The Antitoxin sounds! "And what the doose Is Antitoxin?" cries the reader, lightly. But he'll not chaff if he reads Robson Roose Upon Diphtheria in the new Fortnightly. There he'll learn how the "Antitoxic serum" Attacks bacilli with a view to queer 'em.
The Antitoxin sounds to a new war On diphtheritic microbes, which are rum 'uns; And Doctor Roose, perched on Hygeia's car, Rides forth in battle-rig to spread the summons. Ah! the old conquerors were mere death-dealers, But greatest of Earth's heroes are the healers!
Their war is on man's foes, not on mankind. Hygeia is Humanity's "Little Sister." Funds for her service, though, 'tis hard to find; Hence this appeal of good Sir Joseph Lister[1] For money-aid, successfully to urge The war of the new cure on the new scourge.
It spreads, it strikes, it slays our little ones In legions; deaths in twenty years it doubles; Now Löffler, Klebs, Roux, Yersin, all great guns, Attack the toxic source of dread throat-troubles, As Robson Roose explains. Read—and remember— All in the new Fortnightly for December!
Christmas Diaries.—Mr. Punch suggests that the publisher of these should prefix as an advertisement to these little diaries, dainty diaries, pocket companions, and so forth, all delightful little gifts, Ophelia's words, "Here's (De la) Rue for you."
WORDS TO THE WISE WOMEN.
Woman, in unmeet subjects crudely taught, Stung by the splendour of a well-worn thought, First shrieks, as she had sat upon a pin, Then, like a hen amid her cackling kin, Fills a bewildered world with loud, officious din. In time inconstant even to abuse Our rebel sisters hoist a flag of truce, Through deafen'd ears steals Nature's saner voice, Bending the will to Mrs. Hobson's choice, And, half-ashamed, with truer glance they scan The fancy-monster they have made of Man. Left to herself, with ample length of rope, The Pioneer, relenting, bids him hope, And Man, though of his manhood nowise cured. Learns that by women he may be endured. But still, ungrateful or accustom'd grown, He leaves the thorny sisterhood alone, And, bold because his conscience knows no fear, Whispers soft counsel to the Pioneer. First, your soi-disant woman-slaves to raise, You copy silly men's most silly ways, As the rich upstart who to ton aspires Reveals the sordid source of his desires By shunning culture, dignity, and grace, To follow Folly's lead, and go the pace. So boys, first freed from tutelage and rules, Set forth to paint the city total gules, With this excuse for draining Folly's cup, "Boys will be boys,"—but you are quite grown up. Too conscious still, and still the slaves of fuss, You take example by the dregs of us, The lantern-jaw'd Effeminates, who tell How Truth lies wallowing in the foulest well; The critic Zanies, who admire a poet, Only, it seems, for other fools to know it, And found Societies of glorious name That a prig President may filch some fame. Man, still more human as he learns the more, Seeks, like a sportsman true, new tasks to floor. Large wisdom gathers as he cracks a bottle With Sages who've ne'er heard of Aristotle, Rates at their proper low stage in creation The prim apostles of Examination, And whether learning brings him fame, or no, Is happier, humbler, gentler, wiser so. Ah, learn whate'er you will, yet spare our hearts A home-grown, feminine Baboo of Arts. Believe it, envious maids, the men you spurn, Think little of the honours that they earn. Too well they're taught in common sense's rules To dwell upon their triumphs in the Schools, And chiefly prize the Baccalaureate fur Because, in love's young days, it pleases Her. But you, in purpose tyrannously strong, Get, in each effort, your perspective wrong. Learn all you wish to learn, exult in learning, For Hymen's torch keep midnight oil a-burning, Bulge your fair foreheads with those threatening bumps, Ungraceful as an intellectual mumps, Be blatant, rude, self-conscious as you can, Be all you feign—and imitate—in Man. Spurn all the fine traditions of the past, Be New or nothing—what's the gain at last?
You know as much, with hard-eyed, harsh-voiced joy, As the shock-headed, shambling fifth-form boy; Adding, what his sound mind would never please, An Asiatic hunger for degrees. True learning's that alone whereon are based Clear insight, reason, sympathy, and taste. Not relic-worshipping of bones long dry, Not giving puppet-life to x and y, And walking haughtily a fair world through Because some girls can't do the sums you do. Still less, the little, little world of cliques, Where Mutual Admiration dons the breeks, And then proceeds kind tolerant man to flout— A petulant, unresented Barring-out. Meanwhile our faith looks on, devoid of fear, Facing the hatchet of the Pioneer. Still will the storm, in Nature's potent plan, Be temper'd to the shorn, or bearded, man. Your sex will still be perfect in its place, With voice of melody and soul of grace. Pose, lecture, worry, copy as you will, Man will be man, and woman woman still!