The Project Gutenberg eBook, Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 107, December 22, 1894, by Various, Edited by F. C. (Francis Cowley) Burnand

E-text prepared by Sébastien Blondeel, Malcolm Farmer,
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
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PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 107.

December 22, 1894

HONOURS DIVIDED.

Mr. Goodchild. "Yes, I do feel in good spirits this evening. My Boy has passed his Examination!"

The Earl. "Well, I don't see anything in that. So has mine."

Mr. Goodchild. "Er—Indian Civil?"

The Earl. "No—Bankruptcy!"

THE SNUBBED PROFESSIONAL'S VADE MECUM.

Question. You consider yourself neglected because, I presume, the public do not appreciate you at your proper value?

Answer. That is, indeed, the case, and for further particulars I refer you to a recent correspondence in the Pall Mall Gazette.

Q. Is it not necessary that you should acquire an immense amount of knowledge to undertake the duties of your profession worthily?

A. Certainly; and we welcome any kind of safeguard that will protect the public against fraud and imposture.

Q. Then you consider your profession very seriously?

A. Undoubtedly. It is the most important profession in the world; not a man, woman, or child exists who has not derived some benefit from its exercise.

Q. If I am not mistaken, you ought to be educated at Oxford or Cambridge to do full justice to your opportunities?

A. Certainly; upon the foundation of a school training at either Eton, Westminster, Rugby, or Harrow.

Q. Ought you not to take up human and comparative anatomy?

A. As a matter of course, combined with physiology and chemistry.

Q. But does every professor of your art follow this routine of work?

A. Those who are of the greater worth. There are outsiders who assume our noble name and yet know nothing of our special subject.

Q. Besides the studies you have mentioned, are there any others necessary to the formation of a man of your special attainments?

A. Well, it would be well for an operator to understand metallurgy and mechanics.

Q. And have you to cultivate the graces of the person?

A. Certainly; you must be of a pleasing and courteous presence. You must be fitted by nature and art to obtain the confidence of those who pay you a professional visit. You must be tender and true. You must be able to converse on every subject under the sun, and distract the attention of a sufferer from his pains by causing him to listen to your anecdotes.

Q. It seems, then, you must be an admirable Crichton?

A. Well, yes, in a small way.

Q. Then what are you called? May I put down an archbishop, or a Lord Chief Justice, or a Prime Minister?

A. No, neither. I do not aspire to be a person of so much importance.

Q. Then what are you?

A. Why, merely a dentist!

At the Fancy Ball.

"Do look at that huge woman dancing with Uncle Bob. What is she? A Quakeress?"

"H'm! rather an Earth-quakeress, I should fancy!"

FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

En Route to the Mediterranean.—I am alone, until a Frenchman and his young wife come in and glare at me, presumably because I am already there. The ordinary honeymoon couple anywhere are supercilious enough, and a French honeymoon couple perhaps more so. If you gaze absently at the back of Madame's hat, when you are looking at the mountains beyond Madame's head, Monsieur glares at you with the concentrated fury of an angry menagerie. But a French couple, travelling in Italy, which loves the Triple Alliance, develope an air of superciliousness quite unapproached; and when their solitude is invaded by an Englishman, a native of the country which occupies Egypt, thousand thunders, it is too strong!

So these two whisper together, and look out of one window, while I look out of the other, at Viareggio, and the distant Carrara quarries and other sights. All interesting and beautiful, no doubt, but not to be compared to what I shall see beyond Spezia. Think of the blue sea, the glorious hills, the olive woods, the Italian fishing villages, the orange groves, the gardens and the flowers. Rather better than that English coast which Londoners know so well, the seashore at Brighton, probably the ugliest in the world, with the most unpicturesque town stretching along it. Of course, I shall not see everything from the train, but I shall at least have the recollection of an earthly paradise, to torment me ever after when travelling in the infernal regions of the Underground Railway. November in Genoa; November in Gower Street! Halloo, this is Spezia!

Now then, look out. Oh, here's a tunnel first. Wait patiently till we are through the tunnel. By dim light of carriage-lamp perceive the French people glaring at me. This is a long tunnel. But then at the end I shall see——Here is the end. Down with the window. There's the Mediter——Halloo! Another tunnel. Up with the window. At last this one is coming to an end. Down with the window again. Look out. There's the Medi——Halloo, another one! Up with the window again. French people still glare, but, it seems to me, more mildly. A fellow-feeling of suffocation, no doubt.

Well, this is long. At last we're out. Down with the window once more. There's the Med——What? Another one. Up with the window once more. This is a long one. Begin to cough. Frenchman also coughs. A bond of sympathy. We cough together. Well, at last we are out of these awful tunnels. Down with the window. There's the Medit——Up with the window. Another one! These gymnastics with the windows are most fatiguing. Choke again. Frenchman also chokes. "Ces tunnels!" he gasps at last, "on étouffe——" Just then the train bursts into daylight, and his head, as before, goes out of his window, like mine out of my window. There's the Me——. Another! "Sapristi!" By Jove! More choking. "Ces chemins de fers italiens——" begins the Frenchman. Then another burst of daylight and his head and mine go out. There's the Medit——"Matin!" Great Scott! Agree with Frenchman. "C'est assommant," says he, "quel pays——" Then another gap and heads out as before. There's the Mediterra——"Mille tonnerres!" I'm hanged! Frenchman and I abuse the line, the tunnels, the bad light and the worse air. Another interval.

There's the M—— "Sacré nom de nom!" Confound! Frenchman becomes quite friendly. Even Madame says a word or two. Begin now to disregard half seconds of daylight, and treat it as all tunnel over two hours' long.

At last arrive at Genoa, our faces streaked with soot, our lungs full of smoke, our collars nearly black, and all the superciliousness shaken out of us. Frenchman almost affectionate when we part. As for the Mediterranean, I should have seen nearly as much of it at Moorgate Street.

A First Impressionist.

On Some Christmas Diaries.—No backsliding in engagements if you possess one of Walker's capital backlooped pocket-diaries, they are strongly bound to assist you. His Society Christmas Cards are, as they should be, first class. In fact, "Walker" is not "Hookey," but "O. K."

THE INFANT PHENOMENON.

THE INFANT PHENOMENON.

Little Jap lecturing on the Art of War to the European Representatives.

When the song said Jap Ah Sid was just nothing but a kid

Of what Alcock dubbed "a race grotesque and savage,"

The Wise West had not a notion of the kick-up and commotion,

The naval noise and military ravage,

That same "little kid" would raise; of the pæans of loud praise

The Wise Boy of the East would hear around him.

A pupil of the West he was held, but, upon test,

A teacher, in his way, the West has found him.

Phenomenal young Jappy, Occidental Powers seem happy

To gather round and watch the object lesson

In the wicked Art of War, seeing proof you've carried far

In matters which before we might but guess on.

If a kid, he's not a fool! With his ferula and stool,

His blackboard and his lump of chalk, he's showing

How to work an ironclad! It's amazing that a lad

With a lemon-face should be so wondrous knowing!

He'll teach you to work as he does in the matter of torpedoes,

And how to blow a rival fleet to blazes.

In naval matters practical, strategical and tactical,

The nipper shows a nous that almost dazes.

Though his names and terms sound funny, it is more than even money,

That he hides a lot of wisdom in his lingo.

And what matter baggy breeches, and a speech all "his" and "ichis,"

If this "Boy" can give the Chinese Giant stingo?

His phiz looks flat and pasty, and his head-gear's hardly tasty,

And his eyes are like black-beetles set a-swivel.

But though plain or currant-bunny, and the colour of fresh honey,

He's as full as Hadésu of dash and "divil."

See, those eyes are all a-twinkle! Like the sudu-mushi's tinkle

Fall his accents very suave, but full of gumption;

And you'll hardly now find any to retort, "Oh, teach your granny!"

Or to twit the "little kid" with youth's presumption.

For the stalwart Teuton listens, and the Great Bear's optic glistens,

And the "Melican" "lays low and don't say nuffin',"

Save to whisper to John Bull, "He's no mug, by a jug-full,

Who out of the Chinee has knocked the stuffin'!

Infant phenomenon? Wal, I rayther guess he's gone

And chalked it out a caution. He's a spry 'un!"

And John Bull, who'll have to strain to keep monarch of the main,

Thinks the infant Jap a chap to keep his eye on!

AN EXTRACT FROM A PRIVATE LETTER.

"——And oh, Mabel, a Wretch mistook my Skirt for the 'Bus Apron, the other day, and didn't find out his mistake for ever so long. Of course he was awfully nice about it; so I had to say, it didn't matter. But wasn't it dreadful!"

GENEROSITY UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

(The Question of the Day.)

Daisy. I want to buy a Christmas present for Jack. Do you see anything you think he would like?

Violet. Here's a morocco case with seven razors, one for each day of the week.

Daisy. Lovely! But Jack's got whiskers and a beard.

Violet. So he has! Then why not this exquisite silver cigar-ash tray?

Daisy. Yes, that would be just the thing; only, unfortunately, Jack never smokes, and always walks out of the room if anybody else does.

Violet. Oh! That's awkward. This drinking-horn—what do you think of it?

Daisy (gloomily). I'm afraid Jack's a Blue Ribbonite.

Violet (after a pause). He needn't use it for drinking from. It would do for a flower-vase, if it had a stand. Anyhow, let's make haste and choose something.

Daisy. I would give him this lovely ink-bottle, only he uses a type-writer. Ah, I have it—a purse!

Violet. The question is whether Jack has it, not you.

Daisy (enthusiastically). Yes, a purse it shall be. Jack never has any money—but that is only a detail. Showy, isn't it?

Violet. Awfully pretty! Made in Germany, too, it says; that makes it so much more romantic.

Daisy (groaning). Come away! Jack's a morbid patriot. Won't look at a thing not made in England. I must choose some other day. And we shall be horribly late for lunch. Really, present-choosing isn't as easy as one thinks!

Violet. Not for Jack, at any rate!

[Exeunt hurriedly, and empty-handed.

"Charge of the Light Brigade."—My Gas Company's bill.

A "B. AND S." AT THE SAVOY.

Sir Arthur. "Then Box——"

Sir Author. "And Cox——"

Both. "Are satisfied!"

[Curtain.

"Up in the morning early."

A great deal is expected from the collaboration of Sir Arthur Sullivan and Mr. F. C. Burnand, more especially when the work is staged at the Savoy, and is brought out under the direction of Mr. D'Oyly Carte. The brilliant audience that gathered on Wednesday night for the first performance of The Chieftain evidently came full of expectation, and as evidently went away filled with satisfaction. Twenty-seven years ago, when they were boys together, B. and S. (that sounds friendly and refreshing) brought out an early version of the opera which they called The Contrabandista. After the rehearsal of the new piece had gone forward for some weeks, Arthur Sullivan stumbled over this rather difficult word and sprained his ankle. Whereupon F. C. B., with characteristic promptitude and originality, changed the name to The Chieftain. That is the call-boy's narrative of events. However it be, since the opera has been entirely re-written, enlarged and beautified, it was natural to bestow upon it a new title. On the first night The Chieftain stormed the passes to public favour, and appears likely to occupy them for some time. Nothing brighter in colour, fuller of life, more musical, more mirthful, has been seen at the Savoy since its palmiest days. Sir Arthur and Sir Author are perfectly mated, F. C. B. brimming over with genuine humour, and A. S. pre-eminently displaying his rare gift of expressing humour in musical notes. The cast is a very strong one, which is fortunate, seeing the appetite of the audience is insatiable, and only exceptional strength could meet the demand for encores. Where all excel it is difficult to particularise merit. But Miss Florence St. John and Mr. Courtice Pounds in the French duet, Mr. Passmore from first to last (especially in his Bolero dance, one of the funniest things for a long time seen on the operatic stage), Miss Emmie Owen in her graceful movements, and the sextet with its merry music and its laughing dance, are things to see and hear.

ENGLISH AS SHE IS CRAMMED.

The Oxford Board of Studies will conduct an examination in 1896 for the new Final School of English Language and Literature. The following preliminary paper is to be set:—

English Language and Literature.

Time allowed—18 months.

[Questions are to be answered either in Gothic or Icelandic, according to the taste and fancy of the candidate. The dates of the vivâ voce "Chatter about Shelley," and "Scandal about Queen Elizabeth," will be announced shortly. Evening dress optional. Smoking and Bohemian Concert to follow. See Handbills.]

1. Write out the English Alphabet as inaccurately as possible; and distinguish between great A and the track of a duck.

2. Translate the following unheard-of passage from Beowulf:—

Tuinchael .... lytl ...

Haui onedr hwatuar

Uppabuvye wereld sohi

Lika ... ynneye ...

Supply the lacunæ in the text. Candidates may send in as many solutions as they please, provided each is accompanied with a shilling Postal Order. The total amount subscribed will be pooled among the winners, less ten per cent. for our commission.

3. Discuss the following:—

(α) When is a door not a negress?

(β) What is the difference between hearing recitation and being bored?

(γ) Why is Hall Caine like a tenpenny nail?

Any replies to the above will be most thankfully received, and paid for at our usual rates.

4.

"There was a very foolish, fond old man,

Fourscore and upward, dwelling at Liskeard,

Who said, I am not in my perfect mind;

It is just as I feared, in very sooth,

For, to deal plainly, four larks and a hen,

Two hooting owls, and one small wren to boot,

Did each one lodge last night within my beard."

King Lear, Act IV., Sc. 6.

Hence show, by internal evidence, that Edward Lear wrote Bakespeare.

5. State the various questions to the following answer:— "Because there's a 'b' in both."

6. Give the meaning, if any, to the subjoined flowers of speech:—cheese your patter, perform the negative, a runcible cat, cow-chilo, do a drag, a pale paradox, going tommy-dodd, dead-lurk a crib, the hush of the corn, ferjunt rarm, the mome-raths outgrabe, and filling up the cup.

7. Trace the origin of the following legends:—(a) The old lady who travelled twice round the Inner Circle Railway against her wish; (b) The conversation between Toole and St. Peter about Henry Irving; (c) The leading journalist whose nose cost him £8,000 to colour; and mention any other chestnuts you may know of.

8. Compose a leader in the Times style on Ballet-girls and their Little Ways; in D. T. phraseology on Quaternions; à la Pink 'Un on the Delights of Sunday School; and in the best Guardian manner in Defence of Prize-fighting.

9. Write down all you don't know about any mortal subject you are most ignorant of, provided it has nothing to do with the English language and literature.

"In spite of all temptation," Marcus Ward & Co. remain true Englishmen, and have had their dainty Christmas cards, and other delightful novelties, "not printed in Germany." The support of the loyal British shopper should be their re-Ward. But C. W. Faulkner & Co. evidently think that a foreign name is more attractive, and have christened their new table-game "Malletino." It hardly requires a deep knowledge of Italian to discover that it is played with mallets, and is amusing. Their cards and calendars are quite "up to date"—at least the latter will be next year.

Exception.—Pleasant Christmas Bills: Bills of Fare.

THE NEW HEROINE.

(A Scene from the Drama of To-morrow.)

Edwin. And do you really love me?

Angelina. With all my heart and soul; and yet——

Edwin. Yet what? Angelina, why do you look so strangely at me? There is something on your mind, something you have not the courage to tell me.

Angelina. Edwin, I can hide nothing from you. Even though it should wreck both our lives, you have the right to know the truth.

Edwin. My own darling, what is in your heart?

Angelina. Can you bear to hear it? Don't look at me, or I shall not have the courage to say what must be said. Edwin, I have never lived a disreputable life.

Edwin (burying his face in his hands). Great Heaven! and I believed in you so utterly. (Then rising, with a desperate effort to control his emotion.) Good-bye.

Angelina (falling on her knees, and clinging to him). Ah, no, you shall not go. Think of it, Edwin, of the temptations to virtue that surrounded me, of the examples of simple girlhood that poisoned my youth. If I have lived a life of spotless innocence, remember, at least, that I knew no better. What else could I do? Brought up from earliest infancy by a mother of unblemished reputation?

Edwin (with a gesture of horror). Your mother, too? Angelina, our marriage is impossible.

Angelina. How hard you men are. Is your sex alone to have the monopoly of innocence? Must there always be one law for women and another for dramatic authors? Oh, it is cruel! cruel! But you will not leave me. Remember, I am still young: it is never too late to err. And is it because I am a woman that I am to be denied the chance of retrieving the innocence of a mis-spent youth by the indiscretions of a riper womanhood? Besides, are there not cases, cases known to us both where a wife has lived down the terrible reproach of a blameless girlhood? Why, even Mr. Jones's latest heroine, and there is nothing later than that, could not absolutely prove she had gone wrong, and yet her husband took her back! But you are so proud, so relentless. You have no pity in your heart.

Edwin. Believe me, it is not pride. For myself, I would gladly brave the censure of the world, and if in after years men should say in scorn he married her though there was nothing against her, I should still be happy, knowing I had your love. But my father, that dear old man in his quiet, country vicarage. Think of it? It is too horrible!

Angelina (with bowed head.) You are right, I had forgotten your father.

Edwin. How could I ever look into that sweet, wrinkled face, and meet those reverend eyes, knowing that I was asking him to receive as a daughter one who had never even once strayed from the paths of virtue?

Angelina. I see it all now, good-bye.

Edwin. Good-bye.

Angelina (as he is going). Edwin, come back.

Edwin. Ah! don't torture me, I can bear no more!

Angelina. But what if I were to tell you that this confession, so humiliating to us both, was but a ruse to test the strength of your devotion.

Edwin. Ah, don't raise a false hope within me, only to plunge me again in the abyss of despair.

Angelina. But this is no false hope.

Edwin (eagerly). What do you mean?

Angelina (burying her head on his shoulder). I mean that I been no better than I should be.

Edwin (embracing her). My own true love, nothing can part us now.

Curtain.

Crackers.

The youthful but indiscriminating would-be smoker will find unending bliss in the joys of Our Smoking-Room Concert, his pleasure though commencing with a bang won't end in smoke. Feminine hearts who long for the sunny south will revel in the Riviera Cosaque. Both these are warranted to "go off," through the inventive genius of our "crack" G. Sparagnapane.

THE TRUISMS OF LIFE.

(By the Right Hon. the Author of "The Platitudes of Life," M.P., F.R.S., D.C.L., LL.D.)

Chapter II.—De Quibusdam Aliis.

"Cleanliness is next to Godliness"; so runs the witty aphorism; and modern bacteriologists "explain clearly the reason, and show why it is so,"[1] the italics not being in the original. The use of water is an effectual element in cleanliness. Men have been known to brush their teeth with it. Of soaps there are many; but water is practically one. "Πάντα ῥεῖ," said Thales. And, again, "There is a tide in the affairs of men,"[2] as Lord Byron put it, in confirmation of Shakspeare's previous statement.

Fresh air contributes largely to the health. "In aëre salus," said the Romans; though some, for want of knowledge, have rendered this, "There is safety in flight"; and others, for want of the diæresis, have supposed it to mean, "Tip a policeman, and he will carry you over the crossing."

Yes, indeed, how wonderful is the air! Not only confined, as in aërated bread or waters, but in the open. By it we breathe and smell and sail on ships. Also the fields are full of buttercups. And then the weather! How much of true happiness depends on conversation, and how much of this on the weather! Yet "there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather."[3] This true thought has often helped me in a London fog.

Again, the open air suggests games and railways. "Games are admirable."[4] Did not Lord Nelson rightly say that the battle of Trafalgar was "won in the playing-fields of Eton?" He referred of course to the floods. Railways take us about through the air. Ruskin speaks of the advantage of increasing the "range of what we see," forgetting for the moment his views about locomotives.

Among other forms of recreation men reckon Art and meals and their wives' relations. I say nothing of the Drama, though the other day I came across the statement that "All the world's a stage."[5]

Another recreation is letter-writing. Lord Chesterfield wrote letters. But be careful. If you have written a cruel letter, put a stamp on it, lest it come back upon your own head.

I have spoken of a man's wife's relations. This implies marriage. "The wise choice of female friends is ... important."[6] "Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel,"[7] as a writer lately put it, thinking, perhaps, of the Elizabethan skirt. There are risks in marriage. It is "for better for worse."[8] This distinction is well brought out in the two following passages—"And oh! if there be an Elysium on earth, it is this, it is this!"[9] and "Wedlock's a saucy, sad, familiar state."[10]

One might throw out some thoughts on the question of selection, but, as a friend aptly and originally expressed himself to me—"Silence is golden"; and I remember to have read that "talking should be an exercise of the brain and not of the tongue."[11] Substitute "writing" for "talking," and "pen" for "tongue," and I really wonder why I have written all this. Can it be that I regard the reading public as "mostly fools"?[12]

[1] Lubbock.

[2] Don Juan.

[3] Ruskin.

[4] Sir James Paget.

[5] Shakspeare.

[6] Lubbock.

[7] Lubbock adapting Shakspeare.

[8] Marriage service.

[9] Tom Moore.

[10] Peter Pindar.

[11] Lubbock.

[12] Carlyle.

THE MAKING OF A MAN.

["Lord Rosebery is not a man at all: he is a political Joint-Stock Company, Limited."—Letter from Mr. Chamberlain in the "Times."]

Oh, Chamberlain, with joy I note the labour of the file

In this delightful sample of your literary style.

I seem to see you trying it in half a hundred ways,

Before your taste could settle on the perfect final phrase.

With just a little polish here, a slight erasure there,

You got it into shape at last, and made your copy fair.

Lo, how its graceful suavity all meaner folk rebukes,

In every little word I trace the influence of dukes;

The gallant style, the courtly thrust with controversial sword

Of one—what need to tell his name?—who dearly loves a lord;

Who learnt amid our feudal halls the ancient courtesy

That scorns to stoop to Billingsgate, or ape the bold bargee.

Serene and proud he follows still the good old maxim's plan,

And by his manners proves himself to all the world a Man.

Solution of Prize Conundrum given in our Last Week's Issue.

"How to make life happy by adding fifty-nine to the latter half of it."

The latter half of "Life" is "fe," isn't it?

Fifty-nine is "LIX," isn't it? Add this to FE, and the result is happy—"FELIX."

[⁂ The Conundrumist left the explanation and the country at the same time.—Ed.]

THE FORCE OF HABIT.

The Vicar's Daughter. "Oh, Papa dear, did you hear old Mr. Rogers snoring in his Pew this afternoon?"

The Vicar. "No, my love. During the Sermon, I suppose?"

The Vicar's Daughter. "No! that's the funny part of it!"

"LYING LOW."

["The Chancellor of the Exchequer has preserved, with admirable composure, an oracular silence during the controversies of the past few weeks. It is sad to think that the despairing appeals of the Ministerial Press to Sir William Harcourt to 'remember his swashing blow' may remain unanswered until the opening of the debate on the Address some two months hence."—The Times.]

"Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn!

The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn.

Where is the boy who looks after the sheep?

He's under the haycock, fast asleep(?)"

Old Nursery Rhyme.

Much worrited Old Liberal Party loquitur:—

O little Boy Blue!—('tis a sweet name for you,

Though Pickwickian, perhaps, in suggestiveness!)—

What are you a-doing? There's mischief a-brewing,

Our flocks appear troubled with restiveness;

Our cattle are straying. You ought to be playing

That horn with your old force and unction.

Of what are you thinking? In long forty-winking

Boy Blue seems forgetting his function!

You're not worth a button! That Forfarshire mutton

The Unionist meadow is munching in;

Our bonny Brigg cow, boy, now can't you see how, boy,

The Tory corn-field she is crunching in?

You are losing your sheep, like poor little Bo-Peep,

And still that old horn lies unblown, boy.

You're letting them roam, and they will not "come home"

If you do nought but "let them alone," boy!

Still drowsing! Oh, drat it! Young Primrose is at it

Without half your power of bellows.

And cynics are hinting that, while he is sprinting,

You're lazy—because you feel jealous.

Of course, that's all footle. Still, your rootle-tootle

Is wanted our courage to toughen.

'Twas never your habit, like artful Brer Rabbit,

Of old to "lie low and say nuffin'!"

Your horn, like great Roland's, through high lands and low lands,

From Lincoln to Scotland, should blare up.

We need its loud rallies, or our Roncesvallês

Will come,—when there will be a flare-up!

'Tis surely not rifted? When Roland uplifted

His Olifant, everyone heard it

For thirty miles round. So your sheep-horn should sound,

And too long, my Boy Blue, you've deferred it.