Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 99, September 6, 1890 by Various
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Various >> Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 99, September 6, 1890
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 99.
September 6, 1890.
MODERN TYPES.
(_BY MR. PUNCH'S OWN TYPE WRITER_.)
NO. XVIII.--THE UNDOMESTIC DAUGHTER.
The race of daughters is large, but their characteristics, vocations,
and aptitudes, are but little understood by the general public. It
is expected of them by their mothers that they should be a comfort,
by their fathers that they should be inexpensive and unlike their
brothers, and by their brothers that they should be as slaves,
submissively attached to the fraternal car of triumph. The outside
public, the mothers and fathers, that is to say, of other daughters,
look upon them vaguely, as mild and colourless beings, destitute alike
of character, of desires and of aspirations. And it must be said that
daughters themselves, before matrimony absorbs their daughterhood and
relieves them of their mothers, seem to be in the main content with
the calm and limited existence which their relations and the voice of
tradition assign to them. Most of them after they have passed through
the flashing brilliance of their first season, and the less radiant
glow of their second, are happy enough to spend the time that must
elapse ere the destined knight shall sound the trumpet of release
at the gates of the fortress, in an atmosphere of quiet domestic
usefulness. One becomes known to fame, and her friends, as being above
all others, "such a comfort to her mother." She interviews the cook,
she arranges the dinners, she devises light and favourite dishes
to blunt the edge of paternal irritability by tickling the paternal
palate, she writes out invitations, presides at the afternoon
tea-table, and, in short, takes upon herself many of those smaller
duties which are as last straws to the maternal back. Another becomes
the sworn friend and ally of her brothers, whom she assists in their
scrapes with a sympathy which is balm to the scraped soul, and with
a wisdom in counsel, which can only spring from a deep regret at not
having been herself born a boy, and capable of scrapes.
[Illustration]
But there is often in families another and an Undomestic Daughter, who
aspires to be in all things unlike the usual run of common or domestic
daughters. From an early age she will have been noted in the family
circle for romantic tendencies, which are a mockery to her Philistine
brothers, and a reproach to her commonplace sisters. She will have
elevated her father to a lofty pinnacle of imaginative and immaculate
excellence, from which a tendency to shortness of temper in matters of
domestic finance resulting in petty squabbles with her mother, and an
irresistible desire for after-dinner somnolence, will have gradually
displaced him. One after another her brothers will have been to her
Knights of the Round Table of her fancy, armed by her enthusiasm for
impossible conflicts, of which they themselves, absorbed as they
are in the examination and pocket-money struggles of boyhood, have
no conception whatever. The effort to plant the tree of romance in
an ordinary middle-class household was predestined to failure. Her
disappointments are constant and crushing. Desires and capacities
which, with careful nurture, might have come to a fair fruit, are
chilled and nipped by the frost of neglect and ridicule. Her mind
becomes warped. The work that is ready to her hand, the ordinary round
of family tasks and serviceableness, repels her. She turns from it
with distaste, and thus widens still more the gulf between herself and
her relatives. Hence she is thrown back upon herself for companionship
and comfort. She dissects, for her own bitter enjoyment, her inmost
heart. She becomes the subtle analyst of her own imaginary motives.
She calls up accusing phantoms to charge her before the bar of her
conscience, in order that she may have the qualified satisfaction of
acquitting herself, whilst returning against her relatives a verdict
of guilty on every count of the indictment. In short, she becomes
a thoroughly morbid and hysterical young woman, suspicious, and
resentful even of the sympathy which is rarely offered to her. In the
meantime, two of her younger sisters are wooed and won in the orthodox
manner by steady-going gentlemen, of good position and prospects. The
congratulations showered upon them, and the rejoicings which attend
them on their wedding days, only serve to add melancholy to the
Undomestic Daughter, who has already begun to solace herself for her
failure to attract men by the reflection that matrimony itself is a
failure, and that there are higher and worthier things in life than
the wearing of orange-blossoms, and going-away dresses. It must be
said that her parents strive with but little vigour against their
daughter's inclination. Her father having hinted at indigestion as the
cause of her unhappiness, and finding that the hint is badly received,
shrugs his inapprehensive shoulders, and ceases to notice her. Her
mother, persuaded that sanity is to be found only on the maternal side
of the family, lays the peculiarities of her daughter to the charge of
some abnormal paternal ancestor. Having thus, by implication, cleared
herself from all responsibility, she feels that she is better able to
take a detached and impartial view of errors which, seeing they are
those of her own flesh and blood, she professes herself utterly unable
to understand or to correct.
The Undomestic Daughter thus acquires the conviction that she herself
is the most miserably crushed member of a down-trodden sex. In this,
and in the agreement which she exacts from two or three melancholy
friends, she seeks a solace for her sufferings. After a time, however,
she discovers that this is insufficient. It must be said to her credit
that her energies find the outlet of a passive sorrow inadequate. She
burns to prove that one who is misunderstood and despised cannot only
find useful work to do, but can do it better than her humdrum domestic
sisters. Unfortunately, however, she overlooks the obvious and easy
duties of her home. She scans the remote corners of the world. Her
bruised spirit flutters about the bye-ways of charitable effort,
and at length she establishes herself as a visitor, a distributer
of tracts and blankets, and an instructor of factory girls. It
is unnecessary to insist that these occupations are useful and
praiseworthy in the abstract. It may be doubted, however, whether
they should be undertaken by one who has to neglect for them equally
necessary but less attractive labours.
The Undomestic Daughter, however, rejoices in the performance of work,
which, as it were, sets a seal to her wretchedness, and stamps her as
a being apart from the ruck of her sex. She now takes her meals alone,
and at her own hours. She probably breakfasts at half-past seven, and
dashes out to interview the Secretary of the Society for Improving the
Cultivation of Mustard and Cress on the Desert Patches of the Mile End
District. After this she will hasten to Lambeth, in order that mothers
residing in that teeming quarter of the town may be blessed with
mittens and mob-caps, and returning thence she devotes an hour or so
to lectures which are to make her expert in tending the ailments of
humanity. Occasionally the family arrangements are upset, in order
that she may have her dinner at an hour which will make it convenient
to her to attend the meeting of an Institute for Reading Historical
Novels to Working Girls, and her father will lose all his available
stock of good temper on finding that the moments generally devoted by
him to soup are occupied to his exclusion by the apple-tart provided
for his busy daughter. Hence come more storms and misunderstandings.
Paternal feet are put down--for a time, and neglected excellence pines
in bed-rooms.
Shortly afterwards the Undomestic Daughter discovers that nature
intended her to be a hospital nurse, and she takes advantage of a
period when her mother, being occupied in tending a younger brother
through scarlatina cannot offer a determined opposition, to wring an
unwilling consent from her father, and to leave her home in order to
carry out her plan. This phase, however, does not last many weeks, and
she is soon back once more on the parental hands. Thus the years pass
on, the monotony of neglecting her home being varied by occasional
outbursts of enthusiasm which carry her on distant expeditions in
strange company. During one of these she falls in with a lay-preacher,
who to a powerful and convincing style adds the fascination of having
been turned from an early life of undoubted dissipation. She sits at
his feet, she flatters him as only a woman can flatter a preacher, and
having eventually married him, she helps him to found a new religion
during the intervals that she can spare from the foundation of a
considerable family. Warned by her own experience, she will never
allow her daughters to be seen without their sewing or their knitting.
Her sons will all be forced to learn useful trades, and it is quite
possible that as time passes she may irritate even her husband, by
constantly holding herself up to her somewhat discontented family as a
pattern of all the domestic virtues.
* * * * *
NURSERY RHYME.
(_TRADE'S UNION VERSION._)
Bah! bah! Blackleg! Have you any pluck?
Backing up the Masters when the Men have struck!
You're for the Master, we're for the Man!
"Picket" you, and "Boycott" you; that is BURNS's plan!
* * * * *
The Waterloo Monument at Brussels, in the suburban cemetery of Evere.
_Motto_:--"For Evere and for Evere!"
* * * * *
PRIZE EPITAPH.
"A deep impression," said the _Standard_, last Wednesday, "was made on
the hearers" (i.e., Prince BISMARCK'S audience at Kissengen) "when, in
reply to a remark by one of the guests" (remark and name of immortal
guest not reported), "the Ex-Chancellor said, 'My only ambition now
is a good epitaph. I hope and beg for this.'" May it be long ere
necessity imperatively demands his epitaph, good or indifferent, say
all of us. But in the meantime, and to come to business, how much will
the Ex-Chancellor give? Why not advertise, "A prize of ---- (we leave
it to the Prince to fill up the blank) will be given for the best
epitaph"? With characteristic modesty, Prince BISMARCK, as reported,
only asks for "a _good_ epitaph." Why shouldn't he have the best that
money can buy, and brains sell? Correspondents have already commenced:
here are a few:--
"Beneath this slab the bones
of this great boss are.
Can Ossa speak? And would
they say 'Canossa?'"
A would-be Competitor sends this,--
"Here lies BISMARCK--
He made _his_ mark."
A Correspondent writes:--"I haven't an epitaph handy about BISMARCK,
but here's one on a billiard-marker, buried, of course at Kew:--
"'Rem acu tetigi,' let this attest,
Now he has gone away for his long rest."
Yours,
NIL DE MORTUIS."
"P.S.--I'll think over the BISMARCK one, specially if he offers a
prize of anything over a sovereign, as of course it ought to be,
since the Ex-Chancellor always went in for an Imperial policy, which,
however, didn't insure his life. This is very nearly an epitaph--praps
you'll arrange it for me."
Another says, "This is simple:--
"Ci git,
P.B."
Yes, very simple, but not good enough. Perhaps our Correspondents will
improve when the amount of the prize is fixed.
* * * * *
[Illustration: FANCY PORTRAIT.
"THE PHYLLOXERA, A TRUE _GOURMET_, FINDS OUT THE BEST VINEYARDS AND
ATTACHES ITSELF TO THE BEST WINES."
(_From the "Times," August 27. Adapted by Our Appreciative Artist._)]
* * * * *
FOUND IN A RUM PLACE.--The Latest Spice discovered in Jamaica--the
SPEAKER's Mace.
* * * * *
THE DAMSELS OF DIEPPE;
_OR, THE LEGEND OF LIONEL._
"Newhaven to Dieppe," he cried, but, on the voyage there,
He felt appalling qualms of what the French call _mal de mer_;
While, when the steward was not near, he struck Byronic attitudes,
And made himself most popular by pretty little platitudes.
And, while he wobbled on the waves, be sure they never slep',
While waiting for their LIONEL, the Damsels of Dieppe.
He landed with a jaunty air, but feeling rather weak,
While all the French and English girls cried out, "_C'est magnifique!_"
They reck'd not of his bilious hue, but murmur'd quite ecstatical,
"Blue coat, brass buttons, and straw hat,--_c'est tout-a-fait_
piratical!"
He hadn't got his land-legs, and he walked with faltering step,
But still they thought it _comme-il-faut_, those Damsels of Dieppe.
The Douane found him circled round by all the fairest fair,
The while he said, in lofty tones, he'd nothing to declare;
He turned to one girl who stood near, and softly whisper'd, "Fly, O
NELL!"
But all the others wildly cried, "Give us a chance, O LIONEL!"
And thus he came to shore from all the woes of Father Nep.,
With fatal fascinations for the Damsels of Dieppe.
He went to the Casino, whither mostly people go,
And lost his tin at baccarat and eke _petits chevaux_;
And still the maidens flocked around, and vowed he was amusing 'em,
And borrowed five-franc pieces, just for fear he should be losing 'em;
And then he'd sandwiches and bocks, which brought on bad dyspep-
sia for LIONEL beloved by Damsels of Dieppe.
As bees will swarm around a hive, the maids of _La belle France_
Went mad about our LIONEL and thirsted for his glance;
In short they were reduced unto a state of used-up coffee lees
By this mild, melancholic, maudlin, mournful Mephistopheles.
He rallied them in French, in which he had the gift of rep-
artee, and sunnily they smiled, the Damsels of Dieppe.
At last one day he had to go; they came upon the pier;
The French girls sobbed, "_Mon cher!_" and then the English sighed,
"My dear!"
He looked at all the threatening waves, and cried, the while embracing
'em,
(I mean the girls, not waves,) "Oh no! I don't feel quite like facing
'em!"
And all the young things murmured, "Stay, and you will find sweet rep-
aration for the folks at home in Damsels of Dieppe."
And day by day, and year by year, whene'er he sought the sea,
The waves were running mountains high, the wind was blowing free.
At last he died, and o'er his bier his sweethearts sang doxology,
And vowed they saw his ghost, which came from dabbling in psychology.
And to this hour that spook is seen upon the pier. If scep-
tical, ask ancient ladies, once the Damsels of Dieppe.
* * * * *
MR. PUNCH'S DICTIONARY OF PHRASES.
ELECTIONEERING.
"_The Party which befriends the cause of the Working-Man;_" i.e., "The
Party which (at election-time) rather wishes it had done so."
"_The Party which advocates economy and keeps down taxation;_" i.e.,
"The Party which likes to make its opponents do the expenditure on
Army, Navy, &c."
IN THE SMOKING-ROOM.
"_I remember, years ago, I used to take_ exactly the same view
_myself;_" i.e., "But, unlike you, I have made some use of my
opportunities and experience since then."
"_But there you see you are begging the whole question_" or, "_My good
fellow, you're only arguing in a circle;_" i.e., "Rather than admit
that I am wrong, I would begin the argument over again."
"_Of course you remember that splendid passage in ----;_" i.e.,
"Decided score! _Know_ you haven't ever heard of the book."
* * * * *
SHAKSPEARE's "deeds" going to America? The World is the richer for his
words, and certainly to the country of his birth belong the records of
his deeds.
* * * * *
JOURNAL OF A ROLLING STONE.
SIXTH ENTRY.
Still endeavouring to earn an honest, but unpleasant, penny as a
(temporary) Private Tutor. Begin to be vaguely conscious that my grasp
of the Latin Grammar is not as firm as it might be. Will my classical
training see me through, or will "ERNIE" see through my classical
training?
ERNIE (before breakfast) offers to conduct me round the grounds.
Must take the youngster down a peg or two. So, when he shows me the
stables, rather proudly, I remark, pityingly--"What! Only _three_
nags?"
"Oh, _I_ ride a pony," he replies, airily. "What can _you_ ride, Mr.
JOYNSON? _Do_ you know how to ride--or _do you generally fall off_?"
Explain to him elaborately that I am rather more at home on horseback
than on my legs. He winks, as if he didn't quite believe me. I
can't go on, as it's certainly _infra dig._ to be praising one's
accomplishments, especially to a chit like this.
"We buried NERO here," the boy says, pointing to a damp mound. "He
was our Newfoundland dog, and the gardener dropped a beam on him, and
killed him as dead as JULIUS CAESAR. Oh, Mr. JOYNSON, _when_ did JULIUS
CAESAR die?"
Happily my presence of mind does not desert me. I reply, severely,--
"What! Don't you know your Roman History better than that?"
"No," he answers--"do you?" Then a sudden thought strikes him. "Oh,
I'll ask Miss MYRTLE" (Miss MYRTLE is the Governess)--"_she_'ll be
sure to know. _She_ isn't a muff."
_Query_--What is the best line to take with a remark like that?
Before I decide the point, HERBIE rushes out into the garden, and
is immediately sent spinning into a cucumber-frame by his kind elder
brother, who then disappears into the house.
Yells from HERBIE. Go in and send the Governess to him. Relief from
children for about ten minutes.
_At Breakfast_.--Mother cross. Seems to think that _I_ ought to have
prevented ERNIE from mutilating HERBIE. HERBIE appears with head
bandaged, still sobbing. French again, thank Heaven!--so children
silent. Never felt the advantage of foreign languages till now.
Mamma, with a courage worthy of a better cause, asks me, "What time
lessons will begin?" I reply, evasively, "that I shall be in the
library, and that I will ring for _ERNEST_ (I lay stress on the word
ERNEST, as excluding the two others) when I am ready for him."
I do, after a good preliminary smoke. HERBIE and JACK present
themselves at the same time. I send them off to the Governess, and
lock the door; Governess sends them back to me; result is, that they
play about outside library all morning, so that we (ERNEST and I) can
hardly hear ourselves speak.
Put ERNIE through his paces. Ask him what he knows. Process (I
fear) incidentally reveals to him what _I_ know. Hear him at lunch
explaining to HERBIE (with whom he has made friends again) that I am
"not bad at sums, but a shocking duffer at Latin." Pretend not to hear
the remark.
_Afternoon_.--Find the three boys, _and two girls_, all
waiting--apparently--to go out for a country walk with me!
What! Two-and-two! Never!
"But--er--" I say, addressing the little girls, in a pleasant tone,
"aren't you going out with your Governess?"
"Oh, yes"--they both exclaim at once--"_she's coming too_!"
The situation is becoming more and more embarrassing. I can't, in
politeness, refuse the Governess's society for a walk. I solve the
problem, temporarily, by telling all five children to run up to Miss
MYRTLE, and ask her which way she thinks we had better go.
They perform the commission with alacrity, which gives me the
opportunity of slipping out at back-door, and taking quiet ramble by
myself. _When_ will Paterfamilias himself turn up? I have not seen or
heard from Mr. BRISTOL MERCHANT yet.
I am fated, however, to hear from him pretty soon; and, when I do,
his communication is surprising. It comes in the form of a telegram,
addressed to me. It runs thus:--
"Just heard President asked you to take tutorship. Misunderstanding.
Very sorry, but have myself engaged another tutor. He will arrive this
evening. Shall I tell him not to come? Awkward! Wire reply."
Awkward! On the contrary, I feel it to be almost providential. Mamma
doesn't apologise, but says, frankly--"Why, if he comes, there'll be
two tutors--and _one is quite enough_!"
I telegraph briefly to the effect, that, under the circumstances, I
will go at once.
Bid good-bye (after lunch) to ERNIE, in hall. He says--"I knew _you_
would never do for the place," and ought to have his ears boxed by his
fond Mamma, but hasn't. As I go down front walk, see him and HERBIE
and JACK all putting out what I think I may appropriately call their
"mother tongues" at me from a top window!
_Moral_--for my own consumption: Never go to an uncultivated family
again.
So ends my Tutorship! And I've never once set eyes on my employer all
through!
After this _fiasco_, the President certainly ought to do something
handsome for me.
He does! Writes and says how sorry he is to hear of the stupid mistake
that has been made. He knows of another very nice family, in Cheshire,
who want a Private Tutor. Shall he mention my name to _them_? Not for
worlds!
* * * * *
[Illustration: WHO WOULD NOT BE A TENOR?
_The Fair Bohemian Girl_:--
"I HAD RICHES TOO GREAT TO COUNT, COULD BOAST
OF A HIGH ANCESTRAL NAME;...
BUT I ALSO DREAMT, WHICH CHARMED ME MOST,
THAT YOU LOVED ME STILL THE SAME--
THAT YOU LOVED ME, YOU LOVED ME STI-ILL THE SAME!"
(_Sketched from a Provincial Pit._)]
* * * * *
TRICKS UPON TRAVELLERS.
What means _Train de Luxe_? Peppery "PUNJAB" replies,
Two dirty sleeping-oars wherein one lies
Awaiting a breakfast; to feel disgust utter
At coffee, two boiled eggs, and plain roll and butter,
(Miscalled "_Grub de Luxe_," in the bitterest chaff,)
At the humorous price of four francs and a-half!
Item: Thirty-five francs for a bottle of brandy!
(A thing that--at breakfast--of course comes in handy).
A horrible dinner; no wine, and no beer,
Not even a soda your spirits to cheer;
No water to wash in at Turin--just think!
On arrival in France, not a drop e'en to drink!
What wonder poor "PUNJAB," who hails from the "Garrick,"
Got hungry as VASHTI, and dry as a hayrick?
An _Edition de Luxe_, as a rule, is a sell,
But a _Train de Luxe_ sure as a fraud bears the bell,
Which promises travel more cosy and quicker,
And leaves you half starved, without money--or liquor!
* * * * *
KILLING NO MURDER!--A Correspondent of the _Times_, protesting against
the assumption of combatant rank by the Army Surgeons, writes:--"A
military doctor is armed, and like others is entitled to defend
himself when attacked, but that is a very different thing from giving
him full licence to kill." The Correspondent evidently overlooks the
powers afforded by a medical diploma!
* * * * *
[Illustration: "IT'S AN ILL WIND" &C.
"Partridge-shooting will be postponed in several districts till the
middle of September."--_Daily Telegraph_, August, 28.
_Chorus of Partridges_. "LONG MAY IT RAIN!"]
* * * * *
MISLED BY A MANUAL!
(THE LAMENT OF A WOULD-BE LINGUIST.)
When on my Continental tour preparing to depart,
I bought a Conversation-Book, and got it up by heart;
A handy manual it seemed, convenient and neat,
And gave for each contingency a dialogue complete.
Upon the weather--wet _or_ fine--I could at will discourse,
Or bargain for a bonnet, or a boot-jack, or a horse;
Tell dentists, in three languages, which tooth it is that hurts;
Or chide a laundress for the lack of starch upon my shirts.
I landed full of idioms, which I fondly hoped to air--
But crushing disappointment met my efforts everywhere.
The waiters I in fluent French addressed at each hotel
Would answer me in English, and--confound 'em!--spoke it well.
Those phrases I was furnished with, for Germany or France,
I realised, with bitterness, would never have a chance!
I swore that they should hear me yet, and proudly turned my back
On polyglots in swallowtails, and left the beaten track....
They spoke the native language _now_; but--it was too absurd--
Of none of their own idioms they apparently had heard!
My most colloquial phrases fell, I found, extremely flat.
They _may_ have come out wrong-side up, but none the worse for that.
I tried them with my Manual; it was but little good;
For not one word of their replies I ever understood.
They never said the sentences that _should_ have followed next:
I found it quite impossible to keep them to the text!
Besides, unblushing reference to a Conversation-Book
Imparts to social intercourse an artificial look.
So I let the beggars have their way. 'Twas everywhere the same;
I led the proper openings--they _wouldn't_ play the game.
Now I've pitched the Manual away that got me in this mess,
And in ingenious pantomime my wishes I express.
They take me for an idiot mute, an error I deplore:
But still--_I'm better understood than e'er I was before!_
* * * * *