Punch (103.1892)

190

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

■ .,---■ . - .. . - r .--------——---- ■ -

[October 22, 1892.

CONVERSATIONAL HINTS TO YOUNG SHOOTERS.

{By Mr. Punch's axon Grouse in the Gun-room.)

And, next, my gallant young Sportsmen, just sharpen up your
attention, and, if you have ears, prepare to lend them now. Be, in
fact, all ears. At any rate, get yourselves as near as possible to that
desirable condition, for we are going to discuss shooting-lunches,
and all that pertains to them. Think of it! Are not some of your
happiest memories, and your most delightful anticipations, bound up
with the mid-day meal, at which the anxieties and disappointments
of the morning, the birds you missed, the birds that, though they
got up in front of you, were shot by your jealous neighbour, the wiped-
eyes, the hands torn
in the thorn-bushes,
at which, as I say,
all these are forgotten,
when you lay aside
your gun, and sit
down to your short
repose. Then it is
that the talker shines
supreme. All the
conversation which
may have been broken
in upon during the
morning by the neces-
sity for posting your-
self at the hot corner,
or the grassy ride, or
in the butt, or _ for
polishing off a right
and left of partridges,
can then flow free
and uninterrupted.
Ah, happy moments,
when the bad shot
becomes as the good,
and all distinctions
are levelled! How
well, how gratefully
do I remember you!
Still, in my waking
fancies, there rises to
my nose a savoury
odour, telling of stew
or hot-pot, and still
the crisp succulence
of the jam tartlet has
honour in my memory.
Ah, tempi passati,
tempi passati ! But
away, fancy, and to
our work, which is to
speak of

Shooting-Lunches

in their relation to
talk: —

(1.) Be extremely
careful, unless yon
know exactly the ways
of your host with
regard to his shooting-
lunch, not to express
to him before lunch
any very definite
opinion as to what the
best kind of lunch is.
If, for instance, you rashly declare that, for your own part, you
detest a solemn sit-down-in-a-farmhouse lunch, and that your
ideal is a sandwich, a biscuit and a nip out of a flask, and if
you then find yourself lunching off three courses at a comfortable
table, why you '11 be in a bit of a hole. Consistency would prompt
you to abstain, appetite urges you to eat. "What is a poor talker to
do ? Obviously, he must get out somehow. Here is a suggested
method. Begin by admiring the room.

" By Jove, what a jolly little room this is. It's as spick and span
as a model dairy. I wish you'd take me on as your tenant, Chal-
mers, when you've got a vacancy."

Chalmers will say, " It's not a bad little hole. Old Mrs. Nubbles
keeps things wonderfully spruce. This is one of the cottages I built
five years ago."

There's your first "move. Your next is as follows. Every rustic-
cottage contains gruesome china-ornaments and excruciating-cheap
German-prints of such subjects as " The Tryst" (always spelt " The

IN THE RUE DE LA PAIX.

Hairdresser. "Say then, Sare zat you are Rase—Shave,—is it that I shall cut

you off your 'AlR ? "

Mr. Brown {an old-fashioned Englishman, on his first Visit to Paris—startled). "Hey!
what 1 Cut my Hair off ! Nong, Mossoo—comprenny?—nong i Do you think I want

to look like one of your french poodles ? "

Trist]' on the German print), " The Saylor's Return," "The
Warior s Dreem" " Napoleon at Areola" and so forth. Point to
a china-ornament and say, " I never knew cows in this part of the
country were blue and green." Then after you've exhausted the
cow, milked her dry, so to speak, you can take a turn at the engrav-
ings, and make a sly hit at the_ taste in art generated by modern
education. Hereupon, someone is dead certain to chime in with the
veteran grumble about farmers who educate their children above
their station by allowing their daughters to learn to play the piano,
and their sons to acquire the rudiments of Latin: "Give you Lmy
word of honour, the farmers' daughters about my uncle's place, get
their dresses made by my aunt's dressmaker, and thump out old
Wagner all day long." This horrible picture of rural depravity

will cause an a nimated
discussion. When it
is over, you can say,
" This is the very best
Irish-stew I've ever
tasted. I must get
your cook to give me
the receipt."

"Ah, my boy,"
says Chalmers,
"you'll find there's
nothing like a stew
out shooting."

"Of course," you
say, "nothing can
beat it, if you've got
a nice room to eat it
in, and aren't pressed
for time; but, if
you've got no end of
ground to cover, and
not much time to do
it in, I can always
manage to do myself
on a scrap of any-
thing handy. Thanks,
I don't mind if I do
have a chunk of cake,
and a whitewash of
sherry."

Thus you have
fetched a compass—I
fancy the phrase is
correct — and have
wiped out the memory
of your indiscretion.
Of course the thing
may happen the other
way round. You may
have expressed a pre-
ference for solid
lunches, only to find
yourself set down on
a tuft of grass, with a
beef sandwich and a
digestive biscuit. In
that case you can
begin by declaring
your delight in an
open - air meal, go
on to admire the
scenery, and end by
expressing a certain
amount of judicious
contempt for the
Sybarite who cannot
tear himself away from effeminate luxuries, and the trick's done.

But this subject is so great, and has so many varieties, that we
must recur to it in eur next.

TO OUR GUERNSEY CORRESPONDENTS.
Me. Punch is sorry to find that his fancy sketch of a Guernsey
Car drive has been taken so seriously in some quarters as to give
pain and offence which were very far from being intended. He begs
to assure the honourable fraternity of Car-proprietors and drivers
in the island, that he did not mean to suggest for a moment that
there was the slightest real danger to the public who patronise
those highly popular and excellently-conducted vehicles, or that
any actual driver was either intemperate or incompetent; and that,
should such an impression have been unfortunately produced—
which he hopes is impossible—no one would regret so unjust an
aspersion more sincerely than Mr. Punch himself.