Public-domain ebook
Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 109, October 12, 1895
by Various
Language: en271 downloads on Project Gutenberg
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Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #47370.
The opening · free to read
MY DEAR GLADYS,--I think your ARTHUR the ideal person to be engaged to. He's serious, you say--he dislikes flippancy--he's inclined to be literal.
Well, surely that's better than being a clown, a buffoon, a mere jester, a Court Fool! How tired you'd get of the cap and bells! of having to laugh, all through life, at your husband's jokes! ARTHUR is sensible; calm in his affection. Is that a reproach? Should you like a "Once-on-board-the-lugger-and-the-girl-is-mine" sort of villain as a lover? Or a "ladies' man"--a warbler of love-songs--a universal provider of compliments, flowers, pretty speeches,--a very WHITELY of gallantry? You'd be bored to death: and dreadfully jealous as well.
As to your tastes not being identical, that doesn't really matter. Make a few sacrifices of those things you don't care about; bicycling, for instance, and skirt-dancing, and then, in return for such self-denial, he'll probably waive his objections to afternoons, private views, or even--in moderation--clever young men.
On some subjects, I know, sympathy seems impossible; for instance, ARTHUR likes music, but detests concerts: while you, on the other hand, while not caring for music are particularly fond of concerts. A little mutual indulgence on both sides will soon put matters straight.
After a slight dispute never hold out an instant after he shows repentance. Also, never avoid showing jealousy when you see he expects it. This is a valuable "tip." False pride on this subject is a fruitful source of discord.
Do not disagree with his general principles. On the contrary, second them; and give him convincing reasons for his own opinions. When it comes to a particular application of them, that you really object to you are sure to know how to act. Believe everything he says, and never correct him about details, especially not if you know you are right. I don't think I need advise you not to bring out authorities to show he is wrong in the etymology of a word or any other subject of discussion, for that is absolutely suicidal, and you would be beyond the pale of reason if you dreamt of such a thing.
Since your cousin FREDDY has been staying with you, I can understand you find it rather awkward. I know FREDDY; with his love of practical jokes (for which you, too, I am certain, have a secret penchant), and his determined chatter about his rowing, his riding, and why he didn't back the winner, and how it is he missed the Diamond Sculls, and so on, ad lib. I can quite fancy he doesn't get on with ARTHUR, whom he must despise for not having put a hair-brush in his bed the very first evening.
You must have had a difficult day that Sunday that young DE VERNEY and his sister came down. DE VERNEY, rosy-cheeked and babyish-looking, but about whom a morbid interest centres, because he collects jewels, and was said at one time to take morphia; and Miss DE VERNEY, who "writes," and is utterly amazed and contemptuous when she finds someone who has never heard of her. If it were not for your mother, who forgets people's characteristics, and explains them to each other a little wrong--which often saves the situation--the day would have ended in utter want of harmony. DE VERNEY left, pitying you, and his sister feeling sorry for ARTHUR. I am glad you removed--though only just in time--an absurd booby-trap FREDDY had placed in ARTHUR'S room, because ARTHUR had said he "romped"; and when you and your future husband were alone, he said he hoped your companions in the future would be of a very different calibre to your present friends.
The depressing word "calibre," while cheering ARTHUR left you in lowest spirits, but of course you agreed, and then had a toboganning match with FREDDY the next morning before breakfast, and before ARTHUR had left his room. Write and tell me how you are going on. Is any time fixed for the termination of the engagement? I mean, of course, by marriage.
Your affectionate friend, MARJORIE.
MAXIMUS ORELLIUS.--The author of John Bull and His Island has honoured a South Wales Daily News interviewer with many interesting personal details. Mons. BLOUËT has a rooted aversion to chairmen, because "they give a sort of formal tone to proceedings which I don't care for." Poor chairmen! After all, this is only what they are intended for. Perhaps another MAX--yclept NORDAN--can give some explanation for this distinctly morbid dislike. One unlucky chairman is overwhelmed with ridicule because, in an introductory speech, he actually forgot the French humorist's name. "MAX O'RELL" contemplates changing his profession to that of playwright, and has already written a play which he airily describes as "a high-class comedy, dealing with the British aristocracy." However, this is not his first dramatic venture, for, says he, "in 1870 I had a comedy produced in Paris, but the war breaking out my play came to what I think was an untimely end. I have been repeatedly urged to write for the stage, but have hitherto been content with the success I have attained in other directions." Vivat modestia!
In a recent number of The Saturday Review I read a review of a book of verse, which I need not particularise further, as I am not concerned to affirm or to dispute the justice of the critic's estimate of it. I only refer to it incidentally. The author, according to this reviewer, possessed only the most elementary and commonplace notion with regard to aptness of epithets or allusions. Instances were cited, and we were further asked to believe that with this poet (I quote from the Saturday) "the voluble thrush is a family man, and the bibulous bee is a rover."
That sentence absolutely fascinated me. It continued to ring and ring in my brain for hours afterwards. It became the refrain to everything I read and everything I thought of. There was only one remedy. I promptly applied it, made a copy of verses to suit the pursuing sentence, and was cured of my ailment.
A rook and an oyster agreed to dispute As to which held the record for darting: The rook said "I'm off like a punt on a chute," Said the oyster "I don't think I'm starting: That is, since I know I'm confoundedly slow, If the rook on the mark remains steady, I doubt if I'll wait till the starter says 'go,' I'll be off when he says 'Are you ready?'" Then the languishing leopard cried "Run while you can," And the cricket remarked "Is it over?" But the voluble thrush was a family man, And the bibulous bee was a rover.
A celibate snipe thought they'd better look sharp, But the oyster said "Who's for the grotto?" Thus evoking a smile from a casual carp, Who had "_carpe diem_" for his motto. And a hairy old, hoary old ourang-outang Grunted "Harmony, gents, or you'll bore us"; And a bandy-legged beetle, when asked if he sang, Said he only obliged in a chorus. Then, to make matters smooth till the racing began, A dove, who had landed at Dover, Cooed "Voluble thrush, you're a family man, But, oh bibulous bee, you're a rover."
The runners themselves were contending for fun On a track which was wooded with parquet: The odds at the start were a million to one, Which I quote as the state of the market. "Do you think they will win?" said a truculent shark; But the whale said, "I never think nuffing." "What a desperate race!" was the puffin's remark-- He was palpably pained by their puffing; Yet it cheered the whole clan, while their races they ran, To know someone lived calmly in clover; For the voluble thrush was a family man, Though the bibulous bee was a rover.
Round, round came the rook, who was heartily clapped He was winning, wings down, in a canter; The succulent bivalve was collared and lapped, In spite of his beard and his banter. But a rifle went off, and a dredger drew nigh; We shall never know which was the winner, For the rook's next appearance was made in a pie, And they served up the oyster at dinner. Which proves very plainly that life is a span; We are cattle, and Death is our drover. Fate waits for the thrush, who's a family man, And the bibulous bee, who's a rover.
No more this week. I am flying from a country where September fails to provide anything but sunshine. Perhaps in Switzerland there may be snow and a sweet foretaste of winter. At any rate, I am off to find out for myself. My next "Roundabout Reading" will be done in the country of Cantons. I shall study the Referendum face to face!
"IN RE DIGGLE V. THE PROGRESSIVES."--Mr. DIGGLE says, as long as ratepayers support the Progressives, the rates will increase. Ergo, to support the Progressives, and pay for it, is Re-diggle-ous! Quite so.
The Head Boots (to the driver). There's another to come yet; he'll no be lang now. (The cause of the delay comes down the hotel steps, and surveys the vehicle and its occupants with a surly scowl.) Up with ye, Sir, plenty of room on the second seats.
The Surly Passenger. And have all the umbrellas behind dripping on my hat! No, thank you, I'm going in front. (He mounts, and takes up the apron.) Here, driver, just look at this apron--it's sopping wet!
The Driver (tranquilly). Aye, I'm thinking it wull ha' got a bet domp.
The Surly P. Well, I'm not going to have this over me. Haven't you got a dry one somewhere?
The Driver. There'll be dry ones at Collander.
The Surly P. (with a snort). At Callander! Much good that is! (With crushing sarcasm.) If I'm to keep dry on this concern, it strikes me I'd better get inside the boot at once!
The Driver (with the air of a man who is making a concession). Ou aye, ye can get inside the boot if ye've a mind to it.
[_The coach starts, and is presently stopped at a corner to take up a male and female passenger, who occupy the seats immediately behind the_ Surly Passenger.
The Female P. (enthusiastically, to her companion). There's dear old Mrs. MACFARLANE, come out to see the last of us! Look at her standing out there in the garden, all in the rain. That's what I always say about the Scotch--they are warm-hearted!
[_She waves her hand in farewell to some distant object._
Her Companion. That ain't her; that's an old apple-tree in the garden you're waving to. She's keeping in-doors--and shows her sense too.
The Female P. (disgusted). Well, I do think after our being at the farm a fortnight and all, she _might_----But that's Scotch all over, that is; get all they can out of you, and then, for anything they care----!
The Surly P. I don't know whether you are aware of it, Ma'am, but that umbrella of yours is sending a constant trickle down the back of my neck, which is most unpleasant!
The Female P. I'm sorry to hear it, Sir, but it's no worse for you than it is for me. I've got somebody else's umbrella dripping down my back, and I don't complain.
The Surly P. I do, Ma'am, for, being in front, I haven't even the poor consolation of feeling that my umbrella is a nuisance to anybody.
A Sardonic P. (in the rear, politely). On the contrary, Sir, I find it a most pleasing object to contemplate. Far more picturesque, I don't doubt, than any scenery it may happen to conceal.
A Chatty P. (to the driver; not because he cares, but simply for the sake of conversation). What fish do you catch in that river there?
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