Book: Punch, Or The London Charivari, Volume 102, March 12, 1892
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Various >> Punch, Or The London Charivari, Volume 102, March 12, 1892
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 102.
March 12, 1892.
DOING THE OLD MASTERS.
(_A SKETCH AT BURLINGTON HOUSE_.)
IN GALLERY NO. I.
_The Usual Elderly Lady_ (_who judges every picture solely by
its subject_). "No. 9. Portrait of Mrs. BRYANSTON of Portman. By
GAINSBOROUGH." I don't like that at all. Such a _disagreeable_
expression! I can't think why they exhibit such things. I'm sure
there's no _pleasure_ in looking at them!
_Her Companion_ (_who finds no pleasure in looking at any of them_).
No, I must say I prefer the Academy to these old-fashioned things. I
suppose we can get a cup of _tea_ here, though?
_An Intelligent Person_. "Mrs. BRYANSTON of Portman." Sounds like a
made-up name rather, eh? Portman Square, and all that, y'know!
[Illustration: "My dear fellow, as if it was possible to mistake his
touch!"]
_His Friend_ (_with a touching confidence in the seriousness of the
authorities_). Oh, they wouldn't do that sort of thing _here_!
_A Too-impulsive Enthusiast_. Oh, JOHN, _look_ at that lovely tiger up
there! _Isn't_ the skin marvellously painted, and the eyes so natural
and all! It's a Landseer of _course_!
_John_. Catalogue says STUBBS.
_The Enth._ (_disenchanted_). STUBBS? I never heard of him. But it's
really rather well done.
_The Man who is a bit of a Connoisseur in his way_ (_arriving at a
portrait of Mrs. BILLINGTON_). Not a bad Romney, that.
_His Friend_ (_with Catalogue_). What makes you think it's a Romney?
_The Conn._ My dear fellow, as if it was possible to mistake his
touch. (_Thinks from his friend's expression, that he had better
hedge._) Unless it's a Reynolds. Of course it _might_ be a Sir Joshua,
their manner at one period was very much alike--yes, it might be a
Reynolds, certainly.
_His Friend_. It might be a Holbein--if it didn't happen to be a
Gainsborough.
_The Conn._ (_effecting a masterly retreat_). Didn't I _say_
Gainsborough? Of course that was what I _meant_. Nothing like
Reynolds--nor Romney either. Totally different thing!
IN GALLERY NO. II.
_Mr. Ernest Stodgely_ (_before JAN STEEN's "Christening"_). Now look
at this, FLOSSIE; very curious, very interesting. Gives you such an
insight into the times. This man, you see, is wearing a hat of the
period. Remarkable, isn't it?
_Miss Featherhead_. Not so remarkable as if he was wearing a hat of
some _other_ period, ERNEST, is it?
_The Elderly Lady_ (_before a View of Amsterdam, by Van der Heyden_).
Now, you really _must_ look at this, my dear--isn't it wonderful? Why,
you can count every single brick in the walls, and the tiny little
figures with their features all complete; you want a magnifying-glass
to _see_ it all! How conscientious painters were in those days!
And _what_ a difference from those "Impressionists," as they call
themselves.
_Her Comp._ (_apathetically_). Yes, indeed; I wonder whether it would
be better to get our tea here, or wait till we get outside?
_The Eld. L._ Oh, it's too early yet. Look at that poor hunted stag
jumping over a dining-room table, and upsetting the glasses and
things. I suppose that's LANDSEER--no, I see it's some one of the name
of SNYDERS. I expect he got the _idea_ from LANDSEER, though, don't
you?
_Her Comp._ Very likely indeed, dear; but (_pursuing her original
train of thought_) you get rather nice tea at some of these aerated
bread-shops; so perhaps if we waited--(_&c., &c._)
IN GALLERY NO. III.
_Two Pretty Nieces with an Elderly Uncle_ (_coming to "Apollo and
Marsyas," by Tintoretto_). What was the _story_ of Apollo and Marsyas,
Uncle?
_The Uncle_. Apollo? Oh, come, you've heard of _him_,
the--er--Sun-God, Phoebus-Apollo, and all that?
_His Nieces_. Oh, yes, we know all _that_; but who was Marsyas, and
what does the Catalogue mean by "Athena and three Umpires?"
_The Uncle_. Oh--er--hum! Didn't they teach you all that at school?
Well they _ought_ to have, that's all? Where's your Aunt--where's your
Aunt?
_Mr. Ernest Stodgely_ (_before the Portrait of the Marchesa Isabella
Grimaldi_). There, FLOSSIE, don't you feel the greatness of that now?
I'm curious to know how it impresses you!
_Miss Featherhead_. Well, I rather like her frock, ERNEST. How funny
to think aigrettes were worn so long ago, when they've just gone out
_again_, don't you know. It must have been difficult to kiss a person
across one of those enormous ruffs, though, don't you think?
IN GALLERY NO. IV.
_Mr. Schohorff_ (_loudly_). Ah, _that's_ a picture I know well; seen
it many a time in the Octagon Boudoir at dear old HATCHMENT's. But
it looks better lighted up. I remember the last time I was down there
they told me they'd been asked to lend it, but the Countess didn't
seem to think (_&c., &c._).
_Mrs. Frivell_ (_before "Death of Dido," by Liberale da Verona_). Why
is she standing on that pile of furniture in the courtyard, though?
_Mr. F._ Because AEneas had jilted her, and so she stabbed herself on a
funeral pyre after setting fire to it, you see.
_Mrs. F._ (_disapprovingly_). How _very_ odd. I thought they only did
that in India. But who are all those people looking-on?
_Mr. F._ Smart people of the period, my dear. Of course Dido would
send out invitations for a big function like that--Wind-up of the
season--Farewell Reception--sure to be a tremendous rush for cards.
Notice the evident enjoyment of the guests. They are depicted in the
act of remarking to one another that their hostess is doing all in
_her_ power to make the thing go off well. Keen observer of human
nature, old LIBERALE!
_Mrs. F._ Selfish creatures!
IN THE VESTIBULE.
_Mrs. Townley-Ratton_ (_about to leave with her husband, encounters
her cousins, the Miss RURAL-RATTONS, who have just arrived_). Why,
SOPHY, MARY! _how_ are you? this is _too_ delightful! When _did_ you
come up? How long are you going to be in town? _When_ can you come and
see me?
_Miss Sophy Rattan_ (_answering the two last questions_). Till the end
of the week. What will be the best time to find you?
_Mrs. T.R._ (_warmly_). Oh, _any_ time! I'm almost _always_ in--except
the afternoons, of course. I'm going out to tea or something every day
this week!
_Miss Sophy R._ Well, how would some time in the morning--
_Mrs. T.R._ The morning? No, I'm afraid--I'm _afraid_ it _mustn't_ be
the morning _this_ week--so many things that one _has_ to see to!
_Mr. T.R._ (_lazily_). You'd better all come and dine quietly some
evening.
[_He yawns, to tone down any excess of hospitality in this
invitation._
_Mrs. T.R._ (_quickly_). No, that would be _too_ cruel, when I know
they'll want to go to a theatre every night! And besides, I really
haven't a single free evening this week. But I must see if we can't
_arrange_ something. You really must drop me a line _next_ time
you're coming up! Good-bye, dears, we mustn't keep you from the
pictures--such a fine collection this winter! Love to your Mother,
and say I shall try to call--if I _possibly_ can!
_Mr. T.R._ (_as they descend the stairs_). I say, SELINA, you forgot
to ask 'em where they are. Shall I run back and find out, eh?
_Mrs. T.R._ Not on _any_ account. They're probably at the Grand as
usual, and if they're not, it will be a very good excuse if I can't
call. You are such a _fusser_, ALFRED!
_Miss Sophy_ (_to_Miss MARY_). What a let-off! I wouldn't have minded
lunch so much--but _dinner_--no, thank you, my dear!
_Miss Mary_ (_gloomily_). She may call on Mother and ask us all yet.
_Miss Sophy_. She doesn't know where we are, and I took good care not
to tell her. It's getting too dark to see much, but we'll just walk
through the rooms, to say we've done it--shall we? [_They do._
* * * * *
A SETTLER FOR MR. WOODS.--Mrs. RAM does not at all wonder at Amateurs
being able to "pick up old pieces of china at CHRISTY's," for she has
often heard that you've only got to go to King Street, where anyone
may see them "knocked down under a hammer."
* * * * *
[Illustration: "OFF HIS FEED."
_Salisbury the Vet._ "HUM! SEEMS TO HAVE WASTED A BIT! WANTS A
TONIC."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "THINGS ARE NOT WHAT THEY SEEM."
_Mr. Foozler_ (_who, while waiting for the last Train, has wandered
to the end of the Platform, opened the door of the Signal-box, and
watched the Signalman's manipulations of the levers for some moments
with hazy perplexity, suddenly_). "ARF O' BURT'N 'N BIRRER F' ME,
GUV'NOR!"]
* * * * *
"OFF HIS FEED!"
SCENE--_The St. Stephen's Stables. Stall of the Favourite,
"Majority," who is being inspected by the great "Vet."
(S-L-SB-RY) in presence of the Groom (B-LF-R), and the
Stable-help (CH-PL-N)._
_Stable-help_ (_anxiously_). Why, he used to be a stunner, and a
safe and steady runner,
And we trusted him, most confident, for landing us the Stakes
Now, what can the cause of _this_ be? He's a-looking queer and
quisby;
And his off fore leg seems shaky, and the rest ain't no _great_
shakes.
_Groom_ (_sharply_). Not too much of it, you HARRY! You are here
to fetch and carry,
And not to pass opinions in the presence of the Vet.
But he _does_ look dicky, Mister; I've tried bolus, I've tried
blister,
But I haven't got him up to his old form by chalks, Sir, _yet_!
_Vet._ (_dubiously_). You're a bit new at the "biz.," lad, and I
tell you what it is, lad,--
These thoroughbreds aren't managed like a dray-horse, don'tcher
know.
They want very careful feeding, and Sangrado purge or bleeding
Won't suit our modern strain--of man _or_ horse. Steady, lad!
Woa! [_Examines him._
_Groom_ (_rather sulkily_). Well, Sir, what do you make it?
_Vet._ Off his feed?
_Groom_. Well, he don't take it.
Not voracious, so to speak, Sir, as he do when cherry ripe.
_Vet._ Ah-h-h! May want a change of diet. Eye is neither bright
_nor_ quiet,
And his coat seems dull and roughish, though he's sound in pulse
and pipe.
_Stable-help_. Don't take kindly to his fodder, and, what _I_
thinks even odder,
With a temper like a hangel, gits a bit inclined to kick.
Landed _'Art Dyke_ a fair wunner!
_Groom_ (_testily_). Well, you are an eighty-tonner
At superfluous patter, HARRY!
_Stable-help_ (_aside_). Lor! _His_ temper's gitting quick!
What has been and popped the acid in his style so prim and placid?
Doesn't shine like what he thought to as head-groom. Yus,
there's the rub!
_Vet._ (_looking at sieve_). Seem to shy _that_ feed!
_Groom_. I mixed it with the greatest care, and
fixed it
With an eye to tempt his appetite, but there, he's off his grub!
_Vet._ (_to Stable-help_). Takes your green stuff better?
_Stable-help_. True, Sir!
_Groom_. But too much o' that won't do,
Sir.
Can't live on tares entirely! (_Aside._) This here boy's too
full of beans.
_Vet._ Ah! I see the whole position. He's a bit out of condition,
Wants a tonic and skilled treatment. Yes, no doubt that's what
it means.
With an appetite that's picksome comes a temper tart and tric
But a pick-me-up--I'll send one--will, I'm sure set all that
square.
And if there's further wasting, then, without too headlong hasting,
Give him, as soon as possible--a little _Country Air_!
* * * * *
LORD WILDERMERE'S MOTHER-IN-LAW.
She's as bad as can be, but she's "Precious" to me,
Though her conduct cannot be called free from a flaw;
For in spite of blackmail, I have vowed ne'er to fail
In the duty I owe to my Mother-in-law.
There have been flippant sneers and conventional jeers,
At a worthy relation that I hold in awe;
Though it angers my wife, all the joy of my life
Comes from drawing big cheques--for my Mother-in-law.
Peccadilloes she had, but she isn't all bad,
And the folks who have sneered shall their libels withdraw;
To our dance she shall come, and the world be struck dumb
At the way that I've whitewashed my Mother-in-law.
She shall rise from the slime of what people called crime,
To a virtuous height, for I always foresaw
'Twould be wise to proclaim to all ages the fame
Of that much-maligned female--a Mother-in-law.
* * * * *
[Illustration: WHAT OUR ARTIST (THE CHEEKY ONE) HAS TO PUT UP WITH.
"LOOK HERE, MY PRINCE OF PICTURE-DEALERS--A GREAT FRIEND OF MINE, THE
COUNTESS OF WATERBRUSH, IS GOING TO HAVE AN ART STALL AT THE LITTLE
PEDDLINGTON BAZAAR. COULD YOU SPARE HER LADYSHIP ANY OLD RUBBISH YOU
CAN'T GET RID OF? IT'S FOR A CHARITY, YOU KNOW." -- "ACH! ZOH! VELL,
MY YOONG VRENT, I HAFE ZUM TOZENS OF YOUR VATER-CULLERS ZAT PERHAPS
HER LATYSHIP _MIGHT_ MANAGE TO KET RIT OF--FOR A _CHARITY_, YOU KNOW!
SHE IS FERRY VELCOME, I ASSURE YOU!"]
* * * * *
DEATH IN THE POP.
Rather alarmed by reading in paper about "explosive buttons." Seems
that combs, collars, cuffs, buttons and things made to imitate ivory
and tortoiseshell are really highly combustible. Lady in West of
England had her dress ignited by sudden explosion of a "fancy" button!
In consequence, advise my wife "to use that new hairbrush I gave her
very gingerly, or she'll be blown up." She wants to know "why I didn't
find that out before buying it." Difficult to find suitable reply.
Result--nobody blown up so far, except myself.
Combing my few remaining locks. No harm in comb, I suppose, as maker
assured me it was "only made of celluloid." Comb suddenly driven a
couple of inches into my head, with loud report! In bed for three
weeks. Write to maker, who says, "Didn't I know celluloid was mixture
of camphor and gun-cotton?" No, I didn't.
Playing billiards, when sufficiently recovered. Just executing
fiftieth spot-stroke in succession, when--an explosion! Cue driven out
of my hand, and half-way down marker's throat. Turns out that ball was
a mixture of Turkish Delight and nitroglycerine, and objected to my
hitting it. Marker brings action, and gets damages out of me.
Little later. New fancy waistcoat. Buttons like pearl. Rub one, to
give extra polish--Bang!--explosion. Where am I? In the middle of next
week, on which date I write this.
* * * * *
CON. BY A WELSHER.--Why has Wales more Clerks than England?--Because
it has a _Penman more_.
* * * * *
ENCOUNTER.
(_An Effort in the Spasmodic-Obscure, after the American Original
quoted by Mr. James Payn in "Our Note-Book."_)
Two Spooks, swirled fast along the Vast,
Meeting each other "at the double,"
Collided, squirmed, then howled aghast,
Each to the other, "What's _your_ trouble?"
"Alas!" one whined, "Rymed Rot I read,
Affected to admire, and quote it!"
The other wailed, with shame-bowed head,
"My case is even worse,--_I wrote it_!"
* * * * *
THE SCALE WITH THE FALSE WEIGHTS.
(_A PAGE FROM THE NEWGATE CALENDAR--UP-TO-DATE EDITION._)
The two Convicts were tried at the same Assizes, put in the same dock
and sentenced by the same Judge. So a companionship sprang up between
them considering that one was by birth and education a Gentlemen, and
the other was not. And they went to the same prison, and listened
to the same words of the same Chaplain, and took their occasional
exercise in the same practising yard. And as luck would have it, they
served the same time, and were liberated at the same moment.
"I am afraid I must say good-bye, GILES," said ST. JAMES, as they
emerged into freedom from the portals of the gaol. "Good fellow as you
are, GILES, you do not belong to my set, and your presence would be
embarrassing."
"Oh, would it!" returned GILES, who had already recognised some of his
friends. "Well, I don't want to press my company on anyone."
"No offence!" exclaimed ST. JAMES, "I beg you--no offence! But we have
both to begin life again, and union is not strength in a case such as
ours!"
"Oh, no offence!" acquiesced GILES, as he accompanied some of his pals
to a neighbouring public-house.
ST. JAMES, left to his own devices, hurried to the Chambers that he
used to rent before he went to prison. They were "To Let." He rang the
bell, and the porter started back when he saw him.
"Hope you don't want to enter, Sir," said he; "but the Guv'nor gave
strict orders, as if you called, that you was not to go in. It ain't
my fault, Sir, but the Guv'nor is the Guv'nor!"
Disheartened by this rebuff, he tried the house of a friend, but
was so scornfully received, that he made up his mind never to visit
another acquaintance. Of course he found that his name had been
removed from his Clubs, and not a single individual would recognise
him. He was an outcast, and a ruined man. So he walked about the
streets until his shoes were in holes, and his last penny exhausted.
Then he lay down to sleep. But this was against the regulations, and
so he was hustled from pillar to post, until at last he found himself
in a very low part of town. He was trudging past a public-house,
when who should emerge from its cheerful-looking recesses but GILES.
"Hallo!" cried the young man, who seemed the picture of health, "are
_you_ down?"
"Yes--very," returned ST. JAMES. "I haven't a friend in the world, and
no one will have anything to say to me."
"What a shame!" cried the other. "Why, with me, I have had a rare old
time! Everybody has been pleased to see me."
"But hasn't your conviction injured you?"
"Not particularly. I have lots of people who support me. Why, if we
were _too_ particular with one another, we shouldn't have a pal in the
world! Hope there's nothing wrong."
"Why, don't you call this wrong? Here are you, as jolly as possible,
and I--a miserable man!"
"Can't be helped. We are in the same box."
"Are we?" said the semi-genteel Convict. "Well, I should have scarcely
believed it! Then, I suppose I must comfort myself with the thought
that the same law applies to the rich as the poor."
"Does it?" returned the commoner Convict. "Then all I can say is, that
whatever the law may be, the punishment is never the same." And ST.
JAMES, with a bitter sigh, wished he could change places with his more
fortunate dock-mate.
* * * * *
THE CHEF'S NEW DISH FOR TRAVELLERS.--"_Insurance of Passengers'
Luggage_."--Bravo, THOMAS COOK AND SON! Not "too many Cooks," but
"just Cooks enough!" Hitherto the traveller had only to present
himself ready "dressed" to be thoroughly Cook'd, and done throughout,
to a turn. Now, in addition, his baggage can be book'd and Cook'd;
and, should any "_Gravy delictum_" happen to it, the value of the lost
portmanteau and boxes will be handed over to the aggrieved passenger.
* * * * *
PATHETIC DESCRIPTION OF THE PRESENT STATE OF MR. GEORGE
ALEXANDER.--"He is running WILDE at the St. James's Theatre.--Yours,
L.W.F."
* * * * *
CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER.
VI.--THE DUFFER AT WHIST.
Whist, it seems to me, is an affair of eyes, memory, and calculative
ratiocination. As to eyes, I have a private theory that mine are
bewitched. It is not mere short sight. At school and college I have
seen Greek words on the printed page, and translated them correctly,
and come to grief, because these words, on inspection, were somehow
not there. Explain this I cannot, but it is a fact. The same with
Whist; I see spades where clubs are, and diamonds for hearts, and a
cold world accuses me of revoking and of carelessness, but it is _not
_ carelessness. It is something gone askew in phenomena. Thus, when
I am a witness as to facts in a trial, perjury is the softest word
for my testimony, so the Court thinks, because the Court is blessed
with the usual relations between objective facts, and subjective
impressions. I admit that I am less fortunate, but when I try to go
into this, I am interrupted. However, this is why I revoke.
[Illustration]
Then as to memory, I have none, for cards. It is extremely difficult,
indeed impossible, to recall who played what, after the cards are once
out of sight. I could tell you, like the man in the story, that such
and such a statement is on the ninety sixth page of the fifth volume
of GIBBON, the page on the left, half-way down; useless things of that
sort I remember: cards, not. As to calculation and inferences, I give
it up. I just first play out all my kings, then all my aces, I lead
trumps, if I have a bunch of them, and then it is my partner's turn
to make his little points. I return his lead when I happen to think
of it, which is not often. That is all _I_ have to confess, but I
have a friend, a brilliant player _I_ call him, and he permits me to
contribute his experiences, as mine are short and simple. To my mind,
Whist would not be a bad game, if the element of skill were excluded;
but give me Roulette. If foreign ladies would not snatch up my
winnings, I should be a master at Roulette, where genius is really
served, for I play on inspiration merely. But let me turn to the
confessions of my friend, my Mentor, I may call him, a man who is a
Member of the Burlington itself, one who has had losses, go to! Hear
him speak:--
"I have always sympathised," he says, "with _Mr. Pickwick_, in regard
to his experiences at Whist; that is to say, his experience on the
second occasion narrated in his history. The first time, it will be
remembered, all went well, when, owing to unfortunate lapses on the
part of 'the criminal Miller,' who omitted to 'trump the diamond'
and subsequently revoked, he and the fat gentleman were worsted in an
encounter with _Mr. Wardle's_ mother and the immortal hero.
"But at Bath there was a different tale to tell, the _Dowager Lady
Snuphanuph_ and _Mrs. Colonel Wugsby_, proved too able for him and
_Miss Bolo_, who when he played a wrong card, which, like me, he
probably did every other time, looked a small armoury of daggers,
and subsequently in a beautiful instance of the figure known to the
grammarian as Hendiadys, went home in tears and a Sedan chair."
Bearing in mind the advice attributed to TALLEYRAND, I have
conscientiously endeavoured to become a Whist-player; but it is
becoming increasingly obvious to me, that owing to the malison
pronounced at my birth, my room is generally preferred to my company.
And yet I have studied the subject according to my lights. Every
instance of Whist in fiction which comes under my notice receives my
undivided attention, and when I read Miss BROUGHTON, such a sentence
as, "I suppose," she said, "that it's the right thing to play out all
one's aces first? Her partner conscientiously endeavoured to veil the
expression of extreme dissent which this proposition called forth,
and with such success that the ace of hearts instantly and confidently
followed his brother."
When I read hints like these, I garner them up for my own future use.
I have pored over every known text-book on the subject, from MATTHEWS
and HOYLE to CAVENDISH. I once went so far as to learn the proper
leads by rote, forgetting them all within a week; and owing to my
inveterate habit of endeavouring to justify the most flagitious acts
by a supposed reference to authority, have earned for myself the name
of "Pole."
There are some with whom I play, who contrive to make me feel more at
my ease than do others, and even look upon me in virtue of my playing
with "those men at the Club" as one having authority; for among
the blind the one-eyed man is king. There is my Mother-in-law for
instance, now I really enjoy a rubber with _her_. We sit down after
dinner at a table scant of cloth, and either much too small or so
inconveniently large that I cannot see the trump at the other end of
it. She usually begins operations by misdealing, which is precisely
what always happens to me with a new pack; nor do I yet understand
how it is that the expert manages to deal at about sixty miles an hour
without a mistake, whereas when my turn comes every other card seems
to get stuck to its neighbour by a very superior kind of glue, so that
they all come out in batches of twos and threes as it were, instead of
one by one.
But when the deal has come right, her next step is to sort her cards,
which she does by placing all her trumps apart from the others between
her third and fourth fingers; I can thus tell how many she has, and am
further assisted by her generally dropping one or two in the process
face upwards on the table. This would be punishable at the Club; but
as she would consider it "mean" were any allusions made to it, nothing
happens. Towards the end of the hand her attention is apt to wander,
and owing to her abstraction play comes to a dead halt. When a hint
is offered that we are waiting for her, with prompt and business-like
alacrity but regardless of the rigorous formula, "Place your cards,
please," she will say, "Who led a spade?" there being at the time a
club, a heart, and a diamond on the table. Then, being the only one
who has a card of the leader's suit left, she revokes but is not found
out. When she leads out of turn, as happens on an average four or
five times every rubber, if I am against her, I call a suit from her
partner, upon which she says, flaring up, "Is _that_ the way you play
at the Club? 'Cheats never thrive.'" Nor do we, for the simple reason,
that she seldom holds less than three honours in each suit, and from
five to six trumps besides!