Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 99, August 16, 1890 by Various
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 99, August 16, 1890
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 99.
August 16, 1890.
MODERN TYPES.
(_BY MR. PUNCH'S OWN TYPE WRITER._)
NO. XVII.--THE SPURIOUS SPORTSMAN.
There is in sport, as in Society, a class of men who aspire
perpetually towards something as perpetually elusive, which appears
to them, rightly or wrongly, to be higher and nobler than their actual
selves. But whereas a man may be of and in Society, without effort, by
the mere accident of birth or wealth, in sport, properly understood,
achievement of some kind is necessary before admission can be had
to the sacred circle of the elect. What the snob is to Society, the
Spurious Sportsman is to sport; and thus where the former seeks
to persuade the world that he is familiar with the manners, and
accustomed to the intimate friendship of the great and highly placed,
the latter will hold himself out as one who, in every branch of sport
has achieved many notable feats on innumerable occasions.
Such a man, of course, is not without knowledge on the matters
of which he speaks. He has probably hunted several times without
pleasure, or fished or shot here and there without success. But upon
these slender foundations he could not rear the stupendous fabric
of his deeds unless he had read much, and listened carefully to
the narrations of others. By the aid of a lively and unscrupulous
imagination, he gradually transmutes their experiences into his own.
What he has read becomes, in the end, what he has done, and thus, in
time, the Spurious Sportsman is sent forth into the world equipped
in a dazzling armour of sporting mendacity. And yet mendacity is,
perhaps, too harsh a word; for it is of the essence of true falsehood
that it should hope to be believed, in order that it may deceive. But,
in the Spurious Sportsman's ventures into the marvellous, there is
generally something that gives ground for the exercise of charity,
and the appalled listener may hope that even the narrator is not
so thoroughly convinced of the reality of his exploits as he would,
apparently, desire others to be. And there is this also to be said
in excuse, that sport, which calls for the exercise of some of the
noblest attributes of man's nature, not infrequently leads him into
mean traps and pitfalls. For there are few men who can aver, with
perfect accuracy, that they have never added a foot or two to their
longest shot, or to the highest jump of their favourite horse, and
have never, in short, exaggerated a difficulty in order to increase
the triumph of overcoming it. But the modesty that confines most men
within reasonable limits of untruthfulness has no restraining power
over the Spurious Sportsman, to whom somewhat, therefore, may be
forgiven for the sake of the warning he affords.
He is, as a rule, a dweller in London, for it is there that he finds
the largest stock of credulity and tolerance. To walk with him in the
streets, or to travel with him in a train, is to receive for nothing
a liberal education in sport. No man has ever shot a greater number
of rocketing pheasants with a more unerring accuracy than he has--in
Pall Mall, St. James's Street, or Piccadilly. He will point out to you
the exact spot where he would post himself if the birds were being
driven from St. James's Square over the Junior Carlton Club. He will
then expatiate learnedly on angle, and swing, and line of flight,
and having raised his stick suddenly to his shoulder, by way of an
example, will knock off the hat of an inoffensive passer-by. This
incident will remind him of an adventure he had while shooting with
Lord X.--"A deuced good chap at bottom; a bit stiff at first, but the
best fellow going when you really know him"--through the well-known
coverts of his lordship's estate. When travelling safely in a
railway-carriage, he is the boldest cross-country rider in existence.
He will indicate to you a fence full of dangers, and having taught you
how it may best be cleared, will add, that it is nothing to one that
he jumped last season with the Quytchley. "My dear Sir," he will say,
"a man who was riding behind me was so astounded that he measured it
then and there with a tape he happened to have with him; Six foot of
post and rail as stiff as an iron-clad, and twenty foot of gravel-pit
beyond." He will also speak with infinite contempt of those who
"crane" or stick to the roads. It will sometimes happen to him to
get invited--really invited--to an actual country house where genuine
sport is carried on. Here, however, he will generally have brought
with him his wrong gun, or his "idiot of a man" will have packed the
wrong kind of cartridges, or his horse will have suddenly developed an
unaccountable trick of refusing, which results in a crushed hat and
a mud-stained coat for his rider. These little accidents will by no
means dash his spirits, or impair his volubility in the smoking-room,
where he may be heard conducting a dull discussion on sporting
records, or carrying on an animated controversy about powder, size of
shot or bore, choke, the proper kind of gaiter, or the right stamp of
horse for the country. Having shot with indifferent results on a very
big day through coverts, he will afterwards aver that such sport is
very poor fun, and that what he really cares about is a tramp over
heather or turnips, and a small bag at the end of the day; but if he
should ever be found on a grouse moor, or a partridge shooting, he
will sneer at the inferior quality of a sport which requires that a
man should exhaust himself with useless walking exercise before he
gets near his birds. "Covert-shooting is the game, my boy;" he will
say, "most difficult thing in the world when the pheasants are tall,
and the finest test of a real sportsman," and with that he will miss
his twentieth grouse, and call down imprecations on the dogs, the
light, the keeper, and his own companions.
The Spurious Sportsman is often an officer of the auxiliary forces.
He knows by heart every button of the British Army, talks much upon
questions of discipline, and has a more sharply defined and more
permanent mark of sunburn across his forehead than any regular
officer. He is also a great stickler for etiquette, and prefers to be
addressed as Major or Colonel, as the case may be. He bears his rank
upon his visiting-cards, and frequents a military Club. In the society
of other Spurious Sportsmen he is at his best and noblest. They gather
together at their resorts, each with the sincere conviction that
every other member of the little coterie is a confirmed humbug. Yet
they never fail to bring their store of goods, their anecdotes, their
experiences, their adventures, and their feats, to a market where
admiration and applause are paid down with a liberal hand; for though
all know their fellows to be impostors, they are content to sink
this knowledge in the desire to gain acceptance and credence for
themselves, and thus there never comes a whisper of doubt, hesitation,
or disbelief to mar the perfect harmony in which the Spurious
Sportsmen live amongst themselves. Yet, when they have separated,
they never fail to hold one another up to ridicule and contempt.
The Spurious Sportsman thus spends the greater part of his life in
building up a reputation out of nothing. As time goes on, he becomes
more and more anecdotically experienced, and, if possible, even less
actual. He will have lost his nerve for riding, and a sight which
gets daily weaker will have caused him to abandon even the pretence of
handling his gun; but he will seek a recompense by becoming a sporting
authority, and will pass a doddering old age in lamenting over
the decay of all those qualities which formerly made a sportsman a
sportsman, and a man a man.
* * * * *
MR. PUNCH'S DICTIONARY OF PHRASES.
PARLIAMENTARY.
"_My right honourable and learned friend;_" i.e., "A professional
politician, devoid alike of principle and capacity."
"_I pass from that matter;_" i.e., "Find it somewhat embarrassing."
"_I don't know where my honourable friend gets his facts from;_" i.e.,
"He should try and get out of his inveterate habit of lying."
"_A monument of antiquated Norman tyranny_," or, "_A relic of early
English fraud and ignorance;_" i.e., "A statute which I and my Party
wish to repeal."
"_The most precious constitutional legacy of those who fought and
bled,_" &c., &c.; i.e., Ditto ditto impugned by the opposite Party.
LEGAL.
"_I am instructed, my Lord, that this is, in fact, the case;_" i.e.,
"I see that, as usual, you have got upon a false scent; but as this
suits the book of my client, the solicitor (whose nod at this moment
may mean anything, and, therefore, why not approval?), I encourage the
mistake."
LECTURER AT A BATTLE PANORAMA.
"_It is a well-known historical fact that--;_" i.e., "You needn't
believe a word of it."
"_A bank of heavy clouds lowers in the horizon;_" i.e., "The black
paint has been laid on thick."
"_The plain stretches far away;_" i.e., "About five yards."
* * * * *
'ARRY ON THE 'OLIDAY SEASON.
Dear CHARLIE,--'Ow are yer, my pippin? 'Ere's 'oliday season come round,
And I'm off on the galoot somewheres, and that pooty soon, you be bound;
But afore I make tracks for dear Parry, or slope for the Scheldt or the
Rhine,
My 'art turns to turmuts and you, and I feel I _must_ drop yer a line.
_You_ gave me a invite this season, I know, my dear boy. Well, yer see
It's _this_ way. The green tooral-looral's all right, but it 'ardly suits
Me!
When you're well in the swim, my dear CHARLIE, along o' the reglar
_eleet_,
You must do as they do, for a swell, like a Bobby, must stick to his
beat.
[Illustration: 'ARRY ON THE BOULEVARDS.]
It's expected, old man, it's expected. Jest fancy me slinging my 'ook
For old Turmutshire, going out nuttin', or bobbing for fish in a brook!
Not _der wriggle_, dear boy, I assure you. Could stars of Mayfair be
content
To round upon Rome or the Riggi, and smug up in Surrey or Kent?
No fear! Cherry orchards is pooty, and 'ops 'as admirers, no doubt;
But it's only when sport is afoot as the country's worth fussin' about.
Your toff likes the turmuts or stubbles when poultry is there to be shot.
But corn-fields and cabbage-beds, CHARLIE? Way oh! that's all
middle-class rot.
There wos a time, CHARLIE, I own it, when Richmond 'ud do me to rights.
And a fortnight at Margit meant yum-yum to look for and dream on o'
nights;
I was innercent then, a young geeser, too modest for this world, dear
boy;
Didn't know you'd to do wot was proper, and not what you think you'd
enjoy.
Ah! _Nobbles obliges_, old pardner, and great is the power of "form";
Rads may rail at "the clarses" like ginger, but all on us likes to be
"warm,"
And rub shoulders with suckles more shiny. Wy, life's greatest pulls,
dont cherknow,
Are to look up to sparklers above us, and down on poor duffers below.
'Ardly know wich is lummiest, swelp me! It's nuts to 'ook on to a swell,
Like I did at a Primrose meet lately with sweet Lady CLARE CARAMEL.
When her sunshade shone red on my face, mate, me givin' my arm through
the crush,
Wy I felt like Mong Blong in the mornin', and looked like a bride, one
big blush.
NODDY SPRIGGINS, _he_ spotted me, CHARLIE,--him being left out in the
cold,--
And to see him sit down on his topper, and turn off as yaller as gold,
Wos as good as a pantermime. Oh! if there's one thing more nicer than
pie,
It's to soar like a bird in the sight of the flats as can't git on the
fly.
But I'm wandering, CHARLIE, I'm wandering. 'Oliday form is my text.
Last year it was Parry and Switzerland; 'ardly know where to go next.
I should much like to try Monty Carlo, and 'ave a fair flutter for once,
But I fear it won't run to it, pardner; my boss is the dashdest old
dunce.
_Won't_ raise me to three quid a week, the old skinflint. Though
travelling's cheap,
It do scatter the stamps jest a few, if you don't care to go on the
creep.
Roolette might jest set me up proper, but then, dontcherknow, it might
_not_,
And I fear I should come back cleared out, if my luck didn't land me a
pot.
Oh, dash them spondulicks! The pieces is all as I wants for _my_ 'elth.
And then them darned Sosherlist jugginses 'owl till all's blue agin
Wealth.
It gives me the ditherums, CHARLIE; it do, dear old man, and no kid.
Wy, they 'd queer the best pitches in life, if they kiboshed the Power
of the Quid!
There's Venice again! I could start this next week with a couple o' pals;
But yer gondoler's 'ardly my form, and I never wos nuts on canals.
WAGGLES says _they_'re not like the Grand Junction, as creeps sewer-like
through our parks;
Well, WAGGLES may sniff; I'm not sure, up to now, mate, as Venice means
larks.
'Arf a mind to try Parry once more. It's a place as you soon git to love;
There is always some fun afoot there, as will keep a chap fair on the
shove.
Pooty scenery's all very proper, but glaciers and snow-peaks do pall,
And as to yer bloomin' Black Forests, the _Bor der Boolong_ beats 'em
all.
After all, there is something quite 'ome-like in Parry--so leastways I
think;
It's a place where you don't seem afraid to larf 'arty, or tip gals the
wink;
Sort o' _san janey_ feeling about it, my pippin'--you know wot I mean.
You don't feel _too_ fur from old Fleet Street, steaks, "bitter," and
"_God Save the Queen!_"
When your Britisher travels, he travels, but likes to be Britisher still;
With his _Times_ and his "tub" he is 'appy; without 'em he's apt to feel
ill.
Wy, when I was last year in Parry, I went for a Bullyvard crawl
One night arter supper, when who should I spot but my pal BOBBY BALL.
He wos doin' the gay at a Caffy, was BOB, _petty vair_, and all that,
Togged up to the nines with his claw-hammer, cuff-shooters, gloves, and
crush-hat.
"Wot cheer, BOBBY, old buster!" I bellered; and up from his paper he
looks.
Ah! and didn't we 'ave a rare night on it, CHARLIE! We both know _our_
books.
But wot do you think BOB was reading? _The Times_! I could twig it at
once.
He might 'ave 'ung on to _Gil Blars_, or the _Figgero_,--BOB ain't a
dunce--
But lor! not a bit on it, CHARLIE; the Britisher stuck out to rights;
'Twas JOHN BULL's big, well-printed old broad-sheet! Jest one of the
pootiest sights!
TORTONI'S is all very spiffing, the Bullyvard life is A 1,
And the smart little journals of Parry, though tea-paper rags, is good
fun;
But a Briton abroad _is_ a Briton; _chic_, spice, azure pictures, rum
crimes,
Is all very good biz in their way, but they do not make up for our
_Times_!
Well, I'm not on for Turmutshire, CHARLIE, not this time; and now you
know why.
Carn't yer jest turn the tables, old hoyster, and come for a bit of a
fly?
Cut the chawbacons, run up to London, jine _me_, and we'll pal off to
Parry;
And if yer don't find it a 'Oliday Skylark, wy, never trust.
'ARRY.
* * * * *
VICE VERSA.--The French Ministers are away from Paris for their
vacation. M. DEVELLE, it is said, has gone to La Bourboule. This is
better for the place than La Bourboule going to the Develle.
* * * * *
[Illustration: HER FIRST WASP.
_Poor Effie_ (_who has been stung_). "FIRST IT WALKED ABOUT ALL OVER
MY HAND, AND IT _WAS_ SO NICE! BUT OH!--_WHEN IT SAT DOWN!_"]
* * * * *
THE GERMAN HINTERLAND.
(_NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE._)
Where is the German _Hinterland_?
Wherever on a foreign strand
There lies a handy sea-coast track,
With fertile country at its back,
On which to lay a Teuton hand;
_There_ is the German _Hinterland_!
Where is the German _Hinterland_?
Wherever commerce can expand,
Without much danger or expense,
O'er someone's "sphere of influence,"--
That "someone" failing to withstand--
_There_ is the German _Hinterland_!
* * * * *
A PUZZLE.--The Dunlo case came to an end. Miss BELLE BILTON remains
Lady DUNLO--and quite right too. Yet, if she is still the wife of Lord
DUNLO, how is it that she is engaged to AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS? Yet
such is the fact. Is she to be the Belle of the Beauty and the Beast
(Pantomime)? If so, her Ladyship will look splendid, as she is a Belle
Built 'un.
* * * * *
PROVERBIAL PARLIAMENTARY PHILOSOPHY.--"The course of business never
did run smooth."--W.H. SMITH.
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
The paper on "Old Q.," in the _Gentleman's Magazine_, by EDWARD
WALFORD, M.A., is interesting up to a certain point, but after that
disappointing. "_Oliver_," says the Baron, impersonating _Oliver_ for
the time being, "asks for more." And much the same observation have I
to make on another paper about _Irish Characters in English Dramatic
Literature_, by W.J. LAWRENCE. Although the writer ranges from
SHAKESPEARE to BOUCICAULT, and mentions authors, plays, and actors,
yet he has omitted HUDSON who, after POWER and, before BOUCICAULT,
was, in his own particular line, one of the best delineators of Irish
character on the stage. He played chivalrous parts that BOUCICAULT
would not have attempted. There are historical Irish types still to be
represented; and when Irish melodrama, with its secret plots, murders,
wicked land-agents, jovial muscular-christian priests, comic male
peasants, and pretty and virtuous female ditto, shall have taken a
rest for a while, Irish Comedy may yet have its day.
[Illustration: "_Scin Loeca_."]
The very best letter I have ever seen on this important subject
appeared August 9th, written by that eminent author, who makes a
vain attempt at concealing his identity under the signature of
"ARCHIMILLION," and addressed to the Great Journalistic Twin
Brethren, the Editorial Proprietors and Proprietorial Editors of
_The Whirlwind_, whose Court Circular reporter (this by the way)
might appropriately adopt the historic name of "BLASTUS, the King's
Chamberlain." The argument in ARCHIMILLION'S remarkable letter is
decidedly sound. But surely he is wrong in supposing that the
_astral reverberation of the podasma_ (one in six) _could possibly be
ratiocinated on the coleoptic intensity!_ Perhaps he will deny that
he ever said so. _But did he mean it?_ To me this has been the sweet
familiar study of a lifetime, and, without boastful egoism, I may
say I am considered, by all who know anything about the matter, a
first-rate authority on this subject, or on any other, says
THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.
* * * * *
TIT FOR TAT!
(_FROM A HISTORY OF ENGLAND, TO BE WRITTEN IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY._)
The Intelligent Foreigner carefully picked his way amongst the ruins
to Downing Street, and was soon in consultation with the Premier.
"This merely is a call of courtesy," he observed; "of course I am not
in the least bound to give you notice, but think it civil to do so."
The British Premier bowed, as if inviting farther particulars.
"Well, O-HANG-HIT and I have settled everything," continued the
Visitor; "he takes the Isle of Wight, while I assume the Protectorate
of Scotland, India, and the Channel Islands."
"What!" exclaimed the British Premier, aghast at the information. "And
what if we resist?"
"Resist!" laughed the New Zealander, "Why that would cost a halfpenny
in the pound more Income Tax, and your rate-payers would never submit
to that! Besides, our disease-spreading torpedoes (to which our own
people are acclimatised) would soon silence opposition!"
"Very true," returned the British Premier, sorrowfully, "very true,
indeed. Well, and what next?"
"Then O-HANG-HIT has a monopoly of English Beer, and we consent to the
cession of Gibraltar to DUNT-KAR-ACUSSER. The simplest thing in the
world!"
"But where do I come in?" asked the Briton.
"Oh, _you_ don't come in at all. But don't be alarmed, we are only
contributing our quota to the glorious cause of Peace!" And the
Intelligent Foreigner showed the British Premier a report of a speech
made by Lord SALISBURY, at the Mansion House, on August 6, 1890.
* * * * *
TRANSCENDENTAL NEOPHYTE.--Mr. JOHN BURNS has joined the Kabbylists.
* * * * *
OUR YOTTING YORICK.
DEAR EDITOR,
How can I send you "a sketch of anything I see," when I haven't
seen anything for the last twenty-four hours. Impossible! utterly
impossible! You simply want me to do impossibilities, and I am only
mortal. _Voila_! I don't complain; I only say I can't draw what
I don't see; and as to sending funny sketches when it's raining
in torrents, and been doing so for the last forty-eight hours
three minutes and twenty-one and a-half seconds, I'm--well, I
can't--_simplement_. Torrents of rain. Anyone can draw water--but draw
rain! Yes, when on horseback, I can draw rein. Good that, "when you
come to think of it,"--considering that I'm 1900 miles from an English
joke, so that this you may say is far-fetched, only 'tisn't fetched
at all, as I send it. Think I've left out an "0," and it's 19,000. _It
seems like it_. Here we are in Petersburg. Mist's cleared off. We're
anchored close to Winter Palace, and I've just seen a droschki-driver,
whom I sketch. Not unlike old toy Noah's-Ark man, eh? Something
humorous at last, thank Heaven! But did I come 1900 miles to see this?
Well, "Neva no more!"
[Illustration: Droschki-Driver.]
Mister Skipper says I ought to go to the _Petershoff_. All very well
to say so, but where is _Peter_, and now far is he "hoff"? That's
humorous, I think, eh? You told me to go and "pick up bits of Russian
life," and so I'm going to do it at the risk of my own, I feel sure,
for I never saw such chaps as these soldiers, six feet three at the
least, every man Jackski of 'em, and broad out of all proportion.
However, I'll go on shore, and try to get some fun out of the
Russians, if there's any _in_ them. If I'm caught making fun of
these soldiers, _I shouldn't have a word to say for myself_! The
Skipper says that he's heard that the persecution of the Jews has
just begun again. Cruel shame, but I daren't say this aloud, _in
case_ anyone should understand just that amount of English, and
_then_--whoopski!--the knout and Siberia! So I'll say "_nowt_." Really
humorous _that_, I'm sure, and 19,000 miles from England.
To-day--I don't know what to-day is, having lost all count of time--is
a great day with the Russians. I don't understand one word they
say, and as to reading their letters--I mean the letters of their
alphabet--that is if they've got one, which I very much doubt,--why I
might as well be a blind man for all I can make out. Somehow I rather
think that it's the Emperor's birthday. Guns and bells all over the
place. Guns going off, bells going on. Tremendous crowds everywhere.
"I am never so lonely," as somebody said, "as when I'm in a
crowd." That's just what I feel, especially when the crowd doesn't
talk a single word of English. The Russians are not ill-favoured
but ill-flavoured, that is, in a crowd. I cheered with them,
"Hiphiphurrahski! Hipski! Hurrah-ski!" What I was cheering at I
don't know, but I like to be in it, and when at Petersburg do as the
Petersburgians do.
Having strayed away from our yachting party, or yachting party having
strayed away from me, I found myself (_they_ didn't find me though;
they _have_ been finding me in wittles and drink during the whole
of the voyage,--humorous again, eh? It's _in_ me, only there's a
depression in the Baltic. Why call it Baltic? Nobody on board knows)
outside the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul. I daresay there's
some legend about their having built it, but, as I remarked before,
my knowledge of the Russian tongue is limited to what I get _dried
for breakfast_, and that doesn't go far when there are many more
than myself alongside the festive board--and so I couldn't get
any explanation. But I managed to sneak inside the fortress--and
then,--_lost my way_!!! Couldn't get out. "If you want to know
your way, ask a Policeman" in London, and, in St. Petersburg, ask a
Bobbiski. Here's one with a sword--at least, I think he's one. I said,
"Please, Sir, which way?" Then I tried him with French--"_Ou est_,"
says I, "_le chemin pour aller_ out of (I couldn't remember the French
for 'out of') _cette_ confounded fortress?" He wouldn't understand
me. I tipped him a wink--I tipped him a two-shilling piece. It wasn't
enough I suppose, as he called another fellow. The other chap came
up,--what _he_ was I don't know--but suddenly, from their awful
manner, their frowns, and violent expressions, it occurred to me,
"Hang it all! they take me for a Jew!" Never was so alarmed. With
great presence of mind I pointed to my nose--they saw the point at
once. Then the pair of them marched me off ("to Siberia," thinks I!
and I wondered how far we should have to walk!) to the courtyard,
where I had entered, and then passed me through the gate on to the
road again. Then I fled to the yacht!! Away! Away!