Before I proceed with the order of subjects which I have proposed to
myself as the proper one to follow, I feel that I must revert for a
moment to the question of "ladies at lunch." You may remember that
some two or three weeks ago I ventured to offer some observations on
this topic. Dear ladies, you can read for yourselves the winged words
in which your adoring _Punch_ settled the matter. "By all means," I
said, "come to lunch, if you must." What can be plainer or more
direct? Bless your pretty, pouting faces, I am not responsible for the
characters of my fellow-men, nor for the harsh language they use. If
they behave like boors, and show an incomprehensible distaste for your
delightful presence, am I, your constant friend, to be blamed? I
cannot alter the nature of these barbarians. But what has happened
since I published an article which had, at any rate, the merit of
truthful portraiture? Why, I have been overwhelmed with epistolary
reproaches in every variety of feminine hand-writing. "A CAREFUL
MOTHER" writes from Dorset--a locality hitherto associated in my mind
with butter rather than with blame--to protest that she has been so
horrified by my cynical tone, that she does not intend to take me in
any longer. She adds, that "_Punch_ has laid upon my drawing-room
table for more than thirty years." Heavens, that I should have been so
deeply, so ungrammatically, honoured without knowing it! Am I no
longer to recline amid photograph albums, gift-books, and
flower-vases, upon that sacred table? And are you, Madam, to spite a
face which has always, I am certain, beamed upon me with a kindly
consideration, by depriving it wantonly of its adorning and necessary
nose. Heaven forbid! Withdraw for both our sakes that rash decision,
while there is yet time, and restore me to my wonted place in your
affections, and your drawing-room.
But all are not like this. Here, for instance, is a sensible and
temperate commentary, which it gives me pleasure to quote word for
word as it was written:--
DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I want to tell you that, although I am what one of
your friends called "a solid woman," and ought to feel _deeply_ hurt
by what you said about ladies at lunch, yet I liked that article the
best. I think it was _awfully_ good. But don't you think you are all
rather hard on ladies at shooting-boxes? My idea is that there ought
to be some new rules about shooting-parties. At present, ladies are
asked to amuse the men--at least that is my experience--and it is
rather hard they may not sometimes go on the moors, if they want to.
But, at the same time, I _quite_ understand that they are horribly in
the way, and I am not surprised that the men don't want women about
them when they are shooting. But couldn't they arrange to have a day
now and then, when they could shoot all the morning, and devote
themselves to amusing the women on the moors after lunch? Otherwise, I
think there ought to be a rule that no women are to be invited to
shooting-boxes. It is generally very dull for the women, and I feel
sure the men would be quite as happy without them. I suppose the host
might want his wife to be there, to look after things; but _she ought
to strike_, and ask her lady-friends to do the same; and then they
could go abroad, or to some jolly place, and enjoy themselves in their
own way. Really we often get quite angry--at least I do--when men
treat us as if we were so many dolls, and patronise us in their heavy
way, and expect us to believe that the world was made entirely for
them and their shooting-parties. There must be more give and take.
And, if _we_ are to give you our sympathy and attention, _you_ must
take our companionship a little oftener. We get so dull when we are
all together.
Your sincere admirer, A LADY LUNCHER.
I confess this simple letter touched an answering chord in my heart. I
scarcely knew how to answer it. At last a brilliant thought struck me.
I would show it to my tame Hussar-Captain, SHABRACK. That gallant son
of Mars is not only a good sportsman, but he has, in common with many
of his brother officers, the reputation of being a dashing, but
discriminating worshipper at the shrine of beauty. At military and
hunt balls the Captain is a stalwart performer, a despiser of mere
programme engagements, and an invincible cutter-out of timid youths
who venture to put forward their claims to a dance that the Captain
has mentally reserved for himself. The mystery is how he has escaped
scathless into what his friends now consider to be assured
bachelor-hood. Most of his contemporaries, roystering, healthy, and
seemingly flinty-hearted fellows, all of them, have long since gone
down, one after another, before some soft and smiling little being,
and are now trying to fit their incomes to the keep of perambulators,
as well as of dog-carts. But SHABRACK has escaped. I found him at his
Club, and showed him the letter, requesting him at the same time to
tell me what he thought of it. I think he was flattered by my appeal,
for he insisted on my immediate acceptance of a cigar six inches long,
and proposed to me a tempting list of varied drinks. The Captain read
the letter through twice carefully, and thus took up his parable:--
"Look here, my son, don't you be put off by what the little woman
says. She don't mean half of it. Get the hostess to strike!"--here he
laughed loudly--"now that's a real good 'un. Why, they haven't got it
in them. Fact is, they can't stand one another's company. She says as
much, don't she? 'We get so dull when we are all together.' Well, that
scarcely looks like goin' off on the strike together, does it? Don't
you be alarmed, old quill-driver, they'll never run a strike of that
kind for more than a day. They'll all come troopin' back, beggin' to
be forgiven, and all that, and, by gum, we shall have to take 'em back
too, just as we're all congratulatin' ourselves that we shan't have to
go to any more blessed pic-nics. That's a woman's idea of enjoyin'
herself in the country--nothin' but one round of pic-nics. I give you
my word, when I was stayin' with old FRED DERRIMAN, in Perthshire,
they reg'larly mapped out the whole place for pic-nics, and I'm dashed
if they didn't spoil our best day's drivin by pic-nickin' in, 'oh,
such a sweet place.' Truth is, they can't get along without us, my
son, only they won't admit it, bless 'em! And, after all, we're better
off when they're in the house, I'm bound to confess; so I don't mind
lettin' 'em have a pic-nic or two, just to keep 'em sweet. Them's my
sentiments, old cock, and you're welcome to them."
I thanked the Captain for his courtesy, and withdrew. But if the whole
thing is merely a matter of pic-nics, it is far simpler than I
imagined.
* * * * *
[Illustration: TOO AFFECTIONATE BY HALF.
_Auntie._ "OH, YOU NAUGHTY BOY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? SMOKING!
WHY YOU'LL NEVER GROW!"
_Artful Nephew._ "THAT'S JUST IT, AUNTIE. I DON'T WANT TO
GROW. I WANT TO KEEP THE SAME SIZE ALWAYS, SO THAT I CAN SIT
ON YOUR LAP, AN' LOVE YOU!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: MR. PUNCH'S SKATING PARTY.]
* * * * *