Chapter 1

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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 103.

November 5, 1892.

CONVERSATIONAL HINTS FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS.

LUNCH (_continued_).--Perhaps the best piece of advice that I can give you, my young friend, is that--for conversational purposes--you should make a careful study of the natures and temperaments of your companions. Watch their little peculiarities, both of manner and of shooting; pick up what you can about their careers in sport and in the general world, and use the knowledge so acquired with tact and discretion when you are talking to them. For instance, if one of the party is a celebrated shot, who has done some astonishing record at driven grouse, you may, after the necessary preliminaries, ask him to be good enough to tell you what was the precise number of birds he shot on that occasion. Tell him, if you like, that the question arose the other day during a discussion on the three finest game-shots of the world. If you happen to know that he shot eighteen hundred birds, you can say that most people fixed the figure at fifteen hundred. He will then say,--"Ah, I know most people seem to have got that notion--I don't know why. As a matter of fact, I managed to get eighteen hundred and two, and they picked up twenty-two on the following morning." Your obvious remark is, "By Jove!" (with a strong emphasis on the "by") "what magnificent shooting!" After that, the thing runs along of its own accord. With a bad shot your method is, of course, quite different. For example:--

_Young Shot_. I must say I like the old style of walking up your birds better than driving, especially in a country like this. I never saw such difficult birds as we had this morning. You seemed to have the worst of the luck everywhere.

_Bad Shot_. Yes--they didn't come my way much. But I don't get much practice at this kind of thing--and a man's no good without practice.

_Y.S._ That was a deuced long shot, all the same, that you polished off in the last drive. When I saw him coming at about a hundred miles an hour, I thanked my stars he wasn't my bird. What a thump he fell!

_B.S._ Oh, he was a fairly easy shot, though a bit far off. I daresay I should do well enough if I only got more shooting. I'm not shooting with my own gun, though. It's one of my brother's, and it's rather short in the stock for me.

That starts you comfortably with the Bad Shot. You soothe his ruffled vanity, and give him a better appetite for lunch.

Now, besides the Good Shot, and the Bad Shot--the two extremes, as it were, of the line of shooters--you might subdivide your sportsmen further into--

(1.) _The Jovial Shot._ This party is on excellent terms with himself and with everybody else. Generally he shoots fairly well, but there is a rollicking air about him, which disarms criticism, even when he shoots badly. He knows everybody, and talks of most people by nick-names. His sporting anecdotes may be counted upon for, at any rate, a _succès d'estime_. "I never laughed so much in my life," he begins, "as I did last Tuesday. There were four of us--Old SANDY, BUTCHER BILL, DICK WHORTLEBURY, and myself. SANDY was driving us back from Dillwater Hall--you know, old PUFFINGTON's place--where we'd been dining. Devilish dark night it was, and SANDY's as blind as a bat. When we got to the Devil's Punchbowl I knew there'd be some warm games, 'cos the horse started off full tilt, and, before you could say knife, over we went. I pitched, head first, into DICK's stomach, and SANDY and BILL went howling down like a right and left of rabbits. Lord, I laughed till the tears ran down my face. No bones broken, but the old BUTCHER's face got a shade the worst of it with a thorn-bush on the slope. Cart smashed into matchwood, of course."

(2.) _The Dressy Shot._ Wonderful in the boot, stocking, and gaiter department. Very tasteful, too, in the matter of caps and ties. May be flattered by an inquiry as to where he got his gaiters, and if they are an idea of his own. Sometimes bursts out into a belt covered with silver clasps. Fancy waistcoats a speciality. His smoking-suit, in the evening, is a dream of gorgeous rainbows. Is sometimes a very fair shot. Generally wears gloves, and a fair moustache.

(3.) _The Bored Shot._ A good sportsman, who says he doesn't care about sport. Often has literary tastes. Has views of his own, and is, consequently, looked upon as a rather dangerous idealist by honest country gentlemen, who confine their reading to an occasional peep at the _Times_, and an intimate quoting acquaintance with the novels of Mr. SURTEES. Often shocks his companions by telling them he really doesn't care much about killing things, and would just as soon let them off. However, he shows a perfectly proper anger if he misses frequently. Is not unlikely to be an authority on sheep and oxen, and may, perhaps, be accepted as the Conservative Candidate for his County division, dumb but indignant County magnates finding that he expresses their views better than they can do it themselves. Don't talk to him about sport. Try him with books, interesting articles in the Magazines, and so forth.

(4.) _The Soldier Shot._ This kind is generally a Captain, dresses well, but not gaudily, and smokes big cigars. There seems to be a general idea that a man who can teach privates to shoot targets must be able to shoot game himself. Yet the Soldier Shot misses birds quite beautifully. He will have often shot big game in India with an accuracy that increases in proportion to the number of miles that separate him from the scene of his exploits. After all, the ability to "brown" a herd of elephants does not guarantee rights and lefts at partridges. Apt to declaim tersely and forcibly about the hardships of a military career.

(5.) _The Average Shot._ Talk to him about average matters, unless you hear he is a celebrity in some other branch of sport. In that case, get details from him of his last Alpine climb, or his latest run to hounds, or ask his views on racing matters. Most average shots go racing, and think they understand all about it.

I say nothing here about the Dangerous Shot, because it is never right to get within talking distance of him. In fact, he ought not to be talked to at all. I am not sure he ought to be allowed to live. Still, his exploits furnish material for many an animated conversation amongst the survivors.

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_Cabby._ "SIT STILL, SIR! THIS AIN'T NOTHIN' TO WOT 'E _CAN_ DO. YOU'LL SEE 'IM TURN 'EAD OVER 'EELS PRESENTLY!"]

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A QUESTION OF POLICE;

_OR, WHAT IT MAY COME TO._

SCENE--_Trafalgar Square just before sunset. Police in abundance; number of Processionists in various parts of the open space seen to be dispersing._

_Police Inspector._ Now, my good friends, I am going to be as polite as possible, but I must obey the regulations of the Commissioners of Her Majesty's Works and Public Buildings. And I say you cannot speak, because you have not given proper notice to the authorities.

_First Orator._ But I have--I tell you I wrote to the Commissioner four days ago.

_Pol. In._ Oh, did you? Then that of course alters the case. What are you, Sir?

_First Or._ I am the "Friends of the Horny Hands of Labour."

_Pol. In._ (_after referring to note-book_). Ah, I _thought_ I was right. Your application came in second, Sir--the "Decayed Washerwomen" got in before you. Look here. (_Pointing out regulation._) "Not more than one Meeting shall be allowed at the same time, and if notices of two or more Meetings are given for the same day, preference shall be given to that Meeting of which notice shall have been first received." So you see, Sir, you are not in it. Better luck next time. There is another Bank Holiday six months hence.

_First Or._ But the "Decayed Washerwomen" are not here, and I--

_Pol. In._ Very sorry. Sir, but you must move on. (First Orator _disappears with grumbling followers_.) I say, BILL, I do really think these regulations are working quite pleasantly.

_Bill_ (_a subordinate_). Yes, Sir.

_Second Orator._ (_entering hurriedly, accompanied by some aged females_). Here, I say, where are we to make speeches?

_Pol. In._ (_genially_). Nowhere, unless you have the proper authority. Who may you be when you are at home?

_Second Or._ (_fussily_). Why, the "Decayed Washerwomen," to be sure. Now, look sharp, and find us a place to deliver speeches. You know you _must_ do it, by order of the--

_Pol. In._ Yes, I know. Well, what do you say to the top of that lamp-post?

_Second Or._ Now, none of your chaff. Mind, you are the servants of the public, and--

_Pol. In._ Yes--but don't deliver a speech to me--I am not a "Decayed Washerwoman."

_Chorus of Indignant Females._ We should think not. It would be a good thing if you were!

_Second Or._ Now, look sharp. We have been longer coming than we expected. The cabs and omnibuses were so troublesome. Now, where shall I stand?

_Pol. In._ (_considering_). Well, I think you would be out of the way if you got up there, and spoke to them down below.

[_Points out elevated position in front of the National Gallery._

_Second Or._ But they won't be able to see, much less to hear me!

_Pol. In._ Can't help that. The Commissioners of Her Majesty's Works and Public Buildings don't provide telescopes nor yet ear-trumpets.--_Bill_ (_saluting_). Sunset, Sir!

_Pol. In._ There, you see! Thought you would be too late. Time's up. Glad to see you another day. But now--move on!

[_And the Police Regulations are obeyed. Curtain._

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THE GOOD OLD (SUNDAY) TIMES REVIVED.--The specimen number of _The Sunday Times_ as it was at its commencement in 1822, given on Sunday, October 23rd, 1892, is most interesting. Theatrical advertising was quite "a feature" at that time, when only two Theatres, Drury Lane and Covent Garden, seem to have advertised. The names there are of EDMUND KEAN simply as Mr. KEAN, of Messrs. DOWTON, HARLEY, YOUNG, MUNDEN, Mrs. GLOVER, and of Madame VESTRIS as _Ophelia_. BRAHAM is there, as also LISTON and Miss STEPHENS. Prize Fights are done in the good old Tom-and-Jerry style, and the Police Reports are made so amusing as to suggest that such a light touch as is occasionally given in the "Day by Day" of the _Daily Telegraph_, might be nowadays welcome in (Police) Court News. Altogether, a happy thought to reproduce the _Sunday Times_ of 1822, and may the _Sunday Times_ of 1892 live up to it, and be "going strong" in 1992! _Prosit!_

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GUY-FOX POPULI.

The proceedings of the Midnight Mass Meeting of Unemployed Guys at Vauxhall on the fifth of November were of a somewhat disorderly nature, several of the speeches being characterised by a distinctly incendiary tone, as will be seen from the following account by _Mr. Punch's_ Special Reporter, who was present throughout.

The Chair-guy (whose appearance was comparatively respectable) said he was proud to occupy the chair--notwithstanding that the bottom was out of it. (_Shame!_) Oh. he was used to that, although he could tell the meeting he had driven his own donkey-cart once upon a time, if he had come down to a wheelbarrow now! (_Cries of "Toff!" and "Aristocrat!" from the more extreme Guys._) He did not understand those expressions of disapproval--a wheelbarrow with one leg missing was surely an unostentatious conveyance enough. Well, they had met that evening to discuss the means to be taken to obviate the depression in the important branch of out-door industry in which, if he did not mistake, they were all interested. (_Hear, hear!_) That such depression existed, and was on the increase, there was, unhappily, no doubt--it was becoming more and more difficult, as they knew without his telling them, for the steadiest Guy to maintain himself in a proper position, without extraneous support. He knew, for a fact, that there were hundreds of Guys at that very moment who, when their present job was over, would find themselves--through no fault of their own--thrown out of employment for another twelvemonth, at least. Did they call _that_ justice? (_No! and groans._) The whole system was iniquitous--the question was, how they were to put a stop to it. He invited suggestions from the Audience.

A Guy said that, in his opinion, their decline was entirely due to their inability to supply themselves with the apparel necessary and suitable to their calling. What were their duties? Why, to keep alive the memory of their famous Founder, the author of the great, and never-to-be-forgotten Gunpowder Plot--he need hardly say he alluded to GUIDO FAWKES! (_Enthusiastic and prolonged cheering._) He was no scholar himself--he had never enjoyed a University education--and he did not pretend to be an authority on historical costume. Still, he felt safe in asserting that a Guy who, like himself, was compelled to represent their glorious Predecessor in an old tail coat, a pair of baggy tweed trousers, and a pot hat with a hole through the crown, did so under a cruel disadvantage. He had heard that, in former times, every Guy was sent out provided, as a matter of course, with a dark lantern and a box of matches. Who ever saw a Guy so equipped nowadays? They had been robbed of the very implements of their trade by the grasping greed of their so-called superiors. (_Shame!_) In his opinion every Guy had a right to be furnished with the correct costume of the period--whatever that might be--at the public expense. (_Loud cheers._)

A Guy in a Cocked Hat said he did not think the previous speaker had mentioned the real cause of their fallen fortunes--their _clothes_ were right enough; they had to thank their own shortsighted policy for their present position--yes, he was there to speak plainly, as Guy to Guy, and he told them that it was nothing short of social suicide for a Guy to carry about a placard, such as he saw too many of them wearing that evening, inscribed with the name of a recent murderer or some other popular but ephemeral favourite. (_Some murmuring._) _That_ was not the way to preserve the name and fame of their revered Chief. No; let every Guy be true to himself and his order, let him indignantly refuse to sully his descent by such vulgar and unworthy devices, and then--(_Uproar, amidst which the Speaker was compelled to resume his seat._)

A Guy in a Blue Mask, who carried a placard bearing the name of the Ex-Premier, described the remarks of both his brother Guys as pestilent drivel. It was not clothes that made the Guy. A Guy was a Guy in any guise! (_Loud cheers._) But no Guy ever rose in the world yet without combustibles of some sort inside him, and how many of them ever knew what it was to get their fill of crackers? They were starving amidst an abundance of squibs! Society was responsible, and must be forced to do its duty. He had had enough of it, he meant to get a good blow-out before he was much older, he could tell them, and if the Government refused to provide it free, he must loot a firework factory, that was all--he was ready to lead the way--if they would follow! (_Applause._)

A Guy in a Yellow Mask said he was in favour of proceeding by peaceable and constitutional methods if possible. Much could be done by organising and bringing their grievances before Parliament, with a view to remedial legislation. They might begin by agitating for the Franchise. "One Guy, one vote!" would be a popular cry just now, when some Electoral Reforms were believed to be in contemplation. Fortunately they had a Home Secretary whom they might reasonably hope to find sympathetic--he thought they should ascertain his views before taking any other steps.

A Guy in a Pink Mask said he had organised till he was sick of it. As for the Home Secretary, he happened to have headed a deputation to the Home Office that very afternoon--and what did the Meeting think was the result? Why, the Home Secretary had declined to receive him! (_Shame!_) Ah, he might call himself a Radical--but did he treat a Guy as a Man and a Brother? Did he recognise that, creatures of rags and shavings as they were, they had their feelings? Not he! they were all alike, these politicians, directly they got into office. How long, he asked them, were Guys to be chivied, and harried, and moved along into back-streets by the brutal minions of a corrupt middle-class? If they wanted to get their rights, they must make themselves a nuisance to the Authorities, like other people. It was all very fine to talk about the Franchise, and "One Guy, one vote!" and all the rest of it, but they all knew that Home Rule blocked the way at present. They must go to Trafalgar Square in their thousands; it was the finest place for a bonfire in all London, and they had been kept out of it long enough. _He_ meant to go, if he had to be carried there! (_Loud cheers._)

A Guy in Spectacles and a Tall Hat, said that a demonstration in the Square would, no doubt, be an excellent way of drawing public attention to their wrongs. He advised that when they had succeeded in capturing the Square, they should proceed to pass a resolution calling upon the London County Council to find instant and permanent employment for such Guys as were out of work. (_Cheers._) They could do it easily enough if they liked, and he would tell them how. All over London, nay, in the very Square itself, there were innumerable pedestals at present usurped by Statues which were a disgrace to the Metropolis. All the Council had to do was to remove those Statues from positions they had so long abused, and promote the most deserving and destitute Guys to fill their places. (_Uproar._)

A Guy in Fustian and a Red Comforter rose excitedly to protest against the last speaker's proposals, which he declared were an insult to their common Guyhood. They might have come down in the world, but hitherto, whatever might be said of them, they had, at least, never rendered themselves publicly ridiculous. Now they were asked to degrade themselves by accepting the ignominious position of London Statues! Was there a Guy who would ever hold up his head again, after such an infamous surrender of his self-respect and independence? He felt it his duty to denounce the Guy who was guilty of such a suggestion as a wolf, in sheep's clothing, a base traitor to his order, and a paid spy!

[_Intense excitement; charges and countercharges, and vain attempts by the Chair-guy to restore order. Several Guys, unable to control their indignation any longer, exploded, and the Meeting finally dispersed without attempting to pass any resolution, amidst a scene of indescribable confusion._

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A PATRON OF THE GAIETY THEATRE AND MODERN VARIETY EXTRAVAGANZA SHOW ANTICIPATED BY CHARLES DICKENS.--"There's a lot of feet in SHAKSPEARE's verse, but there ain't any legs worth mentioning in SHAKSPEARE's Plays. * * * What the people call dramatic poetry is a collection of sermons. Do I go to the theatre to be lectured? No, PIP. If I wanted that, I'd go to church. What's the legitimate object of the Drama, PIP? Human nature. What are legs? Human nature. Then let us have plenty of leg-pieces, PIP, and I'll stand by you, my buck!"--_Martin Chuzzlewit_.

N.B.--This is the Pip of our puzzle to Dickensian Students last week. The reference, chapter and verse, was given immediately by Mr. COMYNS CARR, who, on the spot received his reward, and went away rejoicing. We regret that there are no second and third prizes, otherwise Messrs. WALTER WREN and VAN TROMP would have been "placed."--ED.

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REFRESHERS.

"The LORD CHIEF JUSTICE said, 'The extent to which Refreshers are carried in these days makes my historical mouth water. In my younger days at the Bar'--"

(_Cue for Song._)

"In my younger days at the Bar, Tra la la la!" &c.

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THE NEW BROOM, AND THE BLACK PEERAGE.

(_RHYME BY A RAD._)

[Lord SALISBURY, in his article in the _National Review_ for November, makes fun of Mr. FREDERIC HARRISON's assertion that the Government could, at a pinch, secure a majority in the Upper Chamber by elevating five hundred Sweeps (which Lord S. calls the "Black Peerage") to the House of Lords, with the assent of the Crown.]

Five hundred? Good gracious! there's no need of that. "Black Peerage," indeed! Though as black as my hat, They could hardly be blacker than SALISBURY's lot; But to talk of such sooty recruits is sheer rot. That bad Upper House to reform--or degrade-- We don't want the charge of this queer Dark Brigade. Five hundred? FRED HARRISON, you _are_ a green one! _I_'d settle the business with _one_ sweep--_a clean one_!

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THE COURT JESTERS.

Thanks to Messrs. SIMS and RALEIGH and the Court Company for a good hearty laugh, and many of them at their new three-act farcical comedy, _The Guardsman_. It Raleigh is good, and Sims likely to be in for a long run. Therefore, congratulations to Mr. CHUDLEIGH, who is in the proud position of "Sole Lessee and Manager," of the Court. Odd, as a correspondent remarked in a letter to _Mr. Punch_ last week, is the coincidental resemblance of the master-motive of the plot to that of _Incognita_ at the Lyric; viz., the young man refusing to marry the girl with whom he is really in love, because he is in love with the very same young lady without knowing her name or anything about her. But hath not the old Spanish Comedy-writer, GONZALES, used it three times? hath not his fellow-countryman, VEGA MORVEGA, used it in his now obsolete play of _The Distressed Mother_? and hath not VODENDOL, the Norwegian dramatist, absolutely nauseated us with it, not to mention its constant use by that imitation of GOLDONI, Count ERFITO D'ALUMINIO? And to come nearer home, did not the German--but why pursue the "motive" until you run it to earth, and even then it won't be killed, but will be flourishing thousands of years hence, when the New Zealand playwright among the ruins of London shall take up his note-book and commence a scenario on the old, but to him, quite original idea.