PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 62.

February 3, 1872.

PRIVATE SCHOOL CLASSICS.

(Letter from a Lady.)

Dear Mr. Punch,

Though you love to laugh, and we all love to laugh with you, I know that you are kindness itself when an afflicted woman throws herself upon your sympathy. This letter will not be quite so short as I could wish; but, unless you have my whole story, you will not understand my sorrow.

My boy, Johnny, is one of the dearest boys you can imagine. I send you his photograph, though it does not half justice to the sweetness and intelligence of his features; besides, on the day it was taken, he had a cold, and his hair had not been properly cut, and the photographer was very impatient, and after eight or nine sittings, he insisted that I ought to be satisfied. I could tell you a hundred anecdotes of my boy's cleverness, but three or four, perhaps, will be enough.

[More than enough, dear Madam. We proceed to the paragraph that follows them.]

His father, I regret to say, though a kind parent, does not see in Johnny the talent and genius which I am certain he possesses. The child, who is eleven years and eleven months old, goes (alas, I must say went) to a Private Academy of the most respectable description. Only twelve young gentlemen are taken, and the terms are about £100 a-year, and most things extra. The manners of the pupils are strictly looked after; they have no coarse amusements; and, to see them neatly dressed, going arm-in-arm, two and two, for a walk, was quite delightful. I shall never see them again without tears.

My husband was desirous that Johnny should have a sound classical education, and we believed—I believe still—that this is given at the Private School in question. One evening during the holidays, my husband asked Johnny what Latin Book he was reading. The child replied, without hesitation or thought—"Horace." "Very good," said his father, taking down the odious book. "Let you and me have a little go-in at Horace." I went to my desk, Mr. Punch, and, as I write very fast, I resolved to make notes of what occurred, for I felt that Johnny would cover himself with glory and honour. This is what occurred. Of course, I filled in the horrid Latin, afterwards, from the book, which I could gladly have burned.

Papa. Well, let us see, my boy, suppose we take Hymn number xiv. You know all about that? Ad Rempublicam. What does that mean?

Johnny. O, we never learn the titles.

Papa. Pity, because they help you to the meaning. But come, what's Rempublicam?

Johnny. I suppose it means a public thing. Rem's a thing, and publicus is public. [Was not that clever in the dear fellow, putting words together like that, Mr. Punch? Will you believe it, his Papa did nothing but give him a grunt?]

Papa. Go on.

Johnny.

[I thought this quite beautiful, like "What are the Wild Waves Saying?"]

Papa. Ah! Proceed.

Johnny.

Papa. A nun, child. What do you mean?

Johnny. A nun is a holy but mistaken woman, Papa, that lives in a monastery, and worships graven images. [You see he had been beautifully taught.]

Papa. But what word, in the name of anachronisms, do you make a nun?

Johnny. Nonne. O, I forgot, Pa, that's French. [Instead of being pleased that the child knew three languages instead of two, his Papa burst out laughing.]

Papa. Try this:—

Johnny.

Myself. Darling! Why don't you say something to encourage him, Tom? It's delightful.

Papa. Yes, it's encouraging. Go on, Sir.

Johnny.

Papa.

Johnny. No sailor is frightened at the dogs in a picture he sees.

Papa. Fidit's, he sees, eh?

Johnny.

Papa. Ha! Well, here's the last; we may as well go through it.

Myself. Papa! don't be so cross.

Papa. Mind your letter-writing, will you? [But I wasn't letter-writing. I was making notes.]

Johnny. Lately a solicitor was a great bore to me.

Papa. [To do him justice, he recovered his good-humour and roared.]

A great bore, was he? They are bores sometimes. Now then—

Johnny. I do not care for the light of the stars.

Papa. Hang it, Johnny, how do you get at "stars" in that line?

Johnny. De, of, siderium, dative, no, genitive plural of sidus, a star, Papa, and levis is light.

Papa. Finish.