DOI issue:
May 23, 1874
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16938#0224
220 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [May 23, 1874.
OUR NEW NOVEL.
ONE-AND-THREE!
BY THAT DISTINGUISHED FRENCH NOVELIST,
FICTOR NOGO.
PART THE FIRST—ALL AT SEA.
Book the Fourth—Bilibarlo.
I.—The Top of the Morning.
The Old Man waited till Guillaume had disappeared, then he
cocked his hat, so as to be ready for defence, and set out on his
course. He took the direction of Hoosin while Guillaume went
towards Hesout.
Behind him were two dark triangles with his waist for their bases,
and a button flapping against each heel for their apexes.
These triangles were his coat-tails.
Seen at a distance they appeared like the last letter hut three of
the alphabet. They told their own tale. Moreover they suited him
down to the ground.
Before him was a post. The word post has always signified
‘ ‘ behind ” before. Here, in this country of inversions, its meaning
had been changed. This post stood out in the half-light like a
Pyramid of Chops in the midst of the Dessert.
It was the last post out that night. And yet this post did not
belong to the night, hut to the morning. The Morning Post. The
Old Man knew this. It was an obstacle in his path. An obstacle
to be removed, and to be used.
He had his own way. The barnacles which he had saved from
the boat he now placed across his shortened nose. Had this feature
not been abridged, there would have been no rest for him. With
his eyes thus guarded he performed a great feat. He took up the
Post, and went right through it.
It.was a gigantic effort, but he had a grand object in view. An
inspired man pays no regard to the probabilities of danger. Who
dares, escapes; who escapes, wins. Warily he ran his eye up and
down the columns, recognising familiar names, signs, and words;
then he approached the leaders; there were four of them; two
powerful, one uncertain, and the last weak. The Old Man under-
stood this, and went cautiously between the lines.
While thus engaged he picked up, here and there, some scraps
of information which might be hereafter useful to him. The outer
sheets he saved for night, when he might he without roof or couch.
J The padding he placed inside his waistcoat.
It was necessary for him to obtain a clear view of his situation.
To do this, he must attain a certain altitude. The Old Man drew
forth a bottle and drained it. This afforded him the necessary
elevation.
Next he cast his eye on the top of an advertisement column. A
line caught it. His eye being once fixed, he drew himself up.
Then he sat down, and began to make observations.
Stretching away around him were seven towns and ten villages:
the Old Man saw fourteen of one and twenty of the other.
Then he nodded his head to himself. Only those who know them-
selves can nod to themselves as acquaintances ; seldom as friends.
He seemed to murmur to himself with every nod. “Dat’s me,
George.”
Then he smiled. Then he closed his eyes, and for one hour lia
was tranquil. Even savage natures have their hours of melancholy:
after meals. Yoices awoke him; voices of children, also the martia!
sound of trumpets whose price had been one penny, and drums
which could not have cost one farthing less. _
The words were so near he could catch them. He could not catch
the children. A thick hedge was between him and them. He
listened.
A woman’s voice said:
“ Come along, Tommy.”
Another woman’s voice said :
“We must run. The children are tired. How are your poor
feet ? Does it suit your daughter to eat some peaches? You must
have some good soup. I have the good wine.”
“No, you have not the
good wine.”
“Yes, I have the good
wine, and the cheap wine.”
‘ ‘ The children are in-
dustrious. The girls are
as good (sage) as their
brothers.”
‘ ‘ I have brought some
good cherries, some good
strawberries, and some
good peaches.”
“ Tell me, Tommy, have
you some sugar?”
A child’s voice—that of
a girl—answered.
“Tommy is only at ex-
ercise two in Ollendokf.
I am at twenty-six.”
“ Then you know-”
‘ ‘ That the Italian has
the painter’s cheese, the
neighbour’s hay, and a
great deal of salt. The
peasant has not any rice.
He has a great deal of
courage, and he has eight
good trunks, and the cap-
tain’s ten hammers.”
The voices grew fainter
and fainter. Then they
died away.
II.—-Through Tivo Ears.
The Old Man remained
motionless.
He was thinking hardly. Hardly of several persons. _What had
not this child’s voice said ? “ The peasant has not any rice ’’—“the
Italian has the painter’s cheese, and the neighbour’s hay.”
It fell upon the ears of one who could sympathise with the peasant,,
who detested the Italian, looking upon him as a vocal rival—a mere
Singer’s machine in creation.
He rose, struck his banjo, and sat on a stile. He was taking
two bars rest.
To him it seemed a strange time. He was not sleeping, he was
not waking; he was not thinking, he was not meditating; he was
not speaking, he was not singing, he was not silent; he was not
walking, he was not riding; he was not sitting, he was not standing.
Had there been no railing, he would have fallen over the cliff.
Was he on his head or his heels ? Heels, he thought, for choice;
hut was uncertain. He drew forth the bottle once more, and held
it between his eye and the light. It was empty. This caused him
to smile. He shook his head reproachfully. Then he fell back-
wards over a stone. Two suns seemed to him to be shining in the
heavens, and the moons were out for three months ahead. He saw
the unlicensed shooting stars and shuddered. Suppose the fiat had
gone forth—
“ Rubbish may be shot here.”
The Old Man felt an indescribable calm. There he lay: no one
knew his name. He himself, had he been asked, could not have
remembered it. Herein was his chance of safety. He was tranquil,
he was happy. A little more and he would, have fallen asleep. He
had not a little more with him, so he remained awake.
OUR NEW NOVEL.
ONE-AND-THREE!
BY THAT DISTINGUISHED FRENCH NOVELIST,
FICTOR NOGO.
PART THE FIRST—ALL AT SEA.
Book the Fourth—Bilibarlo.
I.—The Top of the Morning.
The Old Man waited till Guillaume had disappeared, then he
cocked his hat, so as to be ready for defence, and set out on his
course. He took the direction of Hoosin while Guillaume went
towards Hesout.
Behind him were two dark triangles with his waist for their bases,
and a button flapping against each heel for their apexes.
These triangles were his coat-tails.
Seen at a distance they appeared like the last letter hut three of
the alphabet. They told their own tale. Moreover they suited him
down to the ground.
Before him was a post. The word post has always signified
‘ ‘ behind ” before. Here, in this country of inversions, its meaning
had been changed. This post stood out in the half-light like a
Pyramid of Chops in the midst of the Dessert.
It was the last post out that night. And yet this post did not
belong to the night, hut to the morning. The Morning Post. The
Old Man knew this. It was an obstacle in his path. An obstacle
to be removed, and to be used.
He had his own way. The barnacles which he had saved from
the boat he now placed across his shortened nose. Had this feature
not been abridged, there would have been no rest for him. With
his eyes thus guarded he performed a great feat. He took up the
Post, and went right through it.
It.was a gigantic effort, but he had a grand object in view. An
inspired man pays no regard to the probabilities of danger. Who
dares, escapes; who escapes, wins. Warily he ran his eye up and
down the columns, recognising familiar names, signs, and words;
then he approached the leaders; there were four of them; two
powerful, one uncertain, and the last weak. The Old Man under-
stood this, and went cautiously between the lines.
While thus engaged he picked up, here and there, some scraps
of information which might be hereafter useful to him. The outer
sheets he saved for night, when he might he without roof or couch.
J The padding he placed inside his waistcoat.
It was necessary for him to obtain a clear view of his situation.
To do this, he must attain a certain altitude. The Old Man drew
forth a bottle and drained it. This afforded him the necessary
elevation.
Next he cast his eye on the top of an advertisement column. A
line caught it. His eye being once fixed, he drew himself up.
Then he sat down, and began to make observations.
Stretching away around him were seven towns and ten villages:
the Old Man saw fourteen of one and twenty of the other.
Then he nodded his head to himself. Only those who know them-
selves can nod to themselves as acquaintances ; seldom as friends.
He seemed to murmur to himself with every nod. “Dat’s me,
George.”
Then he smiled. Then he closed his eyes, and for one hour lia
was tranquil. Even savage natures have their hours of melancholy:
after meals. Yoices awoke him; voices of children, also the martia!
sound of trumpets whose price had been one penny, and drums
which could not have cost one farthing less. _
The words were so near he could catch them. He could not catch
the children. A thick hedge was between him and them. He
listened.
A woman’s voice said:
“ Come along, Tommy.”
Another woman’s voice said :
“We must run. The children are tired. How are your poor
feet ? Does it suit your daughter to eat some peaches? You must
have some good soup. I have the good wine.”
“No, you have not the
good wine.”
“Yes, I have the good
wine, and the cheap wine.”
‘ ‘ The children are in-
dustrious. The girls are
as good (sage) as their
brothers.”
‘ ‘ I have brought some
good cherries, some good
strawberries, and some
good peaches.”
“ Tell me, Tommy, have
you some sugar?”
A child’s voice—that of
a girl—answered.
“Tommy is only at ex-
ercise two in Ollendokf.
I am at twenty-six.”
“ Then you know-”
‘ ‘ That the Italian has
the painter’s cheese, the
neighbour’s hay, and a
great deal of salt. The
peasant has not any rice.
He has a great deal of
courage, and he has eight
good trunks, and the cap-
tain’s ten hammers.”
The voices grew fainter
and fainter. Then they
died away.
II.—-Through Tivo Ears.
The Old Man remained
motionless.
He was thinking hardly. Hardly of several persons. _What had
not this child’s voice said ? “ The peasant has not any rice ’’—“the
Italian has the painter’s cheese, and the neighbour’s hay.”
It fell upon the ears of one who could sympathise with the peasant,,
who detested the Italian, looking upon him as a vocal rival—a mere
Singer’s machine in creation.
He rose, struck his banjo, and sat on a stile. He was taking
two bars rest.
To him it seemed a strange time. He was not sleeping, he was
not waking; he was not thinking, he was not meditating; he was
not speaking, he was not singing, he was not silent; he was not
walking, he was not riding; he was not sitting, he was not standing.
Had there been no railing, he would have fallen over the cliff.
Was he on his head or his heels ? Heels, he thought, for choice;
hut was uncertain. He drew forth the bottle once more, and held
it between his eye and the light. It was empty. This caused him
to smile. He shook his head reproachfully. Then he fell back-
wards over a stone. Two suns seemed to him to be shining in the
heavens, and the moons were out for three months ahead. He saw
the unlicensed shooting stars and shuddered. Suppose the fiat had
gone forth—
“ Rubbish may be shot here.”
The Old Man felt an indescribable calm. There he lay: no one
knew his name. He himself, had he been asked, could not have
remembered it. Herein was his chance of safety. He was tranquil,
he was happy. A little more and he would, have fallen asleep. He
had not a little more with him, so he remained awake.