PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 103.
DECEMBER 10, 1892.
CONVERSATIONAL HINTS FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS.
The Smoking-Room
(continued).
I may assume, that after the terrible
example given in my last chapter, you have firmly made up your mind
never on any account to take service in the great army of bores. But
this determination is not all that is necessary. A man must constantly
keep a strict guard on himself, lest he should unconsciously deviate
even for a few minutes into the regions of boredom. Whatever you do,
let nothing tempt you to relate more than once any grievance you may
have. Nothing of course is more poisonous to the aggrieved one than to
stifle his grievance absolutely. Once, and once only, he may produce
it to his friends. I shall be blamed, perhaps, for making even this
slight concession. Please be careful, therefore, not to abuse it. Is
there in the whole world a more ridiculous sight than a strong,
healthy, well-fed sportsman who wearies his companions one after
another with the depressing recital of his ill-luck, or of the
dastardly behaviour of the head-keeper in not stopping the whole party
for half an hour to search for an imaginary bird, which is supposed to
have fallen stone-dead somewhere or other; or of the iniquities of the
man from whom he bought his cartridges in not loading them with the
right charge; or any of the hundred inconveniences and injuries to
which sportsmen are liable. All these things may be as he says they
are. He may be the most unfortunate, the most unjustly treated of
mankind. But why insist upon it? Why check the current of sympathy by
the dam of constant repetition? And, after all, how trivial and absurd
the whole thing is! Even a man whose career has been ruined by
malicious persecution will be avoided like a pest if it is known that
he dins the account of his wrongs into everyone’s ears. How, then,
shall the sufferer by the petty injuries of ordinary sport be listened
to with patience? Of all bores, the grievancemonger is the fiercest
and worst. Lay this great truth by in your memory, and be mindful of
it in more important matters than sport when the occasion arises.
Click for full size image
I have been asked to say, whether a man may abuse his gun? I reply
emphatically, no. A gun is not a mere ordinary machine. Its beautiful
arrangement of locks, and springs, and catches, and bolts, and pins,
and screws, its unaccountable perversities, its occasional fits of
sulkiness, its lovely brown complexion, and its capacity both for
kicking and for smoking, all prove that a gun is in reality a sentient
being of a very high order of intelligence. You may be quite certain
that if you abuse your gun, even when you may imagine it to be far out
of earshot, comfortably cleaned and put to roost on its rack, your gun
will resent it. Why are most sportsmen so silent, so distraits
at breakfast? Why do they dally with a scrap of fish, and linger over
the consumption of a small kidney, and drink great draughts of tea to
restore their equilibrium? If you ask them, they will tell you that
it’s because they’re “just a bit chippy,” owing to sitting up late, or
smoking too much, or forgetting to drink a whiskey and soda before
they went to bed. I know better. It is because they incautiously spoke
evil of their guns, and their guns retaliated by haunting their sleep.
I know guns have this power of projecting horrible emanations
of themselves into the slumbers of sportsmen who have not treated them
as they deserved. I have suffered from it myself. It was only last
week that, having said something derogatory to the dignity of my
second gun, I woke with a start at two o’clock in the morning, and
found its wraith going through the most horrible antics in a patch of
moonlight on my bed-room floor. I shot with that gun on the following
day, and missed nearly everything I shot at. Could there be a more
convincing proof? Take my advice, therefore, and abstain from abusing
your gun.
Now your typical smoking-room conversation ought always to include
the following subjects:—(1) The wrong-headed, unpopular man, whom
every district possesses, and who is always at loggerheads with
somebody; (2) “The best shot in England,” who is to be found in every
country-side, and in whose achievements all the sportsmen of his
particular district take a patriotic pride; (3) the folly and
wickedness of those who talk or write ignorantly against any kind of
sport; (4) the deficiency of hares due to the rascally provisions of
the Hares and Rabbits Act; (5) a few reminiscences, slightly
glorified, of the particular day’s sport; and (6) a prolonged argument
on the relative merits of the old plan of shooting birds over dogs,
and the modern methods of walking them up or driving. These are not
the only, but certainly the chief ingredients. Let me give you an
example, drawn from my note-book.
Scene—The Smoking-room of a
Country-house in December. Six Sportsmen in Smoking-coats. Time,
11.15 p.m.
First Sportsman (concluding a harangue). All I can
say is, I never read such rot in all my life. Why, the fellow doesn’t
know a gun from a cartridge-bag. I’m perfectly sick of reading that
everlasting rubbish about “pampered minions of the aristocracy
slaughtering the unresisting pheasant in his thousands at battues.” I
wonder what the beggars imagine a rocketing pheasant is like? I should
like to have seen one of ’em outside Chivy Wood to-day. I never saw
taller birds in my life. Talk of them being easy! Why, a
pheasant gets ever so much more show for his money when he’s beaten
over the guns. If they simply walk him up, he hasn’t got a thousand to
one chance. Bah!
[Drinks from a long glass.
Second Sportsman. I saw in some paper the other day what the
President of the United States thought about English battue-shooting.
Seemed to think we shot pheasants perched in the trees, and went on to
say that wasn’t the sport for him; he liked to go after his
game, and find it for himself. Who the deuce cares if he does? If he
can’t talk better sense than that, no
wonder Cleveland beat him in the
election.
Third Sp. Pure rubbish, of course. Still I must say, apart
from pheasants, I like the old plan of letting your dogs work. It’s
far more sport than walking up partridges in line, or getting them
driven at you.
First Sp. My dear fellow, I don’t agree with you a bit. In
the first place, as to driving—driven birds are fifty times more
difficult; and what’s the use of wasting time with setters or pointers
in ordinary root-fields. It’s all sentiment.
[A long and animated discussion ensues. This particular subject
never fails to provoke a tremendous argument.
(A few minutes later.)
Second Sp. (to the host). What was the bag
to-day, Chalmers?
Chalmers. A hundred and forty-five pheasants, fifty-six
rabbits, eleven hares, three pigeons, and a woodcock. We should have
got a hundred and eighty pheasants if they hadn’t dodged us in the big
wood. I can’t make out where they went.
Second Sp. It’s a deuced difficult wood to beat, that is. I
thought we should have got more hares, all the same.
Chalmers. Hares! I think I’m precious lucky to get so many
nowadays. There won’t be a hare left in a year or two.
(The discussion proceeds.)
Third Sp. How’s old Johnny Raikes
shooting this year? I never saw such a chap for rocketers. They can’t
escape him.
Chalmers. I asked him to-day, but he couldn’t come. I think
for pheasants he’s quite the best shot in England. Nobody can beat him
at that game.
Fourth Sp. Hasn’t he got some row or other on
with Crackside?
Chalmers. Yes. That makes fourteen
rows Crackside has got going on all at
once. He seems to revel in them. His latest move was to refuse to pay
tithe, and when the parson levied a distress, he made all his tenants
drunk and walked at their head blowing a post-horn. He’s as mad as a
hatter.
So there you have a sample conversation, sketched in outline. You
will find it accurate enough. All you have to do is to select for
yourself the part you mean to play in it.
Something to Live For.
(From the Literary Club Smoking-room.)
Cynicus. I’m waiting till my friends are dead, in order to
write My Reminiscences?
Amicus. Ah, but remember, “De mortuis nil nisi
bonum.“
Cynicus. Quite so. I shall tell nothing but exceedingly good
stories about them.
So Like Her!—”I can never trust him,”
said Mrs. R., alluding to a friend of hers, who considered himself well
up in Shakspeare, “because I’ve found out
before now that he gargles his quotations.”
Note.—”The Man who Would,” will
appear next week. No. IV.
THE RHODES COLOSSUS
STRIDING FROM CAPE TOWN TO CAIRO.
THE RHODES COLOSSUS.
[“Mr. Rhodes announced that
it was his intention, either with the help of his friends or by
himself, to continue the telegraph northwards, across the Zambesi,
through Nyassaland, and along Lake Tanganyika to Uganda. Nor is this
all…. This colossal Monte Cristo means to cross the Soudan
… and to complete the overland telegraph line from Cape Town to
Cairo; that is, from England to the whole of her possessions or
colonies, or ‘spheres of influence’ in Africa.”—The
Times.]
On Marvel World’s billows ’twill toss us—’twill toss us,
To watch him, Director and Statesman in one,
This Seven-League-Booted Colossus—Colossus!
Combining in one supernatural blend
Plain Commerce and Imagination—gination;
O’er Africa striding from dark end to end,
To forward black emancipation—cipation.
A Titan of tact and shrewd trader—shrewd trader!
A diplomat full of finesse and sharp schemes,
With a touch of the pious Crusader—Crusader!
A “Dealer” with despots, a “Squarer” of Kings,
A jumper of mountain, lake, wilderness, wady,
And manager ‘cute of such troublesome things
A Lobengula or the Mahdi—the Mahdi.
His two thousand hearers raise cheering—raise cheering.
Of wild would-be Scuttlers he proves the mad craze,
And of Governments prone to small-beering—small-beering.
Sullen Boers may prove bores to a man of less tact,
A duffer funk wiles Portuguesy—tuguesy;
But Dutchmen, black potentates, all sorts, in fact,
To Rhodes the astute come quite easy—quite easy.
May be at a discount—(Trade-martyrs!—trade-martyrs!)—
But he, our Colossus, strides on, he declares,
Whether with or without chums or charters—or charters.
Hooray! We brave Britons are still to the front—
Provided we’ve someone to boss us—to boss us;
And Scuttlers will have their work cut out to shunt
This stalwart, far-striding Colossus—Colossus!
A HEARTY WELCOME.
Local Flyman (who also officiates at Funerals).
“Mornin’, Sir. Glad to see you out again! Really
thought I should ‘a’ had the honor of Drivin’ you to the Cemetery,
Sir!“
Taxes. A Hoarding and Saving
Clause.—À propos of an article in the Times on
this subject, and a paragraph of Mr. Punch’s, last week, anent
“Hoardings,” we may now put a supplementary question in this form, “As
Government taxes Savings, would it not be quite consistent to
tax Hoardings?” Since the answer must, logically, be in the
affirmative, let Government begin at once with all the Hoardings
displaying any kind of hideous pictorial advertisement.
“He rumbles so in his conversation,”
observed Mrs. R. of an orator whose sentences were considerably
involved, “that I can seldom catch the grist of what he says.”
PRACTICAL THEOSOPHY.
Mrs. Besant is said to have told a
representative of a daily paper, that “an adept in Theosophy uses his
supernatural powers solely for his own convenience, just as ordinary
people avail themselves of a messenger, or the telephone or
telegraph.”
We have it on the very best of authority that the discharge of
handbills from aërial bombs is to be entirely surpassed as a method
for advertising a commodity, by a new and protected process.
“A Company is being formed,” so runs the prospectus, “for the
express purpose of importing Mahatmas of the very best vintage
(guaranteed extra sec), direct from Thibet, where an
exceptionally luxuriant crop has been produced during past years.
“They will be shipped to any port in the United Kingdom, and
delivered to any address, carriage free, at prices which will compare
most favourably with those quoted by foreign firms for inferior
articles.
“The trade supplied by special contract.
“They will prove invaluable to advertisers and others.
“No family should be without one. Order early.
“They can be used for a variety of purposes; but they will be found
most particularly serviceable for distributing handbills and posters,
especially in inaccessible places.
“Domestic servants entirely superseded by them.
“Prompt and accurate delivery of any object may be effected by
their agency, owing to their marvellous powers of precipitation.
“Full instructions for working, and instruments for repairing,
supplied with each specimen.
“Not liable to get out of order.
“Safe in the hands of a child. Yet they are not toys.
“Procurable of any respectable Lunatic Asylum.
“Ask for Our Brand, and see that you get none other.
“Beware of worthless foreign imitations, which dishonest dealers
will try to foist upon you.
Of Mahatmas meek, and Mahatmas bold,
Of Mahatmas gentle, and Mahatmas rough,
We lay long odds that we’ll sell enough.”
The financial column of the Journal of the Future, we may expect,
will read somewhat as follows:—”Mahatmas opened weak, but slowly
advanced a third. Later they became stronger, and closed firm at
8-1/4. Latest—Mahatmas fell rapidly.”
Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis.
Charity Begins Abroad.—The following
advertisement (which recently appeared in the Times) has been
sent for solution:—
GENTLEMAN, with knowledge of business and disposing of
100,000 francs, is desirous of REPRESENTING, either in Europe, Africa,
America, or elsewhere, a serious FIRM, capable of giving important
profits. Offers to be addressed, &c.
In reply to this appeal, Mr. Punch begs to say that “the
gentleman with knowledge of business” seems to be anxious to act as an
alter ego to a serious (not a jocular) firm “capable of giving
profits.” “Gentleman” does not specify whose
profits the serious firm is capable of giving, and thus it may be
presumed that the 100,000 francs would form the capital with which the
charitable transaction would be conducted. This is the more probable
as “Gentleman” says he knows how to dispose
of them.
ALL ROUND THE FAIR.
No. IV.
The Irish Giant Baby “At Home.”
The exterior of the Show is painted to represent a Cottage, and
bears the highly improbable name of “Polly
O’Gracious,” with an even less credible announcement that this
is the identical “little cot where she was born.” Inside is an ordinary
tent, with a rough platform at the further end, whereon is an empty
chair, at which a group of small Boys, two or three young Women, and
some middle-aged Farm-labourers, have been solemnly and patiently
staring for the last quarter of an hour.
First Farm Labourer (to Second). I bin in ‘ere ’bout
erf an hour, I hev, and ain’t seed nowt so fur!
Second F. L. Same ‘ere! Seems to take ’em a proper good time
a-gittin’ o’ this ‘ere baby claned up!
First F. L. Ah, it do. But look at the size on her!
Second F. L. Size! They cudn’t be no slower not with a
hellyphant!
[The tedium is relieved by a very audible
dispute outside between the Driver of
the Baby’s Caravan and the Wife of
the Conjuror next door, who appears
to have excited the Driver’s displeasure
by consenting to take the money in the
absence of the Baby’s proprietress.
The Driver (with dignity). I consider it a bloomin’
liberty, and a downright piece of himpertinence, you comin’ ‘ere
interferin’ with with my business—and so I tell yer!
The Lady (with more dignity). I’m not taking no
liberties with nobody—she ast me to it, or I shoudn’t be
‘ere—I don’t want to take the money, not without bein’ ast to do
so. She come and ast me to take her place while she was away, and in
course I wasn’t goin’ to say no.
Driver. Don’t you tork to me. I know what you are,
puttin’ yerself forward whenever yer can—a goin’ tellin’ the people on
the road as you was the Baby’s mother!
The Lady. I never said no such thing! Why should I want to
tell sech a story for?
Driver. Arsk yourself—not me. And p’raps you never said you
‘ad valuable property in our waggin’ neither.
Lady (apparently cut to the heart by this accusation).
It’s a false’ood! I never ‘ad no valuable property in your waggin’, nor
yet nobody else’s; and I’ll thank you to keep your distance, and not go
raggin’ me.
Driver (edging nearer), I’ll keep my distance.
But don’t you make no mistake—I’m not to be played with! I’m
sick o’ your goin’s on. And then(reviving a rankling and mysterious
grievance) to think o’ you a comin’ mincin’ up on the road with
yer(mimicking), “Oh, yus,
Mrs. Fairchild, there’s a blacksmith jest
across the way!” What call ‘ad you got to shove your nose in like
that, eh? you’re a interferin’ cat, that’s what you are!
[The Conjuror’s Lady is moved to the verge of tears and assault, and
her wrath is only assuaged by the arrival of the missing Proprietress,
who patches up a temporary peace; presently the hangings
at the back are parted, and an immensely stout child, dressed in
an infant’s frock, waddles in, hoists herself on the platform and
into the chair, from which she regards the Spectators with stolid
composure; the small boys edge back, nudge one another and
snigger furtively; the girls say “Oh, lor!” in a whisper, and
a painful silence follows.
A Middle-aged Labourer (feeling the awkwardness of the
situation). ‘Ow old may you be, Missy?
The Giant Baby (with a snap). Ten!
[She gazes all round with the hauteur peculiar to a phenomenon, and
her visitors are only relieved from the strain by the timely appearance
of the Exhibitor, a Mulatto lady, who gives a brief biographical sketch
of the Infant’s career, with details of her weight and measurements.
Then Miss Polly sings a stanza of
“Little Annie Rooney” in a phonographic manner, dances a few ponderous
steps, and identifies the most sheepish youth in the audience—much to
his embarrassment—as her sweetheart, after which her audience is
permitted to shake hands with her and depart.
A Prize Lottery.
A Young Man in a light suit, and a paste pin in a dirty white necktie,
has arrived with a chest, from which he extracts a quantity of
small parcels in coloured tissue-paper.
The Young Man (as a group collects around him). Now,
I’m ‘ere to orfer those among yer who ‘ave the courage to embark in
speckilation an unrivalled opportunity of enriching themselves at next
to no expense. Concealed in each o’ these small porcels is a prize o’
more or less value, amongst them bein’, I may tell yer, two ‘undred
threepenny pieces, not to mention ‘igher coins up to ‘arf a sov’rin.
Mind, I promise nothing—I only say this: that those who show confidence
in me I’ll reward beyond their utmost expectations.( To an
Agricultural Labourer in the circle.) ‘Ere, you Sir, ‘ave you
ever seen me before in all your life?
“Concealed in each o’ these small porcels is a prize o’ more or less
value.”
The Agricultural Labourer (with a conscientious fear of
committing himself). I may ‘ave.
The Young Man. You may ‘ave! ‘Ave you?
‘Ave I ever seen you? Come now!
The Agr. L. (cautiously). I carn’t answer fur what
you’ve seen, Sir.
The Y. M. Well, are you a friend o’ mine?
The A. L. (after inward searchings). Not as I’m aweer
on.
The Y. M. Then take this packet.(The A. L. grins and
hesitates.) Give me a penny for it.(The A. L. hangs
back.) Do as I say! (His tone is so peremptory that
the A. L. hastens to obey.) Now don’t open that till I tell
you, and don’t go away—or I shall throw the money after yer.
(The A. L. remains in meek
expectation; Old Billy Fairplay, and
a Spotty-faced Man, happen to pass; and join the group out of
innocent curiosity.) Will you give me a penny for this, Sir?
(To the Spotty-faced One, who shakes his head.) To oblige Me!
(This is said in such an insinuating tone, that it is impossible to
resist him.) Now you’ve shown your confidence in me, will you open
that packet and show the company what it contains.
The Spotty-faced Man (undoing the packet). There’s
nothink inside o’ mine—it’s a reg’lar do!
[Roars of laughter.
The Y. M. Quite right—there was nothink inside o’ thet
partickler packet. I put it there a-purpose, as a test. But I don’t want
nobody to go away dissatisfied with my manner o’ doin’ business, and,
though I ain’t promised yer nothing, I’ll show yer I’m better than my
word, and them as trusts me’ll find no reason to repent of ‘aving done
so. ‘Ere’s your original penny back, Sir, and one, two, three
more atop of that—wait, I ain’t done with yer yet—’ere’s sixpence
more, because I’ve took a fancy to yer face—and now I ‘ope
you’re satisfied!
The Sp.-F. M. (in an explanatory undertone to his
neighbours). I knew it’s on’y them as comes last thet gits left,
d’yer see!
[Several bystanders hasten to purchase.
Old Billy Fairplay (in an injured tone). There ain’t
on’y a three-penny-bit in mine!
The Y. M. ‘Ark at ‘im—there’s a discontented ole josser for
yer! I carn’t put ‘arf a sov’rin’ in all o’ the packets, not and
make my expenses. P’raps you’ll ‘ave better luck next time.
[The packets are in more demand than ever.
The Agr. L. May I open this ‘ere packet now, Master?
The Y. M. If you don’t tell nobody what’s in it, you may. I’ve
sold as many as I keer to a’ ready.
The Agr. L. (opening the parcel, and finding a toy-watch of
the value of one farthing sterling). ‘Ere, I’ll give yer this
back—’tain’t no good to me!
The Y. M. (with concern). I’m reelly very sorry, Sir,
I’ve given you a wrong ‘un by mistake. I quite fancied
as——Allow me to apologise, and, as a proof I ‘aven’t lost your good
opinion, give me a penny for this one.
[He selects a packet with great care from the
heap.
The A. L. You don’t take me in no moor—I’d sooner make ye a
present o’ the penny!
The Y. M. (wounded). Don’t talk like that, Sir—you’ll
be sorry for it afterwards! (In a whisper.) It’s all right
this time, s’elp me!
The A. L. I know as it’s a kitch o’ some sort … —hows’ever,
[pg 269]
jest this once. (He purchases another packet, and is rewarded by an
eyeglass, constructed of cardboard and coloured gelatine, which he
flings into the circle in a fury.) ‘Tis nobbut a darned swindle—and
I’ve done wi’ ye! Ye’re all a pack o’ rogues together!
[Exit, amidst laughter from the rest, whose
confidence, however, has been rewarded by very similar results.
The Y. M. He don’t know what he’s lost by givin’ way to his narsty
temper—but there, I forgive ‘im! (He begins to replace the remaining
parcels in the chest; one packet escapes his notice, and is instantly
pounced upon by a sharp, but penniless urchin.) Now, Gentlemen, I’m
‘ere reppersentin’ two Charitable Institootions—the Blind Asylum, and
the Idjut Orfins—but I’m bloomin’ sorry to say that, this time, arter
I’ve deducted my little trifling commission, there’ll be a bloomin’
little to ‘and over to either o’ them deservin’ Sercieties; so, thenkin’
you all, and wishin’ you bloomin’ good luck, and ‘appiness and
prosperity through life, I’ll say good-bye to yer.
The Sharp Urchin (after retiring to a safe distance with his booty.)
Theer’s summat inside of ‘un—I can ‘ear un a-rartlin’ … ‘ow many
moor wrops! ‘Tis money, fur sartin!… (Removes the last wrapping.)
Nawthen but a silly owld cough-drop! (He calls after the Young Man,
who is retreating with Mr. Fairplay, and his spotty
friend.) I’ve a blamed good mind to ‘ave th’ Lar on ye fur that, I
hev—a chatin’ foaks i’ sech a way! Why don’t ye act honest?
[Is left masticating the cough-lozenge in
speechless indignation.
“THE SINS OF SOCIETY.”
Read, yesterday, in
the Fortnightly, this article
by Ouida. Resolved to follow her teachings at
once. Changed my “frightful, grotesque, and disgraceful male costume”
for the most picturesque garments I had—a kilt, a blue blazer, and a
yellow turban, which I once wore at a fancy dress ball. Then strolled
along Piccadilly to the Club. Rather cool. Having abandoned “the most
vulgar form of salutation, the shake-hands,” bowed distantly to several
men I had known for years—but they looked another way. Met a policeman.
“Hullo!” he said. “Come out o’ that! Your place is in the road.” He
mistook me for a sandwich-man! Explained that I was advocating a new
style of dress. “Where’s yer trousers?” he asked. “Trousers!” I cried.
“Why, Ouida“—but it was useless to explain
to such a fool—so I left him.
At the Club, immense astonishment. Again explained. Members tapped
their foreheads, and said I had better see the Doctor. Why? Then they
all avoided me. Grand chance to show my ability “to support solitude,
and to endure silence.” Deuced dull, but it saved me from “the poisoned
atmosphere of crowded rooms.” Began to feel hungry about lunch-time, but
happily remembered that “it is not luxury which is enervating, it is
over-eating.” Exhausted, but virtuous. Remembered that I had to dine at
my aunt’s. Awkward! Could I go in that dress? She is so prim, and so
prejudiced in favour of trousers. Also she is so rich, and I was her
heir. It needs money to obtain the luxury which the great teacher
advocates. Hurried home, and put on hateful evening dress. Avoided
hansoms, they being too much connected with one “ugly hurry-skurry,” and
drove to my aunt’s in a damp, dirty four-wheeler. Even the new moralist
herself would have been satisfied with the slowness of that.
At dinner sat between two charming women, evidently as clever as they
were beautiful. Suddenly remembered that we “lose the subtle and fine
flavours of our best dishes, because we consider ourselves obliged to
converse with somebody,” and after that did not speak a word. Charming
women stared, and then each turned towards me a beautiful shoulder, and
I saw her face no more. Was just enjoying the flavours when I
recollected that nothing “can make even tolerable, artistically
speaking, the sight of men and women sitting bolt upright close together
taking their soup.” We were long past the soup, but it was not too late.
I left the table at once, and reclined elegantly on the floor, with my
plate by my side. “Augustus,” said my Aunt,
“are you ill?” I shook my head; I could not speak, for I was just
enjoying an unusually subtle flavour. Then one of the guests, a member
of my Club, whispered to my aunt, and tapped his forehead. Then she
tapped her forehead, and all the guests tapped their foreheads. I had
finished that flavour, so I said, “My dear Aunt, I am not mad, I——”
“Then,” said she, “you must be intoxicated. Leave the house!” And, with
the butler and the footmen escorting me to the street-door, I was
obliged to do so.
It is all over. I know that my Aunt will bequeath her fortune to the
Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Ancient Buildings among the
Jews, but I am consoled by the thought that I, at least, have followed
the noble teachings of the New Morality.
“When Found make a Note
of.”—By Captain Scuttle, to British
East African Co.:—”Your Room is better than your
Company.”
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
The title of Mr. Conan
Doyle’s new book, Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, is
incomplete without the addition of, “And the D.D., or Dummy Doctor,” who
plays a part in the narratives analogous to that of “Charles, his
Friend,” on the stage. The book is, in many respects, a thriller,
reminding one somewhat of The Diary of a Late Physician, by
Samuel Warren. This volume is handsomely got
up—too handsomely—and profusely, too profusely, illustrated. For both
romancer and reader, such stories are better un-illustrated. A
sensational picture attracts, and distracts. In this collection the
Baron can recommend The Beryl Coronet, The Red-Headed
League, The Copper Beeches, and The Speckled Band. The
best time for reading any one of these stories is the last thing at
night, before turning in. “At such an hour, try The Speckled
Band, and see how you like it,” says the Bold Baron.
The Baron’s assistant dives into the Christmas Card Basket, and
produces Raphael Tuck and Sons,—”Tuck,” a
schoolword dear to “our boys,”—who lead off the Christmas dance.
Daintily and picturesquely got up, their Cards are quite full. Their
Watteau Screens will serve as small ornaments afterwards. These “Correct
Cards,” with few exceptions, are not particularly for Christmas, but for
all time. Here’s Luck To
Raphael Tuck!
“Todgers’s could do it when it liked,” and so can
Messrs. Hutchinson & Co. at this Fairy Tale
time, when they bring out three capital books, edited
by Alfred H. Miles; i.e., Fifty-two
Fairy Tales,
Fifty-two other Stories for Boys, and Fifty-two other Stories
for Girls. Why not Fairy Tales for a holiday task, and an
examination in Fairy Lore, with a Fairy Lore Degree for the successful
candidate?
Then come Blackie and Sons with Plenty
from Henty—Mr. G. A.
Henty—who at Christmas-time is anything but a
“Non-Henty-ty.” Beric the Briton, In Greek
Waters, Condemned as a Nihilist!—”Go
it, Henty!” The Baron cheers you onward.
The Thirsty Sword, by Robert
Leighton. It’s a killing story.
An Old-Time Yarn, by Edgar
Pickering, about the adventures of
Drake and Hawkins. Hawkins, mariner, not Sir ‘Enry, the Judge. New yarn.
Strong old salts—very refreshing.
The Bull Calf, brought out for John Bull
Junior’s amusement at Christmas, and seasonably illustrated
by Frost, is a queer sort of animal of the
Two Macs Donkey breed. Right for Nimmo to
have some fun at Christmas, according to old example, “Nimmo
mortalium omnibus horis sapit.“
What’s in a name? not the first time this question has been asked and
answered—but ’tis impossible for the Baron to avoid quoting it now,
when in consequence of its title, he was within an ace of putting aside
The Germ Growers, under the impression that it was a scientific
work on Bacillus and Phylloxera. On taking it up, however, the Baron
soon became deeply interested, but was subsequently annoyed to find how
the artful author had beguiled him by leading up to a kind of imitation
of the In hoc Signo vinces legend, and had somewhat adroitly
adapted to his purpose the imagery of one of the most poetic and sublime
of ancient Scripture narratives; i.e., where the prophet sees the
chariots of Israel in the air. One remarkable thing about the romance is
the absence of “love-motive,” and, indeed, the absence of all female
interest. Here and there the Canon writes carelessly, as instance the
following paragraph:—
“Then he got a little glass-tube into which he put something out of a
very small bottle, which he took from a number of others which lay side
by side in a little case which he took out of a pocket in the side of
the car.”
Apart from other faults, there are too many “whiches” here, and
unlike his malignant hero, Davoli, the Canon doesn’t seem to be
well up in his “which-craft.” Clever
Canon Potter must turn out from his Potteries
some ware superior to this for the public and
The Baron.
Reflection in the Mist.—You
could have “cut the fog, it was so thick,” is a common expression. But
the fog, unwelcome as it always is, is not like an unwelcome
acquaintance, who can be “cut” or avoided by turning down a street, or
by pretending unconsciousness of his proximity.
Question for a Legal Exam.—If
a farmer purchased a good milch cow reared at Dorking, what would be its
(old style) legal produce? Answer or Rejoinder.—Why, of course,
some sort of Surrey-butter.
CULTCHAH!
Suburban Belle (to her Dressmaker).
“And I should like a Medici Collar to my Tea-gown.
Do you understand? A Medici Collar—like that of the Venus de
Medici!“
“DAVY JONES’S LOCKER.”
Davy
Jones, loquitur:—
Faith, that’s a chorus I can rattle off with zest. Gratefully it
clatters upon Davy’s tym-pa-num,
Like a devil’s tattoo from Death’s drum! Fi! Fo! Fum! These be very
parlous times for old legends of the sea.
Vanderdecken is taboo’d, the Sea Sarpint is pooh-pooh’d, but ’tis plain
as any pikestaff they can’t disestablish Me!
Daddy Neptune may delight in the Island trim and tight, where his
sea-dogs breed and fight, as in days of yore,
When old Charlie Dibdin’s fancy piped free songs of Jack and Nancy, of
Jolly Salts at sea, and Old Tarry-Breeks ashore;
But if Britons rule the waves, as the grog-fired sailor raves, when he
dreams of glorious graves in the deep dark main,
Daddy Neptune must allow Davy shares his empire now, or the Sultan
and the Howe have gone down in vain.
a lot in the days gone by,
But ’tis daily growing fuller. Is the British Tar off colour, are the
sea-dogs slower, duller, though as game to die?
Has Science spoilt their skill, that their iron pots so fill my old
Locker? How I thrill at the lumbering crash,
When a-crunch upon a rock, with a thundering Titan shock, goes some
shapeless metal block, to immortal smash?
all’s done; and the millions madly spent
On a lollopping wolloping kettle, with ten thousand tons of metal sink
as the Titans settle, turtle-turned, or wrenched and rent,
To my rocks and my ooze. I seem little like to lose by the “Progress”
some abuse, and the many crack up.
Ah! Neptune, sour old lad, Davy Jones may well look glad at the modern
Iron-clad, and thank Armstrong and Krupp!
sludge will not lose by them.
Nep calls me callous mocker, but, according to my Cocker, I may laugh,
with a full Locker, whilst the fools condemn.
Think of daring the blue brine with a chart of the Eighty-Nine, and “a
regular goldmine” in one huge black hulk!
Whilst the lubbers stick to that, I shall flourish and grow fat like a
shark or ocean-rat, though old Nep may sulk.
may weep, and the taxpayers moan;
Let the grumblers make appeal to King Science! Lords of Steel, Iron
Chieftains, do ye feel when your victims groan?
Davy Jones is well content with that tribute ye have sent, with the
millions ye have spent just to glut his gorge;
He had seldom such a fill in the days of wood—and skill—constant
sea-fights, or the spill of the Royal George.
and the steersman play his part, Palinurus-like,
Whilst they trust to your vain vellum, which is almost sure to sell
’em, even Davy Jones can tell ’em, they may sink or strike.
Hooray, King Death, hooray! Who says we’ve had our day! Pass the rum and
let’s be gay. Not that “dead man’s chest,”
Robert Louis grimly sings, like my “Locker Chorus” rings—mingling
weirdly wedded things—grisly doom and jest!
On an Irish Landlord.
Were that sole Landlord duty, you’d fulfil it!
But land makes not a Land, nor soil a State.
Loving your land, how sullenly you hate—
The People—who’ve to till it!
Of the earth, earthy is that love of soil
Which for wide-acred wealth will sap and spoil
The souls and sinews of the thralls of Toil.
Churl! Bear a human heart, a liberal hand!
Then thou may’st say that thou dost “love thy Land.”
When a Stag has once been
uncarted, and has been given so many minutes law to get away, the
Huntsman may correctly allude to him as “The Deer
Departed.”
“DAVY JONES’S LOCKER.”
Davy Jones. “AHA! SO LONG AS THEY STICK TO
THEM OLD CHARTS, NO FEAR O’ MY LOCKER BEIN’ EMPTY!!”
RECONCILIATION.
(Scene from that new Screaming Farce “The
Political Box and Cox.”)
[“Mr. GLADSTONE (says the Daily Chronicle) has
effected a formal reconciliation with the Member for Northampton. He
visited Mr. and Mrs. LABOUCHERE, took tea with them, and had a long and
very cordial interview. So far, indeed, as Mr. LABOUCHERE ever had any
personal feeling in reference to his exclusion from the Ministry, it may
be regarded as dead.”]
Box. Although we are not destined to occupy the
same—ahem!—Cabinet Council Chamber—at present, I don’t
see any necessity for our cutting each other’s political throat,
Sir.
Cox. Not at all. It’s an operation that I should decidedly
object to.
Box. And, after all, I’ve no violent animosity against
you, Sir.
Cox. Nor have I any rooted antipathy to you. Sir.
Box. Besides, it was all—ahem!—Mrs.—ahem’s fault, Sir!
Cox (embarrassed). Well—ahem!—my—er—loyalty—as a
man of honour—to—er—that lady, Sir, forbids, Sir, my saying,
or—er—permitting to be said——
[Gradually approaching chairs.
Box. Ah, exactly, I quite understand that. The truth
is——
Cox (quickly). A most excellent thing, in its way. I
always see it.
Box. Very well, Sir!
Cox. Very well, Sir! [Pause.
Box. Take a little jam, Sir!
Cox. Thank you, Sir!
[Taking a spoonful. Pause.
Box. Do you sing, Sir?
Cox (modestly). I have, in days gone by, done a little
Negro Minstrelsy.
Box. Then give us a breakdown. (Pause.) Well, well,
perhaps the suggestion’s a little inopportune. What is your opinion of
smoking, Sir? [Produces cigarette.
Cox (tartly). I think it is a pestilent practice,
Sir!
Box (puffing). So do some other singular people, Sir.
To be sure, they may not so much object to it if the pipes are not
loaded.
Cox. No—I daresay that does make some difference.
Box. And yet, Sir, on the other hand, doesn’t it strike you,
as rather a waste of time, for people to keep puffing away at pipes (or
Programmes) with nothing in ’em?
Cox (drily). No, Sir—not more than any other harmless
recreation—such, for instance, as posing as a Party leader, without any
Party.
Box (aside). Some of his own Party may be found a bit
shaky. Next time I invite him, it may be to tea—and turn-out!
Cox (aside). Let him put that in his pipe (or
cigarette) and smoke it!
Box (aloud). Well, well, now we so thoroughly
understand each other, what—even Programmes—shall part us?
Cox. Who—even—ahem! a certain Party, shall tear us
asunder?
Box. Cox!
Cox. Box!
[About to
embrace. Box stops,
seizes Cox’s
hand, and looks eagerly in his face.
Box. You’ll excuse the apparent insanity of the remark, but
the more I gaze on your features, the more I’m convinced that you’d
never be such a suicidal idiot as to—seek another Chamber?
Cox (winking). Walker!
Box. Ah—tell me—in mercy tell me—have you such a thing as
the “Strawberry Leaves” in your eye?
Cox. No!
Box. Then we are brothers!
[They rush into each other’s arms.
Cox. Of course, we stop where we are?
Box. Of course!
Cox. For between you and me, I’m rather partial to the
House.
Box. So am I—I feel quite at home in it.
Cox. Everything so clean and comfortable!
Box. And I’m sure its Mistress, Mrs.—ahem!—from what
little I’ve seen of her, is very anxious to do her best.
Cox. So she is—and I vote, Box,
that we stand by her!
Box. Agreed! (winks.) There’s my hand upon it—join but
yours—agree that the House is big enough to hold us both, then
Box——
Cox. And Cox——
Both. Are satisfied!
[Curtain.
FACT, OR FUNK?
Sir,—Will you permit me to protest
against the shocking insecurity of life and property in London? What are
the Police doing? Only yesterday I was walking, in the middle of the
day, in a rather quiet road in this suburb, when a highway
robber, disguised as an ordinary beggar, asked me for a copper! His
look was most forbidding, and he put his hand under his coat in a
way that convinced me he was about to draw a revolver! I at once
gave him my purse, with half-a-crown in it, which seemed to pacify him,
and I am convinced that I owe my life to my presence of mind. The
shock, however, has quite prostrated me, and my medical adviser has
already paid me three visits, on the strength of it, and says I
need “careful watching for some time.” He has very kindly put off a
holiday, in order to watch me, which is sufficient to prove what
a diabolical outrage I have been the victim of!
Yours, indignantly,
Cozynook, Sydenham. Tabitha
Grundy.
Dear Mr. Punch,—We are coming to a
really awful state of things in the Strand! A friend of mine (who does
not wish his name mentioned) assures me that he was proceeding from the
Gaiety Restaurant, where he had been lunching, towards Charing Cross,
when he was “attacked by Vertigo” in broad
day-light! Comment is needless. If dangerous foreign bandits like this
VERTIGO—who from his name must be an Italian—are permitted
to plunder innocent pedestrians with impunity, the sooner we abolish our
Police Force and save the expense, the better.
No Alarmist.
Dear Ed’tor,—I write you a line to
say I’ve jus’ been ‘sulted—grossly ‘sulted—on Thames
‘Bankmen’. Walkin’ ‘long—quite shober—sud’ly ‘costed by man
dressed like ‘pleeceman. Said “lot bad krakters about”—took hold
of my arm—wanted see me into cab. I saw through him at
once. It was a plot! Wanted steal vabblewatch—forshately lef’
watch home. Angry at not findin’ watch—bundled me into cab
anyhow—feel ‘fects still. Whash Scolland Yard ’bout? Are spekbull
citizens to be ‘sulted by pleece—by me’dress-li’pleece, I mean?
It’s all true ’bout Lunn’ bein’ most unsafe. Norra word’ of
‘xagg’ration! Cre’ ‘xperto. Thash Latin!—Shows I’m
spekbull. No more now! He’ache.
Yours, Rum Punch.
Sir Gerald Portal.
‘Tis clear to any mortal,
We’ve but to keep our Afric key,
And enter by our Portal.
The following mysterious advertisement is cut
from the Grantham Journal:—
WANTED, to Purchase, a HALF-LEGGED Horse, five years old,
suitable for Building work, about 16 hands.—Address,
&c.
Is the horse to have two legs? Not on all fours with nature? And the
sixteen hands? Compensation for want of legs? Give it up!
THE NEXT ELECTION PIC-NIC.
(By Our Own Prophetic Reporter.)
A few days since a “Grand Intellectual
Fête” was given by the Flower League in advancement of the
Patriotic Cause, in the grounds of the Duke of Ditchwater. The Railway Companies afforded unusual
facilities for securing a large gathering, and there was much enthusiasm
amongst those who were present. To meet the requirements of decisions
arrived at during the trial of recent Election Petitions, it was
arranged that some one competent to undertake the task should introduce
and explain the various distractions afforded for the entertainment of
the very numerous company. Mr. A. Briefless,
Junior, Barrister, of London, kindly
consented to act as lecturer, his professional engagements fortunately
allowing him leisure to assume such a responsibility.
The Lecturer said that he was delighted to see so large a gathering.
(Cheers.) They quite reminded him of the clients who thronged his
passage on the first day of Term, waiting for his chamber doors to open.
(Laughter.) There was nothing in the remark he had just made to
provoke merriment. He wished it to be clearly understood that he
appealed to their reason. (Cheers.) It had been objected that
some of the entertainments given at what had been called political
pic-nics had nothing to do with the reasoning faculties of the
spectators. This he emphatically denied. (Applause.) Without
wasting further of their time—(“No, no!” “Go on.”)—he would
come to his first illustration—the Bounding Brothers of Bohemia.
(Great cheering.) It was advisable that the bodies as well as the
minds of children educated by the School-Boards should receive
attention. Their bodies should be brought to as near perfection as
possible; every muscle should be brought into play. To explain his
meaning, he called upon the Bounding Brothers of Bohemia to illustrate
the poetry of motion.
Upon this, five gentlemen in tights (understood to be the athletic
kindred to whom the Lecturer had referred) performed a series of feats
of strength, which included standing on one another’s heads, jumping
through hoops, and turning quadruple somersaults.
After their performances were over Mr. Briefless resumed.
The Lecturer said: He next wished to appeal to their reason—to
challenge, so to speak, their senses on the power of foreign opinion. It
was asserted that an Englishman cared only for his native land and the
Press appertaining thereto. Now he (the Lecturer) had the greatest
respect for the English Press—(cheers)—still he found that some
of our foreign contemporaries were nearly as good. (“Hear,
hear!”) He wished to introduce the Signora Mantilla from Spain—(applause)—who had
consented to sing a political song in Spanish, emphasizing her opinions
by a dance after each verse. (Great cheering.) The Signora Mantilla then gave a demonstration, which was much
appreciated.
The Lecturer resumed. He said he had not insulted their intelligence
by asking them if they understood Spanish. Of course, they did. (Loud
laughter.) He was quite sure that the Signora’s third verse and
accompanying dance must have convinced everyone of the advantages of
Fair Trade. (Laughter.) He saw no reason for merriment.
(Renewed laughter.) He had now come to that important subject
Bi-metallism. (Cheers.) They had been told that whereas speech
was silver, silence was golden. (“Hear, hear!”) To show the
advantage of silver (represented by speech), the Blue-eyed Nigger would
give a native song accompanied on his own banjo. (Loud
applause.)
The Blue-eyed Nigger then favoured the company with one of his
characteristic ditties.
The Lecturer said he had now to thank his audience for their kind
attention, and to inform them that the display of fireworks with
set-pieces containing political sentiments appealing to their reason,
would take place immediately.
Shortly afterwards the company separated, greatly pleased with the
rational entertainment they had been invited to enjoy.
MILITARY EDUCATION.
General. “Mr. de Bridoon, what is the
general use of Cavalry in modern warfare?“
Mr. de Bridoon. “Well, I suppose to give
Tone to what would otherwise be a mere Vulgar Brawl!“
ADAPTED FROM THE FRENCH.
(Being a Parisian Parliamentary Procedure as “She
Might be Spoke in England.”)
SCENE—The House of Commons at question-time. Ministers in
attendance, excited Members regarding them with derision.
First Member. I claim the word, Mr. Speaker. I would ask
Esquire Harcourt, does he propose to make his Budget popular?
[“Very well! very well!” from the
Conservatives.
Esquire Harcourt. I tell the Hon. Gentleman that by such a
question he insults the world! (Cheers.) Nay, he insults
England!
[Loud applause, in which all join.
First Mem. (after a pause). Still, you have not
answered my question. Is your Budget to be popular?
[Murmurs.
Esquire Har. (with spirit). I consider such a question
twice repeated an infamy!
[Enthusiastic cheering.
Second Mem. Then it is you who are infamous!
[Uproar.
The Speaker. Gentlemen, Ministers, do not force me to put on
my hat—do not cause me to suspend the sitting.
First Mem. Surely a civil question deserves a civil
answer?
Esquire Harcourt. Not in a nation that has bled on the field
of battle.
[Roars of applause.
First Mem. (after a pause). And yet what I required to
know was reasonable. I wished to know whether Esquire Harcourt proposed
to name a popular Budget?
Esquire Harcourt. He repeats the calumny!
[Uproar.
First Mem. (after a pause). But is there no reply? I
would ask Sir Gladstone—is there no reply?
Sir Gladstone (springing to his feet). It is for the
honour of England! (Immense enthusiasm.) And now, Sir, you are
answered!
[Roars of applause. Scene closes in upon Ministers
receiving the hand-shakes of supporters and opponents.
SPORT AS A MATTER OF COURSE-ING.
LADIES IN THE HUNTING FIELD.
It is The Opinion of Mr. Phunkie “that the Fair Sex is
all very well at the Covert Side, and he has no objection to a little
quiet Flirtation there; but if a Man is expected to go hanging round a
Girl when Hounds are running, the thing is apt to become a dooce of a
Nuisance!”
TAKE CARE OF THE PENCE.
[“A deputation of Seamstresses stated at
Westminster Police Court, that they make soldiers’ clothing, receiving
for each pair of trousers 8¼d., and for each flannel-belt,
rather less than one penny.”—Daily Paper.]
Your history tells of them, fearless in strife,
How they faced the French horse, how they charged Russian guns,
So thoughtful of duty, so careless of life!
That economy pleases the voters as well;
Each penny reduces the National Debt;
Old Ships, as you know, are the best things to sell.
Who fought, wearing soles of brown paper, supplied
In your wise, frugal way. Follow precedent then!
Remember pence saved, not your children who died!
A skilful economist. This can be met.
You can always grind pence from the poor, weaker sex;
If the clothes are ill-made, think what bargains you get!
If you did not, perhaps, scarce a man would enlist;
But forget not the gain of each penny you save,
And starve these poor Women—they cannot resist.
Pears’ Christmas
Number—what it ought to be:—A new edition of “His Soap’s
Fables.”
The Real Enemy to “The Big Loaf”
(According to John Burns).—The Big Loafer.
QUEER QUERIES.
National Art-Treasures.—I see that
objections are being made to Millbank as a suitable site for the Picture
Gallery which Mr. Tate has so generously
offered to the nation. May I ask whether the advantages of the Isle of
Dogs have ever been considered? The position being right out of the way
of anybody who cares a rush for Art, and in the centre of the river-fog
district, so as to ensure a maximum of injury to the pictures by damp,
its offer to the generous donor would convincingly demonstrate our
Government’s appreciation of such patriotic munificence. Failing the
Isle of Dogs, would there be any objection to Barking, in the
neighbourhood of the Sewage Outfall? They are quite accustomed there to
dealing with the precipitation of sludge. Perhaps some Art-lover would
reply.
Citizen of a Rather Mean City.
Householder’s Difficulties.—Could some
practical Correspondent advise us as to what would be the best course to
pursue under the following awkward circumstances? I live in a house in a
newly-constructed terrace, with very thin party-walls. The tenant on one
side has just set up a private establishment for the reception of the
most thoroughly incurable class of maniacs, while on the other side is a
family who make their living by piano, violin, and cornet performances,
at private houses. I have asked the landlord to abate the nuisance by
adding another brick to the thickness of the walls on each side; but he
writes to me, giving his address at the Bankruptcy Court, to explain
that the houses are not so constructed as to bear the extra weight,
which I think very probable. I would apply for an injunction against the
Maniacs, were it not that their howlings are sometimes useful in
drowning the sound of the constant practising on the piano. Would it be
wise to retaliate by dropping bricks at midnight down my neighbours’
chimneys? What is the least term of Penal Servitude that I could get if
I hired some of the Unemployed to break into the musical house and smash
up the instruments? If I went as a Deputation on the subject to Mr.
Asquith, should I be likely to be cordially
received?
Tortured Tenant.
NOTICE.—Rejected Communications or Contributions,
whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description,
will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and
Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no
exception.