Chapter 1

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOL. 102

MAY 14, 1892

CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER.

NO. IX.--THE DUFFER DEER-STALKING.

I am in favour of Mr. BRYCE's Access to Mountains Bill, and of Crofters who may be ambitious to cultivate the fertile slopes of all the Bens in Scotland. In fact, I am in favour of anything that will, or may, interfere with the tedious toil of Deer-stalking. Mr. BRYCE's Bill, I am afraid, will do no good. People want Access to Mountains when they cannot get it; when once they can, they will stay where the beer is, and not go padding the wet and weary hoof through peat-hogs, over rocks, and along stupid and fatiguing acclivities, rugged with heather. Oh, preserve me from Deer-stalking; it is a sport of which I cherish only the most sombre memories.

They may laugh, and say it was my own fault, all my misfortune on the stalk, but a feeling reader will admit that I have merely been unlucky. My first adventure, or misadventure if you like, was at Cauldkail Castle, Lord GABERLUNZIE's place, which had been rented by a man who made a fortune in patent corkscrews. The house was pretty nearly empty, as everyone had gone south for the Leger, so it fell to my lot to go out under the orders of the head stalker. He was a man of six foot three, he walked like that giant of iron, TALUS his name was, I think, who used to perambulate the shores of Crete, an early mythical coast-guard. HUGH's step on the mountain was like that of the red deer, and he had an eye like the eagle's of his native wastes.

It was not pleasant, marching beside HUGH, and I was often anxious to sit down and admire the scenery, if he would have let me. I had no rifle of my own, but one was lent me, with all the latest improvements, confound them! Well, we staggered through marshes, under a blinding sun, and clambered up cliffs, and sneaked in the beds of burns, and crawled through bogs on our stomachs. My only intervals of repose were when HUGH lay down on his back, and explored the surrounding regions with his field-glass. Even then I was not allowed to smoke, and while I was baked to a blister with the sun, I was wet through with black peat water. Never a deer could we see, or could HUGH see, rather, for I am short-sighted, and cannot tell a stag from a bracken bush.

At last HUGH, who was crawling some yards ahead, in an uninteresting plain, broken by a few low round hillocks, beckoned to me to come on. I writhed up to him, where he lay on the side of one of those mounds, when he put the rifle in my hand, whispering "Shoot!"

"Shoot what?" said I, for my head was not yet above the crest of the hillock. He only made a gesture, and getting my eye-glass above the level, I saw quite a lot of deer, stags, and hinds, within fifty yards of us. They were interested, apparently, in a party of shepherds, walking on a road which crossed the moor at a distance, and had no thoughts to spare for us. "Which am I to shoot?" I whispered.

"The big one, him between the two hinds to the left." I took deadly aim, my heart beating audibly, like a rusty pump in a dry season. My hands were shaking like aspen leaves, but I got the sight on him, under his shoulder, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened, I pulled the trigger of the second barrel. Nothing occurred. "Ye have the safety-bolts in," whispered HUGH, and he accommodated that portion of the machinery, which I do not understand. Was all this calculated to set a man at his ease? I took aim afresh, pulled the trigger again. Nothing! "Ye're on half-cock," whispered HUGH, adding some remark in Gaelic, which, of course, I did not understand. Was it my fault? It was not my own rifle, I repeat, and the hammers, at half-cock, looked as high as those of my gun, full-cocked.

All this conversation had aroused the attention of the deer. Off they scuttled at full speed, and I sent a couple of bullets vaguely after them, in the direction of a small forest of horns which went tossing down a glade. I don't think I hit anything, and HUGH, without making any remark, took the rifle and strode off in a new direction. I was nearly dead with fatigue, I was wishing Mr. BRYCE and the British Tourist my share of Access to Mountains, when we reached the crown of a bank above a burn, which commanded a view of an opposite slope. HUGH wriggled up till his eyes were on a level with the crest, and got his long glass out. After some interval of time, he wakened me, to say that if I snored like that, I would not get a shot. Then he showed me, or tried to show me, through the glass, a stag and three hinds, far off to our right. I did not see them, I very seldom see anything that people point out to me, but I thought it wise to humour him, and professed my satisfaction. Was I to shoot at them? No, they were about half a mile off, but, if I waited, they would feed up to us, so we waited, HUGH nudging me at intervals to keep me awake. Meanwhile I was practising aiming at a distant rock, about the place where I expected to get my shot, as HUGH instructed me. I thought the wretched rifle was at half-cock, and I aimed away, very conscientiously, for practice. Presently the rifle went off with a bang, and I saw the dust fly on the stone I had been practising at. It had not been at half-cock, after all; warned by my earlier misfortunes, HUGH had handed the rifle to me cocked. The stag and the hinds were in wild retreat at a considerable distance. I had some difficulty in explaining to HUGH, how this accident had occurred, nor did he seem to share my satisfaction in having hit the stone, at all events.

We began a difficult march homewards, we were about thirteen miles now from Cauldkail Castle. HUGH still, from habit, would sit down and take a view through that glass of his. At last he shut it up, like WELLINGTON at Waterloo, and said, "Maybe ye'll be having a chance yet, Sir." He then began crawling up a slope of heather, I following, like the Prophet's donkey. He reached the top, whence he signalled that there was a shot, and passed the rifle to me, cocked this time. I took it, put my hand down in the heather--felt something cold and slimy, then something astonishingly sharp and painful, and jumped to my feet with a yell! I had been bitten by an adder, that was all! Now, was _that_ my fault? HUGH picked up the rifle, bowled over the stag, and then, with some consideration, applied ammonia to my finger, and made me swallow all the whiskey we had.

It was a long business, and Dr. MACTAVISH, who was brought from a hamlet about thirty miles away, nearly gave me up. My arm was about three feet in circumference, and I was very ill indeed. I have not tried Deer-stalking again; and, as I said, I wish the British Tourist joy of his Access to Mountains.

* * * * *

EARLY SPRING.

Once more the North-east wind Chills all anew, And tips the redden'd nose With colder blue; Makes blackbirds hoarse as crows, And poets too.

The town with nipping blasts How wildly blown; Around my hapless head Loose tiles are thrown, Slates, chimney-pots, and lead Of weight unknown.

_My_ tile and chimney-pot Flies through the air. My eyes are full of dust, My head is bare, A state of things that must Soon make me swear!

When thus in early Spring My joys are few, I'll warm myself at home With "Mountain Dew," Or fly to Nice, or Rome, Or Timbuctoo.

* * * * *

* * * * *

A BIRD OF PREY.

The Laureate, seeking Love's last law, Finds "Nature red in tooth and claw With ravin"; fierce and ruthless. But Woman? Bard who so should sing Of her, the sweet soft-bosomed thing, Would he tabooed as truthless.

Yet what is this she-creature, plumed And poised in air? Iris-illumed, She gleams, in borrowed glory, A portent of modernity, Out-marvelling strangest phantasy That chequered classic story.

Fair-locked and winged. So HESIOD drew The legendary Harpy crew, The "Spoilers" of old fable; Maidens, yet monsters, woman-faced, With iron hearts that had disgraced The slaughterer of ABEL.

Chimæra dire! The Sirens three, Ulysses shunned were such as she, Though robed in simpler raiment. Is there no modern Nemesis To deal out to such ghouls as this Just destiny's repayment?

O modish Moloch of the air! The eagle swooping from his lair On bird-world's lesser creatures, Is spoiler less intent to slay Than this unsparing Bird of Prey, With Woman's form and features.

Woman? We know her slavish thrall To the strange sway despotical Of that strong figment, Fashion; But is there nought in _this_ to move The being born for grace and love To shamed rebellious passion?

'Tis a she-shape by Mode arrayed! The dove that coos in verdant shade, The lark that shrills in ether, The humming-bird with jewelled wings,-- Ten thousand tiny songful things Have lent her plume and feather.

They die in hordes that she may fly, A glittering horror, through the sky. Their voices, hushed in anguish, Find no soft echoes in her ears, Or the vile trade in pangs and fears Her whims support would languish.

What cares she that those wings were torn From shuddering things, of plumage shorn To make _her_ plumes imposing? That when--for _her_--bird-mothers die, Their broods in long-drawn agony Their eyes--for _her_--are closing?

What cares she that the woods, bereft Of feathered denizens, are left To swarming insect scourges? On Woman's heart, when once made hard By Fashion, Pity's gentlest bard Love's plea all vainly urges.

A Harpy, she, a Bird of Prey, Who on her slaughtering skyey way, Beak-striketh and claw-clutcheth. But Ladies who own not her sway, _Will_ you not lift white hands to stay The shameless slaughter which to-day Your sex's honour toucheth?

* * * * *

THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN.

(_AS SIR JAMES CRICHTON BROWNE SEEMS PROPHETICALLY TO SEE THEM._)

Woman's world's a stage, And modern women will be ill-cast players; They'll have new exits and strange entrances, And one She will play many mannish parts, And these her Seven Ages. First the infant "Grinding" and "sapping" in its mother's arms, And then the pinched High-School girl, with packed satchel, And worn anæmic face, creeping like cripple Short-sightedly to school. Then the "free-lover," Mouthing out IBSEN, or some cynic ballad Made against matrimony. Then a spouter, Full of long words and windy; a wire-puller, Jealous of office, fond of platform-posing, Seeking that bubble She-enfranchisement E'en with abusive mouth. Then County-Councillor, Her meagre bosom shrunk and harshly lined, Full of "land-laws" and "unearned increment"; Or playing M.P. part. The sixth age shifts Into the withered sour She-pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and "Gamp" at side, Her azure hose, well-darned, a world too wide For her shrunk shanks; her once sweet woman's voice, Verjuiced to Virgin-vinegarishness, Grates harshly in its sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange new-fangled history, Is sheer unwomanliness, mere sex-negation-- Sans love, sans charm, sans grace, sans everything.

* * * * *

[Despite the laudable endeavours of "The Society for the Protection of Birds," the harpy Fashion appears still, and even increasingly, to make endless holocausts of small fowl for the furnishing forth of "feather trimmings" for the fair sex. We are told that to obtain the delicate and beautiful spiral plume called the "Osprey," the old birds "are killed off in scores, while employed in feeding their young, who are left to starve to death in their nests by hundreds." Their dying cries are described as "heartrending." But they evidently do not rend the hearts of our fashionable ladies, or induce them to rend their much-beplumed garments. Thirty thousand black partridges have been killed in certain Indian provinces in a few days' time to supply the European demand for their skins. One dealer in London is said to have received, as a single consignment, 32,000 dead humming-birds, 80,000 aquatic birds, and 800,000 pairs of wings. We are told too that often "after the birds are shot down, the wings are wrenched off during life, and the mangled bird is left to die slowly of wounds, thirst, and starvation."]

* * * * *

ART IN THE CITY.

(_A SKETCH IN THE CORPORATION GALLERY AT THE GUILDHALL._)

_The Gallery is crowded, and there is the peculiar buzz in the air that denotes popular interest and curiosity. The majority of the visitors are of the feminine sex, and appear to have come up from semi-detached villas in the less fashionable suburbs; but there is also a sprinkling of smart and Superior Persons, prosperous City Merchants, who regard pictures with respect, as a paying investment, young Commercial Men, whose feeling for Art is not precisely passionate, but who have turned in to pass the time, and because the Exhibition is gratuitous, earnest Youths with long hair, soft hats, and caped ulsters, &c., &c._

BEFORE DELAROCHE'S "DROWNED MARTYR."

_First Villa Resident_ (_appreciatively_). Such a _death-like_ expression, isn't it?

_Second Ditto, Ditto_. Yes, _indeed_! And _how_ beautifully her halo's done!

_Third Ditto, Ditto_. Will those two men on the bank be the executioners, should you think?

_Fourth Ditto, Ditto_ (_doubtfully_). It says in the Catalogue that they're two Christians.

_An Intelligent Child_. Then why don't they jump in and pull her out, Mother? [_The Child is reproved._

_A Languid Young Lady_. Is that intended for _Opheliah_?

[_The rest regard her with shocked disapproval, mingled with pity, before passing on._

BEFORE HOLL'S "FATHERLESS FAMILY."

_First Matter-of-Fact Person_. They're just come back from the funeral, I _expect_.

_Second Ditto, Ditto_. I shouldn't wonder. (_Feels bound to show that she too can be observant._) Yes, they're all in mourning--even the servant. Do you see the black ribbon in her cap? I _do_ like that.

_An Irrelevant Person_. It's just a _little_ melancholy, though, don't you think?--which reminds me--_how_ much did you say that jet trimming was a yard--nine pence three-farthings?

_Her Friend_. Nine pence halfpenny at the shop in St. Paul's Churchyard. The child has her frock open at the top behind, you see--evidently a _poor_ family!

_The I.P._ Yes, and the workbasket with the reels of cotton and all. (_Looking suddenly down_.) Don't you call this a handsome carpet?

_A Frivolous Frenchman_ (_fresh from 'The Casual Ward' and 'The Martyr' to his companion_). Tenez, mon cher, encore des choses gaies!

[_He passes on with a shrug._]

_A Good Young Man with a train of three Maiden Aunts in tow_ (_halting them before a picture of_ SIR J. NOEL PATON's). Now you ought to look at this one.

[_They inspect it with docility. It represents a Knight in armour riding through a forest and surrounded by seductive Wood-nymphs._

_First Maiden Aunt_. Is that a guitar one of those girls is playing, or what?

_Second Ditto, Ditto_. A mandolin more likely; it looks like mother-o'-pearl--is it supposed to be King ARTHUR, and are they fairies or angels, ROBERT?

_The G.Y.M._ (_a little at sea himself_). "_Oskold and the Ellé-maids_," the _title_ is.

_Third Aunt_. Scolding the Elements! _Who's_ scolding them, ROBERT?

_Robert_ (_in her ear_). "_Oskold and the Ellé_-maids!" it's a _Scandinavian_ legend, Aunt TABITHA,

_Aunt Tabitha_ (_severely_). Then it's a pity they can't find better subjects to paint, in _my_ opinion! (_They move on to_ Mr. PETTIE's "_Musician_.") Dear me, that young man looks dreadfully poorly, to be sure!

_Robert_ (_loudly_). He's not _poorly_, Aunt; he's a _Musician_--he's supposed to be (_quoting from Catalogue_) "thinking out a composition, imagining an orchestral effect, with the occasional help of an organ."

_First Aunt_. I see the organ plain enough--but where's the orchestral effect?

_Robert_. Well, you _wouldn't_ see that, you know, he only _imagines_ it.

_Second Aunt_. Oh, yes, I _see_. Subject to _delusions_, poor man! I _thought_ he looked as if he wanted someone to look after him.

_First Loyal Old Lady_ (_reading from Catalogue_). "No. 35. 'Lent by Her Majesty the QUEEN.'"

_Second Ditto, Ditto_. Lent by HER MAJESTY, my dear! Oh, I don't want to miss _that_--which is it--where?

[_She prepares herself to regard it with a special and reverent interest._

AMONG THE PRE-RAPHAELITE PAINTERS.

_Matter-of-Fact Person_ (_to her Irrelevant Friend_). Here's a Millais, you see. _Ophelia_ drowning herself.

_The Irrelevant Friend_ (_who doesn't approve of suicide_). Yes, dear, very peculiar--but I don't quite _like_ it, I must say. Do you remember whether I told SARAH to put out the fiddle-pattern forks and the best cruetstand before I came away? Dear Mr. HOMERTON is coming in to supper to-night, and I want everything to be _nice_ for him.

_The Good Young Man_. There's _Ophelia again_, you see. (_Searches for an appropriate remark._) She--ah--evidently understood the art of natation.

_First Aunt_. She looks almost too _comfortable_ in the water, _I_ think. Her mouth's open, as if she was singing.

_Second Aunt_ (_extenuatingly_). Yes--but those wild roses are very naturally done--and so are her teeth.

_A Discriminating Person_. I like it all but the _figure_.

_A Well-informed Person_. There's the "_Dream of Dante_," d'ye see? No mistaking the figure of DANTE. Here he is, down below, _having_ his dream--that's the dream in that cloud--and up above you get the dream done life-size--queer sort of idea, isn't it?

_A Ponderous Person_ (_finding himself in front of "The Vale of Rest"_). Ha!--what are those two Nuns up to?

_His Companion_. Digging their own graves, I think.

_The Pond. P._ (_with a supreme mental effort_). Oh, _Cremation_, eh?

[_Goes out, conceiving that he has sacrificed at the shrine of Art sufficiently for one afternoon._

_Young Discount_ (_to Young TURNOVER--before "Claudio and Isabella"_). Something out of SHAKSPEARE here, you see.

_Young Turnover_. Yairss. (_Giving Claudio a perfunctory attention_.) Wants his hair raking, don't he? Not much in _my_ line, this sort of subject.

_Young Disc._ Nor yet mine--takes too much time making it _out_, y'know. _This_ ain't bad--"_Venetian Washerwomen_"--is that the way they get up linen over there?

_Young Turn._ (_who has "done" Italy_) Pretty much. (_By way of excuse for them_.) They're very _al fresco_ out in those parts, y' know. Here's a Market-place in Italy, next to it. Yes, that's just like they are. They bring out all those old umbrellas and stalls and baskets twice a-week, and clear 'em all off again next day, so that you'd hardly know they'd _been_ there!

_Young Disc._ (_intelligently_). I see. After Yarmouth style.

_Young Turn._ Well, _something_ that way--only rather different _style_, y' know.

BEFORE "THE HUGUENOT."

_An Appreciative Lady_. Ah! yes, it is wonderfully painted! _Isn't_ it lovely the way that figured silk is done? You can hardly tell it isn't real, and the plush coat he's wearing; such an exquisite shade of violet, and the ivy-leaves, and the nasturtiums and the old red brick; yes, it's _very_ beautiful--and _yet_, do you know, (_meditatively_) I almost think it's prettier in the _engravings_!

BEFORE THE BURNE-JONESES.

_A Fiancé_. This is the "_Wheel of Fortune_," EMILY, you see. (_Reads._) "Sad, but inexorable, the fateful figure turns the wheel. The sceptred King, once uppermost, is now beneath his Slave ... while beneath the King is seen the laurelled head of the Poet."

_His Fiancée_ (_who would be charming if she would not try--against Nature--to be funny_.) It's a kind of giddy-go-round then, I suppose; or is it BURNE-JONES's idea of a revolution--don't you see--_revolving_?

_Fiancé_ (_who makes a practice--even already--of discouraging these sallies_.) It's only an allegorical way of representing that the Slave's turn has come to triumph.

_Fiancée_. Well, I don't see that he has much to _triumph_ about--he's tied on like the rest of them, and it must be just as uncomfortable on the top of that wheel as the bottom.

[_Her Fiancé recognises that allegory is thrown away upon her, and proposes to take her into the Hall and show her Gog and Magog._

_A Niece_ (_to an Impenetrable Relative--whom she plants, like a heavy piece of ordnance, in front of a particular canvas_). There, Aunt, what do you think of _that_ now?

_The Aunt_ (_after solemnly staring at it with a conscientious effort to take it in._) Well, my dear, I must say it--it's very 'ighly varnished. [_She is taken home as hopeless._

* * * * *

COURT CARDS.

A splendid hand is just now held by Mr. ARTHUR CHUDLEIGH, Sole Lessee and Manager of the Court Theatre. Full of trumps, honours and odd tricks. A perfect entertainment in three pieces. You pay your money and you take your choice. You can come in at 8:15 and see _The New Sub_, by SEYMOUR HICKS (Brayvo, 'ICKS! and may your success be Hickstraordinary!) or at 9:15 for W.S. GILBERT's _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern_, or at 10 for _A Pantomime Rehearsal_, which, as I remarked long ago on seeing it for the first time, might last for ever if only judiciously refreshed, say once in every three months, and on this plan it might continue until it should be played in 1992 by the great-great-grandchildren of the members of the present company.

There is one charming line in the bill--a bill which, on account of its colour, must be "taken as red"--not to be missed by visitors. It comes immediately after the cast of _The New Sub_; it is this,--"_The Uniforms by Messrs. Nathan, Coventry Street_." It has a line all to itself, which is, most appropriately, "a thin red line." Now the officers in the programme are given as belonging to the "_----shire Regiment_" i.e., Blankshire Regiment, but as they are all wearing the Nathan uniform, why not describe them as officers of the Nathanshire Regiment? Perhaps such a title might be more suggestive of Sheriff's Officers than of those belonging to Her Majesty's Army; yet, as these gallant _Dramatis Personæ_ are avowedly wearing NATHAN's uniform (which may they never, never disgrace!) why should they not bear the proud title of "The First Royal Coventry Street Costumiers"? Let those most concerned see to it: our advice is gratis, and, at that price, valuable.

9:15. _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern_. Excellent piece of genuine fun. If Mr. W.S. GILBERT could be induced to add to it, I am sure it would stand an extension of ten minutes to allow _Hamlet_ to return and have a grand combat with the King, and then for all the characters to be poisoned by mistake, and so to end happily.