goin' and givin' them a thing like that! Oh, I expect it's for them to weigh theirselves with. Ah, 'ere come the _Jewels_ now. Now we _shall_ see somethink!... I don't see _our_ present yet, do you, 'ARRIET? There's old Uncle BILL'S. See, that dimond and pearl necklace. Well, if they ain't gone and put it down as "Persented by six 'undred and fifty ladies of England!" And the old man savin' up his screw for weeks for it--he _will_ be 'urt when he 'ears of it! Some bloke's gone and given 'em a pillar-post box. I thought of sendin' the one at our corner, on'y it wouldn't come out easy: and what with the copper bein' on his beat--why, I decided I'd give 'em somethink else.... Walking-sticks? Why, he wouldn't want more if he was a--a centipede!... I wonder where they'll _put_ all the things, I'm sure! 'Ullo, a pearl and dimond tiarer, made o' cardboard. I 'ope they thanked 'im nicely for _that_! Why, that's on'y a model, like. Well, and a very good model, too, what I call eckernomical.... Look at those _lovely_ toast-racks!... LAVENDER, what a magnificent old mirror!--Elizabethan, I expect. I wonder who gave _that?_... Oh, me and 'ARRIET give 'er _that_, mum.... Oh, dear, I wish I was them, to have all these presents.... Why, my dear, it doesn't matter to _them_--they have everything lovely as it is!... 'ARRIET, when you and me git married, we'll 'ave a show of all _our_ presents--not 'ere, there won't be no room. We'll take the Agricultural 'All, and have a catalogue and everythink. "Set of Elizabethian sheep's trotters, from the Hearl of ALAMODE." eh? "Pound of Queen Anne saveloys, from the Markis o' MILE-END." "Yard o' flypaper, from the Dook o' SHOREDITCH." "Packet of 'airpins, persented by seven 'underd lydies of Whitechapel." "Donkey-barrer an' kerridge-rug, from the residents in the Ole Kent Road." Etceterer ... I do wish you wouldn't go on so foolish! Why, if someone hain't sent her a set o' straw soles to keep her shoes dry--what _next_, I wonder!... And a very sensible thing too.... Well, my dear, I'm sure nothing can't be too good for her, and they've certainly been set up with every blessing a young couple can require--and may they live long to enjoy them!

[_And so says Mr. Punch._

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