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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.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AWFUL MOMENT!

"CONF----! I'VE FORGOTTEN MY DRESS COAT!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

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."

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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!_

       *       *       *       *       *

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_.)

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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!

       *       *       *       *       *

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'_."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A "TURKISH OCCUPATION;" OR, VISIONS IN SMOKE.

    ["The KHEDIVE has been the object of numerous marks
    of personal friendship on the SULTAN'S part."--_Times
    Correspondent at Constantinople._
]

_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._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: LACONIC.

_Passenger._ "CAN YOU TELL ME WHAT ARE THE TIMES FOR THESE 'BUSSES TO
LEAVE THE SWISS COTTAGE?"

_Driver._ "Quarter after--'Arf after--Quarter to--and _At!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

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  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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ENGLISH AS SHE IS "SCHPOGEN."

_Herr Dumpling (a "Deacher of Englisch" who has made the most of his
holiday during the Royal Marriage week)._ "ZERTAINLY, I HAF ZEEN ZE
VEDDING-BROZESS, ZE GWEEN, AND ZE GLIDDERING GOACHES, AND ZE NAIDIVE
DROOBS; AND IN ZE EVENING NEFFER HAF I ZEEN SO PEUDIFUL GAS-WORKS!
BOT, ACH HIMMEL, HOW VAS I OFERGROWDED!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

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