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Ernest Schaal, and the Online Distributed Proofreading
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 62.
FEBRUARY 3, 1872.


                       =PRIVATE SCHOOL CLASSICS.=

                        (_Letter from a Lady._)

                             [Illustration]

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 L100 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.

            _O navis, referent in mare te novi
            Fluctus. O quid agis?_

  _Johnny._ O, navy, referring to the sea. I have known thee.
            What will the waves do?

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

_Papa._ Ah! Proceed.

                        ----_fortiter occupa
                    Portum. Nonne vides_----

  _Johnny._ Bravely occupy the door.
            You see a nun.

_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:--

            _Et malus celeri saucius Africo,
            Antennae