Punch, or the London Charivari, November 2nd, 1895

(From a Newspaper of the Future.)

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.

Board and Residence.—Here is a gem from the Bandon Quarter Sessions. Their Medical Officer of Health, Dr. Magner, was suing the Guardians of the Clonakilty Union for failing to erect a fence round the Dispensary residence:—

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.)

The Water-Bandits again!—Not content with spoiling the Falls of Foyers, the Aluminium Company now threatens an attack on the Falls of Clyde. Oh, what a Fall is there, my countrymen! exclaims the patriotic Scot. The Co. that dares to lay its hands on Clyde, save in the way of kindness, is a willun, and should be wound up instanter. Says the North British Daily Mail—

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."

My dear Marjorie,—Since I wrote to you last, Arthur has developed unmistakable signs of acute jealousy. Bluebeard was mild in comparison with him; Othello childishly unsuspicious. At first, I liked it, and was flattered; but it is now beginning to be a little wearing. Also, I find that it has the effect of making me ridiculously and unjustifiably vain; catching, as it were, from Arthur, the idea that everyone I meet must necessarily admire me, and would like to take his place. A quite absurd instance of this has just happened, of which I am rather ashamed. My cousin Freddy, who is staying with us in the country, has a musical friend, called Percival, for whose talents and accomplishments Freddy has the greatest possible admiration. Having got permission to bring him down, Freddy instantly dragged him to the piano and insisted on his playing and singing a song which went like this:—

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.

Johnnie (who finds that his Box, £20, has been appropriated by "the Fancy"). "I beg your pardon, but this is my Box!"

Bill Bashford. "Oh, is it? Well, why don't you tike it?"

(By "Hansom Jack.")

No. X.—COMICALITY IN CABLAND—"CARROTTY CHOLLOP" —A TALE OF A "TENNER."

Note from the Opera.—Dash my Ludwig, but this artist is mighty good as the Flying Dutchman at Covent Garden. Likewise Madame Duma, as Senta, enthusiastically applauded and showered with bouquets. And that Dudley Buck, too! Delightful name for a lady-killing lover is the Deadly Buck, who appropriately played the forester Erik in love with Senta. Capital performance and first-rate house. Conductor, Mr. Feld. Recognised his style of conducting at once. Merely saw his back, and exclaimed, "That's Feld to the ground!"

Concerning that Little Party.—A correspondent objects to the suggestion made in these columns last week that Dr. Grace should give a dance in honour of his recent cheque from the Daily Telegraph without consultation with the representative of domestic Home Rule. "It is possible," writes the scribe, "that were such an appeal made to such an umpire, the verdict might be 'no ball,' and cause some confusion." Were such a thing to happen, the champion cricketer might be "put out"—a contingency so highly improbable, that it does not merit a moment's consideration.

Shakspearian Quotation for Midland Railway.—"My word, we'll not carry coals!" (Aside.) But we must, and not on our own terms. (See Romeo and Juliet, Act I., Sc. 1)

Shortly to be published, in illustrated form, by the Punch Press, "Historic Peeps's Diary."

The Chronicles of Count Antonio, by Anthony Hope. "Delightful," quoth the Baron; all colour laid on artistically, yet in bold slap-dash style. Broad effects as in scene-painting. He is the Sir John Gilbert of romancers is Count Antonio Hope Hawkins The beau cavalier wins his lady against all odds. It is Walter Scott, G. P. R. James, Lever, Ainsworth, Dumas, Drury Lane drama, ancient Astley's Amphitheatre, essenced; the whole thing done in one readable volume! Genuine romance: all "movement": interest never allowed to flag: drums, alarums, excursions: obstacles everywhere only to be surmounted: dramatic finish and final tableau magnificent! Curtain: loud applause: and calls for author. Great success.

Hugely content is the Baron with a book published by Smith, Elder & Co., and writ by one "Jack Easel," some time a frequent contributor to Mr. Punch's pages. The title of the work is "Our Square and Circle." All is written "on the square," and that the matter is "non-contentious" is evident, as otherwise the author would be "arguing in a circle," which is absurd; or "in a vicious circle," which would of course utterly take away the reputation of his quiet square for eminent respectability. That it is pleasantly written, the reader will find out for himself; that it was a labour of love, and therefore Easel-y writ, goes without saying. The Baron joins issue with him on certain details as to the table, the wines, and dinners generally; though up to now he should have thought himself at one with him [or "at 7.45 with him," which is the more likely hour] on all such important points. The Baron gives the book his "Imprimatur," says "Pass Jack Easel," and is the author's and everybody's

B. de B.-W., their Own Booking Officer.

[It has recently been suggested in the Author that novelists should take the management of their books entirely into their own hands.]

Happening to call lately on my friend Snooks, the eminent novelist, I was rather surprised at the change which had come over the appearance of his drawing-room. The books, which had been scattered over the table in former days, were now methodically arranged along the shelves which covered the entire walls, and in the corner, where a china cabinet had formerly stood, there now figured a sort of counter, behind which stood Snooks himself, arrayed in his shirt-sleeves.

"Ha!" he exclaimed, as I entered, "what can I have the pleasure of showing you to-day? Romances, poetry, travels——"

"Why, Snooks," I said, "don't you remember me? What on earth are you doing?"

Snooks's face fell somewhat. "Oh, it's you, is it? I thought it was a customer. You see that I've taken the Author's advice, and am managing my own affairs."

"Indeed? And how in the world——"

"Hush!" the novelist interrupted. "Here are some customers." And as he spoke four or five people entered the drawing-room, and marched up to the counter.

"A nice novel, Madam," said Snooks, just like one of Messrs. Marshall and Snelgrove's young men. "Certainly. Kindly step this way, please. Here is my Love's Dilemma, very sweet, I assure you. Yes, only four-and-six cash. Thank you.... Can I show you anything, Sir? This is in the latest style—The Decree Nisi—or I could write you something to order, if you prefer it.... Hymns, Madam? No, I am afraid I've none in stock, would a devotional sonnet do? Of course, I could make any number you require at the shortest notice.... Thank you, seven-and-sixpence change. They shall be delivered to-morrow morning. Evangelical, I think you said?... To suit a young lady—not advanced? Certainly, Sir; I can offer you my Milk and Mayblossom, published at six shillings; reduced to half-a-crown.... You didn't like Murder and Sudden Death, Sir? Well, I am surprised, it's one of my favourite productions; but I can sell you a rather milder blend, if you prefer it."

And so the conversation went on, until all the customers had been satisfied, and Snooks wiped his heated brow and turned to me. "There, you see how it works; splendid system, isn't it? No trouble with publishers or booksellers, entirely a ready-money trade, done over the counter in one's own drawing-room."

"Then all these books are your own work?" I asked.

"Of course; you don't suppose I'm fool enough to sell other people's goods? Of course I keep a large ready-made stock, and turn out others to order as required. And, as you're here, do just buy——" At this point I fled.

[An international revolver match by cable is arranged to take place shortly between English and American teams.]

"Good morning," said a representative of Mr. Punch to the Chief Umpire of a well-known Telegraphic Agency; "I have come to ask if you would kindly favour me with some details of your new Sporting Department."

"Certainly," he replied. "It has a great future before it. We intend to revolutionise sport in all its branches."

"For instance?"

"Well, as it's in season, take Football. In fact, I've just finished umpiring in an Association match between England and America, which, in my unofficial capacity, I'm happy to say we've won—for a change."

"Where was it played?"

"Why, at this desk, of course. You see, we cable over to the Associated Press full particulars of the imaginary kick-off, and they look it out in the Code—which doesn't generally take more than ten minutes—and wire back their return kick (also imaginary), with name, age, weight, and address of the kicker. This is generally repeated as a security against the risk of error. The charge for repetition is one-half the charge for transmission, any fraction of one penny less than a halfpenny being reckoned as one halfpenny, according to the admirable wording of the Post Office rules."

"And then?"

"We wrangle for the rest of the time. This is quite in keeping with the modern spirit of football, the game now having developed into a kind of Hibernian debating society."

"But how was it you won to-day?"

"Oh, we had the last word before 'Time' was called, which enabled our Sporting Editors to prove conclusively that the first kick scored a goal, and was not 'offside.' Our American colleagues, however, have appealed to the Central International Committee of Football Referees, so that the wires will be kept warm for the next half-year on the subject in the most sportsman-like manner."

"Capital! And have you any other telegraphic developments?"

"Oh yes! There's our Ladies Inter-Varsity Stay-at-Home Hockey Contest—that's played over there in the corner every afternoon by sixpenny telegram. The Dramatic and Novelist Editors attend to that, in order to acquaint themselves with the workings of the feminine mind. The Golf Department is in charge of the Scottish Editors. They have an anxious time of it, as most of the language used is not fit for transmission, and bunker them badly.... That's the River Editor, hard at work in that arm-chair, rowing against Yale by cable. And there you see our Racing Authority, busily engaged over a Horseless Derby with the French Staff.... My Second-in-Command is now arranging the Corbett-Fitzsimmons fight, which will take place at last by telegraph on opposite sides of the Atlantic.... We do a bit of Comic Volunteer Manœuvres as well, but I'm sorry to say that our Shouting Editor, whose idea of humour is somewhat noisy, has just broken the telephone with one of his ejaculations.... But I must ask you to excuse me now, as I have a billiard tournament, a yacht race, and a cricket match with all Australia to manage simultaneously, and the spectators—I mean newspaper readers—are getting impatient."

Reward of Merit.—Sir Frank Lockwood, Q.C., M.P., having been M.P.owered to appear for the M-P-ire before the L. C. C. licensers, and having successfully scored all his Imperial Pints, is to be decorated with an Order [not admitted after eight], and allowed to practice at any of the Bars of the Empire. The restriction of "No Fees" is not in accordance with Imperial practice.

The Future Bridegroom. "Well—in another Week I surrender my Liberty!"

The Future Bride. "And I gain mine!"

[They dissemble their joy.

(A New Yankee Song to an Old Yankee Tune.)

Air—"Old Rosin the Bow."

(With compliments to those it may concern)

The entrepreneur had conducted, the visitor here, there, and everywhere. He had shown the stage, the auditorium, and the tea and cake-room. Every feature of the reformed scheme had been duly explained.

"No singing allowed in the entertainment?" queried the visitor.

"None at all," was the reply; "we consider that music is a mistake. Of course same songs are good, but as others are bad it is better to prohibit them altogether, and thus escape the risk of a mistaken choice."

"And no dancing?"

"Of course not. That would be entirely contrary to our principles. If people require exercise they can walk or run."

"But how about the poetry of motion? How about the grace of movement?"

"We desire to have nothing to do with either," returned the entrepreneur. "You see our object is to have an entirely new entertainment, and consequently we reject all items, that have figured in other programmes."

"Well, well," murmured the visitor; "you may be right. But I should like to see the result. I will wait until the performance is given, and judge for myself."

"I am sorry I cannot assist you to carry out this scheme," declared the Manager of the Progressive Music Hall, "because we are not going to have an entertainment."

"No, of course not. Of course it won't be an entertainment in the usual sense of the word. It can't naturally be an entertainment—I should have said a performance."

"But we give neither entertainment nor performance."

"Why not?"

Then came the answer, which was more convincing than surprising—"Because, my dear Sir, we can't get an audience!"

The New Hotel on the Embankment.— Our Dear Daily News, in a recent note, says that the "Hôtel Magnifique" (as it ought to be called, reminding us as the D. D. N. justly observes of the Hôtel Splendide in Paris) has been already styled by its proprietors The Cecil. "The Cecil!"—"There is only one in it," observes bluntly a certain well-known comedian, quoting the song "There's only one in it, that's me!" And pleased is Arthur Cecil with the gratuitous advertisement. But The Cecil! Good name for club, not for hotel. The Sarum sounds too ecclesiastical; so we return to The Magnificent, which can be familiar in our mouths as "The Mag." "Omne ignotum pro magnifico."

"Odd notice!" observed a short-sighted man, who had been cursorily inspecting a card stuck up in a Restaurant's. "What is?" inquired his friend. "Why this," was the short-sighted one's reply, pointing to the notice; "'No charge for changing plates.' Who ever heard of——" But here his friend broke in, "Why, you noodle, you've been reading a photographer's advertisement!"

Master Johnny Bull. "MONROE DOCTRINE! WHAT IS THE 'MONROE DOCTRINE'?"

Master Jonathan. "WA-AL—GUESS IT'S THAT EVERYTHING EVERYWHERE BE-LONGS TO US!"