Punch: Punch (84.1883)

Maech 3, 1883.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 107

PUNCH’S FANCY PORTRAITS.-No. 125.


ALFRED AUSTIN, ESQ.

HOLDING HIS NATIONAL REVIEW.

“ Limpid no more I rush to court assoil,”

“ Proud of the stains of decorating toil,”

“ Soul soaring upwards far ” above my ‘ leaders,’

I cry “ No Programme ! ’’—and I get no readers.

[From “My Satire and its Censors"—adapted.

WHISTLER IN VENICE.

A Gavotte in Gamboge.

Go to the Fine Art Society,

Truly a marvellous show,

See, in a wondrous variety,
Etchings and dry points a-row.
Here we can note all the genesis
Of the Whistlerian art;

This is what Whistlee thinks
Venice is,

Jimmy is certainly “ smart.”

Strangely adorned is the Gallery,
Done up in gamboge and white,
Even the flunkey is “ yallery,”
Made a most exquisite fright.
We may be thought supercilious,
But, if the truth must he told,

It looks consumedly bilious,

This new “arrangement in
gold.”

Then there’s the Catalogue criti-
cal.

In which the versatile James
Sneers at the pens analytical,
Calling them all by their names.
Each annotation is peppery,

Full of American gall;
Whistlee is such a high stepper,
he

Prances at will o’er them all.

It must he said too with gratitude,
There was the Artist himself,
Airy and artful in attitude,

Truly a curious elf.

Whistlee is “Niminy-Piminy,” j
Funny, fantastic, and quaint, (
Yet he’s so clever that Jimmy ,
nigh .

Makes men believe he can paint.

What of his works ? why, each
etching is

Only at present half done,

And on the copper the sketching is
Simply a wild piece of fun.
Vainly the Critics will sit on him,
Why such a butterfly slay ?

No one can e’er put the bit on
him—

Whistlee’s the wag of the
day.

WILL IT ALL END IN
SMOKE ?

Ceetain Music-Halls wish to
become Theatres, and nightly
break the law, more or less,. to
gratify their wishes. Being
prosecuted, they intend to apply
to Parliament for a special Cen-
sorship and special privileges.
Certain Theatres, hearing of this,
will want to become Music-Halls,
or, in other words, will want
that liberty, which the Lord
Chamberlain refuses them, to
allow smoking in the auditorium.
The question of drinking hardly
eaters into the discussion, as the
facilities for drinking in Theatres
are hardly more restricted than
they are in Music-Halls. The
point is really one of tobacco: —
Shall the Public smoke or not in
the face of the British Drama ?
The Public, if consulted, which
they never have been, would pro-
bably answer, Yes, leaving the
Managers to settle what Theatres
should be smoking-Theatres, and
what Theatres should remain as
they are. In London, forty years
ago, smoking-Theatres were per-
mitted without any visible.injury
to the Public, to Art (with the
capital A), or to the British
Drama, and. in nearly every other
European city, at the present day,
they are a recognised and popular
institution.

I Whether the two most Con-
servative and Protectionist Bodies
in England—the Theatre Proprie-
i tors and the Music-Hall Pro-
prietors—will face this free-trade
difficulty in the only way in which
I it can be faced, remains to be
I seen, but our own impression is
that they will not have the ne-
cessary courage. The Public—
never consulted or thought of —
may have to wait for the New
Municipal Government Bill, and
even fchi.3 may be mangled and
worried by Vested Interests.

THE SILVER WEDDING.

[By our Extra Special at Pigglezwhistlezhof, Berlin.)

Here I am in the capital of Prussia, enjoying thoroughly the
festivities inaugurating the second quarter of a century of the
married life of the Princess Royal of England and the Prince
Imperial of Germany. All the way to this beautiful city I noticed
the natives waiting for the floods to subside before commencing the
sowing of wheat, rye, oats, barley, peas, millet, rape-seed, and the
other grain mentioned by good old Whitakee in his amusing
Almanack. I could see by the expression of their faces that they
were taking a great interest in the celebration, and were, no doubt,
lamenting that the water kept them locked in the Provinces when
they would have preferred to be in Town.

And what is Berlin like? Well, the question is not an easy one
to answer. It resembles Rome and Wandsworth equally, but,
perhaps, is more like Gravesend than either. The finest building in
a city of fine buildings is a large edifice not unlike St. Paul’s,
Hampton Court, and the Crystal Palace, called TJnter den Linden.
It was in this magnificent edifice that most of the ceremonies took
place. It was here that the. venerable Emperor danced the old
saraband (dear to every Teutonic heart) with Prince Von Bismarck:,
whose faltering steps were superintended by the State Doctor. It
was here also that the wedding breakfast (eaten off silver plate, in
j honour of the day) was held.

Here,. again, a certain noble Englishman (whose name I suppress
1 for obvious reasons) won a wager that he would ride a mule forty
, miles, witheut turning a hair, before breakfast. Here once more
were held the review of 100,000 troops and the afternoon tea given

by the Empress (two days since) to half-a-dozen of her more inti-
mate friends. Unter den Linden is indeed a marvellous building, and
seems a suitable place for any and every kind of innocent dissipation.

All the world is here. You meet Royalties at every street-corner,
and the contingent, “ personally conducted ” by the first of English
tour-organisers, are not only numerous but even respectable. The
city is covered with bunting. Flags float from every window; and
the masses of colour of the Ladies resemble a parterre of flowers.

Of course the great attraction are the presents. In honour of the
event they are all of silver. Perhaps the prettiest article is a gold
workbox made entirely of the whiter metal. Then there are silver
boots, silver handkerchiefs, silver gloves, and silver sealing-wax.
The only thing that is not of silver is a silver thimble, which is made
of gold. This curious little article was presented by the Padishah,
who, as everyone knows, is proud of his Irish extraction.

Last night there was a grand torchlight procession. A thousand
flares, a thousand shadows, dots of colour here and there, relieved by
dark stone masonry. The joy-bells of cathedrals, and the sad tinkling
of the sounding brass of many military bands. In the background
the stern mountains tipped with snow, and, over all, a glorious moon
floating through scores of purple clouds, gorgeous with the hues of a
hundred sunset tinges.

And here I pause, as I have just been summoned to join m the
Elizabethan Quadrille, which is now about to be danced m the
Winter Palace.

[It is only just to ourselves and the Public to say that the envelope con-
taining the above communication bears the Chelsea post-mark.. We print the
article, however, as it seems to be the kind of thing published in the columns
of our contemporaries.—Editor.]