PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 100.

May 9, 1891.

A FIRST VISIT TO THE "NAVERIES."

"Shiver my timbers!" said the Scribe.

"Haul down my yard-arm with a marling-spike!" cried the Artist.

And with these strictly nautical expressions, two of Mr. Punch's Own entered the Royal Naval Exhibition, which now occupies the larger portion of the grounds of the Military Hospital, Chelsea. That so popular a show should be allowed to occupy so large a site speaks wonders for the amiability of the British Public. When the Sodgeries appeared last year, it was, so to speak, with fear and trembling that "the powers that were" appropriated a little of the ground usually over-run by the Nobility and Gentry of the Pimlico Road and its vicinity; or, rather, by their haughty offspring. This year the tough old sea-dogs of the Admiralty have had no hesitation in taking what they required, apparently without causing comment, much less objection. And the result? In lieu of the dusty arena of 1890, scarcely large enough for a ladies' cricket-match, there appears in 1891 an enclosure containing lakes and lighthouses, panoramas, and full-size models of men-of-war! And the Public take their exclusion philosophically, either paying their shillings at the door, or attempting to get a view of the hoofs of the nautical horses through the gaps in the surrounding hoardings.

The Scribe and the Artist, having been ordered by He Who Must Be Obeyed in the world generally, and at 85, Fleet Street, in particular, to make a sort of preliminary cruise through the wonders of the (Admiralty) Deep, hastened from the inviting grounds into the main building, with its pictures, its plans, and last, but (it is only just to say) least, its pickles. The first object that attracted their favourable attention was a trophy of arms, representing the fashions of the past and the present. On one side were shrapnel and magazine rifles, on the other flint-locks and the ordnance of an age long gone by. Next they passed through the Arctic section, wherein they found dummies drawing a sledge through the canvas snow of a corded-off North Pole. Then they entered the Picture Galleries called after NELSON and BENBOW, wherein magnificent paintings by POWELL, full of smoke and action, served as an appropriate background to the collection of plate, lent by that gallant sailor-warrior and industrious collector of well-considered trifles, H.R.H. the Duke of EDINBURGH. They glanced at the relics of Trafalgar, and then hurried away to the HOWE Gallery, which, containing as it did specimens of the implements used in the game of golf, might have as appropriately been christened the WHEREFORE. Next they skirted a corridor full of plans, and here they discovered that the Committee of the Exhibition must be wags, every Jack Tar of them! This corridor was close to the Dining-rooms, and the Committee (ha! ha! ha!) had called it (he! he! he!) after COOK! (Ho! ho! ho!) Oh, the wit of it! How the Members of the Executive must have nudged one another in the ribs as the quaint idea dawned upon them! And how they must have laughed, too, on the Opening Day, when the Guard of Honour, presenting arms, and the "Greenwich Boys" singing "Ye Mariners of England," were drenched in the rain! And what a capital notion it was on that occasion to put "the Representatives of the Fourth Estate" (no doubt called by them, with many a sly twinkle of the eye, "the Press Gang") into a pen that soon, thanks to a series of water-spouts, assumed the appearance of a tank!

After leaving the Galleries, the Scribe and the Artist looked up at the model of Eddystone Lighthouse, and entered a shed declared to be an "Arctic Scene." Here they were reminded by the introduced ship of those happy days of their boyhood spent in the toy-shops of the Lowther Arcade. Next they visited the Panorama of Trafalgar, and revelled in the carnage of a sea-fight that only required Margate in the distance to be entirely convincing. They glanced at the arena, and gazed with awe at the lake which is to be devoted to the manoeuvring of miniature ironclads. It will be interesting to note whether these mimic combats will hold their own in the coming season against the introduction of capsized clowns, drenched old women, and comic police. Keeping the best for the last, the Scribe and the Artist now entered the model of the Victory—a really admirable exhibition. There they saw before them the old battle-ship with its full equipment, as it was in the days of NELSON—when that deathless hero expected every Englishman (not excluding even those passing the Custom House—as the Committee would say) "to do his duty." To make the illusion complete, the great sea-captain was observed dying in the cook-pit in the agonies of wax. And to think that this work was executed by a firm of house-decorators! Why, who would not, after this, have his back drawing-room converted into the quarter-deck of the Shannon, and his spare bed-room into a tiny reproduction of the Battle of Copenhagen!

Mr. Punch's Representatives, after partaking of Chelsea Hospitality (a purely fancy sketch).

The Scribe and the Artist, on their visit, were invited by all sorts and conditions of men to partake of champagne. The moment it was discovered that they were "connected with the Press," the offerers of hospitality were absolutely overwhelming. But, obeying the best traditions of their order, they sternly, but courteously, refused all refreshment. It is fortunate they pursued this course, for had they received the entirely disinterested kindness of their would-be hosts, their recollections of the marvels of the Royal Naval Exhibition would no doubt have been of the haziest character imaginable. As it was, they were able to take their departure through the main entrance with some show of dignity, and not in a less imposing manner (as the Committee—Cook's Gallery near the Dining-rooms—ho! ho! ho! ha! ha! ha!—would probably and amusingly suggest), by Tite Street.

AMONG THE IMMORTALS.

Mr. PUNCH would be failing in his duty to Art and the British Public if he did not place on imperishable record his notes of the exceptionally brilliant Royal Academy Banquet of last Saturday. H.R.H. the Prince of WALES made one of his best and briefest speeches, in which he feelingly alluded to the late Sir EDGAR BOËHM, R.A. Never was the President, Sir FREDERICK, more eloquent, or his themes more varied; for this occasion is noteworthy as being the first time in the history of this great annual representative gathering that the toast of Music and the Drama has been duly honoured. Sir ARTHUR SULLIVAN responded for the first, and HENRY IRVING for the second. Both made excellent speeches. Sir ARTHUR'S solo was most effective; his notes were in his head; he gave us several variations on the original theme, and cleverly played upon one word in saying that music had been "instrumental" on various historical occasions. HENRY IRVING followed suit; he spoke of Mrs. SIDDONS, Sir JOSHUA REYNOLDS, and of a professional gentleman, one ROSCIUS, mentioned, we believe, by Hamlet as having been, some considerable time ago, "a man of parts," that is an Actor, in Rome. It was a great success. Sir FREDERICK then proposed the LORD MAYOR, which may be briefly expressed as "a toast with a Savory to follow." For "The Visitors," Lord Justice BOWEN, catching sight of the President's classical picture (No. 232), made a happy hit about the delights of a honeymoon in the Infernal Regions, ending in the return