DOI Heft:
January 9, 1892
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17693#0031
January 9, 1892.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
21
ought to have his own motto. Now 7 was thinking of
Cede nullis !
Doctor T. Tut—tut—tut, JosEPn ! Inappropriate,—
in your present position. You will have to yield to many,
—to those in authority over you, in fact. '' Leaders
(and Monitors) have to subordinate their personal tastes,
and even their individual convictions, to an enlarged
conception of the general advantage."
Mrs. S. Yes, Joe, don't, whatever you do, com-
promise your authority by any indiscreet or extravagant
msistance-
Master Joe {quiclcly, though with becoming gravity).
Quite so, Ma'am! Very true, Sir! My "conceptions,"
I may say, have " enlarged " considerably of late, since
I have found (as Mrs. S. well says) "how much of my
antipathy" (to the powers that be) "was sheer preju-
dice." And, as to "the general advantage," I am
sanguine that I shall find it consonant—if not identical
—with my own.
Doctor T. {dubiously). Humph! Suppose you say
yours with it, Joseph Y
Master Joe {airily). As you please, Sir. Things
which are equal. to the same thing are equal to one
another, you know.
Mrs. S. {aside). Smart boy, very! I fancy I should
have more confidence in him if he were a little less so.
Doctor T. {gravely). You see, Joseph, there are some
things in your earlier school career which your well-
wishers would fain—forget. You were rather what is
called, I think, "a young liadical" once, not to say " a
bit of a pickle." You seemed not altogether out of sym-
pathy with such revolutionary proceedings as " revolts"
and barring-outs," and even talked once, if I remember
rightly, of putting the Principals "to ransom"—doc-
trines better worthy of a Calabrian brigand than of a
public school-boy. But let bygones be bygones. Now
that you are in a position of responsibility and—re-
spectability, you will, of course, abandon all such
revolutionary rubbish, and think not of yourself, but
others; consider less the wild wishes of your inferiors
than the wise commands of your betters.
Master Joe {solemnly). Oh, of course, Sir! And now, if
you, Dr. Poloni—ahem !—Dr. T., and Mrs. Pip—I mean
Mrs. S., have quite finished your wig—I should say wise
counsellings, I think I '11—go out and play! [Does so.
Dynamiticae Arguments. —The Apostles of " the
Gospel of Dynamite" would, if they could, speedily
convert a whole town—into a ruin.
A STARTLING PROPOSITION.
Seedy Individual {suddenly and with startling vigom
" Aon ? Floy with me ercross ther Sea,
ercross ther dork LeRGOON ! ! "
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
With a spice of Tristram Shandy, a dash of Ferdinand Count
Fathom, and none the worse for the quaint flavouring tlms given to
the style and manner of the romance, The Blue Pavilions by "Q."
is about as good a tale of rapid dramatic and exciting adventure
as the Baron remembers to have read,—for some time at least. There
is in it little enough of love, though that little is well and prettily
told, but there is no lack of fighting at long odds and at short
intervals, of hairbreadth escapes, and of such chances by land and
sea as keep the reader, all agog, hurrying on from point to point,
anxious to see what is to happen next, and how the expected is to
eventuate unexpectedly. The story is for the most part told in a
humorous devil-may-care-believe-it-or-not-as-you-like sort of way
which compels attention, occasionally raises a smile, and always
excites curiosity. As a one-barrel novel, this ought to score a gold
right in the centre.
The writer of a little leader in the Daily Keivs of last Wednesday
seems to have been rather hard-up for a subject when he fell foul of
the Messrs. Macmillan's cheap re-issue of A Jest-Book, compiled
many years ago by Mr. Punch's Mark Lemon, " Uncle Mark,"
who brought the ancient Joe Miller up to that particular date. It
was the last of the jest-books, and they are now quite out of fashion.
A quarter of a century hence, no doubt, the fortunate possessor of
one of these little books will come out with many a new jest, and be
esteemed quite an original wit.
It would have been well for the writer of the above-mentioned
leaderette had he referred to the ninth of Elia's Popular Fallacies,
and been thereby reminded how " a pun is a pistol let off at the ear ;
and not a feather to tickle the intellect." The Baron is prepared to
admit that the lesson to be learned from this delightful Essay of
Charles Lamb's is, that a pun once let off, has fizzled off, and
cannot be repeated with its first effect. Now the honest historian
of this,'or of any pun, must reproduce in his narrative all the circum-
stances of time, place, and individuality that gave it its point; but
the effect of the pun, the Baron ventures to think, it is impossible to
convey in print to the reader, read he never so wisely, nor however
vividly graphic may be the description. Yet if this same reader
possesses the art of reading aloud, with some approach to the dramatic
Dickensian manner, then, given an appreciative audience, it is pro-
bable that the pun itself would not lose much in recital. At best, how-
ever, the crispness of the original salt is impaired, though the flavour
is not lost by keeping, and the enjoyment of it must depend on the new
seasoning provided by the reciter. Of course, its piquancy may have
been staled by too frequent use—but " this is another story." After
all, is a jest-book meant to be, taken seriously? A question which
" nous donne a penser," quoth The Baeon. De Book-Worms.
FOGGED!
Blest if I know where I am in this murkiness made to benight us,
Blest if I know what it means, this infernal Impressionist etching ;
Surely some Whistler renowned in the gibbering realms of Cocytus
Drew it—and draws us along through its avenues ghostlily stretching.
Lights flicker out in the gloom, like diminutive goblins that beckon;
Onward we stagger and gasp in the grip of this emanence deadly:
How I would curse if I could, but not Rabelais even I reckon
Language could find, or a voice if he wished for the sulphurous medley.
Blest if I know who you are, wicked giant, colossal above me, _
Pluto perchance or, that fell spirit-ferryman, Charon uprising !
Blest if I know if survives in this demon-land anything of me,_
Blest!—It's a lamp-post, by George—a reality somewhat surprising!
London, how long shall thy sons rue this Angel of Death with his
grim bow, [throttled ?
Suffer this nightmare to last by its pestilence mangled and
Would magic Science could scare the black vista to luridest Limbo,
Would that fresh breezes were tinned and the sunshine of Italy
bottled!!
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
21
ought to have his own motto. Now 7 was thinking of
Cede nullis !
Doctor T. Tut—tut—tut, JosEPn ! Inappropriate,—
in your present position. You will have to yield to many,
—to those in authority over you, in fact. '' Leaders
(and Monitors) have to subordinate their personal tastes,
and even their individual convictions, to an enlarged
conception of the general advantage."
Mrs. S. Yes, Joe, don't, whatever you do, com-
promise your authority by any indiscreet or extravagant
msistance-
Master Joe {quiclcly, though with becoming gravity).
Quite so, Ma'am! Very true, Sir! My "conceptions,"
I may say, have " enlarged " considerably of late, since
I have found (as Mrs. S. well says) "how much of my
antipathy" (to the powers that be) "was sheer preju-
dice." And, as to "the general advantage," I am
sanguine that I shall find it consonant—if not identical
—with my own.
Doctor T. {dubiously). Humph! Suppose you say
yours with it, Joseph Y
Master Joe {airily). As you please, Sir. Things
which are equal. to the same thing are equal to one
another, you know.
Mrs. S. {aside). Smart boy, very! I fancy I should
have more confidence in him if he were a little less so.
Doctor T. {gravely). You see, Joseph, there are some
things in your earlier school career which your well-
wishers would fain—forget. You were rather what is
called, I think, "a young liadical" once, not to say " a
bit of a pickle." You seemed not altogether out of sym-
pathy with such revolutionary proceedings as " revolts"
and barring-outs," and even talked once, if I remember
rightly, of putting the Principals "to ransom"—doc-
trines better worthy of a Calabrian brigand than of a
public school-boy. But let bygones be bygones. Now
that you are in a position of responsibility and—re-
spectability, you will, of course, abandon all such
revolutionary rubbish, and think not of yourself, but
others; consider less the wild wishes of your inferiors
than the wise commands of your betters.
Master Joe {solemnly). Oh, of course, Sir! And now, if
you, Dr. Poloni—ahem !—Dr. T., and Mrs. Pip—I mean
Mrs. S., have quite finished your wig—I should say wise
counsellings, I think I '11—go out and play! [Does so.
Dynamiticae Arguments. —The Apostles of " the
Gospel of Dynamite" would, if they could, speedily
convert a whole town—into a ruin.
A STARTLING PROPOSITION.
Seedy Individual {suddenly and with startling vigom
" Aon ? Floy with me ercross ther Sea,
ercross ther dork LeRGOON ! ! "
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
With a spice of Tristram Shandy, a dash of Ferdinand Count
Fathom, and none the worse for the quaint flavouring tlms given to
the style and manner of the romance, The Blue Pavilions by "Q."
is about as good a tale of rapid dramatic and exciting adventure
as the Baron remembers to have read,—for some time at least. There
is in it little enough of love, though that little is well and prettily
told, but there is no lack of fighting at long odds and at short
intervals, of hairbreadth escapes, and of such chances by land and
sea as keep the reader, all agog, hurrying on from point to point,
anxious to see what is to happen next, and how the expected is to
eventuate unexpectedly. The story is for the most part told in a
humorous devil-may-care-believe-it-or-not-as-you-like sort of way
which compels attention, occasionally raises a smile, and always
excites curiosity. As a one-barrel novel, this ought to score a gold
right in the centre.
The writer of a little leader in the Daily Keivs of last Wednesday
seems to have been rather hard-up for a subject when he fell foul of
the Messrs. Macmillan's cheap re-issue of A Jest-Book, compiled
many years ago by Mr. Punch's Mark Lemon, " Uncle Mark,"
who brought the ancient Joe Miller up to that particular date. It
was the last of the jest-books, and they are now quite out of fashion.
A quarter of a century hence, no doubt, the fortunate possessor of
one of these little books will come out with many a new jest, and be
esteemed quite an original wit.
It would have been well for the writer of the above-mentioned
leaderette had he referred to the ninth of Elia's Popular Fallacies,
and been thereby reminded how " a pun is a pistol let off at the ear ;
and not a feather to tickle the intellect." The Baron is prepared to
admit that the lesson to be learned from this delightful Essay of
Charles Lamb's is, that a pun once let off, has fizzled off, and
cannot be repeated with its first effect. Now the honest historian
of this,'or of any pun, must reproduce in his narrative all the circum-
stances of time, place, and individuality that gave it its point; but
the effect of the pun, the Baron ventures to think, it is impossible to
convey in print to the reader, read he never so wisely, nor however
vividly graphic may be the description. Yet if this same reader
possesses the art of reading aloud, with some approach to the dramatic
Dickensian manner, then, given an appreciative audience, it is pro-
bable that the pun itself would not lose much in recital. At best, how-
ever, the crispness of the original salt is impaired, though the flavour
is not lost by keeping, and the enjoyment of it must depend on the new
seasoning provided by the reciter. Of course, its piquancy may have
been staled by too frequent use—but " this is another story." After
all, is a jest-book meant to be, taken seriously? A question which
" nous donne a penser," quoth The Baeon. De Book-Worms.
FOGGED!
Blest if I know where I am in this murkiness made to benight us,
Blest if I know what it means, this infernal Impressionist etching ;
Surely some Whistler renowned in the gibbering realms of Cocytus
Drew it—and draws us along through its avenues ghostlily stretching.
Lights flicker out in the gloom, like diminutive goblins that beckon;
Onward we stagger and gasp in the grip of this emanence deadly:
How I would curse if I could, but not Rabelais even I reckon
Language could find, or a voice if he wished for the sulphurous medley.
Blest if I know who you are, wicked giant, colossal above me, _
Pluto perchance or, that fell spirit-ferryman, Charon uprising !
Blest if I know if survives in this demon-land anything of me,_
Blest!—It's a lamp-post, by George—a reality somewhat surprising!
London, how long shall thy sons rue this Angel of Death with his
grim bow, [throttled ?
Suffer this nightmare to last by its pestilence mangled and
Would magic Science could scare the black vista to luridest Limbo,
Would that fresh breezes were tinned and the sunshine of Italy
bottled!!