Part 1

Punch, or the London Charivari

Volume 107, December 29th 1894

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON

(_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._

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* * * * *

THREE CHRISTMAS GREETINGS.

Before the fireside's ruddy glow I sit, and let my thoughts fly free; Lo, these my Christmas greetings go To three good friends beyond the sea. Vain is the winter tempest's wrack, It cannot keep my greetings back.

Oh wind and rain, and rain and wind, How purposeless and blind ye are, Like fate, for fate was surely blind That bade my three friends range afar. Like mine, perchance, their fancy strays To other scenes and distant days.

Dear FRANK, I think I see you now, My flaxen-haired American, Brave heart, grey eye, unclouded brow, Two stalwart yards of wilful man, How oft in laughter and in song With you I sped the hours along.

Ah me, the days were all too short, Too swift the unreturning hours In that old town of Hall and court, Of ancient gateways flanked with towers, Where once we feared the near exam... And dared the dons, and stirred the Cam.

You went, and now expound the law (As _Bumble_ said, the law's a hass) And argue, as I note with awe, For litigants in Boston, Mass.; And, though you wear no warlike suit, They call you "General" to boot.

And, FRED, how fares it now with you In that drear country of the North? Too great your needs, your means too few, A whim of temper drove you forth. On far Vancouver's shore, alone You hear the sad Pacific moan.

With us, God wot, you little throve; Your life all fire, and storm, and fret, Against relentless fate you strove, But strove in vain--and yet, and yet God shapes in storm and fire his plan, And moulds a world or makes a man.

Good luck be yours on that bleak shore, Some fortunate, some golden prize; Then be it mine to see once more Those friendly, lustrous, Irish eyes. Return and face with us your fate, The world is small and England great.

You shall return and fill your place, But never shall I clasp his hand, Whose bright and smiling boyish face Makes sunshine in the shadowland. Yet shall the night my heart beguile, And let me dream I see him smile.

Your voice I may not hear again, Oh dear and unforgotten friend, Beloved, but ah! beloved in vain, Whom love could mourn, but not defend. Still take, though far and lost you dwell, My love, dear HUGH, and so farewell.

And thus before the fireside's glow I sit and let my thoughts fly free; Lo, these my Christmas greetings go To three good friends beyond the sea; To FRANK, to FRED, and ah, to you, Beloved, irrevocable HUGH.

* * * * *

MR. PUNCH'S CHRISTMAS BOXES.

_To Japan._--A piece of china. _To China._--A japanned hot-water can. _To Russia._--A slice of turkey. _To Turkey._--A russia bag. _To the French Republic._--A napoleon or a louis. _To Hawaii._--A sovereign. _To the King of Spain._--Half a sovereign. _To Don Carlos._--A crown. _To King Milan._--Half a crown. _To the German Emperor._--A few notes, and a good mark (for attention to harmony). _To Mr. Labouchere._--An antique noble.

* * * * *

"SOUND CRITICS."--Musical ones.

* * * * *

* * * * *

TO PHILADELPHIA.

_To Resolve his Doubt._

I have no passion to bestow, My heart no more can beat Like the caged bird that to and fro Flutters your hand to greet.

In a sad peace no raptures stir My twilight years have set, Embalming but in bitter myrrh All I cannot forget.

When hope is dead, and sweet desire And love's brief April rains, Only the spirit to inquire Unconquered still remains.

'Tis that that bows my soul; although I'm prostrate at your feet, Only because I want to know-- That's why I ask you, sweet!

* * * * *

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 DOG ON HIS DAY.

(_A Pitiful Epistle from Pongo to Mr. Punch at Christmastide._)

Every dog has his day--so they say,-- And mine it seems comes round once a year. When all the painter fellows mix their blacks and browns and yellows, And paint me, in some attitude that's queer, And unnatural, and silly; spilling milk or supping skilly; With a bonnet or a bib on, or tied up in bows of ribbon! Oh, the Dogs' "Decline and Fall" might inspire a doggish Gibbon! And they make me most unhappy, and my temper sharp and snappy, Do these pictures poor and pappy. I'm a decent doggish chappie, But in gaudy Christmas Numbers, watching o'er the sloppy slumbers Of a baby pink and podgy; or squatting scared and stodgy, Like a noodle of a poodle--oh! its really wretched foodle!-- At a beetle or a frog staring wildly, in a fog, Or lapping baby's custard, or refusing baby's mustard, Or dress'd up like a guy, or winking t'other eye, In a gown, trimmed with down, like a clown, Or coquetting with a cat, Or chasing that old rat Down that everlasting hole in the stable! On my soul, A dog as is a dog, and not a duffer, When the Yuletide pictures come is bound to suffer Endless agonies of shame at the loss of his good name As the sonsie friend of man, and a watchful guar-di-an, _Not_ an adjunct of the nursery! At this happy anniversary (_Mr. Punch_) I could cr-r-r-runch! The daubers who malign me, and such stupid _rôles_ assign me. _Why, it's worse than hydrophoby!!!_ _Mr. Punch_, do turn on Toby, As our champion canine to request each painter chap To turn off the old stale tap of the porridge and the pap, and the baby in the cap, or the kid (who needs a slap) and the pug (not worth a rap) in an apoplectic nap, the toy-terrier on the snap, or a-sniffing at a trap, or essaying milk to lap, like a small pot-bellied Jap; and all the old clap-trap Which makes a decent doggy in sheer desperation say That he'd rather be a kitten with a ball and string to play, Or live on clockwork rats, or make breakfast on chopped hay, Or be smeared all o'er with mustard like a cold beef sandwich,--Aye! Or--_whisper!_--Bite a Baby!!--on the nose!! in nursery play!!! Better dare renewed distemper than another Christmas Day!! For unless I have your promise--and dear Toby's--I much fear I must spend a pappy Christmas and a yappy New Year!

* * * * *

AN AFTERPART À LA L. C. C.

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.

* * * * *

THOSE LANCERS.

Pretty partner, how are you After such a set of lancers? No one knowing what to do; We alone of sixteen dancers, Knew a figure, one or two. Pretty partner, how are you?

Seven men and seven girls, All in such a fog together; One pair strides, and one pair twirls, Neither of them knowing whether That is what they ought to do, Pretty partner, not like you.

You, who dance so very well, Slight, and light, and quite delightful, Belle who bears away the bell; We were forced to stop, how frightful! Yet I found one thing to do, Pretty partner--look at you.

In that lamentable block, Some poor lout was sure to trample On the lace that trims your frock, Though the space of floor seemed ample Even for his feet which flew, Pretty partner, after you.

Oh, the links of that "grand chain" In such desperate confusion! Feet, not hands, I met with pain, Stamps on toes, kick, bruise, contusion! Yet, alive, I've struggled through, Pretty partner, here with you.

Figures! one alone was good, That was yours, so slim and charming. In your company I would Welcome bruises more alarming. I would dance till all was blue, Pretty partner, if with you.

* * * * *

* * * * *

AT THE WESTMINSTER PLAY

_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:--

"O Mysis, Mysis, tu mea Missis eris!"

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.

* * * * *

Robert Louis Stevenson.

BORN NOVEMBER 13, 1850. DIED DECEMBER 8, 1894.

Brave bringer-back of old Romance From shores so few may see, Who oft hath made our pulses dance With thy word-wizardry. We wished, who loved thee long and well, Thy life as endless as the spell Which lured us lingeringly To loiter, like a moon-witched stream, Through thine enchanted world of dream.

We mused, with much-expectant smile, On that strange life afar, Flower-girt, in yon Pacific isle, Whereto an alien star Had drawn thee from thy northern home, Scourged by a greyer, chillier foam, Yet dear as the white bar Whose snowy break home-haven marks To battered shore-returning barks.

And now across the sundering seas, Delayed, unwelcome, dread, Comes news that breaks our dreamful ease. The Great Romancer dead? It comes like an unnatural blight. That sunny vision quenched in night, That subtle spirit fled? One-half our best soul-life seems gone Out like a spark with STEVENSON.

Enough for fame that hand had wrought, But not enough for those Who dreamed his dream, who thought his thought, And grieve that so should close Fresh-opened doors to Faëryland Before the poet-Prospero's wand Had wrought the spells he chose. Without _him_ amaranth-blooms to cull The world looks Stygian now, and dull.

Teller of Tales, those southern folk Their _Tusitala_ hailed. Samoan hearts may mourn the stroke. We, who must leave unscaled, Save in fond fancy, that high peak Where he is tombed, who, though flesh-weak In spirit never failed More than his stalwart fathers,--we Send half our hearts across the sea.

The lighthouse-builder raised no light That shall outshine the flame Of genius in its mellowest might That beacons him to fame. And Pala's peak shall do yet more Than the great light at Skerryvore To magnify his name, Who mourned, when stricken flesh would tire, That he was weaker than his sire.

Teller of Tales! Of tales so told That all the world must list. Story sheer witchery, style pure gold, Yet with that tricksy twist Of Puck-like mockery which betrays The wanderer in this world's mad maze, Not blindly optimist, Who wooes Romance, yet sadly knows That Life's sole growth is _not_ the Rose.

Dreamer of dreams! Such dreams as draw Glad through the Ivory Gate, In rapt and visionary awe, The soul alert, elate; Eblis obscure, Elysium dim, And a strange Limbo of wild whim, Upon us seem to wait, In solemn pomp, when willing thrall To him who held the keys of all.

Thinker of thoughts, fresh, poignant, fine, Wherein no wit may trace That burthen of the Philistine, Chill, barren Commonplace. Who hath not felt the subtle stroke Which can in one choice phrase invoke The soul of charm and grace, Haunting the ear like an old rhyme, A cherished memory for all time?

No more, no more! We shall not see Again the glorious show; No more will wake the wizardry, Nor the charmed music flow. Samoa's silence holds it hushed, The voice whereat our cheeks have flushed A hundred times; and lo! For happy hours, for haunted days, We can but pay with sad, proud praise!

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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.