Chapter 1

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 102.

January 2, 1892.

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BORN, APRIL 27TH, 1808. DIED, DECEMBER 21ST, 1891.

Learned, large-hearted, liberal Lord of Land, As clear of head as generous of hand, He lived his honourable length of days, A "Duke" whom doughtiest Democrat might praise. "Leader" in truth, though not with gifts of tongue, Full many a "Friend of Man" the muse has sung Unworthier than patrician CAVENDISH. Seeing him pass who may forbear the wish, Would more were like him!--Then the proud command, "_Noblesse oblige_" e'en Mobs might understand!

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AFTER DINNER--AT THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR.

SCENE--_A Private Room in a well-known Dining Hotel. Eminent Politicians discussing "shop" over their walnuts before dispersing for the Christmas holidays._

_First Eminent Politician_. I say that recent speech of yours at Skegness was a little strong. Preferring the Navy to the Army! Although the Army is of course the "Best possible Army," and all that! Eh? I say it was a little too thick!

_Second Em. Pol._ (_quickly_). Not a bit of it! You don't know how well we are getting on at Pall Mall. I give you my word everything's first-rate. Department working splendidly. You can't say that at Whitehall and Somerset House?

_First Em. Pol._ (_warmly_). Not say it! We do! Everything's most satisfactory. Discipline splendid. Never had such a fine Fleet. And the fireworks we had at the Royal Naval Exhibition all through the Summer! Well you ought to have seen them!

_Second Em. Pol._ (_carelessly_). Yes, I daresay. But what have fireworks got to do with the Navy?

_First Em. Pol._ Why they increased our recruiting awfully. Fellows went to the Royal Naval Exhibition and saw all sorts of good things, automatic weighing machine, a fishing-smack, and Nelson wax-works--and--and that kind of thing you know, and joined the Navy! Precious good thing for the Service, I can tell you.

_Second Em. Pol._ Well, to go back to an old story--you can't defend the bullying on board _The Britannia_.

_First Em. Pol._ Oh, that's all bosh. Those newspaper fellows got hold of it for the Silly Season and ran it to death, but it's the best possible place in the world. No end of good training for a fellow to command other fellows.

_Second Em. Pol._ Well, they were down upon you pretty smartly.

_First Em. Pol._ (_airily_). May be. But it's because they didn't know what they were writing about. How can a fellow become a good naval officer unless he has been robbed of his pocket-money, and taught how to lie for his seniors. Thing's too ridiculous! Hallo, JIMMY, they tell me things are in a dreadful mess at St. Martin's-le-Grand!

_Third Em. Pol._ (_promptly_). Then they tell you wrong. Never saw anything like it--most perfect organisation in the world! Absolutely marvellous, Sir--absolutely marvellous! And the clerks so civil and obliging. Everybody pleased with them.

_Second Em. Pol._ Come, that won't do. Your statement is as hard to digest as too-previous turkey and premature plum-pudding. The papers are full of complaints all through the Autumn, and have only stopped recently to make room for those descriptive and special law reports. You will have them again, now Term is over.

_Third Em. Pol._ Who cares for the papers? I tell you we are absolutely inundated with letters of thanks from Dukes and Duchesses upwards. No; if you had said that the Colonies were in a mess, why then--

_Fourth Em. Pol._ (_angrily_). What _are_ you talking about? Why, we are absolutely romping in! Never knew the Colonies so prosperous as they are now! And we have had to put on half-a-dozen extra clerks to open and answer the letters of congratulation we receive hour by hour from every part of the Empire. Why, everything's splendid--absolutely splendid!

_Second Em. Pol._ Well, matters have decidedly mended since transportation was prohibited. But to return to our muttons. Waterloo was won--

_Fourth Em. Pol._ (_interrupting_). Yes, I know, by the Militia and the dregs of the population! By the way, though, the gaols have had better company than now.

_Fifth Em. Pol._ Hold hard! Don't you abuse my Prisons. As a matter of fact, the present convicts are the finest, cleverest, most trustworthy fellows that ever existed. It is quite an honour to get into a prison nowadays. (_With a sudden burst of anger_.) And if any of you doubt my word, hang me, I will have satisfaction! (_Looking round for opponents_.) Come now, who will tread on the tail of my coat!

_Chief and Most Eminent Politician_. Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Come it's getting late, and if we are to see the dress-rehearsal of the Pantomime, we must be off at once!

[_The Party breaks up to meet later on in the neighbourhood of Drury Lane._

* * * * *

FROM OUR SPORTING CITY MAN.--"_Pounded before the Start_."--Mr. GOSCHEN's One-pound Note scheme.

* * * * *

(FRAGMENTS OF A DICKENSIAN DREAM UP TO DATE.)

* * * * *

It was some time before the great-little old fellow could compose himself to mend the fire, and draw his chair to the warm hearth. But, when he had done so, and had trimmed his lamp, he took his "Extra Special" from his pocket, and began to read--carelessly at first, and skimming up and down the columns, but with an earnest and sad attention very soon.

For this same dreadful paper re-directed _Punch's_ thoughts into the channel they had taken all that day; thoughts of the sufferings of the poor, the follies of the rich, the sins of the wicked, the miseries of the outcast. Seasonable thoughts, if not exactly festive. For all is not festive, even at the Festive Season.

Scandals in high life, starvation in low life; foul floods of nastiness in Law Courts; muddy tricklings of misery in lawless alleys; crimes so terrible and revolting; pains so pitiless and cureless; follies so selfish and wanton, that he let the journal drop, and fell back in his chair, appalled.

"Unnatural and cruel, _Toby_!" he cried. "Unnatural and cruel! None but people who were born bad at heart--born bad--who had no business on the earth, could do such deeds. We're Bad!"

The Chimes took up the words so suddenly--burst out so loud, clear, and sonorous--that the Bells seemed to strike him in his chair.

And what was it that they said?

"_Punch_ and _Toby! Toby_ and _Punch_! Waiting for you, _Toby_ and _Punch_! Come and see us! Come and see us! Come and see us! Drag them to us! Haunt and hunt them! Haunt and hunt them. Break their slumbers! Break their slumbers! _Punch, Toby; Toby, Punch; Toby, Punch; Punch, Toby_!!" Then fiercely back to their impetuous strain again, and ringing in the very bricks and plaster on the Sanctum's walls!

_Toby_ barked! _Punch_ listened! Fancy, fancy! No, no! Nothing of the kind. Again, again, and yet a dozen times again. "Haunt and hunt them! Haunt and hunt them!"

"If the tower is really open," said _Punch_, "what's to hinder us, _Toby_, from going up to the steeple, and seeing for ourselves?" "Nothing," yapped _Toby_, or sounds to that effect.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Up, up, up! and round and round; and up, up, up! higher, higher, higher up!

There was the belfry where the ringers came. _Punch_ caught hold of one of the frayed ropes which hung down through the apertures in the oaken roof. But he started; other hands seemed on it; he shrank from the thought of waking the deep Bell. The Bells themselves were higher. Higher, _Punch_ and _Toby_, in their fascination, or working out the spell upon them, groped their way; until, ascending through the floor, and pausing, with his head raised just above its beams _Punch_ came among the Bells. It was barely possible to make out their great shapes in the gloom; but there they were. Shadowy, and dark, and dumb.

He listened, and then raised a wild "Halloa!" "Halloa!" was mournfully protracted by the echoes. Giddy, confused, and out of breath, _Punch_ looked about him vacantly, and sank down in a swoon.

* * * * *

He saw the tower, whither his charmed footsteps had brought him, swarming with dwarf phantoms, sprites, elfin creatures of the Bells. He saw them leaping, flying, dropping, pouring from the Bells without a pause. He saw them, round him on the ground; above him in the air; clambering from him by the ropes below; looking down upon him from the massive iron-girdered beams; peeping in upon him through the chinks and loopholes in the walls; spreading away and away from him in enlarging circles. He saw them of all aspects and all shapes. He saw them ugly, handsome, crippled, exquisitely formed. He saw them young, he saw them old; he saw them kind, he saw them cruel; he saw them merry, he saw them grim; he saw them dance, he heard them sing; he saw them tear their hair, he heard them howl. He saw the air thick with them.

_Wh-o-o-o-sh!_ With what a wild whirr of startled wings the owls and bats scurried away, dim spectral hiding things that love the darkness and the silence of night, and shrink from light and cheerful sounds! "Well rid of _you_!" murmured _Punch_, as _Toby_ barked at the flying phantoms.

But among the other swarming sprites, and circling elfs, and frolic phantoms of the Bells, _Punch_ beheld brighter things. That pleasant pair, hand in hand, princely-looking both, and loving withal, bring a music as of marriage-bells "all in the wild March morning." And those other goodly and gracious presences, hint they not of Health and Home Happiness, and Benignant Art, and Humanity-serving Science, of Electric Sympathy, and Ready Rescue, of Mammon-thwarting Reform, and Misery-staying Benevolence; of all the spiritual charities and fairy graces that can bless and brighten country and hearth, Sire and citizen, master and servant, employer and employed, struggling man, suffering woman and helpless child? _Punch_ read in their whirling forms and expressive faces the signs and promise of all the best and brightest influences of the time, happy and opportune attendants upon the auspicious hour of this the opening day of the New Year!

* * * * *

_Bim, Bom, Boom!!! Clang, Cling, Clang_!!! What are those hands tugging at the ropes, swinging the Bells big and little, evoking the stormy clashes and soothing cadences of the Chimes?

Surely those of the youthful New Year himself! An echo from the long-silent lips of the great Christmas-glorifier and lover of poor humanity seemed to ring in _Punch's_ ears:--

"Who hears in us, the Chimes, one note bespeaking disregard, or stern regard, of any hope, or joy or pain, or sorrow, of the many-sorrowed throng; who hears us make response to any creed that gauges human passions and affections, as it gauges the amount of miserable food on which humanity may pine and wither, does us wrong!"

"Right you are!" cried _Punch_, cordially, _Toby_ yapping assent.

He might have said more, but the Bells, the dear familiar Bells, his own dear constant, steady friends, the Chimes, began to ring the joy-peals for a New Year so lustily, so merrily, so happily, so gaily, that he (like poor old _Trotty Veck_) leapt to his feet, and broke the spell that bound him.

* * * * *

"Yes, that is still the true Spirit of the Chimes," mused _Mr. Punch_, as he took pen in hand to open up his new Volume. "And that's the spirit I hope to keep up right through the twelve months of just-born Eighteen Hundred and Ninety-two, which I trust may be--with my willing assistance,

A HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL OF YOU!!!"

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

One of the Baron's Critical Faculty sends him his opinion of our Mr. DU MAURIER's latest novel, which is also his first. And here let it be published _urbi et orbi_ that there is no truth whatever in a report which appeared in an evening paper to the effect that Mr. DU MAURIER, however retiring he may be, was about to retire or had retired from _Mr. Punch's_ Staff. The _St. James's Gazette_ has already "authoritatively" denied the assertion; and this denial the Baron for _Mr. Punch_, decisively confirms. Now, to the notice of the book above-mentioned. Here it is:--

"There has been a certain deliberateness in Mr. DU MAURIER's incursion into literature that speaks eloquently for his modesty. He is, to our certain knowledge, at least 40 years old, and _Peter Ibbetson_, which Messrs. OSGOOD & CO. present in two daintily dressed volumes, is his first essay in romantic writing. Reading the book, it is hard to conceive this to be the fact. The work is entirely free from those traces of amateurishness, almost inseparable from a first effort. The literary style is considerably above the average modern novelist; the plot is marked by audacious invention, worked out with great skill; the hero is a madman, not in itself an attractive arrangement, but there is such admirable method in his madness, such fine poetic feeling in the conception of character, and the ghosts who flit through the pages of the story are so exceedingly human, that one feels quite at home with _Peter_, and is really sorry when, all too soon, his madness passes away, and he awakes to a new life, to find himself an old man. Apart from its strong dramatic interest, _Peter Ibbetson_ has rare value, from the pictures of Old Paris in the last days of LOUIS-PHILIPPE, which crowd in charming succession through the first volume. Mr. GEORGE DU MAURIER, the well-known artist in black and white, has generously assisted Mr. GEORGE DU MAURIER, the rising novelist, by profusely illustrating the work. 'Tis a pretty rivalry; hard to say which has the better of it. Wherein a discerning Public, long familiar with DU MAURIER's sketches, will recognise a note of highest praise for the new departure."

The Baron recommends Mrs. OLIPHANT's _The Railway Man and his Children_, which is a good story, with just such a dash of the improbable--but there, who can bring improbability as a charge against the plot constructed by any novelist after this great Jewel Case so recently tried? Mrs. OLIPHANT's types are well drawn; but the story is drawn out by just one volume too much. "For a one-volume novel commend me," quoth the Baron, "to Miss RHODA-BROUGHTON-CUM-ELIZABETH-BISLAND's _A Widower Indeed_. But ... wait till after the festivities are over to read it, as the tale is sad." _En attendant_, A Happy New Year to everyone, says

THE BENIGN BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

* * * * *

SIMPLE STORIES.

"BE ALWAYS KIND TO ANIMALS WHEREVER YOU MAY BE!"

FRANK AND THE FOX.

FRANK was a very studious and clever little boy.

He took the keenest delight in music, and when he had mastered his lessons, he was very fond of playing on the concertina, and singing to his own accompaniment. He could already play "_The Bells go a-ringing for Sarah_!" with considerable finish and expression, and since his Uncle DODDLEWIG had presented him with half-a-crown for his performance, he had given the air with variations, and the song with every description of embellishment, all over the paternal mansion, and in most corners of the ancestral estate.

To tell the truth, his family were getting somewhat tired of his continued asseverations concerning the tintinabulatory tribute everlastingly rendered to the excellent young woman. And had he not been so markedly encouraged by rich old Uncle DODDLEWIG, there is every reason to suppose that FRANK and his concertina would have been speedily suppressed.

FRANK heard his Papa lamenting that foxes were so very scarce, that recently they had had no sport whatever. "There must be plenty of foxes in the country," said the Squire, "but they won't show."

Now FRANK had been reading about Orpheus, and how he charmed all the wild beasts with his melody. It was true the boy had not a lyre, but he had no doubt that his concertina would do as well, and he was quite certain he had seen a fox while taking his rambles in Tippity Thicket,

One day when he had a holiday, and his Papa had gone a hunting with his friends, he strolled off with his concertina to endeavour to lure a fox out into the open. He approached the hole where he had previously seen the fox, and sat down, and began to play vigorously on his concertina, and to sing at the top of his voice, "The Bells go a-ringing for _Say_-rah! _Say_-rah! _Say_-rah!" Presently he saw a huge Fox poke his nose out of the hole. He was delighted! He sang and played with renewed energy, and began to walk away, still singing and playing.

The Fox followed, snarling, and snapping, and appearing very angry. The more he played, the more the Fox snarled and snapped. At last the animal became furious, all the hair on its back stood on end, and it began to make short runs with its mouth open at the young musician.

It sprang upon him! He was terrified! He dropped his song and his concertina at the same moment, and scrambled up the nearest tree.

The Fox's fury then knew no bounds; he trampled on the concertina, he bit it, he tore open the bellows, and having reduced it to a shapeless mass, bore it away to his hole.

When the coast was quite clear, FRANK descended, and slunk home.

The next morning one of the keepers found a dead fox. It had apparently died of suffocation, as sixteen ivory concertina-stops were found in its throat.

FRANK now has entirely ceased to believe in Ancient Mythology, and has been even heard to hint that he considers Dr. LEMPRIÈRE a bit of a humbug.

* * * * *

"LOST TO SIGHT, TO MEMORY DEAR."--An animal very difficult to secure again when once off ... and that is ... "a pony," when you've lost it on Newmarket Heath.

* * * * *

LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.

NO. IX.--TO CROOKEDNESS.

I dispense with all formal opening, and I begin at once. I want to tell you a story. Don't ask me why; for, even if I answered the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, you would hardly believe me. Let me merely say that I want to tell you a story, and tell it without much further preface.

Two days ago I chanced, for no special reason, to open the drawers of an old writing-table, which for years past had stood, unused, in a corner of an upper room. In one I found a rusty screw, in another a couple of dusty envelopes, in a third a piece of sealing-wax, half-a-dozen nibs, and a broken pencil. The fourth, and last drawer, was very stiff. For a long time it defied my efforts, and it was only by a great exertion of strength that I was at last able to wrench it open. To my surprise I saw two packets of letters, tied together with faded ribbon. I took them up, and then remembered, with a start, what they were. They were all in their envelopes, and all were addressed, in the same hand-writing, to Sir CHARLES CALLENDER, Bart., Curzon Street, Mayfair. They were his wife's letters, and, after the death of Sir CHARLES, whose sole executor I was, they came into my possession,--Sir CHARLES, for some inscrutable reason, never having destroyed them, although, after his wife's death, the reading of them cannot have given him much pleasure. No doubt I ought to have destroyed them. I had never read them; but there, in that forgotten drawer, they had lain, the silent dust accumulating upon them as the years rolled on. They reminded me of the story I am about to relate--a story of which, I think, no one except myself has guessed the truth, and which, in most of its details, I only knew from a paper, carefully closed, heavily sealed, and addressed to me, which I found amongst my friend's documents. It was in his hand-writing throughout, but I shall tell it in my own words, and in my own way.

Nobody who was about in London Society some thirty years ago, could fail to know or know about the beautiful Lady CALLENDER. She was of a good county family. She was clever and accomplished. She had married a man rich, generous, amiable, and cultivated, who adored her. Unfortunately they had no children, but, in every other respect, Lady CALLENDER seemed to be very justly an object of envy and admiration to most of the men and women of her circle. Personally I had no great liking for her. I don't take any credit for that--far from it. The reason may have been that her Ladyship (although I was one of her husband's best friends, had been his school chum, and had "kept" with him in the same set of rooms at Cambridge, where his triumphs, physical and intellectual, are still remembered) never much cared for me. She could dissemble her real feelings better than any woman I ever knew, she always greeted me with a smile, she even made a parade of taking my advice on little family difficulties, but there was an indefinable something in her manner which convinced me that beneath all her smiles she bore me no good-will. The fact is that, without any design on my part, I had detected her in one or two bits of trickery, and, in what I suppose I must call her heart of hearts, she never forgave me. The truth is, though her guileless husband only knew it too late, she was perhaps the trickiest and the most heartless woman in England. If there were two roads to the attainment of any object, the one straight, broad, smooth and short, the other round-about, obscure, narrow and encompassed with pitfalls and beset by difficulties, she would deliberately choose the latter for no other reason that I could ever see except that by treading it she might be able to deceive her friends as to her true direction. She carried to a fine art the small intrigues, the petty jealousies, the mean manoeuvres in the science of outwitting; the shifts, the stratagems, the evasions by which power in Society is often supposed to be confirmed, reputations are frequently ruined, and lives are almost invariably made wretched. But Sir CHARLES knew none of these things. He was apparently only too proud to be dragged at his wife's chariot-wheels in her triumphant progress. For the strange part of the business is that there was absolutely no need for any of her deeply-laid schemes. Success, popularity and esteem would have come to her readily without them. She was, as I said, beautiful. Innocence seemed to be throned on her fresh and glowing face. Her smile fascinated, her voice was a poem, and she was musical in the best sense of the word at a time when good music, although it might lack popular support, could always command a small band of enthusiastic votaries in London.