READING BETWEEN THE LINES.
(A Physician's Protest.)
Mr. Punch,—As a specialist of some standing and experience, I wish, Sir, to call attention, through the medium of your valuable paper, to the injurious effects of a certain occupation upon the minds of the individuals engaged therein, and their protection.
The occupation to which I refer is that of devising and arranging what I understand are technically known as "headlines" for the contents-bills of the more inexpensive London evening papers—an occupation which I have no hesitation in characterising, on evidence unconsciously supplied by the sufferers themselves, as highly dangerous employment.
I am not sufficiently versed, Sir, to the minutiæ of newspaper routine, to know what precise class of persons are entrusted with this particular responsibility, though I have a strong suspicion that it may be one of the many forms of degrading drudgery which the selfishness of man has imposed upon the weaker sex. If so, of course it only increases the necessity for interference.
And, whoever and whatever the persons performing such duties may be, it is painfully obvious that they are labouring under conditions of mental excitement, the strain of which no nervous system can support for any length of time without inevitable and complete collapse.
Should there be any who consider this an overstatement on my part, I merely ask them to give a glance at some of these same content-sheets which are nightly displayed in our chief thoroughfares. Let them mark the monstrous size of the lettering, the peculiar extravagance of the epithets selected, the morbid insistence upon unpleasant details, and then doubt, if they can, that the unhappy persons employed in such an industry are affected thereby with some obscure form of hysteria. Otherwise, let me ask you, Sir, is it likely, is it credible, that seasoned journalists, tough men of the world, in touch with life at innumerable points, could, in a normal state of health, be so constantly "Startled," "Amazed," "Astounded," "Shocked," "Appalled," and "Revolted," as they admit themselves to be, almost every evening, by reports and rumours which a little reflection would convince them were utterly unfounded, or by events too ordinary and commonplace, one might have supposed, to upset the mental equilibrium of a neurotic rabbit?
Occasionally, too, there are symptoms of an excessive reverence for rank, which, when found in the more democratic organs (where, indeed, they are chiefly observable), denote a somewhat distempered state of intellect, the delusion apparently being that the mere possession of any sort of title renders its owner immaculate. Thus, they announce with awestricken solemnity "A Peer's Peccadilloes," or "A Baronet Bilks his Baker," giving these events a poster all to themselves, as others would an earthquake, or some portent of direst significance.
Now this loss of the sense of proportion in human affairs, Sir, is a very bad sign, and a well-nigh infallible indicator of nerve-strain and general overpressure.
But I find a yet more unmistakable evidence in support of my contention in the extraordinary emotional sensibility revealed by these headlines whenever some unfortunate person has been sentenced to death for the most commonplace murder. There is clearly a profound conviction that the jury who heard the evidence, the judge who pronounced their verdict of guilty, the only possible conclusion they could reasonable come to, and the Home Secretary who found himself unable to recommend a reprieve, were, one and all, engaged in a cold-blooded conspiracy against a perfectly innocent man. The convict has said to himself, and that seems to be considered sufficient. And so, night after night, the authors of these headlines harrow themselves by announcing such items as "Blank protests his innocence to his Solicitor." "A petition in Preparation." "Painful Interview." "Blank Hopeful." "Blank Depressed." "Distressing Scene on the Scaffold." "Blank's Last Words."
Consider the strain of all these alterations of hope and despair, repeated time after time, and almost invariably without even the consolation of deferring the fate of their protégé by a single hour! Is it not too much for the strongest constitution to endure? a service which the society has no right to demand from any of its members?
Yes, Sir, whether these devoted servants of the public know it or not, they are running a most frightful risk; the word which hangs above their heads may fall at any moment.
Suppose, for example—and it is surely not wholly an imaginary danger I foresee—suppose that some day some event should happen somewhere of real and serious importance. Have they left themselves any epithet in reserve capable of expressing their sensations at all adequately? They have not; they have squandered participles and adjectives in such reckless profusion that they will discover they are reduced to the condition of inarticulate bankrupts; and, speaking as a medical man, acute cerebral congestion would be the very least result that I should anticipate.
Or the determining shock might come from more trivial causes. For instance, we might lose a distinguished statesman, or an ironclad, at the very moment when a football match was decided, or when the professional tipster attached to their particular journal published his "finals." Think of the mental conflict before determining the relative importance of these events, and awarding one or the other its proper prominence on the posters; and then ask yourself, Sir, whether it is an ordeal that any human being of an impressionable, excitable temperament should be required to undergo.
What precise remedy should be adopted I do not profess to point out. Perhaps some one of the numerous leagues established to protect adult citizens against themselves might take the matter up, and insist upon these contents-bills being set up for the future in smaller type and with epithets of a more temperate order. Perhaps Parliament or the London County Council might be asked to interfere. All that is not within my province, Sir, but this I do say: unless some measures are taken soon, the heavy responsibility will be upon us of having permitted a small but deserving class of our fellow-creatures to hurry themselves into premature mental decay by the pernicious and unwholesome nature of their employment.
I am, Sir, Your obedient servant,
Hippocrates Hellebore, M.D., F.R.C.P.
VERY HARD LINES.
Young Farmer (pulling up at urgent appeal of Pedestrian). "Hillo! That you, Tim? Want another Situation! Why, I thought you were living with Captain addlepate as Coachman?"
Tim. "So I was, Sor; but 'twasn't a fair bargin. Shure we was never to get Thrunk both at wance, Sor!"
Young Farmer (amused). "Well, that seems fair enough, anyway."
Tim. "But, begorra, Sor, the Captin was Thrunk the whole blissid toime!"
The Rev. Dr. Gee, Vicar of Windsor, is now installed Canon of St. George's Chapel. Prosit! Our best wish for him is that, when he is going to give an exceedingly good sermon, may this particular Gee not discover that he is a little hoarse.
MIGHT HAVE BEEN SAID OTHERWISE!
He (to elderly Young Lady, after a long Waltz). "You must have been a splendid dancer!"
"OH, THE MISTLETOE BOUGH!"
(A New Seasonable Song to an old Seasonable Tune.)
The mistletoe hung on the brave old oak,
The sickle went clinketing stroke upon stroke;
The lads and the lasses were blithe and gay,
And gambolled in Old Father Christmas's way.
Old Christmas held high with a joyous pride
The berried branch dear unto damsel and bride;
For its silvery berries they seemed to be
The stars of that goodly companie.
Oh! the Mistletoe Bough!
Oh! the Mistletoe Bough!!
"Who wearies of kissing?" the Old Man cried.
"Let her be a New Woman, but never a bride!
Ha! ha! The old custom's approval I trace
In red lip and blue eye upon every face.
It was ever so, since time began.
'Tis the way of the maid, 'tis the way of the man.
'Tis also 'the way of a man with a maid,'
For Cupid's barter's the oldest trade."
Oh! the Mistletoe Bough!
Oh! the Mistletoe Bough!
"They are seeking to-day every new fangled way;
Some tell us that wooing has had its day.
In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest lot,
The gleam of Love's berry makes one bright spot.
And years may fly, as they will fly, fast,
But one good old custom at least shall last;
And when Christmas appears still the maids will cry:—
'See! the Old Man bears the Love-berry on high!'"
Oh! the Mistletoe Bough!
Oh! the Mistletoe Bough!!
"Gather!" he cried, and he waved his sickle.
"Oh! fortune changes, and fashion's fickle;
And youth grows mannish, and manhood old,
And red lips wither, warm hearts grow cold:
But whenever I come, midst the Yuletide snows,
'Tis not Spring's lily, or Summer's rose
Young men and maidens demand, I trow.
But old Winter's white-berried Kissing-bough."
Oh! the Mistletoe Bough!
Oh! the Mistletoe Bough!!
"For lilies wither, and roses pale,
But the Kissing-bough keeps up the old, old tale.
And dull were the world should the old tale cease!
Be it kiss of passion, or kiss of peace,
The meaning when lip unto lip is laid
Is goodwill on earth to man, and maid.
That's Yule's best lesson, good friends I vow,
So reck ye the rede of the Mistletoe Bough!"
Oh! the Mistletoe Bough!
Oh! the Mistletoe Bough!!
So they gather around him with laugh and joke,
'Neath the spreading boughs of that brave old oak,
Which hath shelter for all, from the English rose
To the whitest snow-bell from Canada's snows,
Or hot India's lotus-bud dainty and sweet.
But the cry of them all, as in mirth they meet
Old Father Christmas, as ever, so now,
Is "Hands all round 'neath the Mistletoe Bough!"
Oh! the Mistletoe Bough!!
Our brave, bonny Mistletoe Bough!!!
"OH, THE MISTLETOE BOUGH!"
Father Christmas. "HA! HA! WITH ALL THEIR NEW-FANGLED NOTIONS, HERE'S ONE OLD CUSTOM ALL AGREE IN KEEPING UP!"