Punch, Or The London Charivari | Page 9

of diamonds?--that is the Duchess of BURLINGTON, "who"--and here, in a semi-whisper, intended for everybody's information, he tells how those brilliants come out for "one night only," and how they will be called for to-morrow morning by a confidential agent from POPSHOPPER's Establishment in the Great Loan Land. TOM TUCKER is full of these stories. There isn't a person he doesn't know, until happening to recognise here a one and there a one, I correct him of my own private and personal knowledge, when he frankly admits that I am right; and after casually explaining how he does occasionally mistake the Countess of DUNNOYER for Lady ELIZABETH MARTIN, he goes off at a tangent, and picks out several other distinguished-looking personages, numbering them as "first to right," "second to left," and so forth, as if in a collection of wax-works, giving to each one of them a name and a history. His acquaintance with the private life of the aristocracy and the plutocracy is so extensive that I can only wonder at his knowledge, his or marvel at wondrous powers of ready invention.
[Illustration: Birds can sing, but wouldn't sing, and couldn't be made to sing, at Covent Garden, Wednesday, July 8.]
So it goes on. Then enter the chief characters. All rise; the orchestra plays the "National Anthem," in German, suppose, out of compliment to our Imperial visitors; and afterwards in English (translated, and, I fancy, "transposed"), in honour of H.R.H. the Prince and Princess. All the wax-work figures form in a row, under the direction of Lord Chamberlain LATHOM; the machinery is put in motion; they all bow to the audience; glasses are riveted on them; everybody is craning and straining to get a good view; the people in the gallery and just over the Royal Box loyally enjoy the scene, being quite unable to see any of the distinguished persons who are, in this instance, "quite beneath their notice." And then Signor MANCINELLI turns his back on everybody, and gets to business.
After this, I feel that a buckle, somewhere or other, has turned traitor, and inventing an excuse with a readiness worthy of TOMMY TUCKER himself, I suddenly, but cautiously, retire. I descend the grand staircase between two rows of beefeaters reclining drowsily at their ease. Fast asleep, some of 'em, after too much beef. Imagine myself a prisoner, in disguise of course, escaping from the Tower in the olden time. Then, fearing the collapse of another buckle or button, or the sudden "giving" of a seam, I steal cautiously past the Guards--then past serried ranks of soldiers under the colonnade--then--once more in the street of Bow, and I am free! I breathe again.
Hie thee home, my gallant steed (an eighteenpenny fare in a hansom), and let me resume the costume of private life, trifle with a cutlet, drain the goblet and smoke the mild havannah. Sic transit gloria Wednesday!
(Signed.) (Mysteriously.) THE DUKE OF DIS GUISE.
P.S.--Although there was more money in the house than on any previous occasion, yet never did I see so many persons who had "come in with orders," which they displayed lavishly, wearing them upon their manly buzzums.
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MEN IN POSSESSION.
The Manager of Covent Garden is Sheriff HARRIS. Can all his operatic officials all over the house be correctly termed "Sheriff's Officers"?
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[Illustration: THE GERMAN EMPEROR'S VISIT.
SKETCHES ON THE SPOT.--BY OUR OWN GAILY CHAFFIC ARTIST.]
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IMPERIAL IMPRESSIONS.
That they are not accustomed to ultra punctuality in the arrival of steam-yachts at Port Victoria.
That some one ought to catch it for not looking after the water-pipes in the State dining-room.
That it is rather trying to have to remain dignified with your boots in three inches of water.
That the Eton Volunteers are just the sort of boys to follow the tradition of the past, and win a second Waterloo.
That still it was a little awkward to have to review them in the pauses of a thunderstorm.
That the wedding as a wedding was not bad, but a couple of hundred thousand troops or so posted as a guard of honour, would have made it more impressive.
That Buckingham Palace is rather triste, when it is populated on the scale of one inhabitant to the square mile.
That Covent Garden Opera House, decorated with leagues of flower wreaths, is the finest sight in the world.
That Sheriff AUGUSTUS GLOSSOP HARRIS deserves a dukedom, and, if he were a German, should have it.
That one State Ball is like every other, but still it was very well done on Friday.
That the visit to the City was an entire success (although I wish the audience had made up their minds whether they would stand up or sit while I was speaking), thanks no doubt to the influence of the Sheriff.
That Saturday's doings were delightful. I was absolutely