The Project Gutenberg eBook, Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 107,
December 22, 1894, by Various, Edited by F. C. (Francis Cowley) Burnand
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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 107, December 22, 1894
Author: Various
Editor: F. C. (Francis Cowley) Burnand
Release Date: June 1, 2013 [eBook #42853]
Language: English
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***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI,
VOL. 107, DECEMBER 22, 1894***
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 107.
December 22, 1894
[Illustration: 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."
[Illustration: 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!"]
[Illustration: THE INFANT PHENOMENON.
LITTLE JAP LECTURING ON THE ART OF WAR TO THE EUROPEAN REPRESENTATIVES.]
* * * * *
THE INFANT PHENOMENON.
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!
* * * * *
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.
[Illustration: _Sir Arthur._ "Then _Box----_"
_Sir Author._ "And _Cox----_"
_Both._ "Are satisfied!"
[_Curtain._]
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.
[Illustration: "Up in the morning early."]
* * * * *
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.
[Illustration]
_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.
[1] Lubbock.
[2] Don Juan.
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.
[3] Ruskin.
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.
[4] Sir James Paget.
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]
[5] Shakspeare.
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]
[6] Lubbock.
[7] Lubbock adapting Shakspeare.
[8] Marriage service.
[9] Tom Moore.
[10] Peter Pindar.
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]
[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.]
[Illustration: 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.
Their noses foes may cock, whilst under that haycock
At Malwood at ease you're reclining.
Poor PRIMROSE, our shepherd, is getting will peppered,
The flock for your rally are pining.
You are only Boy Blue, not the shepherd? That's true;
Still, horn-blowing boys have their duty.
Wake up, and wake _now_, Sir, and give us a rouser.
Your best blast, we know, is a beauty!
Our fold's getting thinnish, our flocks fast diminish,
Our milch-cows are sickening or straying.
Up! back up the _pastor_, or there'll be disaster.
The enemy's sheep-horns are braying;
_They_'re "calling the cattle home." Rouse, with a rattle-home!
Asleep? Well, perhaps you're "purtending"!
But though one may easily play up _too_ weaselly,
Sheep _do_ demand watchful tending.
* * * * *
TO A LADY.
(_Born so late in the Year, that she nearly missed having a Birthday
altogether._)
Accept, dear girl, the season's compliments
For Christmas and the twenty-ninth December,
Your birthday--most auspicious of events--
Is also Mr. GLADSTONE'S, you remember.
Yours _was_ a close shave, but I'm bound to say
That February the twenty-ninth far worse is,
And worst of all, to come on All Fools' Day,
Like BISMARCK--or the writer of these verses!
***
THE REAL SCHOOL-BOARD.--Its Pupils.
[Illustration: "LYING LOW."
"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 (?)_"]
[Illustration: THE GENIAL SEASON.
_Hungry-looking Acquaintance_ (_with eye to invitation_). "SO GLAD TO
SEE YOU ENJOYING YOURSELF!"
_Fat Chap_ (_evidently doing well_). "WRONG AGAIN, OLD MAN. I'M ENJOYING
MY DINNER!"]
***
"THREE CHEERS FOR THE EMPEROR."
(_Recommended for translation and use in the German Reichstag._)
For he's a jolly good fellow,
And so say all of us.
But "hochs" at _all_ seasons to bellow
Is sycophant folly and fuss.
With a hip, hip, hip hooray,
For that capital fellow, our Kaiser!
If he'll let our cheers come in spontaneous way
As loyal _we_'ll be, and _he_ wiser.
***
"COPY."
Some call the world a vale of tears,
And some a haunt of bliss--
"Copy" the world to me appears,
And all that therein is.
I loved, I hated, and desired,
Despaired, like other men--
And "copy" thus I have acquired,
Which still informs my pen.
Now, all the scenes whereon I look,
All human joy and woe,
Spontaneously as a book
Into fresh "copy" flow.
There is no pang too terrible,
No rapture too sublime,
To furnish forth an article
Or to suggest a rhyme.
I'd like a little while to break
My fetters lucrative,
To love again for Love's own sake,
For Life's own sake, to live.
To look upon the stars again
With no ulterior view.
Oh, aspiration wild and vain!
But--it is "copy," too!
***
"ONE MAN ONE JOB."
_A Christmassy Story for the Members of the L. C. C._
Mr. BLANK THREESTARS was an eminent member of the London County Council,
and had distinguished himself as a supporter of the cry, "One Man One
Job." In his opinion a workman should stick to his work, and try no
other. If he were a bricklayer, he should lay bricks; if he were a
painter, he should daub doors with colour.
"We don't want one man interfering with another man's business," said
Mr. BLANK THREESTARS. "Let the shoemaker stick to his last."
And this declaration of policy made him extremely popular in his own
set. He was considered a sound reformer. "Sound" in more senses than
one, as he happened to be particularly partial to the tones of his own
voice.
One day about Christmas time, when the holly and mistletoe were much in
evidence, Mr. BLANK THREESTARS happened to be reading the reports of his
own speeches at Spring Gardens, and unconsciously closed his eyes. When
he reopened them, he found a gentleman in a black costume, who invited
him to give his opinion on things in general and the London County
Council in particular. Rather pleased to be asked to air his eloquence,
Mr. BLANK THREESTARS readily complied with the obliging request. He
talked long and well, and the gentleman in black seemed never weary of
listening to him. When he paused for a moment his attentive visitor put
a question to him which "set him off" again. And this was repeated quite
a score of times. At length, however, the orator became exhausted.
"Why do you cease speaking?" asked the gentleman in black rather
impatiently.
"Because I am very tired," was the reply; "and now, with your
permission, I will go for a turn on my bicycle."
"Not at all. Your job is to speak, and I cannot let you do anything
else. So please continue your interesting remarks. What do you think of
the report upon the City of London?"
Poor BLANK THREESTARS attempted to give his views on the subject, but
broke down. He was extremely exhausted; but the gentleman in black kept
him going. He insisted upon being answered this, and answered that,
until the eminent Member of the London County Council became almost
senseless with fatigue. He closed his eyes once more, and when he
reopened them, found that his own servant was standing by his side.
"Going to Spring Gardens, Sir?" asked the faithful adherent. "If you are
it is time to be off."
"No," returned Mr. BLANK THREESTARS; "never again. I shall resign. I
have had enough talking to last me a lifetime."
From that moment BLANK THREESTARS became a changed character. He goes in
for all sorts of hard work--wood-cutting, cricket, football, and
golfing--but he never approaches the L. C. C. In fact, he has only
mentioned Spring Gardens once since his conversion, and then only to
link with its name an expression usually represented by the fourth
capital letter of the alphabet. And with this declaration his story must
come to an end, as he declines to utter another syllable in explanation.
* * * * *
QUEER QUERIES.
FUTURE OF AFRICA.--Having read in the papers that Mr. JOHNSTON, our
Commissioner in Central Africa, advocates the colonising of that country
by "the yellow races," I write to ask if it would be of any use for me
to apply? As I have now suffered from chronic jaundice for sixteen
years, complicated with intermittent attacks of bilious fever, and, as
my skin is usually of a bright orange, I think that I should fulfil Mr.
JOHNSTON'S requirements down to the ground. Some of my friends urge me
not to go because they are sure the swampiness of the country would
carry me off; but Africa can hardly be much swampier than Lower
Tottenham has been during the past autumn, and, personally, anything
that would really "carry me off" from the latter place I should welcome
as a blessed change. Perhaps some reader, with more knowledge of Africa
than I possess, could inform me whether there would be much danger of my
yellow complexion, in case of my having a fit of the blues out there,
being converted into _green?_ Would Mr. JOHNSTON in that case regard me
as a sort of colourable fraud, and ship me back home?
WOULD-BE PIONEER.
* * * * *
THE PERILS OF A JESTING PREMIER.
When Premiers try to joke
(As they will like other folk)
They should really have a care
That their meaning be quite plain
E'en to Brummagem's slow brain,
Or it really isn't fair.
For you see a Goodman Dull
The jest's flower may not cull,
And he'll send a queer epistle
To the _Times_ which shows him crunching
Gentle irony, and munching
Like a donkey at a thistle.
The ironical's a trap
For your solid sort of chap,
_Au grand serieux_ he'll take it,
Your elusive little joke,
And, like terrier or moke,
Dig his teeth in it and shake it.
Men will then look on and mock,
And the spectacle's a shock
To our Commonwealth's stability,
For it shows how little wit
Goes to governing us and it.
E'en in "statesmen of ability."
It's so dangerous to be funny!
Men may make hardware, and money,
Aye, and even a career,
Who yet cannot make--or take--
A good joke. They're wide awake,
Save to wit, though in a peer.
Therefore, PRIMROSE, do not jest!
It comes badly, at the best,
From a man at the State's tiller.
The ironical reject
Above all, and recollect
Every JOE is not a MILLER!
***
SEASONABLE REFLECTION.--To look at _Holly Leaves_--at its glowing red
appearance--is "quite a little holly-day!" The inside quite up to the
out.
[Illustration: CARTE BLANCHE!
"YOU WON'T MIND MY PUTTING YOU INTO MY NEW NOVEL, O'FLAHERTY?"
"ME DEAR FELLOW, YE'RE WELCOME TO PUT ANYTHING ABOUT ME YE
LOIKE--_PROVOIDIN' IT ISN'T THRUE!_"]
* * * * *
CURIOS FOR THE CRICKETERS' EXHIBITION.
Mr. BLOCKER's Bat, which he carried through a whole season without
scoring once off it.
A Ball which was "muffed" eleven times in one innings.
"Pair of Spectacles" (unclaimed) found on a cricket-ground.
Fine Sitting of "Duck's-eggs" (exhibitor's name not mentioned), and
sample of "Butter" used in preparing owner's fingers for "a great
catch."
"The Catch of the Season." Taken by Instantaneous Photography.
(Twenty-seven of these snap-shots--all different.)
Model (on enlarged scale) of the "Mountain-molehill" between wickets,
after an hour's patting down by a fidgety batsman. (Photograph of this,
life-size, may be had on a slide for microscopic study).
Instantaneous Photograph picked up at the Oval. (It is not known whether
this represents an epileptic octopus, or the crack fast-bowler,
SPINDLEWHIZ, "delivering" a ball.)
Fragments and Splinters. (Supposed to be the gathered remains of wicket,
after being "scattered" by one of BUSTER'S lightning-expresses.)
Diagrams. (Supposed at one time to be "kodak" of a lightning-flash, but
discovered to represent the course of a "misfielded" ball between
leaving bowler's hand and returning thereto.)
"The Ball which Bowled BOKO." (Descriptions of--Thirteen in number,
unique, varied, interesting, but unintelligible, selected from the
unfortunate, and resentful, victim on thirteen several occasions when he
was "just explaining how he was unlucky enough to be given out first
ball in the Big Match.")
Portrait of Umpire. (After reading the above thirteen authentic and
unimpeachable, but irreconcilable, explanations.)
* * * * *
BALLADE TO ORDER.
[Illustration]
If you're ever in want of a subject for verse--
(Which I venture to say you may very well be)--
When you're strongly disposed to indulge in a curse,
Like a golfer enraged at an afternoon tee,
Then take my advice. When you're badly at sea,
Just ask some fair lady to help you to settle
Your subject. Here's one which was given to me--
_How long would a bat keep alive in a kettle?_
How long would it be, ere it felt getting worse,
And seriously thought it must give up the G
(Where G is the ghost), and how soon would a hearse
Be required for the poor little corpse. Or with glee
Would the sprightly small animal gaily make free,
And kick up its heels in the finest of fettle,
Considering it all as a wonderful spree--
_How long would a bat keep alive in a kettle?_
Now it wouldn't be truthful to say that my purse
Has a superabundance of £, _s._, or _d._,
Yet I don't mind confessing I'd gladly disburse
All I _have_ got to know who it was--he or she--
Who fooled the poor bat to so great a degree.
But it's really high time to take hold of the nettle
And end this ballade (you must spell with an _e_)--
_How long would a bat keep alive in a kettle?_
_L'Envoi._
Fair Lady, I own that I felt up a tree,
At the thought of the subject. But, put on one's mettle,
It _can_ be done somehow--your thanks are my fee--
_How long would a bat keep alive in a kettle?_
* * * * *
FIZZ AND FUSS.
Once more America "takes the cake" for grotesque absurdity. Mr. JAMES
PAYN tells us the teetotal folks there are shocked at the idea of
christening ships with champagne! Well, perhaps it _is_ a waste of good
liquor. "The rosy" in any form must surely be as completely "thrown
away" on the hull of an ironclad as titillation on a turtle's back or
(as SIDNEY SMITH put it) the dome of St. Paul's. The total abstainer, it
seems, "on the occasion of baptising a new liner," sent the President
(who was to perform the ceremony) "a bottle of water as a substitute."
The Irishman supplied with whiskey to clean windows with drank the
liquor and _breathed on the glass!_ Perhaps the President may see his
way to taking a leaf out of PADDY'S book. Let him drink the fizz (if it
is good enough) and "blow the water-drinkers!" Foolish fanatics! They
surely forget that for every bottle of "the boy" bestowed on an
insensible, unappreciative ship, there is one less left to "gladden the
heart of man."
* * * * *
THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH.
VII.--THE REAL THING.
The poll is over, and the Parish Council for Mudford is at last a _fait
accompli_--or almost so. Yet, before I come to relate the story of the
polling, there are one or two matters which, as a conscientious
historian, I think I should not be justified in omitting.
As I ought to have mentioned before, I did not think it necessary or
expedient in my candidature to hold any public meetings. Speaking
broadly, I declared to win with Miss PHILL BURTT on _Canvassing_. It was
far otherwise with some of my fellow-candidates. BLACK BOB and his mates
(HARRY JORKINS and WILLIAM BROWN) got down from town a young glib-spoken
fellow, who made a magnificent speech, with a Gladstone peroration, that
was supposed to be worth any number of votes. BLACK BOB (I am told), in
proposing a vote of thanks to him, somewhat cruelly called him "a cool,
honest and straightforward lecturer." One of these briefless barristers,
no doubt. Mrs. LETHAM HAVITT and Mrs. ARBLE MARCH held a joint meeting
(not to be confounded with a meat tea) in support of women candidates,
addressed by six enthusiastic ladies who pointed out the various fields
of energy provided for woman by this new Engine of Reform. The vicar,
the squire, and I, alone out of the eight, contented ourselves with no
perfervid platform appeals.
I should also state that, as the poll grew nearer, my wife became
increasingly confident that I should be beaten--"and that, TIMOTHY," she
added, "you won't like." I pointed out (and I still think it was a
natural thing to do in the circumstances) that the most formidable
obstacle in the way of my succeeding was the apparent lack of interest
taken in the affair by my family. This made MARIA perfectly furious. I
needn't imagine I should bounce her into it that way; truth to tell, I
never for one moment did think so. She would go away and stay at our
town house with the girls till the whole affair was over--which she did.
So, uncheered by wifely counsel or daughterly devotion, I sallied forth
on the morning of the 17th to my Committee Rooms, thence to carry on the
last stage of this great contest. I plume myself upon the excellence of
my arrangements. Everywhere you were bidden (that is you would have been
if you had been at Mudford) to "Vote for WINKINS, the Local Candidate."
I am free to admit that there was nothing distinctive in this
description of myself. We were all local candidates, since we all lived
in the village itself. But this appeal to "local" feeling is always an
excellent card to play. I know in my own case that I secured five votes
at least from men who at the last General Election had voted for our
sitting Member because he was the "local candidate." Then I got some
boys to carry round a Big Loaf and a Little Loaf, adorned with suitable
placards, inciting persons, men and women, married and single, to vote
for me. I did this because I never knew of an election yet in which the
loaves did not play a prominent part. I was determined to leave no
electoral device--legitimate electoral device, of course, I mean--untried.
Except for the masterly precision and perfection of my arrangements, the
polling presented few incidents. There were the usual number of people
who did not find their names on the register, and who were consequently
turned away sorrowing. (By the way, is "and who" right? I am never
sure.) Equally, of course, there were some idiots who would put off
voting till it was too late, and found themselves shut out by one
minute.
At nine the poll closed: and the counting immediately commenced. I did
not feel equal to the strain of being present, and was represented by
Miss PHILL BURTT. I waited at the house in grim suspense. Suddenly I
heard wild cheering. Then a minute later Miss PHILL dashed up waving a
paper excitedly and shouting, "Hurrah! Top of the poll." And so it
proved to be. I, who had been last, was actually now first. Here are the
figures:--
TIMOTHY WINKINS, J.P. 219
G. TRAVIS-MERTON (the Squire) 203
ROBERT HEDGER (BLACK BOB) 203
HARRY JORKINS 195
WILLIAM BROWN 189
HENRY SANDFORD (the Vicar) 172
Mrs. LETHAM HAVITT 153 } Tie
Mrs. ARBLE MARCH 153 }
I had hardly grasped the significance of these figures when the crowd
surged up over the lawn. In a few brief, heartfelt words I thanked them.
The greatest moment of my life--should never forget this kind
appreciation on the part of those amongst whom I had lived, and amidst
whom I hoped to die--wished them all a merry Christmas and good night.
And so--they went--home.
The most curious point remains to be noticed. Mrs. LETHAM HAVITT and
Mrs. ARBLE MARCH tied for the last place. The Returning Officer declined
to give a casting vote. Oar Parish Council is to consist of seven
Members. The first six are easy enough to find out. The latest Mudford
puzzle is--Find the seventh.
I had nearly forgotten to add that my wife (who comes home to-morrow)
has written to say she hopes I'm satisfied now. Well, I am.
[Illustration: CAUTIOUS.
_Visitor_ (_at out-of-the-way Inn in the North_). "DO YOU KNOW ANYTHING
ABOUT SALMON-POACHING IN THIS NEIGHBOURHOOD?"
_Landlady_ (_whose son is not above suspicion_). "EH--NO, SIR. MAYBE
IT'S A NEW STYLE OF COOKING AS WE HAVEN'T HEARD OF IN THESE PARTS, AS
YOU SEE, SIR, WE ONLY DO OUR EGGS THAT WAY; AND"--(_brightening
up_)--"IF YOU LIKE 'EM, I CAN GET YOU A DISH AT ONCE!"]
* * * * *
A YULE GRETYNGE.
[Illustration]
For yow and for noon other, ladye dere,
At this ful jolyf sesoun of the yeer
Now wol I truste, ne thynkynge naught of cost,
This litel yefte to yon rede pilere post;
Ryghte wel ystampen sikerly, I trowe,
Anon myn yefte schal come to noon but yow.
Ne golde han I to yeve, ne pretious gere,
But floures that ben ful rare (this tyme of yeer).
Ne yelwe astere, late ycome to toun,
Ne yet (God wot) a grene carnacioun,
But tak al fressche from Convent Gardyn plot
Myn flour, and eek prayere, "Foryete-me-not."
With feste and merie chere and moche solas
Sone wol this jolyf sesoun yeve us grace;
So mote ye spende, whanne that bels swete chyme
At yule, in sothe a veray parfait tyme.
"At Cristemasse merie may ye dance,"
And in the Newe Yeer han gret plesance:
So fare now wel, myn hertes queene; I praie
R.S.V.P.--Ther nys no more to saye!
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
A Baronite warns me thusly: In opening _The New Standard Elocutionist_,
selected by ALFRED H. MILES (HUTCHINSON & CO.), you may think there is a
mistake somewhere, as on the first page you are confronted with an
anatomical sketch of a cheerful-looking gentleman with his chest laid
open for inspection. Don't be afraid, it's all right, the gentleman's
countenance is reassuring, still, it makes me wonder if all reciters
come to that. But after reading a little of LENNOX BROWN'S chapter, we
find it is an object lesson teaching the usually inflated reciter how to
work his diaphragm as it should be worked. Perhaps its advantages may be
felt when the elocutionist wishes to rouse an admiring but slumbering
audience with a little thundering out of "Rise! sleep no more." If the
average recitation has a soporific effect, PHIL MAY'S drawings in _Fun,
Frolic and Fancy_, by BYRON WEBBER will soon wake you up. The annual of
three F's quite fulfils the "promise of May."
Though _Kitty Alone_, by S. BARING GOULD, runs through _Good Words_ this
year, edited by DONALD MACLEOD, D.D., she does it surrounded by
excellent company. Just imagine how a child's preconceived notions of
euphonious spelling will be upset by teaching _Artful Anticks_ spelt
with a _k_, by OLIVE HERFORD (GAY AND BIRD). Such a frivolous liberty to
take with any word in these days of solid moral educational principles.
There always exists a certain sneaking friendly feeling for ghosts,
especially at Christmas time, but it's nothing to the Paddies who
experience a hurtful resentment if you won't listen to their familiar
banshee yarns, and _Banshee Castle_, by ROSA MULHOLLAND is full of their
sighing and wailing; they like to make themselves heard.
_À propos_ of Christmas numbers, my Baronitess writes: _The Queen_ and
_The Gentlewoman_ present themselves beautifully "got up." They are both
decidedly smart, and, like their titles, their stories are by a very
select company. By-the-bye, in _The Gentlewoman_ the little bird says
that her New Year will open with an exciting serial, _Sons of Fire_,
from the indefatigable pen of Miss BRADDON. There is a hearty, warm
sound in it, agreeable at this time of the year.
According to the researching remarks of JOSEPH JACOBS, who has arranged
a new and selected edition of _Æsop's Fables_ (MACMILLAN & CO.), one
gathers that the "modest violet" is not in it with the retiring manner
in which every other writer of fable have hidden their worth under the
sheltering leaves of the ever green laurels of Old ÆSOP. Their number
might be termed fabulous. But SHERLOCK HOLMES has not lived in vain.
With unerring instinct the true mythical authors have been tracked, and
their deeds brought to light. The immortal genius may at last enjoy his
own wealth, which he finds fits better now that it has not to be
stretched. Quaint little pictures, done by RICHARD HEIGHWAY, adorn the
pages.
"A pretty volume of fairy tales," writes one of the Assistant Readers,
"comes from Messrs. SEELEY & CO. It is called _Lily and the Lift_, and
is not only written, but also illustrated, by Mrs. HERBERT RAILTON.
_Lily_ herself, the little heroine, who is wafted in the magic
hotel-lift through the regions of Fairyland, is a darling. Beautiful
butterflies, wonderful birds, quaint dwarfs, and lovely fairies abound
in the marvellous country visited by _Lily_. Mrs. RAILTON writes with
delightful fancy and quiet humour, and her illustrations add a great
charm to a book which is bound to please the little ones for whom it is
intended."
[Illustration]
_In Furthest Ind_ (BLACKWOOD) purports to be the narrative of Mr. EDWARD
CARLYON, of the Honourable East India Company's service, comprising his
escape from the hands of the Inquisition at Goa, his journey to the
Court of the Great Mogul, and much else. It all took place some two
hundred years ago, and was "wrote by his own hand in the Year of Grace
1697." As for Mr. SYDNEY C. GRIER, he simply "edits the narrative with a
few explanatory notes," which is very modest of him. The narrative is a
moving one, full of local colour, plastered on pictures of the outskirts
of India in John Company's day. Mr. EDWARD CARLYON is a properly
pragmatical person, with true British obstinacy knocking his head
against any wall that comes in his way. He makes my Baronite almost
think kindly of the Inquisition. And this is genial at Christmas time,
when we like to think well of everybody, "and so bless us all,
Pen-and-Inkysition included," quoth TINY TIM, alias
THE GAY BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.
* * * * *
A SEQUEL TO THE STORY OF UNG.
(A FABLE FOR THOSE WHO RESENT CRITICISM.)
_In continuation (with apologies) of Mr. Rudyard Kipling's clever "Story
of Ung," in the December Number of "The Idler."_
Now UNG grew exceeding bumptious along of his scribings on bone;
And he sware that no one could judge them save only the scriber
alone;
And he cocked his nose at the critics (save such as effusively
praised),
And he prated of "Art for Art's sake," till the tribesmen imagined him
crazed.
And UNG grew exceeding abusive, and proudly "uplifted his horn,"
With an Oscar Wildeish swagger, with a more than Whistlerian scorn.
He kicked with the wrath of a KIPLING at "the dull-brained _bourgeois_
lot,"
(Though he put it in different lingo, for _this_ Billingsgate then was
not.)
But the prehistoric for "Philistine!" fell from his scorn-curled lips,
And he lashed the non-artistic with words which would cut like whips.
And the non-artistic tribesmen they cried "he is right, this UNG,
Though we doubt if the sabre-tooth tiger has got such a rasping
tongue:
"But there's truth in his 'Art for Art's Sake,' and Art for him shall
suffice."
So they shut him up, with his bones and his tools, in a cave of ice.
No new-cut tongues if the bison, no pelts of the reindeer there,
But only cold snow for cover, and only bare bones for fare.
For they said, "We are nowise worthy, we hunting and trapping fools,
To judge of his fine bone-scribings, and the way he uses his tools,
Only an artist can judge of an artist's work, and he
Is our only maker of pictures, our only man who can _see_.
"So he must be artist and critic and purchaser all in one!"
And UNG admitted their logic, but he did not see the fun.
He cried "I am cold and hungry!" Then they said, "O picture-man,
Art for Art's sake is your motto; then live on your Art--_if you
can!_"
And UNG essayed to do so--by gnawing his graven bones,
But he did not find them nourish, and he begged in humbled tones
For a lump of stranded whale-meat, succulent, fat and _hot_;
In return for which, if they cared for his bones, _they might take the
lot!_
So they let UNG out of the ice-cave upon these liberal terms,
And cured the fool of regarding his fellow-mortals as worms.
And whenever ye hear Art crackpots a-wagging an insolent tongue,
Why then--in the words of RUDYARD--_heed ye the_ "_Story of Ung!_"
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