Punch, or the London Charivari | Page 9

that does not begin, "I say, do you remember old
JACK WILLIAMS." This does not entertain the beauty, who sits next
him.
A Dowager Duchess, she knows none of the other people and wonders
audibly (to me) who they are. A clever young man, whose language is
the language of the future, and whose humour is of a date to which I
humbly hope my own days may not be prolonged. A Psychical
Researcher, with a note-book; he gets at the Duchess at once, and
cross-examines her about a visionary Piper who plays audible pibrochs
through Castle Blawearie, her ancestral home. Does she think the
pibroch could be taken down in a phonograph. Could the Piper be
snapped in a kodak? The Duchess does not know what a phonograph is;
never heard of a kodak. She does not like the note-book any more than
_Mr. Pickwick's_ cabman liked it. She is afraid of getting into print.
Then there is the Warden of St. Jude's, a great scholar; he pricks up his
ears, not the keenest, at the word kodak, and begins to talk about a
newly-discovered Codex of PODONIAN the Elder. Nobody knows
what a Codex is. There is a School-board Lady, but, alas, she is next the
Warden of St. Jude's, not next the enthusiastic Clergyman, who proses
about a Club for Milliners. There is GRIGSBY, who develops an
undesirable interest in the Milliners' Club. Have they a Strangers' Room?
Do they give suppers? Are they Friendly Girls? Everyone thinks
GRIGSBY flippant and coarse; I wish I had not asked him to come.
There is a Positivist, who sneers at the Clergyman; there are a Squire

and his wife from Rutlandshire: she is next the Radical Candidate for
the Isle of Dogs. They do not seem to get on well together. GRIGSBY
and the humorist of the future are chaffing each other across the table:
nobody understands them; I don't know whether they are quarrelling or
not. Miss JONES, the authoress of Melancholy Moods (in a Greek
dress, with a _pince-nez_: a woman should not combine these attributes)
is next the Squire: he has never heard of any of her friends the Minor
Poets: she takes no interest in Hay, nor in Tithes. I see the Guardsman
and the Beauty looking at each other across the flowers and things: the
language of their eyes is not difficult, nor pleasant, to read. Why is the
champagne so hot, and why are the ices so salt and hard? I know
something is the matter with the claret: something is always the matter
with the claret. It has been iced, and the champagne has been standing
for days in an equable temperature of 65°.
[Illustration: "It is midnight; I am tired to death. Yes, Bielby will have
something to drink, and another cigar--a very large one."]
When they want to go away, it is a wet night, and those who have come
in cabs cannot get cabs to go back in. The Duchess's coachman lost his
way, coming here, she was half-an-hour late: she is anxious about his
finding his way home. GRIGSBY has got at the Psychical-Researcher,
and I hear him telling stories, as personal experiences, which I know
are not true. Psychical-Researchers have no sense of humour. "S.P.R.,"
why not "S.P.Q.R.?" I hear GRIGSBY asking, and suggesting "Society
for Propagating Rubbish." It is very rude of him, and not at all funny.
However, they do go away at last, that advantage a dinner at home has
over a dinner at the Club, there they often seem as if they would never
go away at all.
On the other hand, the wine is all right at the Club, I believe, for I know
nothing about wine myself. Some men talk of nothing else, and seem to
know the vintages without looking at the names on the bottles.
The worst of giving a dinner at the Club is, that I never know how
many men I have asked, nor even who they are. It is enough if I
remember the date. It might be a good thing to write these matters

down in a Diary, or on a big sheet of paper, pinned up in one's room. I
know I have written to ask some Americans whom I have not seen:
they brought letters of introduction. I forget their names--there is a
Professor who has written a novel, there is a General, I think, and a
Mad Doctor.
My best plan will be to stand about in the drawing-room, and try to
select them as they come in. Here is WILKINSON, who was at St.
Jude's with me: I shake hands with him warmly. He looks blank. It is
not WILKINSON, after all; it is a stranger, he is dining with somebody
else. Some