Punch (42.1862)

June 21, 1862.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

251

THE REMOVAL OF A NUISANCE.

KELLY IN VERSE.

he hideous teuts, that
selfishly block up the
view of the Horticul-
tural Gardens from
the windows of the
Exhibition refresh-
ment rooms, were not
used on the occasion
of the last Elower
Show. As they are
of no use then, why
should not they be
removed ? Those who
rule Arcadia should
breathe nothing but
gentleness and good-
nature to others, even
though they may be
only outsiders of the
magic circle of beauty
and aristocracy, and
have not paid their
shillings to enter the
flowery kingdom.
Elowers should surely
teach everything that
is graceful and sweet,
and we think that the
fellows of a society so
pacifying in its nature
as the Horticultural
might display a little
more good fellowship
to their fellow-crea-
tures. The present

| erection seems to have been prompted by the Directors after they had partaken of a liberal
repast of early gooseberries and unripe crab-apples, and had been drinking freely of the juice
of vinegar-plants, for its unsightly growth could only have been the produce of the very essence
of acidity. The sour spirit that apparently animated them was this

“ No, gentlemen exhibitors, you may enjoy your dinners, and pay for them any price you
please; but we are determined you shall not feast your eyes for nothing. Our flowers, we
tell you, are not going to waste their sweetness gratis. You don’t see one of their lovely
tints until we first see the colour of your money.”

However, we doubt if this monster bit of canvas has helped the sale of their season-tickets
in any way. We say again, let the nuisance be instantly removed. One’s dinner is poisoned
by an overflow of miserable Tent whine, that is being poured out on all sides of you on
account of this huge ocular obstruction. One would as soon think of dining outside one
of Algar’s Crown and Anchor booths. The only tent one would wish to dine in on such au
occasion, surrounded as one is with so many foreigners, should be en-tente cordiale.

CAROLLINGS EOR COCKNEYS.

Among other musical novelties we see announced a piece for the piano which the composer
has entitled “ Carollings at Morn.” In this “ morceau de salon,” as it is called in the advertise-
ments, one of the advertised “ opinions of the press ” informs us that “ the warblings of the j
birds, the huntsman’s joyous, horn, and the chevying of the hounds are successfully rendered.”

Now, of course such morning sounds as these are familiar enough to people in the country,
but we who live in London only have a limited acquaintance with them, and therefore cannot
take much interest in piano imitations, or say with any certainty if they be like to life. We
think then the composer, if he aim at all at gaining a good London reputation, should write
at once a sequel to his “morsel of the drawing-room,” and introduce the cries and carollings
at morn heard in Cockaigne. We are sure a pretty piece might be composed on such a
theme, and we really feel surprised it has not long ere this been thought of. How charmingly
the street-cries might be introduced, and what delightful variations might be written on
the melodies wherewith the various street merchants proclaim aloud their wares! How
sweetly “ Milk below—oh ! ” might be tinkled in the treble, while “ Eresh Haddick ! ” or
“Eine So-holes ! ” might be blared out in the bass. The cheerful cry of “ Swee-ee-ee-up !
might then be fitly heard, and an imitation given of the shriek of “ Water-creeeeeeses! ” or
the howl of “ Hearthstones! ” Then the cry of “Any hornaments for your fire-stove?”
ought to follow as a fugue, and the carollings might conclude with a bit of a street song, such
as that infer—well, that infer-ior “ In the Strand! ” Every Cockney is familiar with such
carollings as these, and we feel sure they might be imitated upon the piano, every whit as
well as those more rural morning sounds which form the subject of the piece that has
suggested these remarks.

Racing Intelligence.

A Loser on the Derby, having used explosive language in talking of his loss, endeavoured
income manner to justify his words by saying—“Well, after all, you know, the winner
it’s correct-to-cuss.” The unhappy man is thought to have meant this as a joke upon the
word Caractacus.

BY A PRACTICAL POET.

“ Qui nunc quoqus dicitur Index.”—Ov. Met.

A Eriend of mine, you understand.

Said, speaking to a friend of his,

“I know your Number in the Strand,

But know not whereabouts it is.”

He seemed to name a public need:

Be mine an Index to supply,

By which you all can see, with speed,

How that grand Artery’s numbers lie.

The Strand begins with Alnwick’s Lord,
Where Percy’s Lion rears his tail,

Then on we go past Hungerf'ord,

Destined as platform for the Rail,

At Eifty comes a kind of notch,

George Court, which cut on memory’s peg;
’Twixt Johnson, who will set your watch,

And Surgeon Jones, who’ll set your leg.

A Hundred Houses, and behold,

Where Simpson feeds your inward man,

And ivory tickets too are sold
Eor yonder famed Cigar Divan.

Pass Eifty more, and One-Eive One
Shows you a statue, dark as jet,

And here the Nation’s work is done,

You see the House of Somerset.

Two doors before Two Hundred, see
The Illustrated London News,

A better journal could not be,

Embellished with delightful views.
Two-Thirty-Eive completes the side,

My pensive friend, and here you are,

Eor whether, friend, you walk or ride,

Behold yourself at Temple Bar.

Now turn we west, and back we go.

Only of course we cross the way ;

The Strand has here not much to show
Whereof we pleasant things can say.
Two-Sixty-Eive’s the street of Wych,

Of which we hope to see the fall;

Eor architectural fingers itch
To smash that dreary, dirty wall.

Narrows the Strand, ’tis here at worst,

Would that improvement’s hand were bold;
And Holywell’s black dens accurst.

Lie close behind the houses old.
Two-Ninety-Eight’s the Spotted Dog,

An ancient haunt, if not genteel,

Where drink is “lush” and food is “prog”—
What matter, if you get your meal ?

See the Lyceum’s pit invites

Where high is writ Three-Eifty-Eour,

There Peep o’ Bay two hundred nights
Hath run—may run as many more.

Now read that Greek, and answer, curt.

What portal’s marked Three-Seventy-Two,
Here stands the Hall that would convert
Pagan and Buddhist, Turk and Jew.

Then count until at Eour-Eleven
You halt before a favourite spot.
Performances commence at Seven ;

See Mrs. Boucicault as Dot.

Then less than fifty houses more

Will bring your journey’s end, my child,
Eour-Eifty-Seven denotes the store
Where maps are sold by Bodmin’s Wyld.

And if my neat though humble rhymes
Shall save some grains of Life’s fast sand,
By aiding reference when the Times
Mentions some number in the Strand:

My object’s gained; my Muse so free
Down from her empyrean drops,

And lisps in numbers, though they be
But numbers on the doors and shops.