PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 107.

December 22, 1894

HONOURS DIVIDED.

Mr. Goodchild. "Yes, I do feel in good spirits this evening. My Boy has passed his Examination!"

The Earl. "Well, I don't see anything in that. So has mine."

Mr. Goodchild. "Er—Indian Civil?"

The Earl. "No—Bankruptcy!"

THE SNUBBED PROFESSIONAL'S VADE MECUM.

Question. You consider yourself neglected because, I presume, the public do not appreciate you at your proper value?

Answer. That is, indeed, the case, and for further particulars I refer you to a recent correspondence in the Pall Mall Gazette.

Q. Is it not necessary that you should acquire an immense amount of knowledge to undertake the duties of your profession worthily?

A. Certainly; and we welcome any kind of safeguard that will protect the public against fraud and imposture.

Q. Then you consider your profession very seriously?

A. Undoubtedly. It is the most important profession in the world; not a man, woman, or child exists who has not derived some benefit from its exercise.

Q. If I am not mistaken, you ought to be educated at Oxford or Cambridge to do full justice to your opportunities?

A. Certainly; upon the foundation of a school training at either Eton, Westminster, Rugby, or Harrow.

Q. Ought you not to take up human and comparative anatomy?

A. As a matter of course, combined with physiology and chemistry.

Q. But does every professor of your art follow this routine of work?

A. Those who are of the greater worth. There are outsiders who assume our noble name and yet know nothing of our special subject.

Q. Besides the studies you have mentioned, are there any others necessary to the formation of a man of your special attainments?

A. Well, it would be well for an operator to understand metallurgy and mechanics.

Q. And have you to cultivate the graces of the person?

A. Certainly; you must be of a pleasing and courteous presence. You must be fitted by nature and art to obtain the confidence of those who pay you a professional visit. You must be tender and true. You must be able to converse on every subject under the sun, and distract the attention of a sufferer from his pains by causing him to listen to your anecdotes.

Q. It seems, then, you must be an admirable Crichton?

A. Well, yes, in a small way.

Q. Then what are you called? May I put down an archbishop, or a Lord Chief Justice, or a Prime Minister?

A. No, neither. I do not aspire to be a person of so much importance.

Q. Then what are you?

A. Why, merely a dentist!

At the Fancy Ball.

"Do look at that huge woman dancing with Uncle Bob. What is she? A Quakeress?"

"H'm! rather an Earth-quakeress, I should fancy!"

FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

En Route to the Mediterranean.—I am alone, until a Frenchman and his young wife come in and glare at me, presumably because I am already there. The ordinary honeymoon couple anywhere are supercilious enough, and a French honeymoon couple perhaps more so. If you gaze absently at the back of Madame's hat, when you are looking at the mountains beyond Madame's head, Monsieur glares at you with the concentrated fury of an angry menagerie. But a French couple, travelling in Italy, which loves the Triple Alliance, develope an air of superciliousness quite unapproached; and when their solitude is invaded by an Englishman, a native of the country which occupies Egypt, thousand thunders, it is too strong!

So these two whisper together, and look out of one window, while I look out of the other, at Viareggio, and the distant Carrara quarries and other sights. All interesting and beautiful, no doubt, but not to be compared to what I shall see beyond Spezia. Think of the blue sea, the glorious hills, the olive woods, the Italian fishing villages, the orange groves, the gardens and the flowers. Rather better than that English coast which Londoners know so well, the seashore at Brighton, probably the ugliest in the world, with the most unpicturesque town stretching along it. Of course, I shall not see everything from the train, but I shall at least have the recollection of an earthly paradise, to torment me ever after when travelling in the infernal regions of the Underground Railway. November in Genoa; November in Gower Street! Halloo, this is Spezia!

Now then, look out. Oh, here's a tunnel first. Wait patiently till we are through the tunnel. By dim light of carriage-lamp perceive the French people glaring at me. This is a long tunnel. But then at the end I shall see——Here is the end. Down with the window. There's the Mediter——Halloo! Another tunnel. Up with the window. At last this one is coming to an end. Down with the window again. Look out. There's the Medi——Halloo, another one! Up with the window again. French people still glare, but, it seems to me, more mildly. A fellow-feeling of suffocation, no doubt.

Well, this is long. At last we're out. Down with the window once more. There's the Med——What? Another one. Up with the window once more. This is a long one. Begin to cough. Frenchman also coughs. A bond of sympathy. We cough together. Well, at last we are out of these awful tunnels. Down with the window. There's the Medit——Up with the window. Another one! These gymnastics with the windows are most fatiguing. Choke again. Frenchman also chokes. "Ces tunnels!" he gasps at last, "on étouffe——" Just then the train bursts into daylight, and his head, as before, goes out of his window, like mine out of my window. There's the Me——. Another! "Sapristi!" By Jove! More choking. "Ces chemins de fers italiens——" begins the Frenchman. Then another burst of daylight and his head and mine go out. There's the Medit——"Matin!" Great Scott! Agree with Frenchman. "C'est assommant," says he, "quel pays——" Then another gap and heads out as before. There's the Mediterra——"Mille tonnerres!" I'm hanged! Frenchman and I abuse the line, the tunnels, the bad light and the worse air. Another interval.

There's the M—— "Sacré nom de nom!" Confound! Frenchman becomes quite friendly. Even Madame says a word or two. Begin now to disregard half seconds of daylight, and treat it as all tunnel over two hours' long.

At last arrive at Genoa, our faces streaked with soot, our lungs full of smoke, our collars nearly black, and all the superciliousness shaken out of us. Frenchman almost affectionate when we part. As for the Mediterranean, I should have seen nearly as much of it at Moorgate Street.

A First Impressionist.

On Some Christmas Diaries.—No backsliding in engagements if you possess one of Walker's capital backlooped pocket-diaries, they are strongly bound to assist you. His Society Christmas Cards are, as they should be, first class. In fact, "Walker" is not "Hookey," but "O. K."