Read Ebook: Punch or the London Charivari Volume 102 May 14 1892 by Various

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOL. 102

MAY 14, 1892

CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER.

I am in favour of Mr. BRYCE's Access to Mountains Bill, and of Crofters who may be ambitious to cultivate the fertile slopes of all the Bens in Scotland. In fact, I am in favour of anything that will, or may, interfere with the tedious toil of Deer-stalking. Mr. BRYCE's Bill, I am afraid, will do no good. People want Access to Mountains when they cannot get it; when once they can, they will stay where the beer is, and not go padding the wet and weary hoof through peat-hogs, over rocks, and along stupid and fatiguing acclivities, rugged with heather. Oh, preserve me from Deer-stalking; it is a sport of which I cherish only the most sombre memories.

They may laugh, and say it was my own fault, all my misfortune on the stalk, but a feeling reader will admit that I have merely been unlucky. My first adventure, or misadventure if you like, was at Cauldkail Castle, Lord GABERLUNZIE's place, which had been rented by a man who made a fortune in patent corkscrews. The house was pretty nearly empty, as everyone had gone south for the Leger, so it fell to my lot to go out under the orders of the head stalker. He was a man of six foot three, he walked like that giant of iron, TALUS his name was, I think, who used to perambulate the shores of Crete, an early mythical coast-guard. HUGH's step on the mountain was like that of the red deer, and he had an eye like the eagle's of his native wastes.

It was not pleasant, marching beside HUGH, and I was often anxious to sit down and admire the scenery, if he would have let me. I had no rifle of my own, but one was lent me, with all the latest improvements, confound them! Well, we staggered through marshes, under a blinding sun, and clambered up cliffs, and sneaked in the beds of burns, and crawled through bogs on our stomachs. My only intervals of repose were when HUGH lay down on his back, and explored the surrounding regions with his field-glass. Even then I was not allowed to smoke, and while I was baked to a blister with the sun, I was wet through with black peat water. Never a deer could we see, or could HUGH see, rather, for I am short-sighted, and cannot tell a stag from a bracken bush.

At last HUGH, who was crawling some yards ahead, in an uninteresting plain, broken by a few low round hillocks, beckoned to me to come on. I writhed up to him, where he lay on the side of one of those mounds, when he put the rifle in my hand, whispering "Shoot!"

"Shoot what?" said I, for my head was not yet above the crest of the hillock. He only made a gesture, and getting my eye-glass above the level, I saw quite a lot of deer, stags, and hinds, within fifty yards of us. They were interested, apparently, in a party of shepherds, walking on a road which crossed the moor at a distance, and had no thoughts to spare for us. "Which am I to shoot?" I whispered.

"The big one, him between the two hinds to the left." I took deadly aim, my heart beating audibly, like a rusty pump in a dry season. My hands were shaking like aspen leaves, but I got the sight on him, under his shoulder, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened, I pulled the trigger of the second barrel. Nothing occurred. "Ye have the safety-bolts in," whispered HUGH, and he accommodated that portion of the machinery, which I do not understand. Was all this calculated to set a man at his ease? I took aim afresh, pulled the trigger again. Nothing! "Ye're on half-cock," whispered HUGH, adding some remark in Gaelic, which, of course, I did not understand. Was it my fault? It was not my own rifle, I repeat, and the hammers, at half-cock, looked as high as those of my gun, full-cocked.

All this conversation had aroused the attention of the deer. Off they scuttled at full speed, and I sent a couple of bullets vaguely after them, in the direction of a small forest of horns which went tossing down a glade. I don't think I hit anything, and HUGH, without making any remark, took the rifle and strode off in a new direction. I was nearly dead with fatigue, I was wishing Mr. BRYCE and the British Tourist my share of Access to Mountains, when we reached the crown of a bank above a burn, which commanded a view of an opposite slope. HUGH wriggled up till his eyes were on a level with the crest, and got his long glass out. After some interval of time, he wakened me, to say that if I snored like that, I would not get a shot. Then he showed me, or tried to show me, through the glass, a stag and three hinds, far off to our right. I did not see them, I very seldom see anything that people point out to me, but I thought it wise to humour him, and professed my satisfaction. Was I to shoot at them? No, they were about half a mile off, but, if I waited, they would feed up to us, so we waited, HUGH nudging me at intervals to keep me awake. Meanwhile I was practising aiming at a distant rock, about the place where I expected to get my shot, as HUGH instructed me. I thought the wretched rifle was at half-cock, and I aimed away, very conscientiously, for practice. Presently the rifle went off with a bang, and I saw the dust fly on the stone I had been practising at. It had not been at half-cock, after all; warned by my earlier misfortunes, HUGH had handed the rifle to me cocked. The stag and the hinds were in wild retreat at a considerable distance. I had some difficulty in explaining to HUGH, how this accident had occurred, nor did he seem to share my satisfaction in having hit the stone, at all events.

It was a long business, and Dr. MACTAVISH, who was brought from a hamlet about thirty miles away, nearly gave me up. My arm was about three feet in circumference, and I was very ill indeed. I have not tried Deer-stalking again; and, as I said, I wish the British Tourist joy of his Access to Mountains.

EARLY SPRING.

Once more the North-east wind Chills all anew, And tips the redden'd nose With colder blue; Makes blackbirds hoarse as crows, And poets too.

The town with nipping blasts How wildly blown; Around my hapless head Loose tiles are thrown, Slates, chimney-pots, and lead Of weight unknown.

When thus in early Spring My joys are few, I'll warm myself at home With "Mountain Dew," Or fly to Nice, or Rome, Or Timbuctoo.

A BIRD OF PREY.

The Laureate, seeking Love's last law, Finds "Nature red in tooth and claw With ravin"; fierce and ruthless. But Woman? Bard who so should sing Of her, the sweet soft-bosomed thing, Would he tabooed as truthless.

Yet what is this she-creature, plumed And poised in air? Iris-illumed, She gleams, in borrowed glory, A portent of modernity, Out-marvelling strangest phantasy That chequered classic story.

Fair-locked and winged. So HESIOD drew The legendary Harpy crew, The "Spoilers" of old fable; Maidens, yet monsters, woman-faced, With iron hearts that had disgraced The slaughterer of ABEL.

Chimaera dire! The Sirens three, Ulysses shunned were such as she, Though robed in simpler raiment. Is there no modern Nemesis To deal out to such ghouls as this Just destiny's repayment?

O modish Moloch of the air! The eagle swooping from his lair On bird-world's lesser creatures, Is spoiler less intent to slay Than this unsparing Bird of Prey, With Woman's form and features.

'Tis a she-shape by Mode arrayed! The dove that coos in verdant shade, The lark that shrills in ether, The humming-bird with jewelled wings,-- Ten thousand tiny songful things Have lent her plume and feather.

They die in hordes that she may fly, A glittering horror, through the sky. Their voices, hushed in anguish, Find no soft echoes in her ears, Or the vile trade in pangs and fears Her whims support would languish.

THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN.

Woman's world's a stage, And modern women will be ill-cast players; They'll have new exits and strange entrances, And one She will play many mannish parts, And these her Seven Ages. First the infant "Grinding" and "sapping" in its mother's arms, And then the pinched High-School girl, with packed satchel, And worn anaemic face, creeping like cripple Short-sightedly to school. Then the "free-lover," Mouthing out IBSEN, or some cynic ballad Made against matrimony. Then a spouter, Full of long words and windy; a wire-puller, Jealous of office, fond of platform-posing, Seeking that bubble She-enfranchisement E'en with abusive mouth. Then County-Councillor, Her meagre bosom shrunk and harshly lined, Full of "land-laws" and "unearned increment"; Or playing M.P. part. The sixth age shifts Into the withered sour She-pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and "Gamp" at side, Her azure hose, well-darned, a world too wide For her shrunk shanks; her once sweet woman's voice, Verjuiced to Virgin-vinegarishness, Grates harshly in its sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange new-fangled history, Is sheer unwomanliness, mere sex-negation-- Sans love, sans charm, sans grace, sans everything.

ART IN THE CITY.

BEFORE DELAROCHE'S "DROWNED MARTYR."

"NOT AT HOME!"

But many another since my youth The streets of Babylon hath trod, With a statistic measuring-rod, Or philanthropic gauge. In sooth There was GEORGE SIMS, there is CHARLES BOOTH. We now search out the Social Truth; A goodly plan, in the old time Foreshadowed in the golden prime Of worthy HENRY MAYHEW.

BURNING WORDS.

Look 'ere, JOHN, you stow it; you're nuts on the spoutin'; I don't mind a man as can 'oller a bit; And if shillings are goin', I'd back you for shoutin', Though your game's an Aunt Sally, all miss and no 'it. But the blusterin' chap as keeps naggin' the boys on To fight and get beat all for nothing's an ass. And I'm certain o' this, that the wust kind o' poison Is the stuff as you fellers 'ave lots of--that's gas!

So ta-ta, JOHN. I ain't the least wish to offend you, But plain words to fellers like you is the best. If they'd give me my way, why I'd jolly soon end you, Beard, blather and all; you're no more than a pest. I can fight and take knocks, and I'll stand by my folk, Sir, I'll 'elp them as 'elps me with whatever I earns; But I've this for your pipe, if you're wantin' a smoke, Sir,-- I ain't one for poison, nor yet for JOHN BURNS!

"MURDER IN JEST."--Is it not an extraordinary plea on behalf of a person under sentence of death for murder, that, like IBSEN's heroine, "she had never been able to take life in earnest?" Surely it should be added that "when she took somebody else's life she did take it very much in earnest."

POPULAR SONGS RE-SUNG.

This affectionate and admiring tribute from the Thunderer to its old favourite contributor "HISTORICUS," is worthy of celebrating in deathless verse. How well a dithyramb on the subject would go to a certain popular tune! As thus:--

"Get your HARCOURT! Get your HARCOURT!" Oh! whenever I'm on spout, You can hear the Tories shout, "Get your HARCOURT! Get your HARCOURT! To cheer you when your spirits are down!"

"Get your HARCOURT! Get your HARCOURT!" But they know my sparkling spout-- Will help to turn them out. "Get your HARCOURT! Get your HARCOURT!" But I'll meet them when their sun goes down.

"Get your HARCOURT! Get your HARCOURT!" But, with quip, and jibe, and flout, I completely put them out. "Get your HARCOURT! Get your HARCOURT!" But I beat them, and their sun goes down!

They try all sorts of "counters" to My slogging strokes--in vain. The "Thunderer" slates me every day, But still I slog again. Old W.G. in 'Ninety-Three May form a Cabinet; Then his first thought will be of Me, And all will cry --

TO THE GRAND OLD TORY.

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

It is only eleven; still another hour; hard even for trained nerves. For more than six hours been discussing Scotch Equivalent Grant. CLARK's musical voice has floated through the House by the half hour.

"A bagpipe with bronchitis nothing to it," says FARQUHARSON, curling himself up with delight as he hears sounds that remind him of his mountain home. HUNTER has relentlessly pursued the unhappy LORD-ADVOCATE, and CALDWELL has thoroughly enjoyed himself. His life, it will be remembered, was temporarily blighted by action of ROBERTSON when he was Lord-Advocate. Got up, following CALDWELL in debate, and dismissed a subject in a quarter of an hour's speech without reference to oration hour-and-half long with which CALDWELL had delighted House. Don't remember what the subject was, but never forget CALDWELL's seething indignation, his righteous anger, his withering wrath. ROBERTSON smiled in affected disregard; but very soon after he found it convenient to withdraw from the focus of CALDWELL's eye, and take refuge on the Scotch Bench. As for CALDWELL, he withdrew his support from Ministers, tore up his ticket of membership as a Unionist, and returned to the Gladstonian fold. A tragic story which SCOTT might have worked up into three volumes had he been alive. He is not, but CALDWELL is, and so are we--at least partially after this six hours' talk round rates in Scotland, whether at ten shillings per head or twelve shillings. At half past eleven human nature could stand it no longer; progress reported although there still remained half-an-hour available time.

So I did; thoroughly pleasant afternoon from two o'clock to seven. LORD-ADVOCATE visibly growing leaner in body, greyer in face. CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN's usually genial temperament souring, as will be observed from remarks quoted above. J.B. BALFOUR looking in from Edinburgh professes thoroughly to enjoy the business. But then he's fresh to it. Pretty large attendance of Members, but reserve themselves solely for Division. When bell rings three hundred odd come trooping in to follow the Whips into either lobby; then troop forth again. Long JOHN O'CONNOR beams genially down on scene.

"Glad you're having this for a change," he says. "You grumble when we Irish take the floor. Now the Scotch will oblige. Hope you'll like Caledonian and CALDWELL better than Home Rule and Erin G. O'BRIEN."

"Yes, I do," I boldly answered. Only distraught between conflicting charms of CALDWELL and SINCLAIR. There is a cold massivity about SINCLAIR, a pointedness of profile, when he declares "the Nose have it." But there is a loftiness about CALDWELL's tone, a subdued fire in his manner when he is discussing the difference between a rate of ten shillings and one of twelve, a withering indignation for all that is false or truculent that strangely moves the listener. The very mystery of his ordinary bearing weaves a spell of enchantment around him. For days and weeks he will sit silent, watchful, with his eye on the paralysed Scotch Law Officers. Then, suddenly, as in this debate on the Equivalent Grant, he comes to the front, and pours forth an apparently inexhaustible flood of argumentative oratory, delivered with exhilarating animation. "Give me Peebles for pleasure," said the loyal Lowlander home from a fortnight's jaunt in Paris. "Give me CALDWELL for persuasive argument," says PLUNKET, himself a born orator who has missed scarcely five minutes of this two days' debate.

Curious how influence of the hour permeates and dominates everything, even to the distant Lake Ny'yassa. Question asked when House met as to how things were going on there under Commissioner JOHNSTON. No one at all surprised when, in reply, LOWTHER referred to the "two powerful Chiefs, JUMBE and MCPONDA." Should like to hear the views of the last gentleman on the Scotch Equivalent Grant, its application to secondary education in Scotland, and the probable ultimate destination of the ?25,000 allotted to parochial boards.

ASQUITH really hadn't been saying anything about them; turning round beheld Citizen GRAHAM glaring upon him, throwing about his arms as if he were semaphore signalling to the rearguard of Republican Army.

"Order! Order!" cried SPEAKER, sternly.

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