PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

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.

“Our dance, I believe?”

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

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

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

THE BRUMMAGEM BIRDCATCHER.

(A Lay of a Labour Programme.) AIR—“The Ratcatcher’s Daughter.”

Brummagem Birdcatcher (aside). “AH! I FANCY I SHALL HAVE THEM PRESENTLY!”

Mrs. Gusher. “OH, GOOD-BYE, SIR JOHN. SO SORRY NOT TO HAVE FOUND YOUR MOST CHARMING WIFE AT HOME.”

Sir John. “THANKS—THANKS! BY THE WAY, LET ME ASSURE YOU I’VE ONLY GOT ONE,—AND—”

[Thinks that the remainder of the sentence is “better understood than expressed.”

“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.

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.

A PRIZE.

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!”

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.

[The Keeper eventually promises that there shall be pins at the farm-house.

[They walk on moodily.

[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?

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.

So you got through your labours at Oxford, my dear friend, without feeling any ill effects?—Certainly, never enjoyed myself more. Everyone paid the deepest attention. One Don actually used an ear-trumpet.

Well, and what do you intend doing next?—Oh, lots of things. You see my Parliamentary work is next to nothing—not a moment more than ten hours a-day. So I must do something with my spare time.

Certainly, I have no objection. But I should like to hear your programme.—I have only got it into form for a week or so. Before the end of the year I shall have it ship-shape. But say for November. Shall we say November?

Certainly. What do you propose doing in November?—Well, I think I shall retranslate the works of HOMER, and write an exhaustive article in the Encylopædia Britannica (new edition) on the “Life of WELLINGTON.”

And that is all? Well, and a fair amount, too!—All! What nonsense! Why, that will take me less than no time. Then I think I shall ascend Mont Blanc, so as to be able to see how the summit looks in winter. Then I shall translate the Waverley Novels into Swedish.

Well, you might be worse employed, but you must not overdo it.—Overdo it! Certainly not! Why, I am strong as a horse. And that reminds me, I think I shall attempt a long-distance ride on my own account. I feel sure that I can do better than those German and Austrian fellows.

Where do you propose to ride?—From John o’ Groat’s to the Land’s End, I fancy, will be the course. I ought to do it in three days.

Of course you will use more than one horse?—Oh, certainly. No cruelty. And I think I shall try the walk myself on foot, just to see if a horse will be able to keep up with me.

And is there any other exploit that you contemplate?—I thought I might perhaps dine with the new Lord Mayor.

What! dine with the new Lord Mayor! Why, you would never be able to bear the strain; the great exertion!—I was half afraid you might say this, so I have written and respectfully declined the invitation!

FELINE AMENITIES.

“HOW KIND OF YOU TO CALL—I’M SO SORRY TO HAVE KEPT YOU WAITING!”

“OH, DON’T MENTION IT—I’VE NOT BEEN AT ALL BORED! I’VE BEEN TRYING TO IMAGINE WHAT I SHOULD DO TO MAKE THIS ROOM LOOK COMFORTABLE IF IT WERE MINE!”

[Left lamenting.

VERY CRUEL.—Mrs. R. was very much annoyed at something she said having been misreported by a friend. “I can’t trust him,” said the excellent Lady; “he twists and gargles everything I say.”

OFTEN TALKED ABOUT BUT NEVER SEEN.—“A Clean Sweep.”

ICHABOD!

GOG. “NO PRIME MINISTER! NO FURRIN SECKETARY! NO CHANCELLOR O’ TH’ EXCHEQUER!”

MAGOG (bitterly). “S’POSE WE SHAN’T HAVE NO LORD MAYOR NEXT!!”

His name was LEGION. He had kept his eye on the Laureateship from his early boyhood, when he sent verses to the Poets’ Corner of the Bungay Weekly Mail, which sometimes published them; then he cut them out, and pasted them neatly in a book, which he still possesses. He always wrote on an occasion. “Lines on the Recovery of My Sister EMILY from the Mumps”; “Dirge on the Decease of a Favourite Squirrel,” beginning, “No more!” but there was always plenty more where that came from, and is still. At College he was one of the three men who wrote in College Rhymes, and secured for that periodical a circulation by taking a hundred copies each. LEGION sent dozens of his, marked, to every poet he heard of, generally addressing them “Dear ALURED” (if that was the Minstrel’s Christian name), or, in verse, “Brother, my Brother, my sweet, swift Brother!” This annoyed some poets, who did not answer; others were good-natured, and would reply,—

“DEAR SIR,—I have to acknowledge, with many thanks, your Cebren and Paris, and anticipate much pleasure from its perusal.”

LEGION kept all these letters in a book, and published some of them as advertisements of his Cebren and Paris (an unsuccessful Newdigate), when it appeared in a volume, with an astonishingly decorative cover. It was a classical piece, in blank verse. Cebren, the father of Œnone, is represented asking Paris what his intentions are as regards that lady. It was piece of classical genre, the author said: such interviews must have occurred when a young Trojan prince, with no particular expectations, paid marked attentions to the daughter of a River-god, like Cebren. Here is a specimen piece,—

Some accused LEGION of plagiarising the last line and a half, which reminded them, they said, of MARLOWE. But he replied that great wits jump, that it was an accidental coincidence. The public, which rarely cares much for poetry, was struck by Cebren and Paris. “There is in it,” said the Parthenon, “an original music, and a chord is struck, reverberating from the prehistoric years, which will find an answer in the heart of every father of a family.” The Clergy at large quoted Cebren and Paris in their charges and sermons, and the work was a favourite prize at seminaries for young ladies. Consequently all the other poets, whom nobody buys, arose, and blasphemed Cebren and Paris in all the innumerable reviews. This greatly, and justly, added to the popularity of LEGION’s book. He followed it up by Idylls of the Nursery, a volume of exquisite pieces on infants as yet incapable of speaking or walking. This had an enormous success among young newly-married people, an enthusiastic class of the community. At recitations you might hear—

In sequence to these effusions, LEGION poured forth Ballades, and Rondeaux, and wrote a Chant Royal on a General Election which occupied a whole column of a newspaper, and needed three men to read, with a boy for the “envoy.” But this ditty was not thought to have seriously affected the voting classes in any direction. LEGION was now usually spoken of as “the versatile Mr. LEGION,” a compliment which never failed to annoy him hugely. Sated with popular applause, he turned into a vein of new poetry, and produced The Song of the Spud, which, his admirers averred was “racy of the soil.” A grand English Opera, on the Pilgrimage of Grace, was performed, at immense expense, LEGION being the Librettist. It was patriotic, but not exactly popular. Still, with all these claims on his country, LEGION lived in hopes which were wofully disappointed; for, when his chance came at last, a Prime Minister of modern ideas declared that, as a Laureate is not useful, he must be ornamental. Now, neither LEGION, nor any of his rivals, could be called decorative, whatever they might have been in their youth. They needed laurels, for the same reason as JULIUS CÆSAR. The wreath was therefore offered (by a Plébiscite conducted in a newspaper) to the young Lady-poet whose verses and photograph secured the greatest number of votes; the Laureate, in every case, to resign, on attaining her twenty-fifth birthday. The beautiful and accomplished Mrs. JINGLEY JONES triumphed in this truly modern competition, and her book was rushed into a sale of two hundred and fifty copies. After this check the writing of poetry ceased to attract male enterprise—to the extreme joy of Publishers and Reviewers; though the market for waste-paper received a shock from which it never rallied. The youthful male population of England determined never to become Poets, unless they were born Poets, a resolution on which, at all times, a minority of the race had acted, with the best results.

Mr. J.L. “Walker” Toole and “Full Company.”

“NOTES AND PAPER.”—There is a lot of “paper” about from “Walker—London.” No, Mr. JOHNNIE TOOLE, Sir, not your “paper,” for your House is crammed and your “paper” is at a premium. But this particular WALKER, of Warwick House, London, sends forth “Society Stationery”—“which,” as Mrs. Gamp would have said, “spelling of it with an ‘a’ instead of an ‘e,’ Society never is.” Among the lot there’s an “Antique Society Paper,” which should be a Society Paper as old as the world itself, or it might be used by a Fossilised Fogey Club. WALKER & Co.’s new “Society Paper,” whether antique or modern, is pretty and quite harmless—till pen and ink are at work on it; and then—but that’s another story.

[Enters into long domestic details.

[Enters into long explanation, bristling with technicalities.

BALANCE OF PROBABILITIES.

High Church Lady. “I SUPPOSE THAT WAS THE LADY CHAPEL BEHIND THE CHOIR?”

Low Church Verger. “I DON’T FANCY THERE’S HANY SUCH ’EREABOUTS, M’M. I THINK IT WAS ONLY THE PEW-OPENER!”

THE BOOM-DE-AY POET.

[“Mr. RICHARD MORTON, the author of “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay,” has been called to prove what would be a reasonable figure for the whole proprietary rights of a song.”—Times Law Reports, Nov. 3rd.]

MRS. R., on hearing that a Cricket-team, though not first-rate, had a leaven of good players, inquired how they could have more of them.

THE LORD MAYOR’S SHOW.

MEDITATIONS OF THE LORD MAYOR’S FOOTMAN.

Covent Garden, Tuesday, Nov. 1st.—Tristan und Isolde. About the dullest thing that even a much-enduring Wagnerite ever heard. Glass down to zero.

Our Critic at The Opera.

He heareth Tristan und Isolde wrapt in slumber.

He heareth Cavalleria Rusticana rapt in ecstasy.

He seeth and heareth Aïda, “More power to your Melba!’”

Wednesday.—Glass up again. Orféo with the two RAVOGLI and the marvellous BAUERMEISTER as Cupid. Wonderful little lady BAUERMEISTER-singer! I’ve said it before, and I repeat it emphatically, BAUERMEISTER is “a little treasure” to an Operatic Manager. MASCAGNI’s Cavalleria Rusticana was the second course to-night, in which this adaptable lady, the Cupid of the first piece, appeared as old heart-broken grey-haired Lucia, the mother of the gay Turiddu. Were Sir AUGUSTUS inclined to introduce a little light English jocosity into this serious Opera, he might give a line to the implacable Alfio, saying, “I’ve come to rid you of Turiddu!” If MASCAGNI had heard this, he would have composed an additional Intermezzo expressing the whole force of the idea.

Thursday.—Carmen expected, but tenor off colour, so change of air (or should say airs) recommended, and adopted. Audience sent to the country, or, rather, Rusticana brought to them.

Friday.—House crammed. Great excitement to hear MELBA as Aïda, the darky girl. Everybody delighted, except perhaps MELBA herself, who, on seeing the bouquets, must have murmured, “Trop de fleurs!” Everybody good. Quite the best night of the Season. To-night BAUERMEISTER appears as Sacerdotessa. So this week she has been Cupid, an old Peasant woman, Frascita, a Brigand’s Young Woman; and then, being repentant, she finishes as a Priestess! It’s a whole life-time in a few days.

Berkeley Square, W.

MR. PUNCH, Sir,

I am surprised to find a Journal of your standing lowering itself to follow the example of the so-called “Society Journals” by inserting contributions from women!—I have discovered, no matter how, that My Wife, who always declares she hates letter-writing, has for months past contributed a long weekly letter to Punch, dealing with racing from a humorous (save the mark!) point of view! Now I never make jokes myself—at least intentionally—nor do I think it becomes a man of position to do so—and I quite agree with SWIFT or SHERIDAN (I know it was one of these infernal clever literary chaps) who said, “A humorous woman is a delusion and a snare!”—so you may imagine my disgust at finding My Wife writing for a Journal!—why couldn’t she have asked Me to help her?—and signing her articles anonymously too!—for I need hardly tell you she is no more “GAY” than I am!—at all events when in my society!

Like most busy idlers (that is not intended for a joke)—I go racing a bit, and of course “have a bit on” like other people, and having tried all the turf-prophets in turn, with unsatisfactory results, I was delighted to hear from a friend that “a new DANIEL had come to judgment” in the person of a tipster on Punch, who was “wonderful good”—(it was just the time when she did blunder on to a winner)—and I made up my mind to follow the new Prophet DANIEL; but, by Jove! it resulted in a loss, and DANIEL landed me among the lions in no time! These are not jokes, but sober facts—I plunged heavily on all the “Selections,” and am now in the pleasant position of owing the Ring a substantial sum in addition to “the old,” through following My Wife’s advice—whilst her banking-account is considerably augmented through having laid against her own tips! This may be humorous, but as i said, I don’t approve of humour when exercised on myself!

I laughed most consumedly at some of her articles, but on looking them over again—(she has kept the lot, pasted in a book—a monument to my fatuity!)—I don’t think so much of them now I know she wrote them, and see that I could have made numberless valuable suggestions had she only seen fit to consult me! Of course I could stop any further contribution on her part, but consideration for your readers (?) prevents that—to say nothing of her determination to continue—so I have therefore consented to her odd whim, on the condition that in future I “edit” her contributions;—I need hardly assure you that I shall confine my “editing” strictly to these limits, and that your own Editor need be under no apprehension as to my usurping his place,—ably as I should, no doubt, fill it!

My Wife begs me to follow her example, and conclude with a verse—(I don’t know where she picked up such a bad habit)—but—while bowing to her wishes—(I am always polite)—to a certain extent, I absolutely decline to make the verse other than blank!

CHARLES POMPERSON (Bart.).

[On a slip of paper found in Sir CHARLES’s envelope, we have the following from our valued contributress—[ED.]:—“DEAR MR. PUNCH,—I am too upset to write—you shall hear from me next week. Tours as devotedly as ever,—LADY GAY.”]

ANECDOTAGE.—Mr. Punch one day was reading aloud from a book of anecdotes when Mr. WEEDON GROSSMITH was present. “What rot!” observed the representative of Lord Arthur Pomeroy. And Mr. Punch agreed with him.

PHANTASMA-GORE-IA.

☞ NOTICE.—Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.