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قراءة كتاب Punch, or The London Charivari, Volume 105, July 22nd, 1893
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Punch, or The London Charivari, Volume 105, July 22nd, 1893
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.
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 Glück 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.
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 £60 18s. 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 Leuconoë,
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