"WESTGATE-ON-SEA." _Mr. Punch_ takes off his coat and westgate in this
hot weather to correct a slight misquotation. _Mr. Punch_ is represented
as saying that none of the greatest Composers ever produced an air to
equal "the exhilarating, recuperating air" of Westgate-on-Sea. Now _Mr.
Punch_, when he wrote this (July 2), did not limit this lovely air to
one particular spot, but described it as "the exhilarating, recuperating
air of the Isle of Thanet." That Westgate is in Thanet is true, but the
advertiser poetically uses the part for the whole, thereby omitting
Birchington, Margate, Broadstairs, not to mention the inland villages
(delightful in the fall of the year), and above all Ramsgate, which is
not _Mr. Punch's_ "seaside resort," as is Westgate when he wants a
northerly breeze, but _Mr. Punch's_ seaside Residence, where
ten-twelfths of the year are delightful, where sky and sea come out in
Mediterranean colour,--where it is Nice without its cold-catching
dangers, where fruit and vegetables are flavoursome and plentiful, and
where there is even more than a fair share of that exhilarating,
recuperating air, of which the Isle of Thanet has the sole patent.
In one hour and forty minutes, the L. C. & D. takes the traveller from
Town to Westgate, and in two hours to Ramsgate, by Granville Express
from Victoria and Holborn Viaduct. On Sunday morning, starting at 10.30
A.M., the Jaded One can be down for lunch at Ramsgate by 12.30, and all
the day before him.
_A propos_ of the Granville Express, _Mr. Punch_ had the pleasure of
dining at the Granville Hotel the other evening, and a better dinner,
better chosen, cooked, and served, could not be got anywhere in London,
or out of it. The proprietor, Mr. QUATERMAIN EAST, may not wish this to
be generally known, but _Mr. Punch_, who specially compliments the
_chef_ on his clear turtle and whitebait, thinks that he shall be doing
a service to everybody by not keeping secret the story of this
QUATERMAIN--not Mr. RIDER HAGGARD'S "_Allan_,"--who means to remain the
"Q in the corner" of the Isle of Thanet. "Q. E. D." and "D" stands for
"Dinner."
* * * * *
[Illustration: LATEST STREET IMPROVEMENT.
_Regent Street Tradesman._ "LOOK HERE, MR. POLICEMAN, AS WE WANT THE JOB
OF CLEARING UP THIS PLACE WELL DONE, WE'LL DO IT OURSELVES."]
* * * * *
"IF you want a thing done, you should do it yourself,"
Is an excellent maxim, no doubt, in its way;
But, when citizens willingly part with their pelf,
They're entitled to claim some return for their pay.
BULL does _not_ pay Bobbies to lounge on their beats,
And leave him at last to look after his streets.
About "Law and Order" there's plenty of talk,
But Order seems missing, and Law appears blind.
The streets of his City in safety to walk,
After stumping up taxes of every kind,
Is surely not much for a man to expect,
And excuses for failure he's prone to reject.
Sure, Regent Street is not Alsatia--not quite,
And this handing it over to rufflers and pests,
At whatever hour of the day or the night,
Is a thing against which civic judgment protests;
And BULL, when once roused, be you sure, will determine
Against caving in to noctivagant vermin.
Must Trade, then, turn scavenger, tradesmen turn out
With besom and basket to keep their ways clean?
The Bigwigs and Bobbies might like it, no doubt,
But BULL will demand what the dickens they mean.
He'll have his streets decent by daylight or dark;
For why should a man who keeps dogs have to bark?
FROM "NORMA."--Moonlight Serenade for Three Voices--a Magistrate, a
Policeman, and a Home Secretary--in Regent Street:--"_Cass-ta Diva,
Incantatrice!_"
* * * * *
"GESTA GRAYORUM."
THE _Times_ of Thursday last in a learned article on the Gray's
Inn Masque, records that "On the 28th February 1587, eight members
of the Society were engaged in the production of _The Misfortunes
of Arthur_" but on the occasion of _The Maske of Flowers_ in 1887,
the Honourable Society of Gray's Inn showed what could be done
with the _Success of Arthur_; that is, of Master ARTHUR W. A BECKETT,
Master of the Revels. And indeed what could be done in Old Gray's Inn,
was on that occasion quite a Revel-ation to most of us. _Mr. Punch_
heartily congratulates the Honourable Society of Gray's Inn on
possessing such a Revel-Master--he ought at once to be created Lord
Revel-stoker--who is able to give life and form to so excellent an idea,
who can design such exquisite costumes, compose such appropriate music,
paint such perfect scenery, and instruct amateur pupils in the arts of
elocution, action, singing and dancing.
[Illustration: Embodiment of an Arthurian legend. The Master of the
Revels.]
_Mr. Punch_ is perfectly aware that the costumes were due to Mr. LEWIS
WINGFIELD'S designs and Mr. ALIAS'S workmanship, that the scenery was
painted by the old stager JOHN O'CONNOR, that the music was composed and
arranged by Messrs. PRENDERGAST and BIRCH-REYNARDSON, and that the
dances were invented "with the assistance of MSS." (old English for
"Master of the SeremonieS") and taught by the experienced Mr. D'AUBAN.
But the lawyers of Gray's well know that "_Qui facit per alium facit per
se_,"--and in the case of the costumes, _Qui facit per_ ALIAS _facit per
se_--and so with the merit of what Master ARTHUR W. A BECKETT executes
by his chosen agents he himself is to be credited. It was a great
success, from first to last. Just one word at parting. _Mr. Punch_ hopes
that the _Maske_, as it is, is _not_ to be reproduced on the public
stage. Such a proceeding, by depriving it of its venerable and
appropriate surroundings, would vulgarise an entertainment which should
have remained, within the precincts of Gray's Inn, archaic and unique.
* * * * *
_In Gray's Inn Hall._--_Notes by a Very Ordinary Person._--Crushed.
Difficulty with hat. That's why I dislike a _Matinee_, because you
can't come in a crush hat. But you're sure to go away in a
crush hat. Opera-hat in daytime looks so disreputable: suggestive
of having been out all night. While hiding my hat, lost my book.
Probably under lady's dress. No use trying for it. Band outside
plays National Anthem, and a voice from a dark recess shouts out
some word of command to the Beefeaters--(poor chaps, in this hot
weather "the Overdone-Beefeaters"--fine-looking fellows with prime
joints)--and then enter Royalties. Can't see them. They're seated.
Enter, in front, tall young men in coloured tunics, knicker-bockers,
and turn-down collars. What are these? The Backward Pupils of Gray's
Inn? No. The Orchestra. It commences. There are fiddles, and basses, and
a second-hand cracked piano, suggestive of having been hired from
itinerant Minstrels on Margate Sands. My neighbour asks me if the band
is "COOTE and TINNEY?" My reply is evident--"More Tinny than Coot."
Neighbour informs me that the cracked piano is really a very old
instrument, in use about the time of Queen ELIZABETH. Exactly: just what
I should have thought. The Benchers ought to have been rich enough by
now to have bought a new one. When a thing is to be done, do it well.
No cracked pianos. Not worth fourpence an hour.
Curtain up. Low arch representing entrance to Old Gray's Inn. Enter a
Giant with a long white beard. I think he is Great Grandfather Christmas
off Gog and Magog's twelfth-cake. He solemnly salutes the audience in
military style. Why military? It suddenly occurs to me, "Is a Masque
funny?" I ask my neighbour. He is uncertain. Evidently a cautious man;
he will reserve his reply till he has seen it. Enter a Columbine, like
"My Lady" used to be on a May Day. She talks to Great Grandfather
Christmas, who seems frightened, and tries to back out of it. At present
I don't quite catch the plot. Next neighbour says he doesn't think there
is a plot. I ask him to look at his book. He says he is looking at it;
but it's printed in some dialect he doesn't understand. Enter another
Giant, dressed as a Jester. It appears that Great Grandfather Christmas
has forgotten his part, or left it in the dressing-room, and the Giant
Jester has kindly brought it him. No jokes as yet. No good lines. My
neighbour says this is the sort of thing Queen ELIZABETH liked. Did she!
And the cracked piano, too, for music, which, on the exit of the Giants
and the Columbine, comes out as strong as the poor old thing can when
supported by violins and violoncellos.
Enter "_Silenus_ and his Crew." I hear some one say this. Not a bit like
a crew. Not a sailor among them. Perhaps as this is a Mask, they are
sailors in disguise. _Silenus_ is, of course, supposed to be
intoxicated. If he is intended to represent an ugly old man, dismally
drunk, and making painful efforts to catch a note, he succeeds, to the
life. Not funny, but clever. Splendid pantomimic property in the shape
of a gigantic tobacco-pipe, carried by an Indian. My neighbour says,
"Old ELIZABETH would have liked all this sort of thing." Poor dear! I
pity her, I ask if Indian is to be taken as an advertisement for the
Wild West? Neighbour replies, hesitatingly, that he knows the book has
been altered from what it was three hundred years ago to suit the
present time, so that perhaps I may be right. The cracked piano, which
is having a hard day of it, breaks out into a lively measure. RED SHIRT,
SILENUS, "and his crew" join in a dance, "_Crew Junction_"--but why not
a hornpipe, if they're a crew?--and the Curtain descends on Part the
First.
_Part the Second._--Young Elizabethan Maidens in front of a bank of
roses, and a fountain lighted up, as is the garden, with variegated
lamps. "Figures look like Old Chelsea," my neighbour says. I return
(because the variegated lamps and the illuminated fountains and the
arbours appeal to bye-gone memories),--"Old Chelsea? Yes--Cremorne."
Then the Maidens sing a dirge. Perhaps mourning, or Cre-morning, for the
departure of lost glories. Then they open out gracefully, and discover
the Columbine of Part the First with a lot of young men--(Oh!),--all
seated together in the basin of the fountain. The young men in
masks--(Aha!--now I see why this is called a Masque!--Now I am happy,
whether Queen ELIZABETH would have liked it or not!)--come out of the
fountain, quite dry, rather unpolitely leaving poor Columbine still in
the basin under the dripping water. Maids of the Inn can and do sing
charmingly. The Masquers can and do dance. Plot no object. It's all
elegant and graceful, but distinctly sad, as how can it be anything else
to the accompaniment of that cracked piano, whose temporary absence must
deprive Margate Sands of much harmless enjoyment. "They haven't smiled
once," I say to my neighbour. "No more have I," he replies crustily, but
then explains that Queen ELIZABETH didn't like smiling unless she smiled
first. The Masquing men are most anxious and attentive to their steps;
the Ladies all delightful. Great applause. Encores. And during all this,
the unfortunate Columbine remains sitting in the basin, with her feet in
cold water, and her head apparently under a dripping _douche_. She must
be of a most contented disposition, as whenever I catch sight of her she
is smiling, somewhat vapidly it is true, but still smiling, and beating
time on her knees, perhaps to keep herself as warm as possible in such a
peculiarly damp situation.
[Illustration: Limbs of the Law.]
The end is approaching: for the first time I notice some of the bolder
Revellers begin to smile. At length re-enter the Giants, Great
Grandfather Christmas & Co., and the Indians. They rescue Columbine from
the fountain. Now I think I see the plot. I mention this to neighbour,
triumphantly; but he says I mustn't talk while Royalty is leaving, as
ELIZABETH wouldn't like it. So we join in "_God Save the Queen_!" and
it's all over. _Exeunt omnes._ Must get a book.
* * * * *