Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 107, December 22, 1894

_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."

"----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!"]

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!