Public-domain ebook
Punch, or The London Charivari, Volume 105, July 22nd, 1893
by Various
Language: en343 downloads on Project Gutenberg
Subjects
In: Punch·Humour·British Literature
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #35734.
The opening · free to read
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.
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."
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.
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!
_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.
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'."
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!
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