The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 107, December 29th 1894, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 107, December 29th 1894 Author: Various Editor: Francis Burnand Release Date: September 9, 2014 [EBook #46826] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, CHARIVARI, DEC 29, 1894 *** Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Wayne Hammond and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
301
(Founded upon the Farce of Christmas Cards.)
Scene—A London Drawing Room. Paterfamilias discovered reading a paper, and Materfamilias superintending the despatch of a number of cards.
Mater. (in a tone of irritation). I really think, John, that, considering you have nothing earthly to do this afternoon, you might come and help me.
Pater. You have said that twice before, my dear. Don't you see I am enjoying myself?
Mater. So like you! As if you couldn't give up that stupid paper—you declare there's no news in it—and do me a favour!
Pater. (putting down his paper). Well, anything for a quiet life! What is it?
Mater. I am sending a card to Mrs. Brown.
Pater. (taking up his paper again). Send it.
Mater. My dear John, do attend. I want to know what I shall put into the envelope.
Pater. (giving up paper, and examining Christmas Cards with some vague show of interest). Oh, well—here. (Casually picking up a picture of a country churchyard by moonlight). Won't this be the sort of thing?
Mater. (shocked). How can you, John! Don't you know that Mrs. Brown lost her husband only a year ago?
Pater. Then why are you wishing her "A Merry Christmas"?
Mater. Well, you see she has married again, and so I thought of sending her something with "A Happy New Year" in it.
Pater. (taking up a card showing an owl in an ivy bush). Why not this?
Mater. Well that would be better, but then she might think that the owl was intended for a sneer at her second husband. And then I always like to keep the happy new year cards till Christmas is over, as you can send them afterwards to the people who have remembered you when you have forgotten them.
Pater. But you wouldn't have "A Merry Christmas," and now you object to "A Happy New Year." What do you want?
Mater. Can't you get something impersonal?
Pater. (taking up card). Well, here's a yacht in full sail.
Mater. Oh, how cruel! It will remind her of her cousin who was lost at sea!
Pater. (selecting another sketch). Then why not this bouquet of flowers?
Mater. Not for worlds! One never knows what the flowers may mean, and we might offend her.
Pater. (trying again). Well, here is a windmill.
Mater. My dear John, you are absolutely provoking. A windmill is suggestive of frivolity, and I wouldn't let Mrs. Brown think that we meant that on any account.
Pater. (making another selection). Well, here's a parrot in a cage.
Mater. You surely are not serious? Fancy sending such a card! Why, as everyone knows that dear Mrs. Brown is rather talkative, all the world would say it was an "insult."
Pater. (losing patience). Oh, hang Mrs. Brown!
Mater. I am ashamed of you, John! And I suppose you would hang the cards, too! You would curse "Merry Christmas."
Pater. (promptly). That I would, and what is more, I would—well never mind—the glad New Year!
[Scene closing in upon an anti-seasonable squabble.
Disgusted Keeper (who has just beaten up a brace or so of Pheasants, which young Snookson has missed "clane and clever"—to dog, which has been "going seek" and "going find" from force of habit). "Ah, Ruby, Ruby, bad dog! T' heel, Ruby, t' heel! Ah muust apologise for Ruby, Sir. You see, Ruby's been accustomed to pick 'em up!"
"Sound Critics."—Musical ones. 302
A CHRISTMAS IDYLL.
The Snapdragon Galop.]
To Resolve his Doubt.
Suggested Title.—George Newnes brings out Zigzags at the Zoo, writ by Morrison and drawn most humorously by the Gentle Shepherd. A good title would have been Fore-Newnes at the Zoo.
(A Pitiful Epistle from Pongo to Mr. Punch at Christmastide.)
As the L. C. C. have taken in hand the morals of the music halls, and shown an inclination to supersede the Lord Chamberlain, it may be as well to publish a rough sketch of a specimen scene from the afterpart of a pantomime for the guidance of theatrical managers desirous of standing well with the successors to the members of the Metropolitan Board of Works. The "opening" would, of course, be written by "a serious bard with a mission." No doubt the story would be told in a manner most productive to the manufacture of prigs. The transformation over, Clown, Pantaloon, Harlequin and Columbine would be discovered in a group.
Clown (in the conventional tone). Here we are again!
Bumble (representing the L. C. C.). Scarcely. Allow me to point out that in future you will be entirely different.
Clown (as before). Come along, old'un; let's make a butter slide.
Bumble. You must permit me to interpose. The Council cannot recognise any practical joke of the kind. If you wish to have the same sort of fun, pull up the streets in the most frequented thoroughfares in the metropolis—the Strand and Fleet Street for choice.
Clown (as before). Oh, here's a baby! Let's smash it!
Bumble. Please accept my advice. The Council do not object to the keeping down of babies in the abstract. But personal violence is contrary to the law. If you really wish to decrease the surplus population, why not work it to death at a board-school? It may be a slower process than throwing it over a lamp-post, but the incident will be truer to life, and therefore more convincing.
Clown (as before). Oh! old 'un, here's a peeler coming!
Bumble. Pray be under no apprehension. Until the Police Force is placed under the direct control of the Council, the members will do their best to protect you. It stands to reason that a great community like London should have its own guardians under its own direct control.
Clown (as before). And now let's jump through this building.
Bumble. Again I must put my veto upon your proceedings. If you were to jump through that wall no doubt a placard would appear bearing the legend "Somersault Place." This might be apt, but no change in the nomenclature of the streets can be permitted without the direct sanction of Spring Gardens.
Clown (as before). And now let's pelt this house, and all who's in it!
Bumble. Stop, stop! You are attacking our own sacred building. (To Harlequin). Will you be so good as to change the locale. (Harlequin strikes building, which turns into the Mansion House.) Now you may do what you please. For the Corporation of the City of London is so effete that we have no sympathy for it!
[Scene of bustle and confusion, and curtain.
New Musical Work: Leading Strings.—If it isn't a title it ought to be for the biographies of celebrated violinists from Paganini to Joachim. 303
THE ARAUCARIA.
(Reversion to an early Ancestral Type.)
Grigson. "I say, old Chappie, it would puzzle you to Climb that Tree!"
Plaudite! Bravo! Brave! Domini Quippus et Punnus are very much alive! A fact that may be inferred from just one line (there are more whence this came) in the Westminsterial play, when Davus takes Mysis "the New Woman," for his wife, and exclaims:—
Surely if the punhating Criticus Sagitarius (Mundi) were present he must have staggered out weeping on hearing the Latin-Anglo-modern-classical pun! O shade of 'Arry Stophanes! O Ghost of Terence (the Corkasian)! are our youths at Westminster to start thus on their career, with nothing better than a poor pun not worth a punny in their pockets! Let Sagitarius watch this youthful punster's line of life! He will live to be punished! or to be rewarded as he deserves? After all, Great Pun is not dead; he may be dull, commonplace sometimes, but as he was prehistoric, so is he immortal. There is a great future before the author of the Westminster epilogue.
Born November 13, 1850.
Died December 8, 1894.
Crackers.—Tom Smith, the up-to-date magician, sends forth from his treasure-cave "bright things which gleam," but not "unrecked of"—at least they won't remain so long, especially if any quiet demon of a schoolboy with martial aspirations hears a report of "The Gatling Gun Cracker." The repeating process will be an uncertain pleasure—to others. Then "Snap Shots," taken unawares by a naughty little Cupid—we can imagine the "Surprises!" Knick-knacks are boomed in "Ye Olde Curiosity Shop"—but soft! I will not reveal any further the secrets of the "King of Crackers." Get them—they are an "Open Sesame" to a gaiety of delights. 304
ADDING INSULT TO INJURY.
Cyclist (to Fox-hunter, thrown out). "Oi say, Squoire, 'ave you seen the 'Ounds?"
A Baronitess junior sends word from the children's quarters that Your Fortune and Character is an amusing game, told by William Shakspeare, but published by John Jaques & Co.—evidently not a descendant of the "melancholy Jaques," for he would have "rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms" had the game been at his expense.
Massa Blackie & Son send in a story by G. A. Henty, always so Hentytaining, entitled When London Burned. We all ken that when Rome burned Nero fiddled, but this hero—not an 'ero—had every opportunity of extinguishing—my Baronite means "distinguishing himself;" and our cavalier availed himself, after many other wondrous episodes, to rush with warm enthusiasm to throw cold water on this enlightenment of London. Needless to remark, he came scatheless through the fire!
From Snowdon to the Sea, by Marie Trevelyan, shows us Wales in the days of Merlin and mythical superstitions, likewise of queer doings on the part of bold, bad buccaneers, in whom we seem to trace something of the origin of the modern Welsher.
A perfect black and white school romance is continued in My Lost Manuscript, by Maggie Symington (Wells, Gardner and Darton). Evidently this youthful writer had not read the wise counsels conveyed in a manual On the Art of Writing Fiction (brought out by same publishers), or so much ink would not have been wasted. "After perusing this cheery little book, the much encouraged aspirant," quoth our Baronitess with a sigh, "for literary fame, will promptly lay down the pen and write no more." Good news for the editors.
Miss Braddon, in her delightful story Christmas Hirelings (Simpkins, Marshall & Co.), hits upon a novel suggestion for those folks who don't know how to keep the festive season as it should be kept. Away flies boredom! How? I will not reveal the secret, but if any nicely suppressed little children possess an average Scrooge-like relative, take my advice, and present him with this book. The result will be more than even a child's dream can anticipate. Rather powder in jam to boys will be The Battle of Frogs and Mice, by Jane Barlow (Methuen), who is evidently a distant connection of the immortal Mr. Barlow, with so much kind thought for youthful learning. It may be Greek to many who have but a dim, far-off knowledge of the first great burlesque writer: but this his book will bring it all Homer again to us. Quite a relief to turn to our dear Nonsense Songs and Stories, by Edward Lear (Frederick Warne & Co.) Vague yellow undulating pessimism notwithstanding, how pleasant is real good nonsense! And even the fairy story cannot be crushed by our juggernaut modern science, than which the imaginative impossible, as in Thought Fairies, by Helen Waters, and in the Seven Imps, by Kathleen Wallis, is so much more attractive to youthful brains. Both books issued by Digby, Long, & Co., and wise of them to do so. Macmillans issue a splendid new edition of the wonderful Gulliver's Travels, with over a hundred illustrations by Charles E. Brock, which ought to make the book go off like Brock's fireworks. Its very warm cover suggests a seasonable book, A Righte Merrie Christmasse, by John Ashton (Leadenhall Press), who, fancying that some of its customs and privileges might be forgotten, collects all that has been done or could be done at this annual event. Some of ye anciente goinges on make one wonder whether feasts were better kept when they spelt with such unreasonable euphony. It must have been "merrie in halle" when the wassail song was ordinarily sung as depicted by A. C. Behrend in his exquisite copper etching.
London Society is peculiarly bright and cheerful this Yuletide, and keeps up its excellent reputation. A good medley is London Society. And here is a very bright little Woman this Christmastide. Quite a festive party with her capital stories and supplement of "Types of the World's Women." Just "Woman, lovely woman" in all styles and shades. Without being more vain than any other average islander, one feels grateful for belonging to the British group—no offence to the other ladies, to whom we take off our hat, and, whilst including the rest, salute advancing Woman. "And it is this New Woman, not the New Woman of the period, whom," quoth the Baron, "I salute with pleasure," and to whom he wishes a happy Christmas and a prosperous New Year, and signs himself
305
(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.
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. 306
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.)
"OH, THE MISTLETOE BOUGH!"
Father Christmas. "HA! HA! WITH ALL THEIR NEW-FANGLED NOTIONS, HERE'S ONE OLD CUSTOM ALL AGREE IN KEEPING UP!"
Strolling through Pimlico the other day Mrs. R. was attracted by evidence of a sale by auction going forward in one of the residences in that desirable quarter. Having half an hour to spare she thought she would look in. "I was quite surprised," she writes to her son, "when I entered the room to see a gentleman standing in a pulpit which I knew was Mr. Pipchose, leastway, his whiskers were not so mutton-choppy; but I could not mistake him, though meeting him only once at tea at Mrs. Brown's where he was very pressing with the muffins. He looked at me in just the same meaning way as when he said, 'Mrs. Ram. won't you take another piece of sugar, though as I know it's carrying coals to Newcastle?' I'm not above recognising my friends, wherever I meet them, and gave him a friendly nod, and before I knew where I was, I found I had bought for £3 9s. 6d. a wool mattress; a pair of tongs (rather bent); a barometer (with the quicksilver missing); a small iron bedstead; a set of tea-things (mostly cracked); an armchair, and a sofa warranted hair-stuffed, but certainly having only three legs. It wasn't Mr. Pipchose at all, as I might have known if I had taken another look at his whiskers, but only a forward auctioneer."
"The Chinese Government," observed the
City Times last week, "is seeking new
channels for money." Decidedly China is in
straits, and will soon be apparently quite at sea.
307
308
309
(A Repentance in Triolets.)
The Baron's P.S.—The Border Waverley, brought out by Nimmo, and edited by Andrew Lang, is now concluded, and a fine set of volumes it makes. No better collection of books as a Christmas present for anyone with a regard to a future of literary enjoyment.
"Ha! ha! I don't go to a Westminster Play for nothing quoth the Baron;" though he added sotto voce, "Yes I do though, as I'm a guest."
Genoa in November. It is summer time. Put on thin suit, drink my café au lait by open window, and stroll out into beautiful Genoa, basking in the sunshine. Déjeuner in the garden of a restaurant, among the old palaces. Sit in the shade, without my hat. Think of all the poor people in London. Wonder if anyone is having a frugal lunch at the funny little open-air restaurant in Hyde Park. Lemonade and a bath bun in a fog. Should imagine not.
Charming place, Genoa. Hardly any Germans. Can at last hear people talking Italian. In Venice there are so many Germans that one might as well be in Germany. Sitting out on the Piazza, one hears incessantly their monotonous, guttural chatter, always in the same tone of voice, without inflections, without emotion, and, worst of all, without end. Watched at the hotel table d'hôte a German lady sitting between two German gentlemen. One man talked loudly without ceasing, mouth full or mouth empty, from soup to dessert. The other man, rather older and feebler, also talked without ceasing, but he could not equal the other's noise; he only added to it. As for the lady, her lips moved all the time; one could imagine the ja wohl, the ach, so? the ja, ja, ja, but one could not hear a word. At Florence, at Milan, on the Lakes it is the same. If by chance one hears a Frenchman speak, his charming language sounds more vivacious and melodious than ever before. So it is good to be in Genoa, where even the best hotel is kept by Italians. Apparently every other good hotel in Italy is kept by Herr Schmidt, or Herr Weber, or Herr Somethingorother, and all the servants are German also. There is one hotel in Genoa kept by a German. It faces the harbour. All night long there are whistles, screams, bangs, rumblings, bumps, roars, and other sounds from trains, ships, and tramways. All day long there is the same noise, only more of it. But the Germans do not mind; they talk just the same, and they make each other hear through it all.
Charming place, Genoa, with a town hall that is the gayest imaginable. Marble staircases, vestibules adorned with palms, beautiful little gardens, at all sorts of levels, outside the windows of the various offices. Everywhere flowers. If the town rates in Genoa are paid at the Town Hall, the paying of them must be almost pleasant. One would go with that horrible demand note, if that is used also in Italy, and fancy that one was arriving at a ball. The palm-decorated entrance looks just like it. It only needs a lady rate collector, such as one hears of in England, and one surely, in whatever manner the Italians may say it, would beg the charming signora to give one the honour and pleasure of a dance, and scribble her name on the programme—I mean the demand note. And no doubt, the Italian officials being leisurely and the space being ample, one could find time for a waltz in the intervals of rate paying, or at least sit it out in one of the delightful little gardens of this ideal Palazzo Municipale.
And so farewell to sunny Genoa, and off to Turin. German hotel again, German proprietor, German servants. Solitary German visitor drinking his morning coffee. The hotels of Turin are not crowded; he and I are alone. What will the poor man do? He must talk his awful language to someone. He shan't talk it to me, for I will pretend I do not understand even one word. The waiter has left the room. Must the poor man be silent? Thunderweather, ah no! Happilywise he is saved. The considerate proprietor, thoughtful of his countryman's needs, enters; he stands by the visitor's table, and the talk begins. When it ends I cannot say, for I leave them, well started and in good voice, and hear, as I think, their sweetly melodious phrases for the last time in Italy. The train carries me away. There is not much more of Italy now, for here is the Mont Cenis tunnel. Farewell, beautiful country, beautiful pictures, beautiful language! There is someone leaning out of the next carriage window. No doubt he is also saddened; he is speaking to others inside, his voice is cheerful, he is evidently trying not to give way to despair. Now I hear what he says, "Da werde ich ein Glas Bier trinken, ja, ja, ja!"
Wanted! a Perfect Cure for the incompatibility of Judges' sentences. 310
PREHISTORIC PEEPS.
During a considerable portion of the Year the Skating was excellent, and was much enjoyed by all Classes.
311
INDEX
LONDON: BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., LIMITED. PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS
Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.
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107, December 29th 1894, by Various
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