DOI Heft:
Punch's Almanack for 1883
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17771#0006
PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1883.
LIVING UP TO A TEAPOT.
(A Tale of Lonely Life.)
Wishing not to appear eccentric, but to follow the fashion, I
resolved to live up to a Teapot. Therefore, my own little tin-plated
one, price sixpence, having sprung a leak, I bought me another, a
blue-and- white J apa-
nese Teapot at a
grocer’s shop in the
Strand — cost five
shillings.
I had previously
lived on a scale of
living up to a six-
penny Teapot only—
on oatmeal-porridge
for breakfast princi-
pally, and sometimes
bread-and-butter. A
legacy from a lamen-
ted distant relation
enabled me to live
up to a superior
Teapot — a crown
Teapot.
So I not only began
to breakfast on eggs,
but added bloaters
likewise to my morn-
ing meal, kippered
herrings also, and
smoked salmon, salt
haddock, sardines,
ham and tongue,
brawn, potted meats,
and rashers of bacon ;
besides a considerable
variety of other little
tiny kickshaws and
toys. I did, I flat-
tered myself, live up
to my Teapot in
some measure.
But very soon the
Teapot I had been
living up to as well
as ever I was able by
the gratification of
my appetite with all
manner of good
things, came to grief
in the kitchen. My
maid - of - all - work
broke off the tip of
its spout. The jagged
edges of the fracture
caused the tea to
dribble on to my
tablecloth, and then
that Teapot was to
be lived up to no
more. Never trust a
Teapot to which you
intend living up, to
the care of Servants.
She to whom I had
unwisely confided my
Teapot supplied me,
pending doubt as to
procuring another,
with a temporary
substitute in her own.
This was a moder-
ately-sized, globular,
glazed black Teapot
of earthenware.
There was no paint-
ing upon it at all, but the Teapot itself, I discovered, drew admirably.
When I say “ drew,” I mean that it extracted the soluble constituents
of my tea so effectually as to make my tea twice as strong again as
it used to be made in the Teapot I had chosen to live up to.
I will not, therefore, now purchase a new expensive Teapot for my
servant to break, but shall stick to this old one—cost eighteen pence_
a Teapot which she will probably take good care of, and which in
future will be decidedly the Teapot to live up to for my money.
THE GARDEN-PARTY OF THE FUTURE.
Scene—A La,ten illuminated by the Electric Light.
Young Lady (to Scientific Old Gent). Ah, Mr. McFukgus, we may
*nowindeed say, with Tennyson, that “ the black bat Night hath flown.”
Scientific Old Gent. Ya—as. Your only “ nocturnal bat ” now
is not the Tennyso-
nian, but a tennis
bat. Fact is, Science
will compel the Poets
to lay in an entirely
new stock of images.
Fmed. Poor Diana!
Awfully out of it.
Can’t fancy Endy-
mion being kissed
on the Q.T. ' by a
Brush - Light, can
you,though? Modern
Science doesn’t lend
itself to Poetry.
Long-LIaired One
(languidly). Bah !
Uttawly Philistian
ideah, that. Art can
absorb and transmute
into Beauty, every-
thing—even Science.
See germ of quite too
lovely new Mythos
even in your seem-
ingly absurd sugges-
tion. Electric Light
—poetically personi-
fied — brilliant new
Avatar of the
Ineffable Firstborn
of created things,
Primeval Lux,—
subtler Cynthia, more
terrible Artemis,
more perilous Lamia,
whose glance is fasci-
nation, whose kiss is
Death ! !! Supreme !
(Aside.) Must sug-
gest subject to
POSTLETHWAITE.
Sweet Gusher, in
j Terra - Cotta twists
(effusively). Science
sublimated into
quintessential Sweet-
ness ! Dull Prose
poetised into super-
nal Light. Oh, how
quite too utterly Too!
Old Buffer (yawn-
ing) to other Old
Buffer. Sleepy ? Eh,
my boy ?
Old Buffer Number
Two (gaping). Ye-e-s.
Turning night into
day in this fashion
doesn’t suit me.
Young Lady (to
Mamma, who has
been nodding in a
corner). What, asleep,
Mamma ?
Mamma (starting
erect). Not at all,
my dear—not at all.
Only this light is ;
just a leetle strong,
you know.
Edwin (to Angelina, suggestively), It has one drawback, dear. So
few snug shadows, you know !
Angelina (softly). Ah, yes, dear. Moonlight has its advantages,
after all.
[They retire to play Diana and. ■ Endymion—old style—in the Con-
servatory.
A Waste-paper Basket.—A Yale of Tears.
“THE MAN THAT HATH NOT MUSIC,” &c.
Brown (musical) invites Ms Highland friend, M‘Clanlcy, to stay a few days with him. But M'Clanky vms musical too!
M‘Clanky (the next morning). “Will I give you a Chune?”
Brown (he had wondered what was in that Green Bag /). “ Oh—eh ? Thanks, very much ! ” (Puts on invalid
expression.) “But my Doctor tells me I must on no account indulge my passion for Music for some
time ! ”
LIVING UP TO A TEAPOT.
(A Tale of Lonely Life.)
Wishing not to appear eccentric, but to follow the fashion, I
resolved to live up to a Teapot. Therefore, my own little tin-plated
one, price sixpence, having sprung a leak, I bought me another, a
blue-and- white J apa-
nese Teapot at a
grocer’s shop in the
Strand — cost five
shillings.
I had previously
lived on a scale of
living up to a six-
penny Teapot only—
on oatmeal-porridge
for breakfast princi-
pally, and sometimes
bread-and-butter. A
legacy from a lamen-
ted distant relation
enabled me to live
up to a superior
Teapot — a crown
Teapot.
So I not only began
to breakfast on eggs,
but added bloaters
likewise to my morn-
ing meal, kippered
herrings also, and
smoked salmon, salt
haddock, sardines,
ham and tongue,
brawn, potted meats,
and rashers of bacon ;
besides a considerable
variety of other little
tiny kickshaws and
toys. I did, I flat-
tered myself, live up
to my Teapot in
some measure.
But very soon the
Teapot I had been
living up to as well
as ever I was able by
the gratification of
my appetite with all
manner of good
things, came to grief
in the kitchen. My
maid - of - all - work
broke off the tip of
its spout. The jagged
edges of the fracture
caused the tea to
dribble on to my
tablecloth, and then
that Teapot was to
be lived up to no
more. Never trust a
Teapot to which you
intend living up, to
the care of Servants.
She to whom I had
unwisely confided my
Teapot supplied me,
pending doubt as to
procuring another,
with a temporary
substitute in her own.
This was a moder-
ately-sized, globular,
glazed black Teapot
of earthenware.
There was no paint-
ing upon it at all, but the Teapot itself, I discovered, drew admirably.
When I say “ drew,” I mean that it extracted the soluble constituents
of my tea so effectually as to make my tea twice as strong again as
it used to be made in the Teapot I had chosen to live up to.
I will not, therefore, now purchase a new expensive Teapot for my
servant to break, but shall stick to this old one—cost eighteen pence_
a Teapot which she will probably take good care of, and which in
future will be decidedly the Teapot to live up to for my money.
THE GARDEN-PARTY OF THE FUTURE.
Scene—A La,ten illuminated by the Electric Light.
Young Lady (to Scientific Old Gent). Ah, Mr. McFukgus, we may
*nowindeed say, with Tennyson, that “ the black bat Night hath flown.”
Scientific Old Gent. Ya—as. Your only “ nocturnal bat ” now
is not the Tennyso-
nian, but a tennis
bat. Fact is, Science
will compel the Poets
to lay in an entirely
new stock of images.
Fmed. Poor Diana!
Awfully out of it.
Can’t fancy Endy-
mion being kissed
on the Q.T. ' by a
Brush - Light, can
you,though? Modern
Science doesn’t lend
itself to Poetry.
Long-LIaired One
(languidly). Bah !
Uttawly Philistian
ideah, that. Art can
absorb and transmute
into Beauty, every-
thing—even Science.
See germ of quite too
lovely new Mythos
even in your seem-
ingly absurd sugges-
tion. Electric Light
—poetically personi-
fied — brilliant new
Avatar of the
Ineffable Firstborn
of created things,
Primeval Lux,—
subtler Cynthia, more
terrible Artemis,
more perilous Lamia,
whose glance is fasci-
nation, whose kiss is
Death ! !! Supreme !
(Aside.) Must sug-
gest subject to
POSTLETHWAITE.
Sweet Gusher, in
j Terra - Cotta twists
(effusively). Science
sublimated into
quintessential Sweet-
ness ! Dull Prose
poetised into super-
nal Light. Oh, how
quite too utterly Too!
Old Buffer (yawn-
ing) to other Old
Buffer. Sleepy ? Eh,
my boy ?
Old Buffer Number
Two (gaping). Ye-e-s.
Turning night into
day in this fashion
doesn’t suit me.
Young Lady (to
Mamma, who has
been nodding in a
corner). What, asleep,
Mamma ?
Mamma (starting
erect). Not at all,
my dear—not at all.
Only this light is ;
just a leetle strong,
you know.
Edwin (to Angelina, suggestively), It has one drawback, dear. So
few snug shadows, you know !
Angelina (softly). Ah, yes, dear. Moonlight has its advantages,
after all.
[They retire to play Diana and. ■ Endymion—old style—in the Con-
servatory.
A Waste-paper Basket.—A Yale of Tears.
“THE MAN THAT HATH NOT MUSIC,” &c.
Brown (musical) invites Ms Highland friend, M‘Clanlcy, to stay a few days with him. But M'Clanky vms musical too!
M‘Clanky (the next morning). “Will I give you a Chune?”
Brown (he had wondered what was in that Green Bag /). “ Oh—eh ? Thanks, very much ! ” (Puts on invalid
expression.) “But my Doctor tells me I must on no account indulge my passion for Music for some
time ! ”