Punch, or the London Charivari

Volume 104, May 20th 1893

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

OPENING OF THE IMPERIAL INSTITUTE.

Another Show! A splendid Imperial Show! Magnificent weather! Real Queen's weather, and consequently a big success. The grandeur, the solidarity of the British Empire—[&c., &c. *_** Editor regrets that for lack of space he is compelled to omit the remainder of this remarkably fine panegyric. He suggests to Author that it would come out well in pamphlet form, price one shilling, or it might be given away with a pound of Indian tea.—Ed.] Obedient to the call of duty I was myself present as one of the 'umblest of the distinguished guests assembled to welcome Her Imperial Majesty on this auspicious occasion. It was my good fortune to be immediately in front of a charming Young Lady and her delightful Grandmother. The latter was a trifle deaf, and her Granddaughter being a wonderfully well-informed young lady, I had quite an enjoyable time of it; as had also my neighbours, though I regret to say that some of them after the first three-quarters of an hour seemed rather to resent the gratuitous information given with astonishing volubility by the amiable Young Lady to her confiding relative. For example, up came his Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury. "That's the Lord Chancellor," our well-informed Young Lady told her Grandmother. Much cheering greets Lord Salisbury. "That's General Roberts," said the Young Lady, adding, as if rather doubting her own accuracy, "though why he wears a naval uniform I am unable to say." It didn't matter; her Grandmother was equally pleased. "Which is Mr. Gladstone?" asked the Old Lady. The Young Lady used her opera-glass. "I don't see him," she returned slowly. "Of course he can't be in a turban. I know he has no whiskers or moustache—ah! there he is!—there, talking to Sir Edward Leighton!" She hadn't got even the Christian names correct. I looked in the direction she had indicated and saw Sir William Harcourt in close proximity to Sir Richard Temple. But why should I turn and dispel the harmless illusion? Was it for me to bring discord into a family, and cause the Granddaughter to be cut out of the Grandmother's will? Never! So, "from information received," the Old Lady went on implicitly believing in her informant, and treasuring up the particulars for the benefit of her other Grandchildren. "Lord Roberts is somewhere here," observed the Young Lady, sweeping the horizon (so to speak, with apologies to "the horizon") with her lorgnette. "Oh, I should like to see him!" exclaimed the Old Lady, enthusiastically. "Where is he?" "Oh, I think—" replied the Granddaughter, hesitatingly, "I rather—think—I've only seen him once—but—oh yes," she added, with wonderful confidence on finding she was commanding an interested audience of simple neighbours—"Oh yes—there—in a General's uniform,—he has just come in—and he is looking for his place,"—and, following guidance, I, too, craned forward, and was rewarded by catching a glimpse of Mr. Frederick Gordon, Chairman of the Grand Hotels Co., Limited, who was good enough to salute me with that air of conscious power which becomes part and parcel of a man who has the command of countless battalions in waiting. Encouraged by this incident (for I had not rounded on her and said, "that is not Lord Roberts") the Young Lady urged on her mistaken career more wildly than ever. She pointed out the wrong Princess May, the Duke of Fife became H.R.H. the Duke of York, the Tecks were the Mecklenburg-Strelitzes, the Gentlemen-at-Arms were dismounted Chelsea Pensioners in Court dress; the Chinese ladies were Japanese (for they couldn't get even these correct,—and of course these Orientals are most correct), and finally, looking up to the gallery where the Orchestra was, she crowned the edifice by loudly announcing that Sir Arthur Sullivan was Sir Arthur Balfour, and added that he was only performing his official duty as Leader of the House of Commons. "Then," asked the simple Old Lady, "are the musicians all obliged to be Members of Parliament?" Her Granddaughter was equal to the occasion, and answered unhesitatingly, "Yes, dear, all."

"A Legal Conveyance."

After this, what was the show! Everybody was somebody else. Only the Queen and the Prince were beyond the power of error. She found them out at once. She was enthusiastic about the distinctness of the Prince's voice in reading the Address, and she bent forward so as not to lose a syllable of the Queen's gracious reply. She explained everything wrong. A few ladies looked at her, mutely beseeching some respite for their ears; would she only give herself ten minutes' rest? No—it was a great chance for the well-informed young woman, and she made the most of it. Even the heat didn't affect her. Processions might come, and processions might go, but like the babbling brook, she could and would "go on for ever." I have forgotten to add that she also knew how everyone arrived, and her Grandmother was much interested at hearing how Her Majesty's Judges all came in an omnibus, driven and conducted by eminent judicial functionaries.

A grand show, "Abely worked by our Secretary," says Sir Early-Springs-and-Somers Vine, C.M.G., Assistant Secretary, and to both of them great praise is due. Now, then, to adapt the title of Lord Lytton's novel, "What will we do with it?"

The Man who Went.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"Le Sabre de mon père!"

In the Song of the Sword and Other Verses, Mr. Henley incidentally asks, "What have I done for you, England, my England?" Since the question is put so pointedly, my Baronite, who has been looking through the little volume of verse, is bound to reply that, what Mr. Henley has done for England is to make it as ridiculous as is possible to a man with a limited audience. Mr. Henley has a pretty gift of versification, but it is spoiled by a wearisome proneness to smartness, and an assumption of personal superiority that occasionally reaches the heights of the ludicrous. If 'Arry had been at the University, and had bent what he calls his mind upon verse-making, some of the truculent rhyme in this book is the sort of stuff he would have turned out. It seems at first hearing a far cry from 'Arry to Henley. But the dispassionate reader, turning over these sulphurous leaves, will perceive deeply-rooted similarity in that narrowness of view, and that undisturbed consciousness that it alone is right, which distinguish the reflections, and are found in