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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 103,
November 19, 1892, by Various

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Title: Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 103, November 19, 1892

Author: Various

Editor: Francis Burnand

Release Date: May 31, 2005 [EBook #15957]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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Distributed Proofreading Team.





PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 103.



November 19, 1892.




THE MAN WHO WOULD.

II.--THE MAN WHO WOULD PLAY GOLF.

BULGER was no cricketer, no tennis-player, no sportsman, in fact.
But his Doctor recommended exercise and fresh air. "And I'm thinking,
Sir," he added, "that you cannot do better than just take yourself
down to St. Andrews, and put yourself under TOM MORRIS." "Is he a
great Scotch physician?" asked BULGER; "I don't seem to have heard of
him." "The Head of the Faculty, Sir," said the medical man--"the Head
of the Faculty in those parts."

BULGER packed his effects, and, in process of time, he arrived at
Leuchars. Here he observed some venerable towers within a short walk,
and fancied that he would presently arrive at St. Andrews. In this he
was reckoning without the railway system--he was compelled to wait at
Leuchars for no inconsiderable time, which he occupied in extracting
statistics about the consumption of whiskey from the young lady who
ministered to travellers. The revelations now communicated, convinced
BULGER that either Dr. MORRIS was not on the lines of Sir ANDREW
CLARK, or, as an alternative, that his counsels were not listened to
by travellers on that line.

[Illustration]

Arriving in the dusk, BULGER went to his inn, and next morning
inquired as to the address of the Head of the Faculty. "I dinna ken,"
said an elderly person, to whom he appealed, "that the Professors
had made TOM a Doctor, though it's a sair and sad oversicht, and a
disgrace to the country, that they hae'na done sae lang syne. But I
jalouse that your Doctor was jist making a gowk o' ye." "What!" said
BULGER. "Jist playin' a plisky on ye, and he meant that TOM wad pit ye
in the way o' becoming a player. Mon, ye're a bull-neckit, bow-leggit
chiel', and ye'd shape fine for a Gowfer! Here's TOM." And, with this
brief introduction, the old man strolled away.

BULGER now found himself in the presence of Mr. MORRIS, whose
courtesy soon put him on a footing of friendliness and confidence.
He purchased, by his Mentor's advice, a driver, a cleek, a putter, a
brassey, an iron, a niblick, and a mashy. Armed with these implements,
which were "carried by an orphan boy," and, under the guidance of the
Head of the Faculty himself, BULGER set forth on his first round. His
first two strokes were dealt on the yielding air; his third carried
no inconsiderable parcel of real property to some distance; but his
fourth hit the ball, and drove it across the road. "As gude as a
better," quoth the orphan boy, and bade BULGER propel the tiny sphere
in the direction of a neighbouring rivulet. Into this affluent of the
main, BULGER finally hit the ball; but an adroit lad of nine stamped
it into the mud, while pretending to look for it, and BULGER had to
put down another. When he got within putting range, he hit his ball
careering back and forward over the hole, and, "Eh, man," quoth the
orphan boy, "if ye could only drive as you put!"

In some fifteen strokes he accomplished his task of holing out; and
now, weary and desponding (for he had fancied Golf to be an easy
game), he would have desisted for the day. But the Head of the Faculty
pressed on him the necessity of "The daily round, the common task."
So his ball was tee'd, and he lammed it into the Scholar's Bunker, at
a distance of nearly thirty yards. A niblick was now placed in his
grasp, and he was exhorted to "Take plenty sand." Presently a kind
of simoom was observed to rage in the Scholars' Bunker, out of which
emerged the head of the niblick, the ball, and, finally, BULGER
himself. His next hit, however, was a fine one, over the wall, where,
as the ball was lost, BULGER deposited a new one. This he, somehow,
drove within a few feet of the hole, when he at once conceived an
intense enthusiasm for the pastime. "It was a fine drive," said the
Head of the Faculty. "Mr. BLACKWELL never hit a finer." Thus inflamed
with ardour, BULGER persevered. He learned to waggle his club in a
knowing way. He listened intently when he was bidden to "keep his eye
on the ba'", and to be "slow up." True, he now missed the globe and
all that it inhabit, but soon he hit a prodigious swipe, well over
cover-point's head,--or rather, in the direction where cover-point
would have been. "Ye're awfu' bad in the whuns," said the orphan
boy; and, indeed, BULGER'S next strokes were played in distressing
circumstances. The spikes of the gorse ran into his person--he could
only see a small part of the ball, and, in a few minutes, he had made
a useful clearing of about a quarter of an acre.

It is unnecessary to follow his later achievements in detail. He
returned a worn and weary man, having accomplished the round in
about a hundred and eighty, but in possession of an appetite which
astonished him and those with whom he lunched. In the afternoon, the
luck of beginners attending him, he joined a foursome of Professors,
and triumphantly brought in his partner an easy victor. In a day or
two, he was drinking beer (which he would previously have rejected
as poison), was sleeping like a top, and was laying down the law
on stimy, and other "mysteries more than Eleusinian." True, after
the first three days, his play entirely deserted BULGER, and even
Professors gave him a wide berth in making up a match. But by steady
perseverance, reading Sir WALTER SIMPSON, taking out a professional,
and practising his iron in an adjacent field, BULGER soon developed
to such an extent that few third-rate players could give him a stroke
a hole. He had been in considerable danger of "a stroke" of quite a
different character before he left London, and the delights of the
Bar. But he returned to the Capital in rude health, and may now often
be seen and heard, topping into the Pond at Wimbledon, and talking in
a fine Fifeshire-accent. It must be acknowledged that his story about
his drive at the second hole, "equal to BLACKWELL, himself, TOM MORRIS
himself told me as much," has become rather a source of diversion to
his intimates; but we have all our failings, and BULGER never dreams,
when anyone says, "What is the record drive?" that he is being
drawn for the entertainment of the sceptical and unfeeling. BULGER
will never, indeed, be a player; but, if his handicap remains at
twenty-four, he may, some day, carry off the monthly medal. With this
great aim before him, and the consequent purchase of a red-coat and
gilt-buttons, BULGER has a new purpose in existence, "something to
live for, something to do." May this brief but accurate history convey
a moral to the Pessimist, and encourage those who take a more radiant
view of the possibilities of life!

       *       *       *       *       *

A PLEBISCITE FOR PARNASSUS.

    [The result of the _Pall Mall's_ competition for the
    Laureateship has been to place Mr. ERIC MACKAY and Mr.
    GILBART-SMITH first and second, and SWINBURNE and MORRIS
    nowhere.]

  A popular vote the Laureate's post to fill?
  Ay! if Parnassus were but Primrose Hill.
  The Penny Vote puts lion below monkey.
  'Tis "Tuppence more, Gents, and _up goes the donkey!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

QUITE MOVING.--_From Far and Near_ and _All Alive_, are two excellent
"movable toy-books" that will please the little ones (when their
seniors are tired of playing with them) far into the Yule-tide season.
The author is LOTHAR MAGGENDORFER, a gentleman to whom _Mr. Punch_
wishes a "Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year." This may appear a
little premature, but it is a far cry from England to Germany, and the
Sage of Fleet Street has allowed for any delays that may be caused by
fogs, railway unpunctuality, and other necessary evils.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE AMERICAN GANYMEDE.

[Illustration]

    [The extraordinary triumph of Mr. GROVER CLEVELAND, Democratic
    Candidate for the American Presidency, is attributed to a
    general revolt against the McKinley Bill.]

  O plump and pant-striped boy, upborne,
    Like Ganymede of old,
  _Punch_ hails you, with your slack, untorn,
    Fast in the Eagle's hold.
  It is, indeed, a startling sight
    That speculation tarries on;
  And it must give an awful fright
    To Hebe (_alias_ HARRISON!)

  Up, up to the Olympus, where
    The White House spreads its board,
  Whirled high through the electoral air,
    A boy less long than broad!
  He looks not like the Tammany breed,
    That with high tariffs dally;
  He proves, this Yankee Ganymede,
    The Democratic rally.

  This eagle's a colossal fowl,
    Like _Sindbad's_ monstrous Roc,
  A bird of prey some say, a-prowl
    Like that Stymphalian flock,
  With iron claws and brazen beak,
    Intent to clutch and collar,
  Fired with devotion strong, yet weak,
    To the Almighty Dollar.

  Pooh! Plunder's not his only joy.
    He hovered till he saw
  "A something-pottle-bodied boy,"
    Who spurned MCKINLEY'S Law.
  He stooped and clutched him, fair and good,
    Flew nigh o'er roof and casement,
  Whilst the Republicans all stood
    Agape in sheer amazement.

  He soars with proudly swelling crest
    And followed with acclaims,
  A cause of wonder in the West,
    And crowing by the Thames.
  For England, glorying in the sight,
    Greets Boy and Bird together;
  Whilst watching with serene delight
    That big, black, falling feather!

       *       *       *       *       *

ROBERT ON LORD MARE'S DAY.

The most ewentfoollest day of the hole year broke, as the poets says,
without almost not no fog, on Wensday larst, to my grate serprise and
joy; but noing, from long xperiens, how unsertain is whether at this
orful seasun of the year, I took jest one leetel glass of hold brandy
before setting out on my arjus dootys. I was encurraged to do so also
by the horful rumers as was spread about, weeks afore, as to threttend
atacks on the sacred Show by some disapinted prottestens, I think they
called theirselves, as hadn't bin inwited to the Bankwet, and so meant
to prottest accordingly.

But I needn't a bin alarmd, for the most respekful mob as filled the
streets was as quiet as mice, havin heard, I'm told, as how as the
Copperashun had had the lectric light turned on at Gildhall, by which
means, of course, they coud comunicate with any-wheres, and so know
where to send an hole army of Waiters to, well fortyfide, and armed
to the teeth with a splendid Lunch, to help the pore Perlice in their
arjus dootys.

From wot I seed of the butifool Sho, I shood give the cake to the
Frute-Makers' splendid Car, all covered with the most butifool Frute,
all made, too, in England, as it trewthfoolly said on both sides of
the high-backed Car. The second plaice I shood give to the numerus
butifool young Ladys, with most butifool flaxin air, all most bisily
ingaged in a twistlin and a twiddlin of luvly gold and silver wire, on
a Car belongin to the Makers of Gold and Silver Wire Drorers, wich I
heard a most respectfool carpenter declare, must, he thort, be most
uncomferal to wear. With that good fortun as allers atends the Hed
Waiter, I seem to have atracted the notis of one of the most butifool
of the young Ladys afoursaid, for she acshally tossed me a luvly
littel bit of reel golden wire, which I shall trezure nex my art for
years, if so be as how it don't skratch.

The grand Bankwet, with its nine hunderd Gestes, was as ushal, about
the grandest thing of the kind as the world has ever seen, but sumhows
it struck me as the gents was much more impashent for their wittles
than they ushally is. At my pertickler tabel, the two gents at the
top was that trubblesum about the reel Turtel-soup as I ain't a tall
accumstumed to, and I amost poured a hole ladel-full down the fine
shirt-front of one of em; and then, trying at the next help to awoid
him, I sent my helbow full into the face of the other, and a pretty
fuss he made, you bet, and acshally torked of sending for the
souperintendent, ewidently not knowing who I was.

The same himpashent Gent amost worried my life out arterwards, and all
about a glass of _plane_ water as he called it, and when I told him as
I didn't think as we hadn't not none in the plaice, but I coud get him
a bottel of amost any kind of Shampane as he liked to name; he again
said as he wood call for the souperintendent. So in course I had
to go for some, and a preshus long time it took me to get it; the
wine-steward naterally sayin as he never before herd of sich a order
on sich a ocasion, and he had only one bottel with him, and when I
took it to the himpashent Gent, and told him so, he fairly roared with
larfter, and told it all round as a capital joke! I wunders where the
joke was.

When the dinner was over and the speaches began, I got permishun to
stand unner the gallery for to hear them; but strange to tell, not a
word coud I hear, and them as I did hear I coudn't unnerstand. So I
began for to fear as crewel age was a tarnishing of my 'earrings, so
I moved to the other end of the 'All jest in time for to hear a werry
dark but gennelmanly young feller, as was called the Gayqueer, or
some such wonderfool name, and who, I was told, come all the way
from Indier, make sitch a grand and nobel speach, and in quite as
good Inglish as ewen I coud use, as got him more applorse from the
distinguisht hordiens than all the speaches maid by Her Madjesty's
Ministers put together. Always xceptin the Lawyers, for they seems to
have sitch a jolly good time of it, that they are allers as reddy to
cause a larf as to enjoy one. We all seemed sumhow to miss the werry
PRIME MINISTER--we are all so acustomd to see the werry top of the
tree, that we don't quite like being put off with a mere bow, however
big and himportant it may be; besides, I must confess as I do like
to hear his luvly woice, ewen when I don't quite unnerstand all as he
says. So I don't suppose as any one of my numerus readers will quarrel
with me when I says, better luck nex time.

ROBERT.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: CANDID CRITICISM.

"LIKE MY NEW FROCK, AUNT JANE?"

"WELL, _I_ SHOULD SAY YOU'D GOT SKIRTS FOR YOUR SLEEVES, AND A SLEEVE
FOR YOUR SKIRT!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

PROOFS BEFORE LETTERS.

  Humbugs will always ape their betters,
    Fools fancy the alphabet brings them fame;
  But you don't become a man of letters
    By tacking the letters after your name.
  One suffix only the _fact_ expresses,
  And that's an A and a couple of S's!

       *       *       *       *       *

ANOTHER MEANING.--_I Rantzau_ is the title of MASCAGNI'S new Opera.
The title, anglicised, would be suitable for an old-fashioned
transpontine melodramatic tragedian, who could certainly say of
himself, "_I rant so!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

SHAKSPEARIAN CONUNDRUM.

At what time would SHAKSPEARE'S heroine of _The Taming of the Shrew_
have been eminently fitted to be a modern Sunday-School teacher?

_Answer._ When _Petruchio_ kissed her; because then she was _a Kattie
Kiss'd_. (Hem! A Cate-chist.)

       *       *       *       *       *

ALL ROUND THE FAIR.

NO. I.

    SCENE--_A street of Gingerbread, Sweetstuff, and Toy-stalls,
    "Cocoa-nut Shies," "Box-pitching Saloons," &c., forming
    the approach to the more festive portion of the Fair, from
    which proceeds a cheerful cacophony of orchestrions,
    barrel-organs, steam-whistles, gongs, big drums, rattles,
    and speaking-trumpets._

_Proprietors of Cocoa-nut Shies._ Now, then, play up all o'
you--ar-har! There goes another on 'em! _That's_ the way to 'it
'em--win all yer like, &c.

_A Rival Proprietor_ (_pointing to his target, through the centre of
which his partner's head is protruded_). Look at _that_! Ain't that
better nor any coker-nut? Every time you 'it my mate's 'ed, you git
a good cigar! (_As the by-standers hang back, from motives of
humanity._) 'Ere, _'ave_ a go at 'im, some o' you--give 'im a little
encouragement!

_The Head_ (_plaintively_). Don't neglect a man as is doing his best
to please yer, gen'l'men! (_A soft-hearted Bystander takes a shot at
him, out of sheer compassion, and misses._) Try agen, Sir. I ain't
'ere to be _idle_!

_A Sharp Little Girl_ (_presiding over a sloping Chinese
Billiard-board_). Now, my dears--(_To a group of boys, of about her
own age_)--'ave what yer like. A penny a pull, and a prize every time!
Wherever the marble rolls, you 'ave any one article on the board!

[Illustration: "Now then, play up, all o' yea--ar-har!"]

    [_One of the boys pays a penny, and pulls a handle, propelling
    a marble, which, after striking a bell at the top of the
    slope, wobbles down into a compartment._

_The Boy_ (_indicating a gorgeous china ornament on the board_). I'll
'ave one o' them--to take 'ome to mother.

_The S.L.G._ (_with pitying superiority_). No, my boy, you can go to a
shop and _buy_ one o' them for sixpence if you like--but 'ere you must
'ave what you _git_!

    [_She awards him a very dingy lead-pencil, with which he
    departs, abashed, and evidently revolving her dark saying in
    his perplexed mind._

_Proprietor of a Box-pitching Saloon._ One penny a ball! For hevery
ball that goes in the boxes, you choose any prize you like! (_With
sorrow and sympathy, to a female Competitor._) Too 'ard, Lady, too
_'ard_! (_To a male Comp., whose ball has struck the edge of the box,
and bounced off._) Very _near_, Sir!

    [_Several Competitors expend penny after penny unsuccessfully,
    and walk away, with a grin of entire satisfaction._

_Joe_ (_landing a ball in one of the boxes, after four failures_). I
told 'ee I'd get _waun_ in! (_To his Young Woman._) What are ye goin'
to 'ave, MELIA?

_Melia_ (_hovering undecidedly over a glittering array of shell-boxes,
cheap photograph-albums and crockery_). I'll take one o'--no, I won't
neither.... I really don't know _what_ to 'ave!

_Joe_ (_with masculine impatience_). Well, go on--take _summat_, can't
ye! (_MELIA selects a cup and saucer, as the simplest solution of the
problem._) I doan't carl that mooch of a show for fippence, I
doan't. Theer, gi' us 'old on it. [_He stows the china away in his
side-pockets._

_Melia._ You took an' 'urried me so--else I don't know as I fancied
a cup and sarcer so partickler. I wonder if the man 'ud change it,
supposin' we was to go back and ast 'im!

_Joe_ (_slapping his thigh_). Well, you _are_ a gell and no mistake!
Come along back and git whatever 'tis you've a mind to. (_Returning._)
'Ere, Master, will ye gi' this young woman summat else for this 'ere?
(_He extracts the cup in fragments._) 'Ullo, look a' _that_ now! (_To
MELIA._) Theer, it's all right--doan't take on 'bout it.--I'll 'ave
another go to make it oop. (_He pitches ball after ball without
success._) I wawn't be bett. I lay I'll git 'un in afoor I've done!
(_He is at last successful._) Theer--now, ye can please yourself,
and doan't choose nawthen' foolish _this_ time! (_He strolls on with
lordly indifference, and is presently rejoined by MELIA._) Well, what
did ye take arter all?

_Melia._ I got so flustered like, for fear o' losin' you, I just up
and took the first that came 'andy.

_Joe._ Why, if ye ain't bin and took _another_ cup an' sarcer!
hor--hor! that's a good 'un, that is! Take keer on it, it's cost money
enough any 'ow--'t wouldn't be no bargain if it wur a 'ole tea-set!
What's goin' on 'ere?

    [_A venerable old Sportsman, whom the reader may possibly
    recollect having met before, has collected a small crowd in
    a convenient corner; his stock-in-trade consists of an
    innocent-looking basket, with a linen-cover, upon which are a
    sharpened skewer and a narrow strip of cloth._

_The Sportsman._ I'll undertake to show you more fun in five minutes,
than you'll get over there in two: (_with a vague suspicion that this
is rather a lame conclusion_)--in ten, I _should_ say! This 'ere's a
simple enough little game, when you know the trick of it, and I'm
on'y a _learnin'_ it myself. I ain't doin' this for money. I got money
enough to sink a ship--it's on'y for my own amusement. Now you watch
me a doin' up this garter--keep yer eye on it. (_He coils up the
strip._) It goes _up_ 'ere, ye see, and down _there_, and _in_ 'ere
agin, and then round. Now, I'm ready to bet anything from a sovereign
to a shilling, nobody 'ere can prick the middle. I'll tell ye if ye
win. I'm ole BILLY FAIRPLAY, and I don't cheat! (_A Spotty-faced Man,
after intently following the process, says he believes he could find
the middle._) Well, don't tell--that's all. I'm 'ere all alone, agin
the lot o' ye, and I want to win if I can--one dog to a bone! (_The_
S.-F.M. _produces a florin from a mouldy purse, and stakes it, and
makes a dab at the coil with the skewer._) No, ye're wrong--that's
outside! (_O.B.F. pulls the strip out._) By Gum, ye've done it, after
all! 'Ere's four bob for you, and I'm every bit as pleased as if I'd
won myself! 'Oo'll try next?

_A Smart Young Man_ (_with a brilliant pin in a dirty necktie, to
JOE_). I don't see how it's done--do you?

_Joe._ Ye will if you don't take yer eyes off it--theer, I could tell
ye the middle now, I could.

_The Sp.-F.M._ Law, yes, it's simple enough. I done it first time.

_Old B.F._ Give an old man a chance to get a bit. If any party 'ere
'as found me out, let him 'old 'is tongue--it's all _I_ ask. (_To
JOE._) You've seen this afore, _I_ know!

_Joe._ Noa, I ain't--but I could tell ye th' middle.

_Old B.F._ Will ye bet on it? Come--not too 'igh, but just to show
you've confidence in your opinion!

_Joe_ (_cautiously_). I woant bet wi' ye, but I'll hev a try, just for
nawthen, if ye like!

_Old B.F._ Well, I want to see if you really _do_ know it--so, jest
for once, I ain't no objection. (_JOE pricks the garter._) Yes, you've
found the middle, sure enough! It's a good job there was no money
on--for _me_, leastwise!

_The Sp.-F.M._ I've a good mind to 'ave another try.

_The Sm. Y.M._ I wouldn't. You'll lose. I could see you on'y guessed
the first time. (_The Sp. F.M., however, extracts a shilling, stakes
it--and loses._) There, _I_ could ha' told you you was wrong--(_To
JOE_)--couldn't you?

_Joe._ Yes, he art to ha' pricked moor to waun side of 'un. (_The
Sp.-F.M. stakes another florin._) Now he's done it, if ye like!

_O.B.F._ There, ye see, I'm as often wrong as not myself. (_To the
Sp.-F.M._) There's your four bob, Sir. Now, jest once more!

_Joe_ (_to MELIA_). I'll git the price o' that theer cup an' sarcer
out of 'un, any'ow. (_To O.B.F._) I'll ha' a tanner wi' ye!

_O.B.F._ 'Alf a soverin, if you like--it's all the same to me!

_Joe_ (_after pricking_). I _thart_ I 'ad 'un that time, too, I did!

_The Sm. Y.M._ You shouldn't ha' changed your mind--you were right
enough afore!

_Joe_. Yes, I should ha' stuck to it. (_To O.B.F._) I'll bet ye two
bob on the next go--come!

_O.B.F._ Well, I don't like to say no, though I can see, plain enough,
you know too much. (_JOE pricks; O.B.F. pulls away the strip,
and leaves the skewer outside._) I could ha' sworn you done me that
time--but there ye _are_, ye see, there's never no tellin' at this
game--and that's the charm on it!

    [_JOE walks on with MELIA in a more subdued frame of mind._

_The Sm. Y.M._ (_in the ear of the Spotty-faced One_). I say, I got
a job o' my own to attend to--jest pass the word to the Old Man, when
he's done with this pitch, to turn up beyind the swing-boats there,
and come along yourself, if yer can. It's the old lay I'm on--the
prize-packets fake.

_The Sp.-F.M._ Right--we'll give yer a look in presently--it'll be a
little change for the Ole Man--trades's somethin' cruel _'ere_!

       *       *       *       *       *

HIS MAD-JESTY AT THE LYCEUM.

Except when HENRY IRVING impersonated the hapless victim of false
imprisonment in the Bastille, whence he issued forth after twenty
years of durance, never has he been so curiously and wonderfully
made-up as now, when he represents _Lear_, monarch of all he surveys.
Bless thee, HENRY, how art thou transformed!

[Illustration: Rather mixed. Mr. Irving as "Ophe-Lear."]

Sure such a _King Lear_ was never seen on any stage, so perfect in
appearance, so entirely the ideal of SHAKSPEARE'S ancient King.
It must have been a vision of IRVING in this character that the
divinely-inspired poet and dramatist saw when he had a _Lear_ in his
eye. For a moment, too, he reminded me of BOOTH--the "General," not
the "particular" American tragedian,--and when he appeared in thunder,
lightning, hail, and rain, he suggested an embodiment of the "_Moses_"
of MICHAEL ANGELO.

A strange weird play; much for an audience, and more for an actor, all
on his own shoulders, to bear. A one-part play it is too, for of the
sweet _Cordelia_,--and sweet did ELLEN TERRY look and so tenderly did
she play!--little is seen or heard. With _Goneril_ and _Regan_, the
two proud and wicked sisters,--associated in the mind of the modernest
British Public with Messrs. HERBERT CAMPBELL and HARRY NICHOLLS, as is
also _Cordelia_ associated either with _Cinderella_ or with _Beauty_
in the story of _Beauty and the Beast_--we have two fine commanding
figures; and well are these parts played by Miss ADA DYAS and Miss
MAUD MILTON. The audience can have no sympathy with the two wicked
Princesses, and except in _Goneril's_ brief Lady-Macbethian scene with
her husband, neither of the Misses LEAR has much dramatic chance. Pity
that Mrs. LEAR--his Queen and their mother, wasn't alive! Let us hope
she resembled her youngest daughter _Cordelia_, otherwise poor _Lear_
must have had a hard life of it as a married man.

Why should not Mr. IRVING give the first part of this play
reconsideration? Why not just once a week try him as a different sort
of _Lear_? For instance, suppose, to begin with, that he had had a bad
time of it with his wife, that for many years as a widower he had been
seeking for the opportunity of disposing of his daughters, handing
over to them and to their husbands the lease and goodwill of "The
Crown and Sceptre," while he would be, as King, "retired from
business," and going out for a lark generally. Thus jovially would he
commence the play, a rollicking, gay, old dog, ready for anything, up
to anything, and, like old Anchises, when he jumped on to the back of
Æneas, "a wonderful man for his years." In fact, _Lear_ might begin
like an old King Cole, "a merry old soul," a "jolly old cock!" And
then--"Oh, what a difference in the morning!"--when all his plans
for a gay career had been shipwrecked by _Cordelia's_ capricious and
unnatural affectation.

[Illustration: Mr. Terriss as the Good Fairy.]

Then must commence his senility; then he would begin to break up. A
struggle, to show that there was life in the old dog yet, could be
seen when the old dog had been out hunting, in Act II., and had shot
some strange animal, something between a stag and a dromedary, which
no doubt was a native of Britain in those good old sporting days.
However, more of this anon. Suffice it to say now, that our HENRY
IRVING'S _Lear_ is a triumph in every respect, and that the audience
only wanted a little more of _Cordelia_, which is the fault of the
immortal and unequal Bard.

To those unacquainted with this play, Mr. TERRISS'S sudden appearance
in somewhat anti-Lord-Chamberlain attire, as he bounded on, with a
wand, and struck an attitude, was suggestive of the Good Fairy in
the pantomime; and his subsequent proceedings, when he didn't change
anybody into Harlequin, Clown, and so forth, puzzled the unlearned
spectators considerably. But Mr. TERRISS came out all right, and
acquitted himself (being his own judge and jury) to the satisfaction
of the public. His speech about Dover Cliff, generally supposed to
convey some allusion to the Channel Tunnel, was excellently delivered,
and certainly after _Lear_, "on the spear side," Mr. TERRISS must take
the Goodeley Cake.

Next to him in order of merit comes Mr. FRANK COOPER, as the
wicked _Edmund_, on whom the good EDMUND, "Edmundus Mundi," smiled
benignantly from a private box. There was on the first night a great
reception given to HOWE--the veteran actor, not the wreck, and very
far from it--who took the small part of an old Evicted Tenant of the
_Earl of Glo'ster_, a character very carefully played by Mr. ALFRED
BISHOP, _Floreat Henricus!_ "Our HENRY" has his work cut out for him
in this "Titanic work," as in his before-curtain and after-play speech
he termed it. This particular "Titanic work" is (or certainly was that
night) in favour with "the gods," who "very much applauded what he'd
done." But the gods of old were not quite so favourable to "Titanic
work" generally, and punished eternally Titanic workmen. To-night gods
and groundlings applaud to the echo, and then everyone goes home as
best he can in about as beautiful a specimen of a November fog as ever
delighted a Jack-o'-Lantern or disgusted

PRIVATE BOX.

       *       *       *       *       *

AN OPERATIC NOTE.--_Wednesday_.--Lord Mayor's Day and Sheriff Sir
AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS'S Show. _L' Amico Fritz_, or "The old Min is
friendly," as _Dick Swiveller_ would have put it. Not by any means as
bright as _Cavalleria_. Mlle. DEL TORRE, del-lightful as _Suzel_.
M. DUFRICHE, very good as _Rabbino_; CREMONINI, weak as _Fritz_; and
Mlle. MARTHA-CUPID-BAUERMEISTER, good as usual in the part of the
"harmless necessary _Cat"-erina._ Opera generally "going strong."

       *       *       *       *       *

REPORTED DECISION.--Uganda is to be occupied till March next. Then,
order of the day, "March in, March out!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"SAFE BIND, SAFE FIND!"

P.C. JOHN BULL _LOQUITUR_:--

  Keep them? Right my Gallic friend!
    'Tis my duty, sad but binding.
  Free the Wolf--to what good end?
    Loose the Snake--what vantage finding?
  Faction flusters, Cant appeals
    In the name of sham-humanity.
  Right, not wrath, my bosom steels;
    Softness here were sheer insanity.

  _You_'ve my warmest sympathy,
    Victim of the new Red Terror!
  _My_ caged RAVACHOLS to free
    Were the maddest kind of error.
  Prison walls and dungeon wards
    Love I not, I'm no born gaoler,
  But just Law which Freedom guards
    _Must_ ignore anarchic railer.

  Blind offence of men half mad
    'Neath the goad of brute oppression,
  Blunderings of fierce fools of fad,
    Demoniacal possession
  Of red rage at law unjust,
    I can check with calm compassion;
  But must firmly crush to dust
    Murder--in the newest fashion.

  Dynamite as Freedom's friend?
    'Tis the foul fiend's latest juggle.
  We must fight it to the end,
    Firm, unfaltering in this struggle.
  Mere "Political Offence,"
    All this murder, mashing, maiming?
  'Tis a pitiful pretence,
    Honour-blinding, wisdom-shaming.

  Indiscriminate, ruthless raid!
    Mad chance--medly of disaster!
  Sophistry, the fiend's sworn aid,
    Never better served its master
  Than in calling such hell-birth
    A new gospel, holy, human,--
  Blasting as with maniac mirth
    Blameless men, and guiltless women!

  No! The Dynamiter's creed--
    Though hate swagger, though cant snivel--
  Fires no "patriotic" deed;
    Base-born, all its ends are evil.
  Let caged wolves and tigers free?
    What more wicked, what absurder?
  Amnesty to Anarchy
    Means encouragement to Murder?

       *       *       *       *       *

WHERE TO PLACE HIM.--Why ought the future Poet-Laureate, whoever he
may be, to occupy rooms over or close to the stables at Buckingham
Palace? Because he would then be inspired by the Royal Mews.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A TEST OF TRUE GENTILITY.

"WHAT'S THE NEW LODGER LIKE, MARIARANN?"

"HE'S NO GENTLEMAN, WHATEVER HE'S LIKE!"

"NO GENTLEMAN! WHAT'S HE BEEN AND DONE?"

"WHY, HE SEE ME A-CARRYIN' UP THE COALS, AN' HE SAYS, 'I'M AFRAID THAT
SCUTTLE'S TOO HEAVY FOR YOU,' 'E SAYS,--'PRAY LET _ME_ CARRY IT!' 'E
SAYS. AN' 'E UP AND CARRIES IT ISSELF, JUST LIKE A FOOTMAN!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

TO A MODEL YOUNG LADY.

    [It is reported that it is a common custom in Paris, amongst
    ladies of position, to pay for their dresses by wearing them
    in public, and letting it be known from whom they obtained
    them.]

  My dear, I like your pretty dress,
    It suits your figure to a T.
  I'm free to own that I confess,
    It's just the kind of dress for me.
  Yet will you kindly tell me, dear,
    Not merely was the costume made for
  Yourself alone--but is it clear
    And certain that your dress is paid for?

  Mistake me not. I do not dread
    That you'll think fit to run away
  And leave the bill unpaid. Instead,
    I fear that you will never pay,
  Because no bill will ever come;
    And since when you decide to toddle
  Abroad, you'll go amidst a hum
  Of praise for Madame's lovely Model

  Oh! promise me that when I read
    My paper (as I often do),
  I shall not with remorseless speed
    See endless pars in praise of you,
  Or rather of the dress you wore,
    For though, maybe, no harm or hurt is meant,
  Remember, dearest, I implore,
    I _won't_ be fond of an advertisement!

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"_Days with Sir Roger de Coverley!_" exclaimed the Baron, on seeing
the charming little book brought out at this season by Messrs.
MACMILLAN. "Delightful! Immortal! Ever fresh! Welcome, with or without
illustration; some of Mr. THOMSON's would not be missed."

There is a breezy, frank, boyish air about the "Reminiscences" of
our great Baritone, CHARLES SANTLEY, which is as a tonic--a tonic
sol-fa--to the reader a-weary of the many Reminiscences of these
latter days. SANTLEY, who seems to have made his way by stolid pluck,
and without very much luck, may be considered as the musical _Mark
Tapley_, ready to look always on the sunny side. With a few rare
exceptions, he appears to have taken life very easily.

Muchly doth the Baron like Mr. HALL CAINE's story of _Captain Davy's
Honeymoon_, only, short as it is, with greater effect it might have
been shorter.

The Baron, being in a reading humour, tried _The Veiled Hand_, by
FREDERICK WICKS, a name awkward for anyone unable to manage his "r's."
What Fwedewickwicks' idea of _A Veiled Hand_ is, the Baron has tried
to ascertain, but without avail. Why not a Gloved Hand? Hands do not
wear veils, any more than our old friends, the Hollow Hearts, wear
masks. Hands take "vails," but "that is another story." However, _The
Veiled Hand_ induced sleep, so the Baron extinguished both candles and
Wicks at the same time, and slumbered.

I have also had time to read _An Exquisite Fool_, published by OSGOOD.
MCILVAINE & CO., and written by Nobody, Nobody's name being
mentioned as being the author. It begins well, but it is an old,
old tale--BLANCHE AMORY and the Chevalier, and so forth--and as _Sir
Charles Coldstream_ observed, when he looked down the crater of Mount
Vesuvius, "There's nothing in it."

Most interesting is a short paper on "The Green Room of the Comédie
Française," in the _English Illustrated Magazine_ for this month,
pleasantly written by Mr. FREDERICK HAWKINS,--HAWKINS with an
aspirate, not "'ENERY 'AWKINS" at present associated with "A
CHEVALIER" in London. Mr. HAWKINS tells many amusing anecdotes, and
gives a capital sketch of M. RENÉ MOLÉ. But the article would be
damaged by extracts. Therefore, "_Tolle, lege_," says yours and
everybody's, very truly,

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "SAFE BIND, SAFE FIND!"

SERGENT-DE-VILLE. "HA, M'SIEU!--_YOU_ HAVE YOUR DYNAMITERS UNDER LOCK
AND KEY! TRÈS BIEN! _KEEP_ THEM!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: WHAT ABOUT GLASS HOUSES?

_First Jovial Cabby_ (_to Second Ditto_). "HI SAY, BILL, DID YER HEVER
SEE SICH GUYS AS THESE 'ERE GIRLS MAKES OF THEIRSELVES? NOW, YE'D
NIVER SEE A _MAN_ GO AND MAKE SUCH A RIDIK'LOUS HOBJICK OF 'ISSELF!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

A PUFF OF SMOKE.

    (_What the heart of the young Vocalist said to the
    Anti-Tobacconist, after reading Mr. Charles Santley's sage
    observations on Singing and Smoking, in his new book "Student
    and Singer."_)

    ["Smoking is an art; it may be made useful or otherwise,
    according as it is exercised."--Mr. SANTLEY.]

  Tell me not, ye mournful croakers,
    Smoking is a dirty habit.
  Brainless are ye, sour non-smokers,
    As a vivisected rabbit.

  "Smoking is an Art," says SANTLEY;
    There is Beauty in the bowl.
  They who doubt it must be scantly
    Blest with sense, or dowered with soul.

  _As_ an Art it claims attention;
    Study is the only way.
  Smoking skill, _not_ smoke-prevention,
    Is the thing we want to-day.

  Art is long and smoke is fleeting;
    But puff on until you learn
  Good tobacco's not for _eating_!
    Pipe-bowls are not meant to _burn_!

  Smoke without expectorating,
    Do not sputter, do not chew;
  Puff not as though emulating
    Some foul factory's sooty flue

  Let not oily dark defilement
    Sting your lips; there is no need.
  Joy and care need reconcilement
    For enjoyment of the weed.

  Trust no "Germans," buy no "British,"
    Sound Havanas only smoke!
  "Lady Nicotine" is skittish,
    Penny Pickwicks are no joke.

  Smoke no strong shag, no rank "stinger,"
    Pick your baccy, puff with skill,
  And--although you are a singer,
    You may smoke, and not feel ill.

  Let us then be up and smoking,
    An an Art the thing pursue;
  As great SANTLEY, who's not joking,
    Says _he_ does, and all _may_ do!

       *       *       *       *       *

LADY GAY'S DISTRACTION.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--You are as fickle as the rest of your sex, I fear,
otherwise you would not have requited my devotion to you and your
interests in such an awful manner as you did in publishing my
husband's letter last week!--and _such_ a letter! Oh, I could write
such a _scathing_ reply to it!

Of course, it was jealousy on the part of Sir CHARLES at my literary
success--(setting aside the _wonderful_ tips)--which caused the
explosion that led to his writing to you, but I never--never--thought
you would insert his letter, especially as I slipped in a postscript
which to my mind explained _everything_--as, indeed, postscripts
_should_ do, or what is the good of writing a long letter about
nothing in front of them? The wretch confesses that he laughed at my
articles until he knew who wrote them, and then thought less of
them! Isn't that like a husband?--I won't say like a _man_, as so few
husbands _are_ men!--at least, in the eyes of their wives. The moment
a wife does something her husband can't do, he dislikes and pooh-poohs
it; whereas, the more accomplishments a husband displays, the more a
wife appreciates him, or _says_ so even if she doesn't!--which is a
noble falsehood, for how few women are large-minded enough to pretend
to admire qualities which they despise because they don't possess
them--I'm not sure that this is what I mean, nor do I quite understand
it, but it reads well, which is more than Sir CHARLES'S stuff does!

And then his impertinence in proposing to "edit" my letters!--as if
anyone could be more capable of doing that than _you_?--(you will
observe that it is solely on _your_ account that I am annoyed!)--I
could not brook such interference!--I don't know exactly the meaning
of "brooking" anything, but I know I wept enough tears of annoyance
to form a decent "brook" of themselves! I need hardly tell you that it
was a biting sarcasm on my part to suggest that he should finish his
letter with a "verse," as I always do--but there--men don't
understand sarcasm--(one of _our_ most frequently employed weapons of
offence!)--and the poor thing thought I was in earnest, and did it!
And _what_ a verse! I could write better with my left hand!

I need scarcely tell you that I have left him--(this is why my address
is not to be published)--as I consider my duty to the Public rendered
it imperative that I should do so, for I should not think much of any
woman who allowed a paltry consideration of domestic obligations to
weigh against the pursuit of a career of usefulness.

If, therefore, a vein of sadness and cynicism runs through this
letter, you will understand that it does _not_ proceed from any regret
at the "breaking up of the happy home," but rather from sorrow at the
thought that once again the intellectual superiority of one of the
softer sex has not been accepted in the right spirit by the possessor
of the weaker mind, to whom she owes obedience!

I trust I have done with Sir CHARLES for ever!--especially if
he speaks the truth in saying that "following my tips has ruined
him"--for why should any woman burden herself with an impecunious
husband? He does not know where I am, and I feel still more secure in
my retreat from having just heard that he has engaged the services of
several of the most prominent London Detectives to trace me!

Owing no devotion now to Sir CHARLES--who will appreciate the
following tender lines with which I close my letter--

  O woman! in our hours of ease,
  Thou art not _very_ hard to please!
  Thou takest what the gods may send;
  But, thwarted!--thou wilt turn and rend!

I am able to subscribe myself, dear _Mr. Punch_,

Yours more devotedly than ever,

LADY GAY.

[From internal evidence, we are inclined to believe that this present
letter, or the one last week from "Sir CHARLES," is a forgery. In
former correspondence Lady GAY mentioned "Lord ARTHUR" as her husband.
We pause for an explanation.--ED.]

       *       *       *       *       *

PROVERB FOR VOCALISTS, À PROPOS OF SIR JOSEPH BARNBY'S REMARKS ON
ARTICULATION.--"Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care
of themselves."

       *       *       *       *       *

Why is pepper essential to the health of the new LORD MAYOR?--Because
without "Kn." (cayenne) he would be "ill."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: NATURE AND ART.

_A.R.A._ "BY GEORGE, THIS VIEW'S MAGNIFICENT! I SAY, FLUFFER, YOU
REALLY OUGHT TO HAVE THOSE WOODS PAINTED."

_Mr. Fluffer_ (_late in the Upholstery line, retired._) "'M--M. DO YOU
THINK THAT WOULD IMPROVE 'EM? WHAT COLOUR, NOW?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

LEFT TO THE LADIES.

MY DEAR MR. PUNCH,

Everyone--I mean everyone with a right mind--will sympathise with
those nice people at Bristol who have been holding a "Woman's
Conference." So kind and thoughtful of them, isn't it? I notice
that Lady BATTERSEA gave a spirited account of a Confederation
of Temperance of some thirty villages in Norfolk. The dear, good
inhabitants are to keep off the allurements of drink by "listening to
such shining lights as Canon WILBERFORCE, and social teas, processions
with banners, and magic-lanterns, play their part." How they are
to listen to the teas, processions and lanterns, I don't quite
understand, in spite of the fact that they (the aforesaid teas, &c.)
seem to be "playing their parts." Evidently teas, &c., are amateur
Actors.

Then somebody who described herself as "a nobody from nowhere," is
said to have "touched a moving chord, as she spoke with great feeling
of the sympathy and the moral help the poor give back to those who
work among them." What "moving chord?" Sounds like a bell-rope!

Then another lady who wore "the black and lavender dress of the
Sisters of the People," followed with a paper, "perhaps overfull
of details." And here let me say that I am quoting from "a woman
correspondent" who seems to be full of admiration for her talking
sisters. But in spite of this admiration, she knows their little
faults. For instance, she describes a speech as "vigorous, racy, and
perhaps a trifle sensational." Then, when someone else delivered an
"address to educated mothers," she says that it excited deep interest,
and "almost too many educated mothers threw themselves into the
discussion that followed."

Then she observes, "It was disappointing that Lady ABERDEEN was at the
last moment forbidden by her Doctor to undertake the long journey from
Scotland." So it was, most disappointing; and "at the last moment,"
too!

Then she announces that "Some ladies expressed a feeling, that
introducing young men and women in business to each other, when
assembled in their hundreds at Prince's Hall, was an office fraught
with considerable responsibility." To be sure! Great responsibility!
Might even be improper! Everyone should be _so_ careful!

However, there was one good thing in this Woman's Conference that
everyone will praise. The delightful, genial, charitable females seem
to have kept to themselves. No men were present. What a blessing--_for
the men_! Yours gratefully,

AN OLD BACHELOR.

_The Growleries, Lostbuttonbury, Singleton_.

       *       *       *       *       *

CHRISTMAS IS COMING!

[Illustration]

  When the ruddy autumn leaves
  Flutter down on golden sheaves,
  And on plum-trees one perceives
          No more plums--
  All the swallows have not fled,
  Hardly is the summer dead--
  Then, alas, it must be said
          Christmas comes!

  Christmas! Hang it all! But how
  Can that be? 'Tis weeks from now.
  What a fearful thought, I vow
          That it numbs!
  "Order Christmas papers" fills
  Bookshops, bookstalls. With its bills,
  Taxes, tips, fogs, frosts, coughs, chills,
          Christmas comes!

  Even Christmas-cards appear,
  They are with us half the year,
  I would banish them from here,
          Say, to Thrums,
  Or to any mournful place,
  Where I'd never show my face,
  For they tell one that, apace,
          Christmas comes!

       *       *       *       *       *

SEASONABLE CHRISTMAS MOTTO FOR WELL-KNOWN FINE-ART PUBLISHERS.--"TUCK
in!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: FOOTBALL FEVER. SATURDAY AFTERNOON IN THE MIDLANDS.]

       *       *       *       *       *

TO "THE LAZY MINSTREL"

    _On the publication of his Eighth Edition, with therein
    Nineteen Poems originally written for Mr. Punch._

[Illustration: The Lazy Laureate of the Thames.]

  Who would not be a Minstrel Lazy?
      A trifle crazy,
    The best of them! Ah!
  Here's ASHBY STERRY, in punt or wherry,
  He's ever merry! sing "hey down derry,"
      Or anything very
    Like Tra! la! la! la!

  On sunny days he trolls his lays
  With gay guitar and Tra! la! la! la!
  From groves and glades come meadow-sweet maids,
  None of your saucy minxes or jades;
      The poet is there
      Without a care.
  With no regret, with mild cigarette.
  With gay guitar, and whiskey from Leith,
  Will he be crowned with the Laureate wreath?

(_The Nymph Pantalettina is heard singing_.)

    Come where my ASHBY lies dreaming,
      Dreaming for hours after lunch.
    Softly! for he is scheming
      Poems for _Mister Punch_!
    Graceful is his position--
      Hark! how he sweeps the strings,
    While of his Eighth Edition
      The Warbler STERRY sings:--

(_The Bard chirpeth his roundelay_.)

  "On 'Spring's Delights' in 'Hambledon Lock'
    'My Country Cousin' may hap--
      With her I'll go
      'In Rotten Row,'
      Stop on an 'oss
      'At Charing-Cross,'
    For a 'Tam O'Shanter Cap.'

  No gout? Oh no! But I'm 'Taken in Tow,'
    And suffering from dejection,
  'Spring Cleaning' I'll use for a pair of old shoes
    (Queer rhyme upon reflection),
  'Sound without Sense,' I've no pretence,
    To write Shakspearian Sonnets.
      Of her and him,
      As suits my whim,
  I sing, and I hymn her bonnets!"

(_Chorus of Pantalettina and River Nymphs._)

      So, hail to the Bard so merry,
      To Lazy Laureate STERRY!
  He'll sing of a Lock on the Thames! oh rare!
    Or hymn a Lock of his Lady's hair.

       *       *       *       *       *

CONVERSATIONAL HINTS FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS.

The subject of Lunch, my dear young friends, has now been exhausted.
We have done, for the time, with poetry, and descend again to the
ordinary prose of every-day shooting. Yet stay--before we proceed
further, there is one matter apart from the mere details of sport,
which may be profitably considered in this treatise. It is the divine,
the delightful subject of

SMOKING.

First, I ask, do you know--(1), the man who never smokes from the
night of the 11th of August up to the night of the 1st of February in
the following year, for fear of injuring his sight and his shooting
nerve? (2), the host who forbids all smoking amongst the guests
assembled at his house for a shooting-party?

You, naturally enough, reply that you have not the honour of being
acquainted with these severe, but enthusiastic gentlemen. Nobody does
know them. They don't exist. But it is very useful to affect a sort of
second-hand knowledge of these Gorgons of the weed, as thus:--

    _A Party of Guns is walking to the first beat of the day.
    Time, say about_ 10·20 A.M.

_Young Sportsman_ (_who has a pipe in his mouth, to Second Sportsman,
similarly adorned_). I always think the after-breakfast smoke is about
the best of the day. Somehow, tobacco tastes sweeter then than at any
other time of the day.

_Second Sp._ (_puffing vigorously_). Yes, it's first class; but I hold
with smoke at most times of the day, after breakfast, after lunch,
after dinner, and in between.

_Young Sp._ Well, I don't know. If I try to smoke when I'm actually
shooting, I generally find I've got my pipe in the gun side of my
mouth. I heard of a man the other day who knocked out three of his
best teeth through bringing up his gun sharp, and forgetting he'd
got a pipe in his mouth. Poor beggar! he was very plucky about it,
I believe; but it made no end of a difference to his pronunciation
till he got a new lot shoved in. Just like that old Johnnie in the
play--Overland something or other--who lost his false set of teeth
on a desert island, and couldn't make any of the other Johnnies
understand him.

_Second Sp._ I've never had any difficulty with my smoking. I always
make a habit of carrying my smokes in the left side of my mouth.

_Young Sp._ Oh, but you're pretty certain to get the smoke or the
ashes or something, blown slap into your eyes just as you're going to
loose off. No. (_With decision_.) I'm off my smoke when the popping
begins.

_Second Sp._ Don't be too hard on yourself, my boy. They tell me there
are precious few birds in the old planting this year, so you can treat
yourself to a cigarette when you get there. It never pays to trample
on one's longing for tobacco too much.

_Young Sp._ No, by Jove. Old REGGIE MORRIS told me of a fellow he met
somewhere this year, who goes regularly into training for shooting.
Never touches baccy from August to February, and limits his drink
to three pints a day, and no whiskeys and sodas. And what's more, he
won't let any of his guests smoke when he's got a shoot on, He's got
"No Smoking" posted up in big letters in every room in the house.
REGGIE said it was awful. He had to lock his bedroom door, shove the
chest-of-drawers against it, and smoke with his head stuck right up
the chimney. He got a peck of soot, one night, right on the top of his
nut. Now I call that simple rot.

_Second Sp._ Ah, I've heard of that man. Never met him though, I'm
thankful to say. Let me see what's the beggar's name? JACKSON or
BARRETT, or POLLARD, or something like that. He's got a big place
somewhere in Suffolk, or Yorkshire, or somewhere about there.

_Young Sp._ Yes, that's the chap, I fancy.

Now that kind of thing starts you very nicely for the day. It isn't
necessary that either of the sportsmen whose dialogue has been
reported should believe implicitly in the absolute truth of what he is
saying. Observe, neither of them says that he himself met this man.
He merely gets conversation out of him on the strength of what someone
else has told him. That, you see, is the real trick of the thing.
Don't bind yourself to such a story as being part of your own personal
experience. Work it in on another man's back. Of course there are
exceptions even to this rule. But this question I shall be able to
treat at greater length when I come to deal with the important subject
of "Shooting Anecdotes."

[Illustration]

Very often you can work up quite a nice little conversation on
cigarettes. Every man believes, as is well-known, that he possesses
the only decent cigarettes in the country. He either--(1), imports
them himself from Cairo, or (2), he gets his tobacco straight from
a firm of growers somewhere in Syria and makes it into cigarettes
himself; or (3), he thinks Egyptian cigarettes are an abomination,
and only smokes Russians or Americans; or (4), he knows a man,
BACKASTOPOULO by name, somewhere in the Ratcliffe Highway, who
has _the_ very best cigarettes you ever tasted. You wouldn't give
two-pence a hundred for any others after smoking these, he tells you.
And, lastly, there is the man who loathes cigarettes, despises those
who smoke them, and never, smokes anything himself except a special
kind of cigar ornamented with a sort of red and gold garter.

Out of this conflict of preferences the young shooter can make
capital. By flattering everybody in turn, he can practically get his
smoking gratis, for everyone will be sure to offer him at least one
cigarette, in order to prove the superiority of his own particular
kind. And if the young shooter, after smoking it, expresses a proper
amount of ecstasy, he is not at all unlikely to have a second offered
to him. Most men are generous with cigarettes. Many a man I know
would far rather give a beggar a cigarette than a shilling, though
the cigarette may have cost, originally, a penny-halfpenny, or more--a
strange and paradoxical state of affairs.

Here is a final piece of advice. Admire all cigarette-cases, and say
of each that it's the very best and prettiest you ever saw. You can
have no notion how much innocent pleasure you will give.

       *       *       *       *       *

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..








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