Punch, Or The London Charivari | Page 8

"by the ears," in a fashion Not meant by the men who invented
that phrase. May nail-biting nagging and rancorous passion Die out,
like a craze!
Why, bless us, and save us! We ought to behave us A little bit better for
all our new light. From incurable savagery nothing can save us If
Science can't cool down our fondness for fight. With so many chances
of "talking things over," Like comrades in council, across the broad sea,
Nations ought to be nice, as a girl and her lover At five o'clock tea!
Eh? _Vox et præterea nihil_? What matter How close ears may seem if
the hearts are apart? Humph! Nothing go easy as cynical chatter;
Distrust's diplomatic, and satire sounds "smart." But, as RAIKES
suggests, there is something in hearing The "great human voice" o'er
some three hundred miles, In spite of the scorn that's so given to
sneering, The hate that reviles.
One wonders what TALLEYRAND, subtle old schemer! Would think
of the Telephone were he alive. Wits sniff at the savant, and mock at
the dreamer, Who else, though, so hard for humanity strive?
BELLONA's sworn backers are woefully numerous; Peace, let us pray,
may claim this as her friend; The "Sentiment" flouted by
swashbucklers humorous Sways, at the end.
If language was given our thoughts for concealing, The Telephone--'tis
but a travelling Voice!-- Need not be the agent of reckless revealing,
And caution must often be candour's wise choice. Unwisdom is sure to
be sometimes caught napping, And tongues may wag foolishly e'en
through the wire. Facilities freer for summary snapping No sage can
desire.

Great diplomats, proud of their "able dispatches," From trusting the
tube with their wisdom may shrink. The brain that in secret shrewd
policies hatches, May not care to canvas 'cute schemes "o'er a drink."
Yet times must be many when sense will be winner By chatting of
trifles, which nations have riled, As freely as though _vis-à-vis_ at a
dinner, And carefully "tiled."
Now England and France can thus gossip together, And CARNOT and
SALISBURY thus hob-a-nob, We'll hope for set-fair international
weather. Our RAIKES and their ROCHE appear well "on the job." The
Telephone's triumph at least is not sinister. Things should go easier
somehow--with care, When patriot Minister greets patriot Minister,
"_Hallo!--are you there?_"
* * * * *
ANOTHER TELEPHONIC SUGGESTION.--Connect the Theatres
and Opera Houses by Telephone with all the Clubs. On payment of a
fixed charge, any member should be able to hear just as much of the
piece or Opera as he might require. Something above the price of a
Stall to be the maximum charge for one person to hear entire Opera.
For half the Opera, say six shillings; for a quarter of it, three-and-six.
For hearing one song in it, eighteen-pence; and, if certain songs be in
great demand, the prices could be raised.
* * * * *
EPIGRAMMATIC DEFINITION OF MOST PUBLIC BANQUETS
WITH POSTPRANDIAL ORATORY.--"Stuff and Nonsense."
* * * * *
[Illustration: PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL.
LORD SALISBURY. "HALLO!"
M. LE PRÉSIDENT. "HALLO!"

LORD SALISBURY. "YOU THERE?"
M. LE PRÉSIDENT. "ALL THERE!"
LORD SALISBURY. "CAN YOU SUGGEST AN _ENTRÉE_ FOR
DINNER?"
M. LE PRÉSIDENT. "HOMARD AU GRATIN,--AND, BY THE WAY,
HOW ABOUT NEWFOUNDLAND AND LOBSTER QUESTION?"
LORD SALISBURY. "NOT BY TELEPHONE, THANK YOU!!!"
[_Telephone between London and Paris opened, Monday, March
23rd._]]
* * * * *
[Illustration: SUFFERING ON THE "SILVER STREAK."
THESE GENTLEMEN (AFTER A FEW HOURS' REST)
DECLARED UNANIMOUSLY IN FAVOUR OF THE PROPOSED
CHANNEL TUBULAR RAILWAY.]
* * * * *
HANDS AS THEY ARE SHOOK.
(_NEW STYLE._)
In healthier times, when friends would meet Their friends in chamber,
park, or street, Each, as hereunder, each would greet.
Tour level hand went forth; you clasped Your crony's; each his
comrade's grasped-- If roughly, neither friend was rasped.
Such was the good old-fashioned one Of honest British "How d'ye do?"
I think it manly still--don't you?
But now, when smug acquaintance hails A set that would be "smart,"

but fails, Another principle prevails.
The arm, in lifted curve displayed, Droops limply o'er the
shoulder-blade, As needing some chirurgeon's aid:
The wrist is wrenched of JONES and BROWN, Those ornaments of
London Town; Their listless fingers dribble down:
BROWN reaches to the knuckle-bones Of thus-excruciated JONES;
BROWN's hand the same affliction owns.
At length his finger-tips have pressed The fingers of his JONES
distressed: Both curvatures then sink to rest.
A sort of anguish lisped proceeds Prom either's mouth, but neither
heeds The other's half-heroic deeds.
Exhausted, neither much can say; Complacent, each pursues his way;
And JONES and BBOWN have lived to-day.
For both have sought by strenuous strain To demonstrate, in face of
pain, That friends they were, and friends remain.
Ah, wonderful! Can Poets deem Self-sacrifice a