Punch (54.1868)

March 28, 1868.]

131

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

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“IGNORAMUS” ON SOME GEOGRAPHICAL TROUBLES.

I was waiting,* this morn-
ing, for an “ Atlas,” I step-
ped into a shop, and bought
a map, to help me to un-
derstand the newspaper
articles on “Russophobia,”
and Central Asia, a distant
district which, for aught I
knew to the contrary, might
be that Asia Major I am
always expecting to turn up
as the indispensable counter-
part of Asia Minor; an Ox-
ford training having taught
me to believe that where
there ’s a Minor there must
also be a Major.

The purchase of this map
set me thinking of the many
maps and atlases I had been
obliged to buy during the
last fifteen years — indeed,
ever since my interest in
Epirus and theiEgean began to slacken—and of the many lessons in Modern Geography I
had been constrained to give myself, to fill out my spare education, and effect my rescue from
the total darkness of ignorance in which I must otherwise have blundered on, touching
those various regions of the earth where War has left so many deep and crimson scars to
attest her terrible presence.

I believe I first began to impoverish myself in this way when the war with Russia broke
out; making excursions into the Crimea, plunging into the Black Sea and the Baltic, and dip-
ping into the Bosphorus and Dardanelles, which last-mentioned expanse of waters I had
always taken to for its melodious name, and fanciful association, in my very irregular mind,
with a favourite pear. The next item in my expenditure with Mappman was for India, of
which rather important country, previous to the rebellion, I had possessed but little more than
what may be termed a nursery knowledge, mainly represented by Tippoo Saib, tigers in
jungles preparing to spring on defenceless white men, the Black Hole at Calcutta, the Great
Mogul, crossing-sweepers in white turbans, the cruel Car of Juggernaut, and, above all,
the burning of widows, considered by far the best thing to think of just before going to
sleep on a winter’s night in a warm bed, which, for the occasion, might be looked on as
the mail from London to York, with the wind driving the rain against the windows. A
serious geographical trouble was the war between Austria, and Erance and Italy, with
its—the constant intrusion of this antagonist on my privacy was such an annoyance that I
must beg the printer to employ small capitals—quadrilateral, and notorious battle-fields
chiefly remembered now by new dyes and bright dresses. But no part of the globe involved
me in so much anxiety as Schleswig-Holstein, for years the terror of newspaper readers,
the bore in the European family, the poor relation always dropping in and never welcome,
until at last Prussian and Dane came to blows, and compelled us to determine whether
S.-H. was a diplomatic myth or a geographical reality, and, to explore in maps provinces of
which I, and I dare to say, tribes more of the “ better educated classes,” were as ignorant
as we are to this day of Lapland or Turkistan.

All over the world have I known trouble. Danubian Principalities, Japan, Poland, China,
States of the Church, Bhootan, Lombardy, Mexico and Austria, have been heavy trials ; but
never did I picture myself so far from home and ten to four as Abyssinia. Rasselas !
Where’s Rasselas ? Just stepped out, Sir, to Eleet Street to ask how his friend Samuel
Johnson is, after attending his Mother’s funeral at Lichfield. Jam.es Bruce, Esq.—he
was here a moment ago telling, me there were no musical instruments, not even a lyre, in
Abyssinia—where has he gone ? To dine in Arlington Street with Horace Walpole and
George Selwvn, and relate to them those marvellous stories about juicy steaks cut from
live oxen, which Cameron, and Rassam, and Stern, may some day confirm in the exciting
narratives we are all hoping they will soon return to deliver in the rooms of the Royal
Geographical Society, Burlington House, Piccadilly.

Aden is now familiar to me as Household Troops, Annesley Bay has displaced Pegwel
Bay in my regard, and Massowah and Zoulla are no mere acquaintances, but friends of long-
standing, like Margate and Ramsgate. And yet could I draw an outline map of the country P
1 doubt it, so great is the depression in my cranium where the prominence denoting philo-
geography ought to be; for all my life long I have experienced the greatest difficulty in
distinguishing a peninsula from a promontory, and the shock I felt on Saturday evening last
on finding that there was a sea of which I had never even heard—the Ochotsk Sea—I have
not yet recovered from. But there is something else than the geography of Abyssinia to
comment on. What was your guess when you read that the Aboona of Abyssinia was dead P

If I had seen such an announcement under the head of the Zoological Gardens, Regent’s
Park, I should have expected to find that the Aboona was a rare animal of the country
which had died unexpectedly through change of scene and diet. As it was I suspect
my thoughts ran on a favourite Sultana of King Theodore’s. All wrong, the Aboona
being Abyssinia's Archbishop of Canterbury, whose life, let us hope, was not disturbed
by such a diversity of clergy and variety of robe and ritual as prelates in England suffer
from.

But I must end, and it shall be, where I began, in Central Asia. I must take my map
home and study it. I must be ready with my geographical knowledge against the time for
which articles and letters are already preparing us, when the Oxus and Jaxartes (only rivers,
I assure you, not. especially Jaxartes, pagan divinities) will be admitted into the best, society,
and met with at every London dinner-table; when Cashmere will have other costly asso-

ciations beside shawls ; and the constant men-
tion of Afghanistan and Cabul, Herat and
Candahar, the Tunghani and the Valley of the
lli will bring earthly trouble once more on

Ignoramus.

WE DON’T BELIEVE HALF OF IT.

A letter from the Capital of Civilisation,
Liberty, Morality, Wisdom, and Human Excel-
lence in every particular, especially Refinement
and Elegance with Economy in Female Dress,
informs us that

“ What is called the imperial pamphlet, under the
title of ‘ Leg Titres de la Dynastie NapoUonienne,' has
appeared with the motto of ‘ Vox populi vox Dei.’ ”

Napoleon the Third calls himself Empe-
ror, both Dei gratia and by the will of t,he
French people. According to the motto of his
Imperial Majesty’s pamphlet, these appear to be
just two phrases for one thing.

Did not a certain people once shout Les aris-
tocrats a la lanterne? This was vox populi
certainly. Another people, once upon a time,
shouted for a certain Barabeas. That wa3
vox populi too. What more can be said in such
cases, unless you add vox diaboli? The Univer-
sal Suffrage to which the French People owe
their Second Empire, and present freedom ot
the Press, liberty of meeting, and immunity
from oppressive conscription, was surely no
better thaa vox populi, if it was no worse.
When the Man of December adopts for the
motto of his Monarchy, Vox populi vox Dei,
does he not rest his title on the ground of a
saying which at best expresses only a half-
truth ?

There is a cry which has been heard here in
Englard by the Elect of the French People,
whose forces now hinder the people of Rome
from electing their own Sovereign. The British
public sometimes cries “No Popery!” Here
you have vox populi. Does Louis Napoleon
consider it also vox Dei s’

WEARING THEIR OWN HAIR AGAIN.

Here is a delightful piece of news from
Paris :—

“ At the last Ball at the H6tel de Ville a revolution
was apparent in the ladies’ style of headdress. No chig-
nons, but the hair flowing over the shoulders, and a
ringlet or two drawn in front, after the manner in-
troduced by the Princess of Wales in 1863.”

Crinoline has gone the way of all departed
fashions, and chignons now are doomed to follow
the same fate. In cases such as these there is
no appeal against the Judgment of Paris.
Venus bows to Paris in all matters of the
toilette, and Ugliness is sure to imitate what-
ever Beauty does. Farewell ye chignons, there-
fore, and ye gregarines infesting them !
Farewell ye frowsy frisettes, stolen from the
neighing steed ! Farewell ye pads of alien hair
clipped in Caucasian back slums ! Farewell, a
long farewell to more than half your greatness,
ye fashionable heads ! And 0 ye monstrous
hairpins, whose huge nobs the hilts of small
swords and of daggers counterfeit, farewell!
The Chignon’s occupation’s gone !

Butter in Excelsis.

The French paper, La Liberte, is given to
that slavish eulogium characteristic of Impe-
rialistic literature. It says that in the Irish
debate, “ Mr. Gladstone spoke like a states-
man, Mr. Disraeli like a writer in Punch.”
Mr. Disraeli spoke very well, and we have
done and would do all fitting honour to his
great talent, but the ascription to him of such
immeasurable superiority over Mr. Gladstone
is fulsome flattery, offensive to gods and men.