Punch (94.1888)

76

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON

CHARIVARI. [February 18, 1888.

SNOB-SNUBBING.

"A—my People, Miss Devereux, came into England -with Stronqbow,
you know!" "Aee you quite sure it wasn't Longbow, Mr. Snookson?"

OUR " JUNIOR CLASSIC " AGAIN.

Dear Old P.,

I must just begin in English. I '11 go on into Latin in a minute, only
I find I can't talk so freely in Latin. Here I am, back at school, and 1 've got
my remove.' I feel no end of a swell. As my Pater says, "perhaps I shall
blossom out into a Porson some day "—though who Posson was I don't know,
only I think he was some classical bloke or other—Labs Porsona, I think he
used to be called.

Well, your request that I should tackle the letter of Wykehamistus, who
strangely objects to being called a Wykehami'ie, reached me yesterday, and
I feel no end flattered. I wish you hadn't said I had better answer it in Latin.
However, here goes.

Excursus

(I think that's what they call it), de lilterd alicujus WyTcehamsti, et de nomine
" Wykehamistus," vel " Wjkehamitus."

Primum, permitte me observare ut tuus corresponded est ad culpam quum
scribit Latine. Objectit ut nomen " Wykehamitus" non est proprium, et
demandat explanationem "quumproxime tuus papyrus eveniet." Hoc est vere
caninum pro " as soon as your paper comes out." Sed prEetermitto hoc, quod
ascribo ad factum ut hie pauper socius non est Etonensis ; nunc ad rem!

Terminatio ist occurrit ssepe. Ut whist (ludus) hist (signalis ut Magister
appropinquat) kist (paulo-post-perfectum de kiss, osoulare). Vide de hoc
Madvig, "de Particulis Latinis," vol. 26. Vide quoque "Grammatieam"
Boppi (illius Germani), si vis. (Sed hoc non adviso. Bopp, quamquam eruditus,
est valde aridus et ineomprehensibilis, ut mos est Teutomcus.) Adde ist ad
Wykeham, et habes " Wykehamistus," decens Latinum. Ego prefero " Wyke-
hamensis, ut Etonensis." Id sonat melius. Sed forsitan non sum absolute
impartialis in hac re. Sine dubio, propriissimum nomen pro pueris Schote ad
"Winchester est ' Wincastrensis." Chiare " Wykeham," careo noscere? Erat
homo appellatus Guxlelmus de "Wykeham, sum awarus, qui fundavit (nonne ?)
illam scholam. Sed Johannes Lyon fundavit Harroviam; et non appellamus
Harrovienses pueros Lyonistos."

Terminatio ite est quoque bonum Latinum ; aliquo modo, id est satis bonum
pro me. Vide Hlttite (antiqua natio pugilistica) John Bright (notus Anglicus
orator), et alia. Ergo quia non Wykehamite f (Vide Bopp, ut ante.)

Considero id potius buccam scribere ad te, Punche, ut ""Wykehamistus"

scribit. Si esset Etonensis, id esset differens. Sed forte
non sum impartialis, ut dixi.

Percipis ut treatavi subjectumin serio lumine. Chumus
mei suggerit ut id debet treatari in veno Doctoris "Watts
—videlicet—

How doth the little Wykehamist

To waste his time"delight,
In writing notes of which the gist

Is, "Why called Wykehamite? "

Sed non considero hoc dignum oceasionis. Spero ut
dedi multam satisfactionem in hoc excursu. Habui
swottere ad id, ego possum dieere tibi. Sed unum verbum
antequam ego finio. Da mihi aures tuas et ego tibi
reddam, ut elicit Shakspearius. Cur non derivatio sic
" Wykamus" (subaudi "puer") id est, "Wykham
("Boy" understood), " Mitis" gentle (iterum subaudi
''puer"), ie., " gentleboy,"—nam "puer est pater
homini," cum Divinus Gulieljius Shakspearius habet
(ad minus sic ego puto) unde derivatur " Gentleman,"—
et ambo simul, id est, ""Wykamus" et "mitis" formant
"Wykamite." Majus complimentarium id, est-ne P Hoo
me vapulat ut unum genus conundri, sic, meum primum
est " "Wykamus," meum secundum est "mitis" (subaudi
"puer" ut supra) et meum totum est nomen pueri in
statu publici pupillari, quod transfero "public school-
boy." Vide? Non malum, est-ne P " Vale et iterum
vale," cum cantat poeta, et dixit tuus veritabile

Tommius (Etonensis.)

AN ANGEL'S VISIT;

Or, The Artist's First Commission.

An hour ago and the world was gray,—
A thoroughly Bloomsbury kind of day,—
When you think of the bills that you cannot pay,
And turn from beautiful thoughts away,

Like a sulky child from kisses,
And wonder how poets sweet things can say
Of a world so chilly and hard and gray,
Where the wise are gloomy, and fools are gay

With their sorrowful, sordid blisses.

My hopes were low, and my heart was sore,
For a soul's mosaic litter'd the floor,
While vile pot-boilers the easels bore,
And the kettle croon'd of the cheap tea-store,
On smouldering coals that waved of yore

In a graveyard antediluvian,
When there came a tap at the studio-door—■
Such golden music ne'er heard before
The treasure-seeker who strikes a crore
Of buried rupees, or the hidden ore

Of Incas in vaults Peruvian.

The rain was lashing the windows high,
As if in spite of the brilliant sky
That lives in my picture of last July,
My holiday record of last July,

My only relic of Summer,
When a wide-eyed welcome of brightest sun
Spread all the room over, and dwelt upon
The hyacinth's clusters of cinnamon

To welcome the sweet new-comer.

Then the veteran chair with a missing limb,
And all that was common and mean and grim,
Grew suddenly seemly, and fine and trim,

Like courtliest old-world lovers ;
For a luminous beauty around her flowed,
And her face like the waking of morning glowed,
And her hair like crag in a hollow road

Where a leafy sunlight hovers.
Now I hear but her nightingale melody,
Though her brother, I think, talked more than she,
And they didn't say half as much to me

As they found to say to each other;
But every tone of her crisp, clear notes
Like a water-lily on silence floats,
Though dizzied memory vainly quotes

What she came about with her brother.
She has taken the loneliness all away,
And only the grace and the comfort stay;
And the light that she leaves is so pure and bright
That rain and wretchedness merely make
A beautiful rainbow for her sake,
Who found the room in a doleful plight