Chapter 1

Produced by V. L. Simpson, Malcolm Farmer and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 103.

DECEMBER 24, 1892.

* * * * *

YULE-TIDE--OLD AND NEW.

AT THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE CENTURY.

And they made merry in the good old fashion. The pictures on the walls were covered with holly and mistletoe. They had come from British woods. Then the tables groaned with Christmas cheer. The baron of beef was flanked with plum-pudding and mince-pies. There never was a more jovial crew. The compliments of the season were passed round, and the Christmas Waits, singing their Christmas carols, were entertained right royally. For was it not a time of peace and good will? Then there was a mighty laugh. A huge joke had been perpetrated. Grandfather had been asleep, and he was telling the youngsters, who had been playing a round game, the character of his dream.

"I give you my word it is true," said the old man. "Yes, I actually forgot it was Christmas!"

"But it was only in your dreams, Grandpapa," urged one of his descendants.

"Yes, but that was bad enough," cried the old man in a tone of self-reproach, "fancy forgetting Christmas--even in one's dreams! Everything seems changing nowadays!"

But the Grandfather was wrong--the Christmas bills were unchangeable. And ever will be!

AT THE END OF THE CENTURY.

And certainly it was dull enough in all conscience. Nowadays everything is dull. Although it was towards the end of December, the room was decorated with summer flowers. They had come from Algeria. Then the side-table was spread with a _recherché_ repast, for they were all going to dine _à la Russe_. But the guests were sad and thoroughly bored. They had sent a policeman after the itinerant street-musicians, with the desired result. Inside and outside silence reigned triumphant. Was it not a time for "moving on" and threatening "six weeks without the option of a fine"?

Then there was a deep groan. A young man--somebody's Grandson--suggested a round game. At first the suggestion was received with derision.

"You can't get up a Missing Word Competition," said one. "No, my Grandson, you can't."

"Can't I?" said the youngster, who had been called 'Grandson.' "Can't I? Look here, I will write out a Word, and I will bet you none of you will guess it."

And "Grandson" wrote out a Word on a piece of paper, and sealed it in a packet. Then he called out the sentence, "The present season of the year is known as----"

Then they all tried to guess it. Some one said "unfavourable," another "pleasant," a third "dreary," and a fourth "troublesome."

But they all were wrong.

At last the sealed-up packet was produced, and opened. For the first time there was a smile when the Word was known.

"Who would have thought of it?" was the cry.

The word chosen was "Christmas."

"Fancy anyone remembering Christmas! Even for a Missing Word Competition! Everything seems changing nowadays!"

But the Grandson was wrong--his Christmas bills were unchangeable. And ever will be!

* * * * *

"ART COMPETITIONS."

"Since these competitions were started, the public had been educated in artistic matters, and their judgment was almost equal to that of the members of the Royal Academy."--_Mr. Poland's Speech in the "Missing Word" case._

Mr. Poland said, at Bow Street, Choosing pictures thus imparts Judgment good as that of those treat- Ed as foremost in the arts.

Hitherto each paid his shilling At the House of Burling_ton_, Gazed at pictures, feeble, thrilling, Bad or good, and wandered on--

Stared with awe-struck admiration At "the Picture of the Year," Gained artistic education In a stuffy atmosphere.

Then all changed; he paid his shilling And he sent his coupon in To a weekly paper, willing To discriminate the tin;

And be wisely praised or blamed, yet He knew nothing of design, The BRIDGE of Bow Street claimed yet One more shilling as a fine.

Oh, rejoice, Academicians! Learned BRIDGE knew what to do; Artisans or mechanicians Might have grown as wise as you.

Which would sadden any just man, And might make an angel weep-- DICKSEE distanced by a dustman, STOREY staggered by a sweep!

BOUGHTON beaten by a baker, Housemaids humbling helpless HOOK; STONE surpassed by sausage-maker, COOPER conquered by a cook!

CROWE or CROFTS crushed by a cow-boy, MILLAIS made by milkmen mad, PETTIE plucked by any ploughboy, LEIGHTON licked by butcher's lad!

It effected all you care for, But Sir JOHN has pulled you through; Bold Bow-Street's Beak is, therefore, No Bridge of Sighs for you

* * * * *

"A NOTE ON THE APPRECIATION OF GOLD."--Send a five-pound note (verified by the Bank of England) to our office, and we will undertake to get it changed _immediately_, and thereupon to hand over to the Bearer, in exchange for the note, _two golden sovereigns, and one golden half-sovereign, ready cash_. This will show what is _our_ appreciation of gold.

* * * * *

"I confess it does seem to me that certain decisions made by a competent tribunal hare rendered it extremely doubtful whether there is a single one of the 670 gentlemen who now compose the House of Commons, who might not find himself, by some accident, unseated, if a full investigation were made into everything that had taken place in his constituency, say, during the ten years preceding his candidature."--_Mr. Balfour at Sheffield._

_M.P. (of any Party you please), loquitur:--_

PHEW! It's all very fine, when you gather to dine, And to blow off the steam, while you blow off your 'bacca, (As the farmers of Aylesbury did, when their wine Was sweetened with "news from the Straits of Malacca"); But things are much changed since the voters of Bucks Flushed red with loud fun at the phrases of DIZZY, And M.P.'s are dreadfully down on their lucks, Since BALFOUR'S confounded "tribunals" got busy.

What precious stiff posers to loyal Primrosers Are offered by Rochester, Walsall, and Hexham! Platform perorators, post-prandial glosers, Must find many points to perplex 'em and vex 'em. It bothers a spouter who freely would flourish Coat-tails and mixed tropes at political dinners, When doubts of his safety he's driven to nourish, Through publicans rash and (electoral) sinners.

Good lack, and good gracious! One may be veracious, And look with disgust upon bribes and forced bias, Yet owing to "Agents" more hot than sagacious, _Appear_ as _Autolycus-cum_-ANANIAS. One might just as soon be a Man-in-the-Moon, Or hark back at once to the style of Old Sarum. That Act (Corrupt Practices) may be a boon. But the way they apply it seems most harum-scarum.

Should a would-be M.P. ask old ladies to tea, Or invite male supporters to crumpets or cricket; Should a snug Party Club prove a trifle too free, Or give an equivocal "treat," or hat-ticket; A seven years' nursing of Slopville-on-Slime, A well-fought Election and Glorious Victory (Crowed o'er by proud Party prints at the time) May--lose you your Seat. It does seem contradictory.

Of course, my good friends, one would not say a word, Against England's glory--Electoral Purity! Suspect _me_ of slighting that boon? Too absurd! But what good's a Seat without _some_ small security. To fight tooth and nail, land a win, and then fail Along of dishon--I mean o'er-zealous "Agents"-- Well, well, I don't wish at our Judges to rail, But--putting it plainly--I fear it won't pay, gents.

'Tis hard to attend a political feast, And strut like a peacock, and crow like a bantam, Yet feel at one's back, like a blast from the east, A be-robed and be-wigged and blood-curdling law phantom. Stentorian cheers, and uproarious hear-hears, Though welcome, won't banish the sense of "wet-blanket" (That's INGOLDSBY'S rhyme), when Petition-bred fears Conjure up a grim Skeleton (Judge) at the Banquet!

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE SHORTEST DAY.

SHORT verse We need, Most terse Indeed, That it-- This lay-- May fit This day. Short sight Of sun. Long night, Begun At four, Sunshine Once more At nine. A. M. Meets eyes Of them Who rise If no Fog hide-- Then woe Betide; The day That ought To stay So short A space Can't show Its face Below. But when It goes, Why then One knows New Year Will soon Be here-- Then June, So bright! So sweet! So light! We'll greet The day That's long With gay, Glad song--

Excessively long-footed verse will undoubtedly characterise what we say, For LONGFELLOW'S longest lines skip along when we've long longed for the Longest Day.

(_Signed_) TOUCHSTONE.

* * * * *

MILITARY MOTTO FOR THE NEW SOUTH LONDON OPHTHALMIC HOSPITAL OPENED LAST FRIDAY BY THE DUKE OF YORK.--"Eyes right!"

* * * * *

THE CHOICE OF BOOKS.

To various opinions the quidnuncs give voice, But the best "choice of books" means--the books of your choice.

* * * * *

THE LAST WORD.

(_A Domestic Drama of the Day before Yesterday._)

SCENE.--_The Breakfast Room at Linoleum Lodge, the suburban residence of_ SAMUEL STODGEFORD, Esq. Mr. _and_ Mrs. STODGEFORD, _their son_ PARMENAS, _and daughters_ POMPILIA _and_ PRISCILLA, _discovered at breakfast._

_Mr. Stodgeford._ We shall probably get it by the second post, and though the delay is--ah--to some extent, annoying, we must not allow ourselves to be unduly impatient. Personally, I regard these--ah--weekly competitions as chiefly valuable in providing an innocent form of domestic recreation, and an interesting example of the--ah--value of words.

_Parmenas S._ The value of _one_ word, I should say, Father. Last week, as there were very few who guessed right, it amounted to a considerable sum.

_Mr. S._ That is a stimulant to ingenuity, no doubt, with some minds, but let us put that aside. We feel some natural curiosity to know whether we have selected the missing adjective, and I see no reason myself to doubt that our united efforts will this time be crowned with success.

_Pompilia._ It is almost impossible that it won't be _one_ of the two hundred and fifty we sent in.

_Parmenas._ I drew up a list of synonyms which, I flatter myself, was practically exhaustive.

_Priscilla._ I dreamt I heard a voice saying quite clearly in my ear, "Nonsensical! nonsensical!"--like that--so I sent it in the first thing next morning.

_Mr. S._ These--ah--supernatural monitions are not vouchsafed to us without a purpose. It _may_ be "nonsensical."

_Mrs. S._ The only two words _I_ could think of were, "absurd" and "idiotic," and I'm afraid they haven't much chance.

_Mr. S._ I wouldn't say that, SOPHRONIA. It is not always the most appropriate epithet that--let me run over the paragraph again--where is last week's paper? Ah, I have it. (_He procures it and reads with unction._) "The lark, as has been frequently observed by the poets, is in the habit of ascending to high altitudes in the exercise of his vocal functions. Scientific meteorologists, it is true, do not consider that there is any immediate danger of a descent of the sky, but many bird-catchers of experience are of opinion that, should such a contingency happen, the number of these feathered songsters included in the catastrophe would, in all probability, be simply----" It might be "idiotic," of course, but I fancy "incalculable," or "appalling" would be nearer the mark.

_Parmenas._ Too obvious, _I_ should say. If you had adopted a few more of the words I got from _Roget's Thesaurus_, we should have been safer. Sending in a word like "disgusting" was sheer waste of one-and-twopence! And as for POMPILIA, with her synonyms to "sensational," and PRISCILLA, with her rubbishy superstition, depend upon it, _they_'re no good!

_Pompilia._ You think you know so much, because you've been to London University--but _we've_ been to a High School; so we're not absolute _idiots_. PARMENAS!

_Priscilla._ And I'm sure people have dreamt which horse was going to win a race over and over again!

_Mr. S._ Come, come, let us have none of these unseemly disputes! And, when you compare a literary competition with--ah--a mere gambling transaction, PRISCILLA, you do a grave injustice to us all. You forget that we have, all of us, worked hard for success; we have given our whole thoughts and time to the subject. I have stayed at home from the office day after day. Your mother has had no leisure for the cares of the household; your brother has suspended his studies for his approaching examination, and your elder sister her labours at the East End--on purpose to devote our combined intelligence to the subject. And are we to be told that we are no better than the brainless multitude who speculate on horse-racing! I am not _angry_, my child, I am only--(_Enter_ ROBERT, _the_ Page, _with a paper in a postal wrapper.) Tiddler's Miscellany_--ha, at last! Why didn't you bring it up before, Sir? You must have known it was important!

_Robert._ Please, Sir, it's on'y just come, Sir.

_Mr. S. (snatching the paper from him, and tearing it open; the other members of the family crowd round excitedly)._ Now we shall see! Where's the place? Confound the thing! Why can't they print the result in a----(_His face falls._) What are you waiting for, Sir? Leave the room!

[_To_ ROBERT, _who has lingered about the sideboard._

_Robert._ Beg pardon, Sir, but would you mind reading out the Word--'cause I'm----

_The Family._ Read the Word, Papa, do!

_Mr. S. (keeping the Journal)._ All in good time. (_Addressing_ ROBERT.) Am I to understand, Sir, that you have actually had the presumption to engage in this competition?--an uneducated young rascal like you!

_Robert._ I didn't mean no harm, Sir, I sent in nothink--it was on'y a lark, Sir!

_The Family (dancing with suspense)._ Oh, never mind ROBERT now, Father--do read out the Word!

_Mr. S. (ignoring their anxiety)._ If you sent in nothing, Sir, so much the better. But, in case you should be tempted to such a piece of infatuation in future, let me tell you this by way of--ah--warning. I and my family, have, with every advantage that superior education and abilities can bestow, sent in, after prolonged and careful deliberation, no less than two hundred and fifty separate solutions, and not a single one of these solutions, Sir, proves to be the correct one!

_The Family (collapsing on the nearest chairs)._ Oh, it can't be true--one of them _must_ be right!

_Mr. S._ Unfortunately, they are not. I will read you the sentence as completed. _(Reads.)_ "Should such a contingency happen, the number of these feathered songsters included in the catastrophe would, in all probability, be simply--ah--_nought_!" Now I venture to assert that nothing short of--ah--absolute genius could possibly----(_To_ ROBERT.) What do you mean by interrupting me, Sir?

_Robert._ Please, Sir, _I_ said nothink, Sir!

_Pompilia._ Oh, what _does_ it matter? Give me the paper, Papa. _(She snatches it.)_ Oh, listen to this:--"The number of solutions sent in was five hundred thousand, which means that twenty-five thousand pounds remain for division. The only competitor who gave the correct solution was Mr. ROBERT CONKLING, of Linoleum Lodge, Camberwell...." _Oh!_ Why, that's _you_, ROBERT!

_Robert._ Yes, Miss, I told you I said "Nothink," Miss. I'm sure if I'd thought----

_Mr. S. (gasping)._ Twenty-five thousand pounds! Ah, ROBERT, I trust you will not forget that this piece of--ah--unmerited good fortune was acquired by you under this humble roof. Shake hands, my boy!

_Pompilia._ Wait, Papa--don't shake hands till I've done--_(continuing)--_"Mr. CONKLING, however, having elected to disregard our conditions, requiring the solution to be written out in full, and to express the word "Nought" by a cipher, we cannot consider him legally entitled to the prize----"

_Mr. S._ How dare you use my private address for your illiterate attempts, Sir?

_Prisc. (seizing the paper)._ Why don't you read it all?----"We are prepared, nevertheless, to waive this informality, and a cheque for the full amount of twenty-five thousand pounds, payable to his order, will be forwarded to Mr. CONKLING accordingly----"

_Mr. S._ Well, ROBERT, you deserve it, I must say--shake hands!--I--ah--_mean_ it.

_Robert._ Thankee, Sir, I'm sure--it was Cook and JANE 'elped me, Sir, but--(_dolefully_)--I sold my chanst to the butcher-boy, for tuppence and a mouth-orgin, Sir.

_Mr. S._ You unspeakable young idiot! But there, you will know better another time; and now go out at once, and order five hundred copies of _Tiddler_--a periodical which offers such intellectual and--ah--substantial advantages, deserves some encouragement. (_Exit_ ROBERT.) Now Mother, PARMENAS, girls--all of you, let us set to work, and see--just for the--ah--fun of the thing--if we can't be more fortunate with the _next_ competition. We'll have Cook and JANE, and--ah--ROBERT in to help; the housework can look after itself for once ... what is it _now_, PRISCILLA?

_Prisc. (faintly)._ I've just seen this. (_Reads._) "In consequence of the recent decision at Bow Street, those who send solutions for this, and any future competitions, will not be required to forward any remittance with their coupons----"

_Mr. S._ (_approvingly_). An admirable arrangement--puts a stop at once to any pernicious tendency to--ah--speculation!

_Prisc._ (_continuing_)--"and successful competitors must, we fear, be content with no other reward than that of honourable mention."

_Mr. S._ Here, send after ROBERT, somebody! It's scandalous that the precious time of a whole family should be frittered away in these unedifying and--ah--idiotic competitions. I will not allow another _Tiddler_ to enter my house!

_Robert_ (_entering with his arms full of "Tiddlers"_). Please, Sir, I brought a 'undred, Sir, and they'll send up the rest as soon as ever they----Oh Lor, Sir, I on'y done as I was told, Sir!

[_He is pounced upon, severely cuffed by a righteously indignant family, and sent flying in a whirlwind of tattered "Tiddlers," as the Scene closes._

* * * * *

LAYS OF MODERN HOME.

THE MUFFIN MAN.

Ah! welcome, through autumnal mist, For each returning ruralist, Waif metropolitan, to list Thy tinkle unto.

No sound of seas or bees or trees Can Londoners so truly please-- The cheapest epicure with ease Thy dainties run to.

They need not, like the fruits on sticks, The fruits Venetian boyhood licks, A voice with operatic tricks Their praise to trumpet.

The simple bell shall, fraught with sense Of teapot, urn, and hearth intense. Best herald thee and thy commensurable crumpet.

Lives there a cit with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said, "This is my crisp, my native-bred, My British muffin!"?

Let picturesque Autolyci Their cloying foreign dainties cry; _I_ don't see much to buy, not I, Such messy stuff in!

Mysterious vagrant, dost prepare Thyself that inexpensive fare; Thyself, partake of it--and _where?_-- The boon thou sellest?

'Tis Home, where'er it be; thy load Can cheer the pauper's dark abode, And lack of it, with gloom corrode The very swellest.

There are who deem it vulgar fun For dressy bachelors to run Themselves to stop thee; I'm not one So nicely silly:

_I_'m not ashamed to track thy way, And test the triumphs of thy tray, And bring them back in paper, say, To Piccadilly.

Yes, heedless of a gibing town, To hand them PHYLLIS, sit me down, And wait, till they come up in brown And glossy sections.

Then, brew my cup--the best Ceylon-- And, bidding care and chill begone, Concentre heart and mouth upon Thy warm perfections.

* * * * *

MONTECARLOTTERY.

[It remains true that for those who want a brief and exhilarating change, and are glad to reap for the nonce the harvest of a quiet eye, there are spots within the borders of England which, both in climate and in scenery, can vie with the proudest and most vaunted watering-places of the Sunny South."--_Daily Paper._]

_Damon on the Riviera, to Pythias at Torquay._--"Here I am, by the blue Mediterranean! At least, the attendant of the sleeping-car says the Mediterranean is somewhere about, only, as a violent rain-storm is going on, we can't see it. Very tired by journey. Feel that, after all, you were probably right in deciding to try the coast of Devonshire this winter, instead of Riviera."

_Pythias at Torquay, to Damon at Nice._--"Coast of Devonshire delightful, so far. Pleasant run down from London by G. W. R.--only five hours. Thought of and pitied your crossing to Calais, and long night-and-day journey after. You should just see our geraniums and fuchsias, growing out-of-doors in winter! Mind and tell me in your next how the olives and orange-trees look."

_Damon to Pythias._--"Olives all diseased--have not seen an orange-tree yet--there is my reply to the query in your last. Hitherto I have not had much opportunity of seeing anything, as the mistral has been blowing, and it has been rather colder than England in March. Wretched cold in my head. No decent fires--only pine-cones and logs to burn, instead of coal! Wish I were at Torquay with you!"

_Pythias to Damon._--"Sorry to hear that Riviera is such a failure. More pleased than ever with Devonshire. Glorious warm sunshine to-day. Natives say they hardly ever have frost. Children digging on sand on Christmas Eve--too hot for great-coat. Rain comes down occasionally, but then it dries up in no time. Quite a little Earthly Paradise. Glad I found it out."

_Later from Damon._--"Riviera better. Mistral gone. Sun warm, and have seen my first orange-tree. Have also found that there's a place called Monte Carlo near Nice. Have you ever heard of it? There's a Casino there, where they have free concerts. Off there now!"

_Later from Pythias._--"After all, Devonshire _is_ sometimes a little damp. Yes, I _have_ heard of Monte Carlo Casino, and I wish there was anything of the sort at Torquay. Walks and drives pretty, but monotonous. Hills annoying. Still, evidently far superior to any part of Riviera.

_Still later from Damon._--"Glorious place, Monte Carlo. Superb grounds! Scenery lovely, and Casinery still lovelier! And, between ourselves, I have already more than paid for expenses of my trip by my winnings at the Tables. No time for more just now. Must back the red!"