Chapter 1

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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.

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.

["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._]

THE World's Seven Wonders are surely outshone! 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.

Brobdingnagian Bagman, big Dreamer of Dreams. 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 As LOBENGULA or the MAHDI--the MAHDI.

Well may ABERCORN wonder and FIFE tootle praise, 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.

The British South-African Company's shares _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!

* * * * *

* * * * *

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 young, and Mahatmas old, 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?

_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, 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.