"Shiver my timbers!" said the Scribe.
"Haul down my yard-arm with a marling-spike!" cried the Artist.
And with these strictly nautical expressions, two of _Mr. Punch's_
Own entered the Royal Naval Exhibition, which now occupies the larger
portion of the grounds of the Military Hospital, Chelsea. That so
popular a show should be allowed to occupy so large a site speaks
wonders for the amiability of the British Public. When the Sodgeries
appeared last year, it was, so to speak, with fear and trembling that
"the powers that were" appropriated a little of the ground usually
over-run by the Nobility and Gentry of the Pimlico Road and its
vicinity; or, rather, by their haughty offspring. This year the tough
old sea-dogs of the Admiralty have had no hesitation in taking
what they required, apparently without causing comment, much less
objection. And the result? In lieu of the dusty arena of 1890,
scarcely large enough for a ladies' cricket-match, there appears in
1891 an enclosure containing lakes and lighthouses, panoramas, and
full-size models of men-of-war! And the Public take their exclusion
philosophically, either paying their shillings at the door, or
attempting to get a view of the hoofs of the nautical horses through
the gaps in the surrounding hoardings.
The Scribe and the Artist, having been ordered by He Who Must Be
Obeyed in the world generally, and at 85, Fleet Street, in particular,
to make a sort of preliminary cruise through the wonders of the
(Admiralty) Deep, hastened from the inviting grounds into the main
building, with its pictures, its plans, and last, but (it is only
just to say) least, its pickles. The first object that attracted their
favourable attention was a trophy of arms, representing the fashions
of the past and the present. On one side were shrapnel and magazine
rifles, on the other flint-locks and the ordnance of an age long gone
by. Next they passed through the Arctic section, wherein they found
dummies drawing a sledge through the canvas snow of a corded-off North
Pole. Then they entered the Picture Galleries called after NELSON and
BENBOW, wherein magnificent paintings by POWELL, full of smoke and
action, served as an appropriate background to the collection of
plate, lent by that gallant sailor-warrior and industrious collector
of well-considered trifles, H.R.H. the Duke of EDINBURGH. They glanced
at the relics of Trafalgar, and then hurried away to the HOWE Gallery,
which, containing as it did specimens of the implements used in
the game of golf, might have as appropriately been christened the
WHEREFORE. Next they skirted a corridor full of plans, and here they
discovered that the Committee of the Exhibition must be wags, every
Jack Tar of them! This corridor was close to the Dining-rooms, and the
Committee (ha! ha! ha!) had called it (he! he! he!) after COOK! (Ho!
ho! ho!) Oh, the wit of it! How the Members of the Executive must have
nudged one another in the ribs as the quaint idea dawned upon them!
And how they must have laughed, too, on the Opening Day, when the
Guard of Honour, presenting arms, and the "Greenwich Boys" singing
"_Ye Mariners of England_," were drenched in the rain! And what a
capital notion it was on that occasion to put "the Representatives of
the Fourth Estate" (no doubt called by _them_, with many a sly twinkle
of the eye, "the Press Gang") into a pen that soon, thanks to a series
of water-spouts, assumed the appearance of a tank!
After leaving the Galleries, the Scribe and the Artist looked up at
the model of Eddystone Lighthouse, and entered a shed declared to be
an "Arctic Scene." Here they were reminded by the introduced ship
of those happy days of their boyhood spent in the toy-shops of the
Lowther Arcade. Next they visited the Panorama of Trafalgar, and
revelled in the carnage of a sea-fight that only required Margate in
the distance to be entirely convincing. They glanced at the arena, and
gazed with awe at the lake which is to be devoted to the manoeuvring
of miniature ironclads. It will be interesting to note whether these
mimic combats will hold their own in the coming season against the
introduction of capsized clowns, drenched old women, and comic police.
Keeping the best for the last, the Scribe and the Artist now entered
the model of the _Victory_--a really admirable exhibition. There they
saw before them the old battle-ship with its full equipment, as it
was in the days of NELSON--when that deathless hero expected every
Englishman (not excluding even those passing the Custom House--as
the Committee would say) "to _do_ his duty." To make the illusion
complete, the great sea-captain was observed dying in the cook-pit in
the agonies of wax. And to think that this work was executed by a firm
of house-decorators! Why, who would not, after this, have his back
drawing-room converted into the quarter-deck of the _Shannon_, and his
spare bed-room into a tiny reproduction of the Battle of Copenhagen!
[Illustration: Mr. Punch's Representatives, after partaking of
Chelsea Hospitality (_a purely fancy sketch_).]
The Scribe and the Artist, on their visit, were invited by all sorts
and conditions of men to partake of champagne. The moment it was
discovered that they were "connected with the Press," the offerers
of hospitality were absolutely overwhelming. But, obeying the best
traditions of their order, they sternly, but courteously, refused all
refreshment. It is fortunate they pursued this course, for had they
received the entirely disinterested kindness of their would-be hosts,
their recollections of the marvels of the Royal Naval Exhibition would
no doubt have been of the haziest character imaginable. As it was,
they were able to take their departure through the main entrance
with some show of dignity, and not in a less imposing manner (as the
Committee--_Cook's_ Gallery near the Dining-rooms--ho! ho! ho! ha! ha!
ha!--would probably and amusingly suggest), by Tite Street.
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