Chapter 1

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 103.

NOVEMBER 12, 1892.

THE GAME OF THE LITTLE HORSES.

(_A SKETCH AT THE CASINO, DINARD._)

_On either side of the circular Race-course, with its revolving metal horses, is a Green Table, divided into numbered squares, around which the Players, who are mostly English, are sitting or standing. A Croupier with his rake presides at each table. In an obscure corner of the balcony outside_, Miss DAINTREE _and her_ Married Sister _have just established themselves. There is a Ball at the Casino, and the Orchestra are heard tuning up for the next dance._

_The Married Sister._ But SYLVIA, why have you dragged me out here to sit in the dark? I thought you were engaged for this?

_Miss Daintree._ So I am—to such a horrid little man. That’s why I fled. He won’t think of coming _here_ after me!

_The M.S._ What made you give him a dance at all?

_Miss D._ JACK brought him up to me—so naturally I thought he was a dear friend of his, but it seems he only sat next to him at _table d’hôte_, and JACK says he pestered him so for an introduction, he _had_ to do it—to get rid of him. So like a brother, wasn’t it?... Oh, AMY, he’s _coming_—what _shall_ I do? I know he can’t dance a little bit! I watched him trying.

_The M.S._ Can’t you ask him to sit it out?

_Miss D._ That’s _worse_! Let’s hope he won’t notice us.—Ah—he _has_!

[Mr. CUBSON, _a podgy young man with small eyes and a scrubby moustache, wearing a tailless evening-coat and a wrinkled white waistcoat, advances._

_Mr. Cubson._ Our dance, I believe? (_The Orchestra strikes up._) Isn’t that the _Pas de Quatre?_ To tell you the truth, I’m not very well up in these new steps, so I shall trust to you to pull me through—soon get into it, y’know.

_Miss D._ (_to herself_). If I could only get _out_ of it! (_She rises with a look of mute appeal to her_ Sister.) We can go through this room. (_They pass into the Salle des Petits Chevaux._) Stop one minute—I just want to see which horse wins. Don’t you call this a fascinating game?

_Mr. C._ Well, I don’t understand the way they play it here—too complicated for _me_, you know!

_Miss D._ (_to herself_). Anything to gain time! (_Aloud._) Oh, it’s quite simple—you just put your money down on any number you choose, and say “_Sur le_”—whatever it is, and, if it wins, you get seven times your stake.

_Croupier._ Tous sont payés—faites vos jeux, Messieurs,—les jeux sont partis!

_Miss D._ I know what I should do—I should back 7 this time. I’ve a presentiment he’ll win.

_Mr. C._ Then why don’t you back him?

_Miss D._ Because I don’t happen to have brought any money with me.

_Mr. C._ Oh, I daresay I can accommodate you with a franc or two, if that’s all.

_Miss D._ Thank you, I won’t trouble you: but do back him yourself, just to see if I’m not right.

_Croupier._ Les jeux sont faits. Rien ne va plus!

_Mr. C._ (_throwing a franc on the table_). Sur le sept! (_To_ Miss D.) I say, he’s raked it in. What’_s that_ for?

_Miss D._ For the Bank, or Charity, or something—they always do that if you stake too late.

_Mr. C._ Swindle, _I_ call it. And I should have won, too—it _is_ 7. I’ve had enough of this—suppose we go and dance?

_Miss D._ Why, you’re not going to give in already—after so nearly winning, too?

_Mr. C._ Ah, well, I’ll have just one more go—and then we’ll be off. I’m going to try the 9 this time. [_He stakes._

_Miss D. I_ should have gone on the 4—it’s time one of the even numbers won again.

_Mr. C._ Oh, would you? All right, then. (_To_ Cr.) Pas sur le neuf—le quatre. (_The_ Croupier _transfers the franc to 4._) They’re off—can’t tell the winner yet. Now they’re slower—4’s good—4’s very good. See where he’s stopped, not an inch from the post! This isn’t half a bad game.

[_A horse with a red flag at his head, labelled No. 9, creeps slowly up, and stops just ahead of 4._

_Croupier._ Neuf, impair, et rouge!

_Mr. C._ It’s 9 after all—and I backed him first. (_In an injured tone._) I should have _won_ if you hadn’t said that about 4!

_Miss D._ (_with secret delight_). I won’t advise any more. What are you going to back?

_Mr. C._ We really ought to be dancing—but I’ll try my luck once more on No. 4. I shall put on _two_ francs this time.

_Miss D._ Shall you? How reckless! I heard someone say just now that No. 1 hasn’t won for a long time.

_Mr. C._ I took your advice once too often. There—4’s going to win—see how he’s going round—no, he’s passed.

[_A horse with a yellow flag, labelled No. 1, stops close to the post._

_Croupier._ L’As, impair, et jaune!

_Miss D._ Didn’t I tell you so?

_Mr. C._ You only said _I hadn’t_ won—not that he _would_. If you had spoken more plainly—! I don’t think much of _this_ game—I’ve dropped four francs already. How about that dance?

_Miss D._ (_ironically_). It would be rather a pity to go away without getting all that money back, wouldn’t it?

_Mr. C._ (_seriously_). Perhaps it would. You’re sure you’re in no hurry about this dance?

_Miss D._ On the contrary!

_Mr. C._ Well, look here, I’m going to put on a five-franc piece this time—so be careful what you advise.

_Miss D._ Oh, I really couldn’t undertake such a responsibility.

_Mr. C._ I shall follow this man then, and back five. (_He does; the horses spin round, and the race is won by a horse with a tricoloured flag labelled No. 5._) There, I’ve done it without you, you see. (_The_ Croupier _pushes a heap of ivory counters towards him, which he takes up with trembling hands._) I say, I scooped in thirty-five francs over that! Not bad, is it? I’m glad I waited!

_Miss D._ Yes, it’s better fun than dancing, isn’t it?

_Mr. C._ Oh, lots—at least I didn’t mean _that_ quite—

_Miss D._ Didn’t you? _I_ did. What are you going to back next?

_Mr. C._ Well, I must just have one more turn, and then we’ll go and get that dance over. I’m going to plunge this time. (_He spreads his counters about the board._) There, I’ve put five francs on each colour and ten each on 8 and 9. You see, by hedging like that, you’re bound to pull off _something_!

_Miss D._ (_as the horses spin round_). All the yellow flags are out of it.

_Mr. C._ Doesn’t matter, 9’s red, and he’s going first-rate—nothing to beat him!

_Miss D._ Unless it’s 5, and then you lose. (_No._ 5 _wins again._) How unfortunate for you. 5 generally _does_ win twice running, somehow.

_Mr. C._ (_with reproach_). If you had thought of that a little sooner, I shouldn’t have lost twenty francs! (_A player rises, and_ Mr. C. _secures the vacant chair._) More comfortable sitting down. I must get that back before I go. I’ve got about twenty francs left, I’ll put five on yellow, and ten on 9. (_He does._ Croupier. “_Deux, pair, et rouge!_”) Only five left! I’ll back yellow again, as red won last. (_He does._ Croupier. “_Quatre, pair, et rouge!_” _He turns to_ Miss D. _for sympathy._) I say, did you ever see such beastly bad—? _A Frenchman_ (_behind him_). Plaît-il? _Mr. C._ (_confused_). Oh, rien. I wasn’t speaking to _you_, M’soo. (_To himself._) Where on earth has that girl got to? She might have waited! She’s gone back to the balcony! (_He goes out in pursuit of her._) Oh, I say, Miss—er—DAINTREE, if you’re ready for that “_Pas de Quatre_,” I am. Hope I haven’t kept you waiting.

_Miss D._ (_sweetly_). Not’ in the very least. Are you sure you’ve _quite_ finished playing?

_Mr. C._ As I’ve lost all I’d won and a lot on the top of that, I should rather think I _had_ finished playing.

_Miss D._ So has the Orchestra—quite a coincidence, isn’t it? You were so absorbed, you see!—No, I won’t keep you out here, thanks; my sister will take care of me.

_Mr. C._ (_to himself, as he departs rather sheepishly_). I’ve _offended_ that girl—I could see she was wild at missing that Barn Dance. I wish I _had_ danced it, I’m sure,—it would have saved me several francs. It was all her own fault. However, I’ll ask her for a waltz another evening, and make it up to her _that_ way. Confound those _Petits Chevaux_!

_Miss D._ AMY, he’s gone,—and I _haven’t_ danced and I haven’t sat out with him—and he can’t’ say it’s _my_ fault either! (_She kisses her hand to the Petits Chevaux inside._) Thanks, _ever_ so much, you dear little beasts!

* * * * *

THE BRUMMAGEM BIRDCATCHER.

(_A LAY OF A LABOUR PROGRAMME._) AIR—“_THE RATCATCHER’S DAUGHTER._”

In Vestminster not long ago there dvelt a lad named JOEY; He vos not raised in Vestminster, but in a place more goey. At snaring birds he vos a dab, of eggs (and plots) a hatcher; And he vos called young Vistling JOE, the Brummagem Birdcatcher.

Young JOE of Grand Old VILL-I-AM, at fust vos pal most chummy, But second fiddle vos not quite _the_ instrument for Brummy. Says he, “Old VILL vants his own vay, the vicked old vote-snatcher! But that arrangement vill not suit the Brummagem Birdcatcher!

“I am as artful, qvite, as he, and much more young and active; I’ve a sweet vistle of my own the birds find most attractive. My nets may be unauthorised, and my decoys not his’n; Vot odds, ven those decoys vill draw, those nets the birds imprison?

“VILLIAM’s a old Monopolist, or vould be if I’d let him; But on this here pertikler field I’ll lick him, that I’ll bet him. I am a cove as hates the Nobs; I dearly loves my neighbour; And if I _have_ a feeling heart it is for Honest Labour!

“VILLIAM’s decoys are out of date but ven I’d shake and rummage’em He gets his back up like a shot. He’s jealous of Young Brummagem! I’ll set up on my own account; and I’ve a new half dozen Of nice decoys vich I am sure the shyest birds vill cozen.

“I am not arter nightingales, the pappy poet’s darlings, I’m qvite content vith blackbirds brisk, and even busy starlings. The birds vot delve, vot track the plough, vot vatch the rustic thatcher, Are good enough—_in numbers_—for the Brummagem Birdcatcher.

“VILLIAM may lure his Irish larks, and redpoles, tits, and finches, Good British birds vill do for me. I’m vun as never flinches From spreading of my nets all vide; vot comes _I_ can’t determine, But I don’t care for carrion-birds, I looks on ’em as wermin!

“And so I ups and spreads my nets. Vot if the birds see plainly? My vistle is so vondrous sveet, I shall not spread ’em wainly, Then, my decoys! Ah! them’s the boys! In patience and in skill I am _The_ cove to catch a big bird-batch, and qvite a match for VILL-I-AM!”

Old VILLIAM and young Vistling JOE are rivals, vot vere pardners! And some vill back the Brummyites, and some the Grand Old Harward’ners; But vichsoever from the fight of victory be the snatcher, The Midlands own a champion in the Brummagem Birdcatcher.

* * * * *

* * * * *

“A ROYAL LINE” (IN THE BILLS).—The successor to _King Henry the Eighth_ (at the Lyceum) will be _King Lear the First. “Le Roi est mort! Vive le Roi_!”

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

The Baron pauses in the midst of his varied literary and philosophic studies to look into No. 46, Vol. iv., Part ii., of _Our Celebrities_, a publication which has been admirably conducted by the late and the present Count ASTRORÓG, which is the title, when he is at home, of the eminent photographer and proprietor of the Walery-Gallery. First comes life-like portrait of the stern Sir EDWARD W. WATKIN, on whose brow Time, apparently, writes no wrinkles, though Sir EDWARD could put most of us up to a few. Nor, strange to say, are there any lines on his countenance, probably because he has so many other lines, existing and contemplated, in his eye.

But ’tis not alone thy inky cloak, good Sir EDWARD, that attracts the Baron, nor is it the business-like profile of THOMAS DE GREY, sixth Lord Walsingham, Chairman of the Ensilage Committee, that gives the Baron matter for special admiration; but it is the perfectly charming portrait of “‘DAISY PLESS’ H.S.H. the Princess HENRY OF PLESS,” which rivets the Baron’s attention, and causes him to exclaim, “She _is_ pretty, Pless her!” Miss CORNWALLIS WEST, but now a DAISY, now a Princess, came up as a flower at Ruthin Castle, and “in 1891 Prince HENRY OF PLESS,” says the brief narrative written by A. BULL (an example of “a bull and no mistake”) “wooed and won the beauty of the Season,”—lucky ’ARRY PLESS!—and then Prince ’ARRY took his bride to Furstenstein, in Silesia, “a fine schloss, with beautiful gardens and terraces,”—in short, “a Pleasaunce.” Count ASTRORÓG may do, as he has done, many excellent photographic portraits, but this one will be uncommonly “hard to beat,” and King of Photographers as he seems to be, it is not every day that he has so charming a subject as Princess DAISY presented to him. Receive, Count ASTRORÓG-WALERY, of the Walery-Gallery, without any raillery, the congratulations most sincere of the

BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

* * * * *

“THE PLAYERS ARE COME!”

_First Player_ (_who has had a run of ill-luck_). I’m regularly haunted by the recollection of my losses at Baccarat.

_Second Player._ Quite Shakspearian! “Banco’s” Ghost.

* * * * *

_Little Spiffkins._ “DON’T YOU THINK ONE MIGHT GET UP A DANCE HERE SOME EVENING?”

_Young Brown._ “NOT GIRLS ENOUGH, MY BOY!”

_Little Spiffkins._ “NOT GIRLS ENOUGH! WHY, _I_’VE GOT TO KEEP ’EM OFF ME WITH A STICK!”

* * * * *

CONVERSATIONAL HINTS FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS.

LUNCH (_continued_).—How delightful it is to awaken interest in the female breast, to make the heart of lovely woman go pit-pat, as her eyes read the words one’s pen has written. Even in drawing-rooms and boudoirs, it seems, bright eyes have marked these attempts to teach a correct conversational manner to those who engage in game-shooting. Here is one letter of the hundreds that _Mr. Punch_ has one by one pressed to his gallant lips with an emotion that might, perhaps, not have been expected from one of his years and discretion. But how shall time or caution prevail against universal love? The flame burns on with an unquenchable ardour. Beautiful beings, the _Punch_ of your affections is true to you all. He takes you in a lump and loves you. He takes you singly and adores you, passionately but paternally. Here, therefore, is the letter:—

DEAREST MR. PUNCH,

We have all been _so_ delighted to read your articles about shooting. I read them to Papa after dinner in the drawing-room. Mamma says she doesn’t understand such matters; but, of course, things have altered _very much_ since her young days, as she is always telling us. Now I want to ask your opinion about an important point. _Do_ you think girls ought to go out and join the men at lunch? We all think it _so_ delightful, but FRED, my eldest brother, makes himself _extremely_ disagreeable about it—at least he did till last week, when EMILY RAYBURN, who is my very _dearest_ friend, was staying with us. Then he told me we might come for a change, but we were to go home again directly afterwards. Generally he says that women are _a bore_ out shooting. _Please_ tell us, dear _Mr. Punch_, what you really think about it.

With much love, yours always,

ROSE LARKING.

P.S.—I am so glad you write the word “lunch,” and not “luncheon.” I told FRED that—but he went to _Johnson’s Dictionary_, and read out something about “Lunch” being only a colloquial form of “luncheon.” Still, I don’t care a little bit. Dr. JOHNSON lived so long ago, and couldn’t possibly know _everything_—could he?

R.L.

My darling young lady, I reply, your letter has made a deep impression on me. Dr. JOHNSON did, as you say, live many years ago; so many years ago, in fact, that (as a little friend of _Mr. Punch_ once said, with a sigh, on hearing that someone would have been one hundred and fifty years old if he had been alive at the present day) he must be “a orfle old angel now.” The word “lunch” is short, crisp, and appetising. The word “luncheon” is of a certain pomposity, which, though it may suit the mansions of the great, is out of place when applied to the meals of active sportsmen. So we will continue, if you please, to speak of “lunch.” And now for your question. My charming ROSE, this little treatise does not profess to do anything more than teach young sportsmen how to converse. I assume that they have learnt shooting from other instructors. And as to the details of shooting-parties, how they should be composed, what they should do or avoid, and how they should bear themselves generally—the subject is too great, too solemn, too noble to be entered upon with a light heart. At any rate, that is not my purpose here. It was rude—_very_ rude—of FRED to say you were a bore—and I am sure it wasn’t true. I can picture you tripping daintily along with your pretty companions to the lunch _rendezvous_. You are dressed in a perfectly fitting, tailor-made dress, cut short in the skirt, and displaying the very neatest and smallest pair of ankles that ever were seen. And your dear little nose is just a leetle—not red, no, certainly not red, but just delicately pink on its jolly little tip, having gallantly braved the north wind without a veil. To call _you_ a bore is absurd. But men are _such_ brutes, and it is as certain as that two and two (even at our public schools) make four, that ladies are—what shall I say?—not so popular as they always ought to be when they come amongst shooters engaged in their sport. Even at lunch they are not _always_ welcomed with enthusiasm. This is, perhaps, wrong, for, after all, they can do no harm there.

But, darling ROSE, I am sure FRED was perfectly right to send you home again directly the meal was over, though it must have wrung his manly heart to part from EMILY RAYBURN. Even, I, the veteran sportsman _Punch_, have qualms when a poor bird has been merely wounded, or when a maimed hare shrieks as the dog seizes it. I cannot, as I say, discuss the ethics of the question. The good shot is the merciful shot. But, after all, in killing of every kind, whether by the gun or the butcher’s knife, there is an element of cruelty. And therefore, my pretty ROSE, _you_ must keep away from the shooting. Besides, have I not seen a good shot “tailor” half-a-dozen pheasants in succession, merely because a chattering lady—not a dear, pleasant little lump of delight like you, ROSE—had posted herself beside him, and made him nervous? By all means come to lunch if you must, but, equally by all means, leave the guns to themselves afterwards. As for ladies who themselves shoot, why the best I can wish them is, that they should promptly shoot themselves. I can’t abide them. Away with them!

But, in order that the purpose of this work may be fulfilled, and the conversational method inculcated, I here give a short “Ladies-at-lunch-dialogue,” phonographically recorded, as a party of five guns was approaching the place of lunch, at about 1:30 P.M.

_First Sportsman_ (_addressing his companion_). Now then, TOMMY, my son, just smarten yourself up a bit, and look pretty. The ladies are coming to lunch.

_Tommy_ (_horror—struck._) _What?_ The women coming to lunch? No, hang it all, you’re joking. Say you are—do!

_First Sp._ Joking? Not I! I tell you six solid women are going to lunch with us. I heard ’em all talking about it after breakfast, and thinking it would be, _oh_, such fun! By the way, I suppose you know you’ve got a hole in your knickerbockers.

_Tommy_ (_looking down, and perceiving a huge and undisguisable rent_). Good Heavens! so I have. I must have done it getting over the last fence. Isn’t it awful? I can’t show like this. Have you got any pins?

[_The_ Keeper _eventually promises that there shall be pins at the farm-house._

_Another Sportsman_ (_bringing up the rear with a companion_). Hope we shan’t be long over lunch. There’s a lot of ground to cover this afternoon, and old SYKES tells me they’ve got a splendid head of birds this year, I always think—(_He breaks off suddenly; an expression of intense alarm comes over his face._) Why, what’s that? No, it can’t be. Yes, by Jingo, it is. It’s the whole blessed lot of women come out to lunch, my wife and all. Well, poor thing, she couldn’t help it. Had to come with the rest, I suppose. But it’s mean of CHALMERS—I swear it is. He ought not to have allowed it. And then, never to let on about it to us. Well, my day’s spoilt, if they come on with us afterwards. I couldn’t shoot an ostrich sitting with a woman chattering: to me. Miss CHICKWEED’s got her eye on you. LLOYD. She’s marked you. No good trying to do a ramp. You’re nailed, my boy, nailed!

_Lloyd._ Hang Miss CHICKWEED! She half killed me last night with all kinds of silly questions. Asked me to be sure and bring her home a rocketing rabbit, because she’d heard they were very valuable. Why can’t the women stay at home?

[_They walk on moodily._

_A few minutes later. Lunch has just begun._

_Miss Chickweed_ (_middle-aged, but skittish_). Oh, you naughty men, how long you have kept us waiting! Now, Captain LLOYD, did you shoot really well? Or, were you thinking of—Well, perhaps I oughtn’t to say. See how discreet I am. But do tell me, all of you, _exactly_ how many birds you shot—I do so like to hear about it. You begin, Captain LLOYD. How many did you shoot? (_Without waiting for an answer._) I’m sure you must have shot a dozen. Yes, I guess a dozen. And, oh, do give me a feather for my hat! It will be so nice to have a _real_ feather to put in it. And we’ve got such a treat for you. MARY, you tell them. No, I’ll tell them myself. If you’re all _very_ good at lunch, we’re going to walk with you a little afterwards. There!

[_But, at this awful prospect, consternation seizes the men._ CHALMERS _(the host) makes frantic signs to his wife, who (having, somehow, been “squared”) affects not to see. A few desperate attempts are made to express a polite joy; but the lunch languishes, and, darkness closes over the melancholy scene._

* * * * *

A NAVAL INQUIRY.—_The Howe_ and the why?

* * * * *

THE VANISHING RUPEE.—A CRY FROM INDIA.

_A Colonel laments the disappearance of the Rupee, and shows how, whenever he had a step up in his Regiment (each time growing in importance and having more calls on his purse), the Rupee at once took a step down, decreasing in importance and reputation._

As a “Sub,” free from family ties, With constant “fivers” from the Pater, The Rupee I thought a goodly size, Though once its value was much greater.

Raised to Captain’s rank, it so fell out I fell in love with the Station belle,[1] Got spliced; the Rupee, at once, no doubt, In spite, not in love, but value fell.

Children came, money went, all U P, I thought, when promotion brought more pay (What luck!); but that slippery Rupee Decreased more visibly from that day.

Cramming! Schooling! Bills by every post! But now, as Colonel, I think I see My way; but I count without my host. Vanished, like a ghost, has the Rupee!

[Footnote 1: By this I do not mean the Barmaid who presides over the stale buns at our Railway Refreshment-room; I refer to the prettiest girl at the Military Station where I was quartered.]

* * * * *

PREMIER AND PHYSICIAN.