Chapter 1

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 102.

March 12, 1892.

DOING THE OLD MASTERS.

(_A SKETCH AT BURLINGTON HOUSE_.)

IN GALLERY NO. I.

_The Usual Elderly Lady_ (_who judges every picture solely by its subject_). "No. 9. Portrait of Mrs. BRYANSTON of Portman. By GAINSBOROUGH." I don't like that at all. Such a _disagreeable_ expression! I can't think why they exhibit such things. I'm sure there's no _pleasure_ in looking at them!

_Her Companion_ (_who finds no pleasure in looking at any of them_). No, I must say I prefer the Academy to these old-fashioned things. I suppose we can get a cup of _tea_ here, though?

_An Intelligent Person_. "Mrs. BRYANSTON of Portman." Sounds like a made-up name rather, eh? Portman Square, and all that, y'know!

_His Friend_ (_with a touching confidence in the seriousness of the authorities_). Oh, they wouldn't do that sort of thing _here_!

_A Too-impulsive Enthusiast_. Oh, JOHN, _look_ at that lovely tiger up there! _Isn't_ the skin marvellously painted, and the eyes so natural and all! It's a Landseer of _course_!

_John_. Catalogue says STUBBS.

_The Enth._ (_disenchanted_). STUBBS? I never heard of him. But it's really rather well done.

_The Man who is a bit of a Connoisseur in his way_ (_arriving at a portrait of Mrs. BILLINGTON_). Not a bad Romney, that.

_His Friend_ (_with Catalogue_). What makes you think it's a Romney?

_The Conn._ My dear fellow, as if it was possible to mistake his touch. (_Thinks from his friend's expression, that he had better hedge._) Unless it's a Reynolds. Of course it _might_ be a Sir Joshua, their manner at one period was very much alike--yes, it might be a Reynolds, certainly.

_His Friend_. It might be a Holbein--if it didn't happen to be a Gainsborough.

_The Conn._ (_effecting a masterly retreat_). Didn't I _say_ Gainsborough? Of course that was what I _meant_. Nothing like Reynolds--nor Romney either. Totally different thing!

IN GALLERY NO. II.

_Mr. Ernest Stodgely_ (_before JAN STEEN's "Christening"_). Now look at this, FLOSSIE; very curious, very interesting. Gives you such an insight into the times. This man, you see, is wearing a hat of the period. Remarkable, isn't it?

_Miss Featherhead_. Not so remarkable as if he was wearing a hat of some _other_ period, ERNEST, is it?

_The Elderly Lady_ (_before a View of Amsterdam, by Van der Heyden_). Now, you really _must_ look at this, my dear--isn't it wonderful? Why, you can count every single brick in the walls, and the tiny little figures with their features all complete; you want a magnifying-glass to _see_ it all! How conscientious painters were in those days! And _what_ a difference from those "Impressionists," as they call themselves.

_Her Comp._ (_apathetically_). Yes, indeed; I wonder whether it would be better to get our tea here, or wait till we get outside?

_The Eld. L._ Oh, it's too early yet. Look at that poor hunted stag jumping over a dining-room table, and upsetting the glasses and things. I suppose that's LANDSEER--no, I see it's some one of the name of SNYDERS. I expect he got the _idea_ from LANDSEER, though, don't you?

_Her Comp._ Very likely indeed, dear; but (_pursuing her original train of thought_) you get rather nice tea at some of these aërated bread-shops; so perhaps if we waited--(_&c., &c._)

IN GALLERY NO. III.

_Two Pretty Nieces with an Elderly Uncle_ (_coming to "Apollo and Marsyas," by Tintoretto_). What was the _story_ of Apollo and Marsyas, Uncle?

_The Uncle_. Apollo? Oh, come, you've heard of _him_, the--er--Sun-God, Phoebus-Apollo, and all that?

_His Nieces_. Oh, yes, we know all _that_; but who was Marsyas, and what does the Catalogue mean by "Athena and three Umpires?"

_The Uncle_. Oh--er--hum! Didn't they teach you all that at school? Well they _ought_ to have, that's all? Where's your Aunt--where's your Aunt?

_Mr. Ernest Stodgely_ (_before the Portrait of the Marchesa Isabella Grimaldi_). There, FLOSSIE, don't you feel the greatness of that now? I'm curious to know how it impresses you!

_Miss Featherhead_. Well, I rather like her frock, ERNEST. How funny to think aigrettes were worn so long ago, when they've just gone out _again_, don't you know. It must have been difficult to kiss a person across one of those enormous ruffs, though, don't you think?

IN GALLERY NO. IV.

_Mr. Schohorff_ (_loudly_). Ah, _that's_ a picture I know well; seen it many a time in the Octagon Boudoir at dear old HATCHMENT's. But it looks better lighted up. I remember the last time I was down there they told me they'd been asked to lend it, but the Countess didn't seem to think (_&c., &c._).

_Mrs. Frivell_ (_before "Death of Dido," by Liberale da Verona_). Why is she standing on that pile of furniture in the courtyard, though?

_Mr. F._ Because Æneas had jilted her, and so she stabbed herself on a funeral pyre after setting fire to it, you see.

_Mrs. F._ (_disapprovingly_). How _very_ odd. I thought they only did that in India. But who are all those people looking-on?

_Mr. F._ Smart people of the period, my dear. Of course Dido would send out invitations for a big function like that--Wind-up of the season--Farewell Reception--sure to be a tremendous rush for cards. Notice the evident enjoyment of the guests. They are depicted in the act of remarking to one another that their hostess is doing all in _her_ power to make the thing go off well. Keen observer of human nature, old LIBERALE!

_Mrs. F._ Selfish creatures!

IN THE VESTIBULE.

_Mrs. Townley-Ratton_ (_about to leave with her husband, encounters her cousins, the Miss RURAL-RATTONS, who have just arrived_). Why, SOPHY, MARY! _how_ are you? this is _too_ delightful! When _did_ you come up? How long are you going to be in town? _When_ can you come and see me?

_Miss Sophy Rattan_ (_answering the two last questions_). Till the end of the week. What will be the best time to find you?

_Mrs. T.R._ (_warmly_). Oh, _any_ time! I'm almost _always_ in--except the afternoons, of course. I'm going out to tea or something every day this week!

_Miss Sophy R._ Well, how would some time in the morning--

_Mrs. T.R._ The morning? No, I'm afraid--I'm _afraid_ it _mustn't_ be the morning _this_ week--so many things that one _has_ to see to!

_Mr. T.R._ (_lazily_). You'd better all come and dine quietly some evening.

[_He yawns, to tone down any excess of hospitality in this invitation._

_Mrs. T.R._ (_quickly_). No, that would be _too_ cruel, when I know they'll want to go to a theatre every night! And besides, I really haven't a single free evening this week. But I must see if we can't _arrange_ something. You really must drop me a line _next_ time you're coming up! Good-bye, dears, we mustn't keep you from the pictures--such a fine collection this winter! Love to your Mother, and say I shall try to call--if I _possibly_ can!

_Mr. T.R._ (_as they descend the stairs_). I say, SELINA, you forgot to ask 'em where they are. Shall I run back and find out, eh?

_Mrs. T.R._ Not on _any_ account. They're probably at the Grand as usual, and if they're not, it will be a very good excuse if I can't call. You are such a _fusser_, ALFRED!

_Miss Sophy_ (_to_Miss MARY_). What a let-off! I wouldn't have minded lunch so much--but _dinner_--no, thank you, my dear!

_Miss Mary_ (_gloomily_). She may call on Mother and ask us all yet.

_Miss Sophy_. She doesn't know where we are, and I took good care not to tell her. It's getting too dark to see much, but we'll just walk through the rooms, to say we've done it--shall we? [_They do._

* * * * *

A SETTLER FOR MR. WOODS.--Mrs. RAM does not at all wonder at Amateurs being able to "pick up old pieces of china at CHRISTY's," for she has often heard that you've only got to go to King Street, where anyone may see them "knocked down under a hammer."

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* * * * *

* * * * *

"OFF HIS FEED!"

SCENE--_The St. Stephen's Stables. Stall of the Favourite, "Majority," who is being inspected by the great "Vet." (S-L-SB-RY) in presence of the Groom (B-LF-R), and the Stable-help (CH-PL-N)._

_Stable-help_ (_anxiously_). Why, he used to be a stunner, and a safe and steady runner, And we trusted him, most confident, for landing us the Stakes Now, what can the cause of _this_ be? He's a-looking queer and quisby; And his off fore leg seems shaky, and the rest ain't no _great_ shakes.

_Groom_ (_sharply_). Not too much of it, you HARRY! You are here to fetch and carry, And not to pass opinions in the presence of the Vet. But he _does_ look dicky, Mister; I've tried bolus, I've tried blister, But I haven't got him up to his old form by chalks, Sir, _yet_!

_Vet._ (_dubiously_). You're a bit new at the "biz.," lad, and I tell you what it is, lad,-- These thoroughbreds aren't managed like a dray-horse, don'tcher know. They want very careful feeding, and Sangrado purge or bleeding Won't suit our modern strain--of man _or_ horse. Steady, lad! Woa! [_Examines him._

_Groom_ (_rather sulkily_). Well, Sir, what do you make it?

_Vet._ Off his feed?

_Groom_. Well, he don't take it. Not voracious, so to speak, Sir, as he do when cherry ripe.

_Vet._ Ah-h-h! May want a change of diet. Eye is neither bright _nor_ quiet, And his coat seems dull and roughish, though he's sound in pulse and pipe.

_Stable-help_. Don't take kindly to his fodder, and, what _I_ thinks even odder, With a temper like a hangel, gits a bit inclined to kick. Landed _'Art Dyke_ a fair wunner!

_Groom_ (_testily_). Well, you are an eighty-tonner At superfluous patter, HARRY!

_Stable-help_ (_aside_). Lor! _His_ temper's gitting quick! What has been and popped the acid in his style so prim and placid? Doesn't shine like what he thought to as head-groom. Yus, there's the rub!

_Vet._ (_looking at sieve_). Seem to shy _that_ feed!

_Groom_. I mixed it with the greatest care, and fixed it With an eye to tempt his appetite, but there, he's off his grub!

_Vet._ (_to Stable-help_). Takes your green stuff better?

_Stable-help_. True, Sir!

_Groom_. But too much o' that won't do, Sir. Can't live on tares entirely! (_Aside._) This here boy's too full of beans.

_Vet._ Ah! I see the whole position. He's a bit out of condition, Wants a tonic and skilled treatment. Yes, no doubt that's what it means. With an appetite that's picksome comes a temper tart and tric But a pick-me-up--I'll send one--will, I'm sure set all that square. And if there's further wasting, then, without too headlong hasting, Give him, as soon as possible--a little _Country Air_!

* * * * *

LORD WILDERMERE'S MOTHER-IN-LAW.

She's as bad as can be, but she's "Precious" to me, Though her conduct cannot be called free from a flaw; For in spite of blackmail, I have vowed ne'er to fail In the duty I owe to my Mother-in-law.

There have been flippant sneers and conventional jeers, At a worthy relation that I hold in awe; Though it angers my wife, all the joy of my life Comes from drawing big cheques--for my Mother-in-law.

Peccadilloes she had, but she isn't all bad, And the folks who have sneered shall their libels withdraw; To our dance she shall come, and the world be struck dumb At the way that I've whitewashed my Mother-in-law.

She shall rise from the slime of what people called crime, To a virtuous height, for I always foresaw 'Twould be wise to proclaim to all ages the fame Of that much-maligned female--a Mother-in-law.

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* * * * *

DEATH IN THE POP.

Rather alarmed by reading in paper about "explosive buttons." Seems that combs, collars, cuffs, buttons and things made to imitate ivory and tortoiseshell are really highly combustible. Lady in West of England had her dress ignited by sudden explosion of a "fancy" button! In consequence, advise my wife "to use that new hairbrush I gave her very gingerly, or she'll be blown up." She wants to know "why I didn't find that out before buying it." Difficult to find suitable reply. Result--nobody blown up so far, except myself.

Combing my few remaining locks. No harm in comb, I suppose, as maker assured me it was "only made of celluloid." Comb suddenly driven a couple of inches into my head, with loud report! In bed for three weeks. Write to maker, who says, "Didn't I know celluloid was mixture of camphor and gun-cotton?" No, I didn't.

Playing billiards, when sufficiently recovered. Just executing fiftieth spot-stroke in succession, when--an explosion! Cue driven out of my hand, and half-way down marker's throat. Turns out that ball was a mixture of Turkish Delight and nitroglycerine, and objected to my hitting it. Marker brings action, and gets damages out of me.

Little later. New fancy waistcoat. Buttons like pearl. Rub one, to give extra polish--Bang!--explosion. Where am I? In the middle of next week, on which date I write this.

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CON. BY A WELSHER.--Why has Wales more Clerks than England?--Because it has a _Penman more_.

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ENCOUNTER.

(_An Effort in the Spasmodic-Obscure, after the American Original quoted by Mr. James Payn in "Our Note-Book."_)

Two Spooks, swirled fast along the Vast, Meeting each other "at the double," Collided, squirmed, then howled aghast, Each to the other, "What's _your_ trouble?"

"Alas!" one whined, "Rymed Rot I read, Affected to admire, and quote it!" The other wailed, with shame-bowed head, "My case is even worse,--_I wrote it_!"

* * * * *

THE SCALE WITH THE FALSE WEIGHTS.

(_A PAGE FROM THE NEWGATE CALENDAR--UP-TO-DATE EDITION._)

The two Convicts were tried at the same Assizes, put in the same dock and sentenced by the same Judge. So a companionship sprang up between them considering that one was by birth and education a Gentlemen, and the other was not. And they went to the same prison, and listened to the same words of the same Chaplain, and took their occasional exercise in the same practising yard. And as luck would have it, they served the same time, and were liberated at the same moment.

"I am afraid I must say good-bye, GILES," said ST. JAMES, as they emerged into freedom from the portals of the gaol. "Good fellow as you are, GILES, you do not belong to my set, and your presence would be embarrassing."

"Oh, would it!" returned GILES, who had already recognised some of his friends. "Well, I don't want to press my company on anyone."

"No offence!" exclaimed ST. JAMES, "I beg you--no offence! But we have both to begin life again, and union is not strength in a case such as ours!"

"Oh, no offence!" acquiesced GILES, as he accompanied some of his pals to a neighbouring public-house.

ST. JAMES, left to his own devices, hurried to the Chambers that he used to rent before he went to prison. They were "To Let." He rang the bell, and the porter started back when he saw him.

"Hope you don't want to enter, Sir," said he; "but the Guv'nor gave strict orders, as if you called, that you was not to go in. It ain't my fault, Sir, but the Guv'nor is the Guv'nor!"

Disheartened by this rebuff, he tried the house of a friend, but was so scornfully received, that he made up his mind never to visit another acquaintance. Of course he found that his name had been removed from his Clubs, and not a single individual would recognise him. He was an outcast, and a ruined man. So he walked about the streets until his shoes were in holes, and his last penny exhausted. Then he lay down to sleep. But this was against the regulations, and so he was hustled from pillar to post, until at last he found himself in a very low part of town. He was trudging past a public-house, when who should emerge from its cheerful-looking recesses but GILES. "Hallo!" cried the young man, who seemed the picture of health, "are _you_ down?"

"Yes--very," returned ST. JAMES. "I haven't a friend in the world, and no one will have anything to say to me."

"What a shame!" cried the other. "Why, with me, I have had a rare old time! Everybody has been pleased to see me."

"But hasn't your conviction injured you?"

"Not particularly. I have lots of people who support me. Why, if we were _too_ particular with one another, we shouldn't have a pal in the world! Hope there's nothing wrong."

"Why, don't you call this wrong? Here are you, as jolly as possible, and I--a miserable man!"

"Can't be helped. We are in the same box."

"Are we?" said the semi-genteel Convict. "Well, I should have scarcely believed it! Then, I suppose I must comfort myself with the thought that the same law applies to the rich as the poor."

"Does it?" returned the commoner Convict. "Then all I can say is, that whatever the law may be, the punishment is never the same." And ST. JAMES, with a bitter sigh, wished he could change places with his more fortunate dock-mate.

* * * * *

THE CHEF'S NEW DISH FOR TRAVELLERS.--"_Insurance of Passengers' Luggage_."--Bravo, THOMAS COOK AND SON! Not "too many Cooks," but "just Cooks enough!" Hitherto the traveller had only to present himself ready "dressed" to be thoroughly Cook'd, and done throughout, to a turn. Now, in addition, his baggage can be book'd and Cook'd; and, should any "_Gravy delictum_" happen to it, the value of the lost portmanteau and boxes will be handed over to the aggrieved passenger.

* * * * *

PATHETIC DESCRIPTION OF THE PRESENT STATE OF MR. GEORGE ALEXANDER.--"He is running WILDE at the St. James's Theatre.--Yours, L.W.F."

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CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER.

VI.--THE DUFFER AT WHIST.

Whist, it seems to me, is an affair of eyes, memory, and calculative ratiocination. As to eyes, I have a private theory that mine are bewitched. It is not mere short sight. At school and college I have seen Greek words on the printed page, and translated them correctly, and come to grief, because these words, on inspection, were somehow not there. Explain this I cannot, but it is a fact. The same with Whist; I see spades where clubs are, and diamonds for hearts, and a cold world accuses me of revoking and of carelessness, but it is _not _ carelessness. It is something gone askew in phenomena. Thus, when I am a witness as to facts in a trial, perjury is the softest word for my testimony, so the Court thinks, because the Court is blessed with the usual relations between objective facts, and subjective impressions. I admit that I am less fortunate, but when I try to go into this, I am interrupted. However, this is why I revoke.

Then as to memory, I have none, for cards. It is extremely difficult, indeed impossible, to recall who played what, after the cards are once out of sight. I could tell you, like the man in the story, that such and such a statement is on the ninety sixth page of the fifth volume of GIBBON, the page on the left, half-way down; useless things of that sort I remember: cards, not. As to calculation and inferences, I give it up. I just first play out all my kings, then all my aces, I lead trumps, if I have a bunch of them, and then it is my partner's turn to make his little points. I return his lead when I happen to think of it, which is not often. That is all _I_ have to confess, but I have a friend, a brilliant player _I_ call him, and he permits me to contribute his experiences, as mine are short and simple. To my mind, Whist would not be a bad game, if the element of skill were excluded; but give me Roulette. If foreign ladies would not snatch up my winnings, I should be a master at Roulette, where genius is really served, for I play on inspiration merely. But let me turn to the confessions of my friend, my Mentor, I may call him, a man who is a Member of the Burlington itself, one who has had losses, go to! Hear him speak:--

"I have always sympathised," he says, "with _Mr. Pickwick_, in regard to his experiences at Whist; that is to say, his experience on the second occasion narrated in his history. The first time, it will be remembered, all went well, when, owing to unfortunate lapses on the part of 'the criminal Miller,' who omitted to 'trump the diamond' and subsequently revoked, he and the fat gentleman were worsted in an encounter with _Mr. Wardle's_ mother and the immortal hero.

"But at Bath there was a different tale to tell, the _Dowager Lady Snuphanuph_ and _Mrs. Colonel Wugsby_, proved too able for him and _Miss Bolo_, who when he played a wrong card, which, like me, he probably did every other time, looked a small armoury of daggers, and subsequently in a beautiful instance of the figure known to the grammarian as Hendiadys, went home in tears and a Sedan chair."

Bearing in mind the advice attributed to TALLEYRAND, I have conscientiously endeavoured to become a Whist-player; but it is becoming increasingly obvious to me, that owing to the malison pronounced at my birth, my room is generally preferred to my company. And yet I have studied the subject according to my lights. Every instance of Whist in fiction which comes under my notice receives my undivided attention, and when I read Miss BROUGHTON, such a sentence as, "I suppose," she said, "that it's the right thing to play out all one's aces first? Her partner conscientiously endeavoured to veil the expression of extreme dissent which this proposition called forth, and with such success that the ace of hearts instantly and confidently followed his brother."

When I read hints like these, I garner them up for my own future use. I have pored over every known text-book on the subject, from MATTHEWS and HOYLE to CAVENDISH. I once went so far as to learn the proper leads by rote, forgetting them all within a week; and owing to my inveterate habit of endeavouring to justify the most flagitious acts by a supposed reference to authority, have earned for myself the name of "Pole."