Public-domain ebook
Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 109, November 2nd, 1895
by Various
Language: en284 downloads on Project Gutenberg
Subjects
In: Poetry·Humour·Plays/Films/Dramas
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #45399.
The opening · free to read
Many years ago, in 1895, our esteemed contemporary, the Daily Graphic, suggested the appointment of a Minister of Fine Arts. This seemingly admirable scheme was soon after carried out. The first Minister was a cautious man. His one great improvement, which met with universal approval, was to remove all the statues and fountains from every part of London, and to place them in a row on Romney Marsh, from Dungeness to Hythe, where they would undoubtedly scare away any French army endeavouring to land. The second Minister tried to introduce the so-called "Queen Anne," or Dutch architecture, and prepared a scheme for altering the whole of London. As a beginning, the north side of Oxford Street, from Holborn to the Marble Arch, was completely transformed. Along the whole distance stretched a fantastic row of red-brick buildings, the surface of which was diversified at every possible point by useless little windows, and little arches, and little projections, and little recesses, and little balustrades. These had risen to the level of the second floors, when a change of Government brought in a Minister who believed only in English architecture of the fifteenth century. Under his directions the new buildings were therefore continued in stone, in imitation of the Houses of Parliament, but the work was stopped by his death. His successor, though of course one of the Gothic party, preferred the Gothic architecture of Italy, and the upper parts of the houses were therefore finished in that style. As at that time the reduction of the Budget was urgently needed, it was decided to use painted stucco instead of real marble, as in Italy.
When the next Government came into office all the houses on the South side of Oxford Street were pulled down, and everyone said that at last we should have an imposing row of buildings. Unfortunately a difficulty arose. The new Minister of Fine Arts was only interested in gardening, and hardly knew one style of architecture from another. He could not therefore decide the great question whether the new houses should correspond with the opposite ones, and, if so, whether they should be "Queen Anne," or Italian Gothic, or English Perpendicular in style. The controversy raged for months. Every person interested said, or wrote, what he thought, or knew, or did not think, or did not know, about architecture, and taste, and art in general. The Academy of Arts, the Society of Antiquaries, and the Institute of Architects, hitherto sedate bodies, became so excited that free fights occurred almost daily in the neighbourhood of Burlington House, and on the waste land in Oxford Street. In every newspaper "The Improvement of Oxford Street" was discussed vigorously. Suddenly the current of public opinion was turned in another direction by a lamentable event. The Minister of Fine Arts, returning from his weekly inspection of the maiden-hair ferns on Wormwood Scrubs, was killed in a cab accident in Vigo Street, a miserably narrow turning, which had escaped the notice of everyone but the cabmen, who always prefer the narrowest streets.
At once there arose a universal cry that safety and space were more important than style. The new Minister was beginning to widen some of the narrow thoroughfares, when his party went out of office. The work has not been continued by the present Minister, who is considering a scheme for the improvement of London by the erection of fountains and statues. Meanwhile the Oxford Street site is still vacant, and no improvements are attempted elsewhere. Half of Vigo Street has been made the same width as Burlington Gardens; the other half remains, as before, about fifteen feet across from house to house.
Our esteemed contemporary, the Daily Graphic, always alive to the artistic needs of the age, remarks that it is impossible to regulate art by Acts of Parliament, or to improve London by party government, and therefore suggests that the Ministry of Fine Arts should be abolished.
Counsel argued that the true cause of all this was that Dr. MAGNER happened to be a gentleman of independent mind, who had not, like others in the same position, the savoir faire to cuddle guardians.
His Honour. Do you mean to say that any unfortunate medical officer has to cuddle boards of guardians? A very unpleasant duty certainly.
Mr. Powell. Well, they had to attend the meetings, and, perhaps, stand drinks, and things of that kind. (Laughter.)
Who would not be such a Medical Officer, Practised in keeping his Board well in hand? D'you think that he offers them cocoa or coffee, Sir? No; but it's whisky he's called on to "stand."
Paupers fall ill, and his task is to cure 'em; In fights with infection he comes up to time; 'Gainst bad sanitation he's paid to secure 'em; His drains may be poor, but his "drinks" must be prime.
Is any Guardian cantankerous? He "cuddles" him (So did a Counsel obscurely declare); And should this fail, then his "Irish hot" fuddles him; For what is a doctor without "_savoir faire_"?
The times are distinctly utilitarian and prosaic, and yet we have not all progressed up, or down, to the level of the man who sees nothing in a grand cataract beyond so much horse-power running to waste.
Neatly put, and even from a utilitarian standpoint it may be well to remember that as much money may be brought into Scotland by a thousand tourists wanting to view the Falls, as by a single company wanting to ruin them.
The Russian Bear (in Chinese costume, only more like himself than ever, slily chuckles as he crosses Manchuria). 'AHA! THEY WON'T KNOW ME NOW!"
(See Special Communication to "Times," October 25.)]
[MAX O'RELL says that the English wife sits opposite to her husband at the fireside in the evening with her curl-papers in her hair.]
Air--"_She wore a Wreath of Roses._"
She wore a wreath of roses, The night when first we met; Her hair, with careful oiling, Looked shiny, black, and wet. Her footsteps had the lightness Of--say a mastodon; And oh! she look exceeding smart, Though high of hue--and bone. I saw her but a moment, Yet methinks I see her now With the slimness, style and lightness Of--say a Low Dutch Vrow!
A wreath of orange blossoms When next we met she wore, The spread of form and features Was much greater than before. And standing by her side was one Who strove, and strove in vain, To make believe that such a wife Was a domestic gain. I saw her but a moment, Yet methinks I see her now, With her big front teeth projecting, A queer blend of horse and cow.
And once again I see that brow-- No bridal wreath is there-- A ring of curl-papers conceals What's left of her scant hair. She sits on one side of the hearth. Her spouse, poor man, sits near, And wonders how that scarecrow thing Could once to him be dear!
I wondered, and departed, Yet methinks I see her now, That type of British wife-hood, With the corkscrews round her brow!
We were all charmed, except ARTHUR, and except PERCIVAL himself. PERCIVAL composes songs, called "_Dreaming Eyes_," "_Far from Thee_," "_Ever_"; besides, he can play WAGNER, and MASCAGNI, and TOSTI, and all kinds of real classical music, and didn't quite like to be treated as if he were a mere music-hall singer. He is a gentle, amiable creature, without any pose, and with (as I know now) not the very smallest intention or desire to steal the heart of one who belonged to another. It would be difficult to find anyone less likely than PERCIVAL to break up--let us say, for instance, a happy English home. ARTHUR thought otherwise; to ARTHUR, PERCIVAL seemed a Don Juan, a gay Lothario, a very Lovelace, the most dangerous of young troubadours. And he glared--really, glared is the only word--so much while I talked to poor young PERCIVAL that I, also, actually began to think there must be something in it; and, from mischief, I talked to him the more. After dinner, we danced. To tease ARTHUR, who was snubbing everyone and looking sulky, I couldn't resist sitting in the conservatory a little while with FREDDY'S friend. True, my conversation with this reckless Rizzio might have been, word for word, carried on between two provincial old ladies: and yet, the knowledge that ARTHUR wouldn't have believed it, gave a sort of imaginary romantic wickedness to the whole thing. He asked me if I had read Trilby, and said he had, curiously enough, never seen the Shop Girl. We agreed, that though we didn't much like the winter, still it was certainly a nice change after the summer. We had reached this point, when ARTHUR came into the conservatory; I rose, so did PERCIVAL, and at the same time he handed me a little piece of paper on which he had, while he talked, been writing something in pencil.... I walked away with ARTHUR, mechanically squeezing the little bit of paper in my hand.
"What," he said, furiously, "was that letter that young fool gave you?"
Becoming frightened, I denied that he had given me a letter, slipped it into my mouth, and slowly ate it.... We had a scene. I cried; we made it up, and he gave me a new brooch afterwards.
The next day I seized an opportunity to tell PERCIVAL that he mustn't do such things, as it made ARTHUR very angry, and also to ask what was on the piece of paper. He looked at me. "Why, Miss GLADYS," he said, "didn't you show it to your future husband?"
"What was it?" I asked, timidly.
"It was my publisher's address. You said you would like to have some of my songs, and----" Thank heaven, he has gone away now, and as FREDDY is always cycling, there is peace again.
But advise me what to do about ARTHUR.
Your affectionate friend, GLADYS.
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