OUR CHRISTMAS PARTY.
BY
OLD MERRY,
Author of “A Chat with the Boys on New Year’s Eve;” “Fireside
Chats with the Youngsters;” Editor of “Merry and Wise,” &c.
[Illustration]
London:
JACKSON, WALFORD, & HODDER,
27, PATERNOSTER ROW.
MDCCCLXVII.
LONDON:
UNWIN BROTHERS, GRESHAM STEAM PRESS,
BUCKLERSBURY, E.C.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
Preparations 1
The Party 3
The Meandering Musician 9
Great Reform Debate and Demonstration 21
Round the Fire after Supper 32
Frozen up. W. H. G. KINGSTON 35
A Rescue in the Rocky Mountains. R. M. BALLANTYNE 60
Lost and Found. EDWIN HODDER 74
Castle Connor. MONA B. BICKERSTAFFE 87
The Black Dragoon. SIDNEY DARYL 97
A Christmas Dinner at Dr. Lickemwell’s. R. HOPE MONCRIEFF 112
A Wild Yule E’en. CYNTHA 129
Conclusion 144
OLD MERRY’S CHRISTMAS PARTY.
PREPARATIONS.
“Rebecca, I am going to give a party to some young folks on Christmas
Eve, and so you must hold yourself in readiness for the occasion.”
Rebecca is my housekeeper, the best-hearted old soul that ever lived; she
perfectly agrees with my arrangements in the main, but feels bound, for
some reason which I have never attempted to fathom, invariably to object
to them at the first start, and then to fall into them enthusiastically
afterwards.
“Lor a mussy, Sir! them parties—”
I must here say that Rebecca despises the English Grammar; next to Baron
Munchausen, who she somewhat irreverently calls the “father of lies,” she
objects to Lindley Murray.
It was not very often that she was really “put out” about anything, but
when she was her grammar was much worse than at other times. Just as when
a foreigner, who has lived in England for years, and knows the language
perfectly, gets into a rage, he instinctively falls back upon his native
tongue for expression.
“Lor a mussy, Sir! them parties,” said Rebecca, “is a getting too much of
a good thing, if I may make so bold as to say it. It’s always parties at
this time of the year. You’ll excuse me a mentioning of it, Mr. Merry,”
she continued, “but if I might make so bold again, I should say why don’t
you keep a school, or a sylum, or a hinn, and so you could have the young
people, as you call ’em, always about you?”
Now you must not think that this was an expression of Rebecca’s real
state of feeling, nor that I was in the least degree alarmed or vexed
at the light in which she viewed my proposition. Faithful old servants,
who have lived in one’s family for a generation or so, do get queer
whims, and contract habits which could not be tolerated in upstart new
comers. Rebecca never gives way to an explosion like this if anybody else
is present, and I have two or three alternatives always in reserve for
pacifying her.
Not wishing to use any of the alternatives on the occasion in question, I
merely said—
“Christmas only comes once a year, Rebecca, and I mean, as long as I have
health and strength, to keep up the good old custom of giving Christmas
parties, and I look to you to carry out the arrangements this year in
the same admirable way you have done on so many previous occasions.” If
Rebecca could have blushed, I believe she would have done so at this
compliment, but her blushing days have gone by, so she dropped a mild
curtsey, and said, “It shouldn’t be her fault, please ’eving, that should
prevent this party being the best _we_ had ever given.”
So a council of war was held on the spot. Amelia and the cook were
summoned, paper and pencil were called into requisition, and if a
newspaper reporter, or a secretary of a society, had been present, a
summary of the proceedings would have been given in something like the
following style:—
Moved by Mr. Merry, and seconded by Rebecca—
“That the invitations be issued for six o’clock on Christmas Eve, and
that tea be served up in the breakfast room.”—Carried.
Moved by Rebecca, and seconded by Mr. Merry—
“That, in the opinion of this meeting, it is desirable and advisable that
the fun of the evening should take place in the drawing room; that supper
should be laid in the breakfast room; that the dining room be completely
divested of furniture, to allow plenty of room for dancing, and that the
spare bedroom be appropriated for the necessary costuming required by
those who take part in the charades.”—Carried unanimously.
Moved by the cook, and seconded by Amelia—
“That if false moustachios are required by those who take part in the
charades, young gentlemen be prohibited from using the kitchen fire for
burning the corks necessary for that purpose.”
Moved by Amelia, and seconded by the cook—
“That it is desirable to lock the cupboard in which the gas metre is
kept, and hide the key, as on a previous occasion much inconvenience was
sustained in consequence of one of the visitors having turned off the
gas.”
Moved by Mr. Merry, and seconded by Rebecca—
“That this meeting stands pledged to do its best to make the party
thoroughly pleasant and successful, and that all further arrangements be
left to a sub-committee, to consist of Mr. Merry”—Carried unanimously.
A vote of thanks having been passed to the Chairman for his manly and
impartial conduct in the chair, the meeting broke up amid a general
feeling of satisfaction.
[Illustration]
THE PARTY.
The clock was yet warm with its vigorous efforts to strike the eventful
hour of six on merry Christmas Eve, when a carriage containing the first
arrivals came rattling down the street. There was no mistaking the
energetic rat-tat-tat at the door; or, if there had been, the buzz of
voices was sufficient to inform those inside that Charlie Stanley and
his party were there. As soon as the door was open there was a rush and
a scramble, for those mad young people had made many rash stakes as to
who should be the first to wish Old Merry the compliments of the season.
All stakes, however, were drawn, for the object of their search was
discovered simultaneously by all the party; discovered, too, in the act
of coming down the stairs, with his frill shirt, bald head, and pumps,
glistening in the light of the hall lamps, and a chorus of voices rang
out the welcome old salutation—“A merry Christmas and a happy New Year!”
Charlie and Walter Stanley, and Alec Boyce—the lads who went one summer
with Old Merry to Switzerland—had been entrusted with the preparation of
part of the evening’s amusement. They were constituted masters of the
ceremonies, and had been charged to bottle up all their fun for at least
two days before the party, in order that it might explode and scintillate
for the benefit of the company. So, as a host of packages were put down
in the hall, Charlie said—
“Here are our properties, Mr. Merry—wigs, crinolines, whiskers, royal
robes, banners from the camp of King John, feathers from the chief of the
Mohawks, diamonds lent privately by the secretary of Sinbad the Sailor,
the shield of Achilles, kindly contributed by Mr. Barnum; and here—”
But here he stopped, for the rattle of horses’ feet outside, and a sharp
rap at the door, announced fresh arrivals. Charlie was in a dramatic
humour, so, striking an attitude, he cried—
“By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes;
Open, locks, whoever knocks.
And, guards, what ho! bear hence our treasures to some secret place.”
“Such a getting up-stairs you never did see,” as in a twinkling the
impromptu guards obeyed the mandate of their chief.
Tom and Ada Martin, and the fiddle, were the next to arrive. The fiddle
was Tom’s; his special hobby. No party was complete without it, for if it
were not there neither was Tom. His motto was, “Love me, love my fiddle.”
A merry fellow was Tom; he could sing and play, and the proudest moments
in Ada’s life were when she accompanied him in a solo on his violin.
Moreover, he wrote poetry (?), rattling, merry ditties, that broke out
into exuberant choruses of
And it’s heigh, ho, hum,
With a tum, tum, tum,
Fal lal de riddle ho, tum, tum, tum!
Ada Martin was Tom Martin in the feminine; she had all the boy’s humour,
with the girl’s grace and refinement. Everybody who knew her knew that
she could tell them the last new game, or ask the last new riddle; and if
at a party the fun came to a standstill, and somebody asked “What shall
we do next?” the reply would be sure to come in the shape of a question,
“Where’s Ada Martin?” Ada rejoiced in long curls, treacherous curls,
that had made many a lad fall in love with her; in fact, Frank Edwards
was once heard to say that he should like to win her heart by gallantly
rescuing her from the power of some grim tyrant; or, “Better still,” said
he, “if she would fall into the sea off the pier at Margate, and I could
jump in and save her by catching hold of her beautiful curls, it would be
so jolly!”
Frank Edwards! The next rat-tat announced him and his sister, “Little
Flo,” as he called her at home, though in company she was Florence. Frank
was very fond of his sister; he had a weakness for hair, as we have seen,
and hers descended like a cataract, or, as Frank said, like a Great Flow,
over her neck and shoulders. A bright, merry little fairy was Florence
Edwards, and a very popular young lady. Alec Boyce was nearly on the
point of fighting a duel with Walter Stanley one snowy night, when it was
proposed at a party that she should be carried to the carriage, and it
became a question as to who should do it. Fortunately, however, no blood
was spilt, for the boys clasped hands, and carried her sedan-fashion; and
as she had to put an arm over each shoulder, in order to steady herself,
what could be fairer?
Elasticity runs in some families, as gout does in others, and the
Edwards’ were elastic people. Frank could turn himself into a catherine
wheel, imitate Donato on one leg, dance a hornpipe, or stand on his head
and fire off sham pistols with both hands at once; and as his talent
was quite distinct from that of the musical Tom Martin, or the dramatic
Charlie Stanley, he enjoyed a popularity as great in its way as theirs.
Rat-tat-tat!
The Misses Clara and Alice Stanley, with their music.
Mr. Stanley, with his microscopes.
Miss Marianne Layton, with her doll—white tulle, looped up with spangles.
Mr. Oswald Layton (his first appearance in stand-up collars.)
The Misses Emily and Nelly Cathcart (with their _bran_ new dolls—blue
tarleton, looped with snowdrops).
Master Willie Cathcart, with his dog Leo, who barks for lumps of sugar.
Mr. Cathcart, with a prodigious white vest and a black bâton, “as leader
of the choir.”
Rat-tat-tat!
Misses and Masters, Misters and Mistresses, _ad lib., ad infin._
Tea and coffee at six o’clock—and why that should mean from half-past
six to seven, custom must reply—is much better than tea at six o’clock.
A sit-down tea is a mistake; it tries the temperament, terrifies the
timid, and taxes the talkers, whereas tea and coffee implies wandering
about with a cup in your hand, and spilling it as occasion requires; it
makes work for the lads and pleasure for the lassies, and it breaks the
ice between strangers. Little groups form and chat, and when a joke has
taken with effect, it is passed on to a neighbouring group, and so all
the company gets jocular. For instance, Tom Martin was surrounded by his
favourites, and was replying to their questions as to how his violin had
stood the cold journey.
“Delightfully. But she is now reclining on the couch up-stairs, in order
to get up her strength for the evening.”
“That’s all fiddle de dee, said one.” (Applause.)
“Why do you call the violin she?” asked another.
“Because I have named her Pysche; she has so much life in her,” answered
Tom.
“You are her _sycophant_, then!” said another. (Renewed applause.)
“It seems to me your violin always has a very _guttural_ sound with it,”
remarked Alec Boyce. (Laughter.)
“Yes,” replied Tom Martin; “and no doubt the poet detected the same thing
in other instruments, when he composed those time-honoured lines—
“Hey diddle diddle,
The _cat_ and the fiddle.”
Then the applause reached its climax, and of course the little jokes were
retailed to other groups.
By degrees the company in the tea-room began to decrease. In the cold
months, however temperate the atmosphere may be kept, there is always
a chilliness in passing from one room to another, and especially at
parties. When, therefore, the drawing-room began to fill, Charlie started
a proposition—“Had we not better have a dance to warm us?” and he added,
“It used to be the fashion to terminate a concert with _God save the
Queen_; and now the _National Anthem_ comes first, and it used to be
the fashion to wind up a party with _Sir Roger de Coverley_, but why
should we not begin with it?” Of course nobody knew of any just cause
or impediment, and so the proposition was carried without a dissentient
voice.
Who can describe a party from beginning to end? It would fill a large
book to criticise all the songs and other performances, to chronicle all
the jokes, and to tell again all the tales. And how tame on paper are the
little stories which are told during a quadrille, when the introduction
is given in _La Pantelon_, and the plot commences at _L’Ete_, and the
incidents increase in interest till _Trenise_, and the _dénouement_ is
galloped over in the _Finale_. Well, suffice it to say the fun kept up
unflaggingly, and as the evening advanced, and everybody was in high
spirits, Charlie Stanley collected his “troupe,” and began to make
preparations for a charade. While the folding doors were closed for the
scenery to be placed in one room, and while the seats were being adjusted
in the other, the actors in the charade were in the great excitement of
dressing for their parts. The boys had prepared the performances for the
evening beforehand, and supplied copies to all who were to appear in
the scenes; and, as Charlie was good enough to present Old Merry with
complete copies, we will give them for the benefit of our readers, with
the condition on which they were given to us, namely, that they should
not be too severely criticised from a literary point of view.
A brief overture on the piano, and then Charlie came to the front of the
folding doors, and said:—
“Ladies and Gentlemen, I beg to announce that we are about to act a
burlesque charade, and you will be good enough to try and find out our
word. It is in three syllables; the first act will give two syllables
used as one word, the second act will give the remaining syllable, and
the third act will bring in the whole word. The charade is entitled—
THE MEANDERING MUSICIAN;
or,
THE VITCH!! THE VOW!! AND THE VOUCHER!!
And will be supported by the following powerful cast:—
BERLINDA The “star” of the _Miss Ada Martin_.
evening
RODERIGO PIPKINS The meandering musician,
in love with Berlinda _Master Tom Martin_.
BANQUO BELVIDERE A Rival _Master Frank Edwards_.
THEOPHILUS BALDERDASH Another Rival _Master Alec Boyce_.
MRS. THOMPSON The Witch _Miss Florence Edwards_.
BERLINDA’S PA The Stern Parient _Master Walter Stanley_.
ALONZO NAPOLEON SMITH An American Showman _Master Charlie Stanley_.
_Police, peasants, wax figures, perambulators, &c. &c._
A burst of applause followed the announcement, and was renewed when the
doors were thrown open and Berlinda was discovered leaning out of a
window overlooking the room, with a candle burning by her side to assist
her in viewing the stars, on which she was supposed to be gazing.
BERLINDA (_in a rhapsody addressing the stars_).
O! beaming beauties of the broad and boundless abyss,
Whose whirling worlds seem wondrously whiter than is this.
O! vision! vast and various to my view,
Ye stars, which shine “because you’ve nothing else to do.”
I gaze upon your splendours, so superbly spacious—
Good gracious!
A minstrel wanders forth. I’ll quench the light
And hear his music on the airs of night.
(_Puts out the candle._)
_Enter RODERIGO._
I see her! I see her! I see her at the winder,
It is! my beating heart! it is Berlinda!
Come forth, my lute! ye muses, up above,
Smile while it thus amuses her I love!
(_Cats are heard on the tiles in chorus._)
O, rapture! ’tis Berlinda’s voice I hear,
Those _strains_ are hers—alas! I feel so queer—
Courage, faint heart! thy mistress thou must please,
Pour forth thy lays upon the lazy breeze.
(_Tunes his violin and sings to the air of “Beautiful Star.”_)
Loverly girl, on yonder height,
Sweeter than the (h)owls of night,
Hear thy fond one’s voice to you
Genteely asking, How do you do?
How do you do-oo!
_Chanticleer in the distance._ Cock-a-doodle-do-oo!
_Chorus of Rivals._ How do you do-oo?
Lovely Berlinda, how do you do?
RODER. Ha! there are rivals—such arrivals much I fear—
Hist! they are coming, my idea is to hide here.
(_Hides._)
_Enter BANQUO BELVIDERE. (Anxiously gazes round and then addresses
the window.)_
Berlinda! art thou there, my own Berlinda?
My heart is hot with love—a very cinder—
Alas! she’s gone to bed, she cannot hear,
And I shall go to Bedlam soon I fear.
I place these flowers on the sill within thy reach,
They’re better, p’raps, than silly flowers of speech.
(_Exit._)
RODERIGO (_comes forth and takes the flowers_).
A sweet expression of my love, but not a _dear_ one.
What, another rival? Yes, I think I hear one.
(_Hides._)
_Enter THEOPHILUS BALDERDASH (with a cold in the head—sneezes violently
during his speech)._
This is a scene indeed to foster love,
Brick walls around and chimney-pots above;
Yon chanticleer the guardian bird is,
To join his voice with distant hurdy-gurdies.
All speaks of love, and shall my voice be still?
Nay, perish! Balderdash, an if you will,
But speak!
_Addressing the window_— Berlinda, dearest;
If walls have ears, surely thou hearest;
Hearest thy lover, though his tones be hoarse,
Hearest by means of love’s detective force,
Warm at the heart, though with a cold i’ the head—
(_Sneezes._)
(_Aside._) (By Jove, I really ought to be in bed.)
Accept my love, resist it not, be not so cruel—
(_Sneezes again._)
(_Aside._) (I really must go in for something strong, and gruel.)
I leave this billet-_do_. Read, loved one, its contents;
(_Aside._) (And I’ll go home and seek my night habille_ments_.)
(_Exit._)
_Enter RODERIGO._
A notability, as I’d ability to note. But see,
A witch! a fortune-teller comes! O, criminy!
I’ll bribe the hag to gain Berlinda’s bower,
And then I’ll carry off my love within the hour.
_Enter WITCH._ What ho! midnight marauder.
RODERIGO (_in a whisper, taking her aside_).
Order!
Let’s have no rows that may arouse my bride;
Go you and coax the fair one to my side;
Bid her to fly with me, her lover and her lord,
And you shall have _this note_[1] as your reward.
WITCH (_raps at window and BERLINDA appears_).
Listen, Berlinda. The stars declare thy destiny is set,
Act now, ’tis well, forbear and you’ll regret.
Thy lover waits to bear thee hence—Away!
BERLINDA. Good woman, I have many lovers; say,
Is it Roderigo Pipkins who is near?
RODERIGO. I am here!
BERLINDA. Bless you, dear! Now help me down and fly!
The sun will soon be mounting up the sky.
Farewell, my home! farewell, my pa and ma!
Accept my last adieu. Ta, ta!
(_RODERIGO carries her off the stage_.)
[1] T. Balderdash’s.
ACT II.
SCENE—_a wood. BERLINDA and RODERIGO seated on the ground._
BER. Alas! I’m hungry, love can’t support itself on air.
ROD. I’m much more hungry; think how much I’ve had to _bear_.
BER. Monster! is it for this I left my frugal home in haste,
To fly with you and see this dreadful waste.
Where is our home? where do you mean to go?
ROD. Upon my word, Berlinda, I don’t know;
I think we’ll pic-nic, drink the morning dew,
And eat the berries,—see, I’ve got a few,—
And then we’ll take a quiet stroll to search
For parson, marriage lines, and church,
And then live happy ever after. What d’ye say?
BER. Why, most emphatically, nay!
I call this treatment shameful, sinful, flagrant—
ROD. Come, come Berlinda, let me have no _vague rant_;
You _wander_ in your speech. What is’t you need?
BER. My breakfast! oh, I’m dying for a feed.
ROD. I would I were a bird, and then I might your favour win;
Alas, I can but offer you some scrapings from my violin.
_BERLINDA bursts into a passionate flood of tears, and RODERIGO plays
pathetically “Home, sweet home.” By-and-by the sound of voices and the
tramp of feet are heard in the distance._
BER. O! Roderigo, we’re pursued! they’re armed! what shall we do?
ROD. When they’ve mustered, we shall both get peppered, we are in a
stew.
Is’t _meet_ that we should wait, or shall we fly?
BER. I would _I_ were a bird!
ROD. And so do I.
But, see, your father comes—his passion’s at a pitch,
And he is followed by the rivals; and the witch—
BER. Which it is. O! goodness, what will now become of me?
I’ll climb—but no, they’ll think I’m “up a tree.”
They come. Down, Roderigo; down upon your knees.
ROD. It’s not _an easy_ place, but anything to please.
(_Enter Infuriated Parient, Rivals, Witch, Policeman, and a
Perambulator._)
BERLINDA’S PA. Rogue! villain! rascal! Lend me your ears
That I may pierce them with my taunts and jeers.
I come to claim my daughter you have borne away.
ROD. (_aside._) ’Twere better she had not been born, I say.
BER. PA. And you shall answer for this day’s affray.
ROD. I’m much afraid I shall; but pray be calm.
My hand upon it—I would never do her harm.
BER. PA. Silence, base rogue! My friends, the time is fleeting,
I think we’d better now prorogue this meeting.
RIV. Not till we’ve fought, and thus expressed our hate.
ROD. Good Sirs, I deem that I am _fortunate_.
I’ll fight you on the morrow—not to-day.
Excuse me if I’m acting in a _sordid_ way;
But—
BER. PA. Ho! guards, bring forth the prison van, and bear her hence.
(_They carry BERLINDA to the perambulator—en route she says_:)
Dear Roderigo, dreadful is suspense;
But write to me, prepaid, and when you see your way
All clear, be good enough to name the day.
ROD. (_weeping._) Farewell, Berlinda, fairest of the fair!
BER. Good-bye, cheer up, old chap, and take that ere (hair).
(_Door closes while RODERIGO kisses the ringlet flung to him by
BERLINDA from the perambulator._)
ACT III.
Before the doors are open a servant in livery enters the room, in which
the company are seated, and puts up a placard with the following notice:—
“GREAT ATTRACTION FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY!!
Mr. Alonzo Napoleon Smith, of the Boundless Prairie, America,
begs to announce that he will exhibit his unrivalled
WAX-WORK FIGURES.
_Admission free. Children half-price._
N.B.—NO MONEY RETURNED WITHOUT IT’S BAD.”
Prior to the opening of the doors Berlinda takes her seat among the
audience.
The door opens. A row of figures, covered over with sheets, stand on rout
seats round the room. One or two reclining figures in the foreground.
Overture on the violin, “How doth the little busy bee,” by Roderigo
Pipkins, the meandering musician.
A servant in livery then enters, and uncovers the wax-work figures,
revealing—
JOAN OF ARC, represented by _Miss Florence Edwards_.
QUEEN OF NIGHT _Miss Emily Cathcart_.
FIELD MARSHAL THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON _Master Alec Boyce_.
RICHARD III. _Master Walter Stanley_.
_Lay Figures, &c., &c._
_Enter Alonzo Napoleon Smith, as Lecturer._
Ladies and Gentlemen, at the request of the Universe, seconded by the
United States of America, I have brought my caravan from the Boundless
Prairie, in order to raise the tone of the fine arts in your country, and
to devote the proceeds of the entertainment to the liquidation of your
national debt. No, no! not a word of thanks, I beg. Such an audience as
this before me fills me with awe, and I speak with authority when I say
that had I not a dash of Minerva’s wisdom my nervous system would hardly
stand the ordeal.
I will not trouble you with an account of how I collected the information
which will be contained in my brief lecture. Suffice it to say that a
friend having presented me with a copy of the Bodleian Library, and
having taken apartments in the British Museum for some time past, not to
mention the fact of a visit to the Alexandrian Library prior to the late
disastrous fire, has posted me up in the points which will be brought
under your notice. But as Homer very beautifully says in his last little
work, we have—
“Ad referendum in loco, viva voce summum bonum videlicet.”
Let our business be to show the product of the busy bee, namely, these
“neatly spread” wax figures.
And first let me call your attention to Joan of Arc.
(Joan of Arc moves her head, and raises her hand _mechanically_).
Much mystery attaches to the young person now before us. It is supposed
that she was called Joan _d’Arc_, because we are in the dark as to her
birthplace, unless we accept the idea that she came from Arcadia. She
suffered much from nightmare, and fancied she was riding over France as
its victoress. Consequently she adopted men’s clothes. It is well to
observe too that she cut off her hair before she arrived at _Chinon_. She
headed an army, so the tale goes, of 7,000 men; and with the strength of
her arms the foe was defeated. After which she came to ruin (Rouen), that
is to say she was burnt there.
Virtue and manliness always succeed in the long run, however, and her
successes have been immortalized in Paris by a gorgeous tombstone,
entitled the Arc de Triomphe!
The next figure I shall introduce is one of a paragorical nature. The
Queen of Night, represented by a daughter of Eve. Unseen she spreads her
mantle over the earth, and thus acts the part of a_n_ _it_inerant angel.
The umbrella in her hand is also an emblematic figure, representing the
pernicious influences which attend upon her, and is called the deadly
nightshade. In the absence of any further proofs of the authenticity of
this character there will be an interval of a minute, during which the
band will play.—_Exit._
Roderigo Pipkins immediately strikes up, but suddenly leaves off, takes
out the ringlet from his pocket, and waves it before the audience.
Berlinda hides her face in her pocket handkerchief.
_Roderigo advancing, and whispering to Berlinda_—
“Berlinda is it you dear? do you love me now as then?
O! wilt thou be my bride, love, and not fly oft again?
You will? Then come up quickly—Smith will come ere long;
He’ll be puzzled when he reckons, you’re another figurant!”
_Berlinda stands on a pedestal beside the wax figures, and Roderigo
covers her with a sheet._
_Enter Alonzo Napoleon Smith._
I shall now briefly introduce another well-known character—Field Marshal
the late Duke of Wellington—he will be easily recognized from the fact
of his nasal probus being the most prominent feature of his face. I will
not go all over his history. You remember all about Magna Charta, and
the formation of a body called the Chartists. You know how the Spanish
Armada was defeated in Trafalgar Bay, and how Wellington cheered on his
men, saying, “I’ll be your leader.” You remember that little affair with
the Duchess of Salisbury at the ball at Brussels, and how the Duke was
made a knight of the Garter. Having brought the history thus far up to
the eve of Waterloo, let us confine our attention to that event. And
first, I notice it was not a _bootless_ expedition, for ever since that
event Wellington and Blucher boots have become an institution of your
free and enlightened country. Second, it is a popular fallacy to suppose
that His Grace was in any way connected with the trade of a hatter. When
he said “Up boys and (h)at ’em,” he merely wished his men to give the foe
a bonneting! Moral from the life. He earned a glorious reputation as the
Iron Duke, and his monument overlooking Hyde Park is the finest bit of
_irony_ extant.
Let us now turn to the figure of Richard III. A bad figure, as you will
see; and we learn on the very face of our subject that though deformities
may be put behind one’s back they are not therefore altogether out of
sight. Richard was Duke of Gloster, and it is generally admitted that it
was not the cheese for him to seize the crown in such mighty haste. As
you are aware, one of the main features of his reign was the introduction
of the pillo(w)ry, by which he smothered the two little princes in the
Tower.
And now, ladies and gentlemen, I must draw my entertainment to a close—
ROD. (_aside_). Now screw thy courage to the sticking place.
Here goes!
Ladies and gentlemen, I hope I don’t behave—
A. N. SMITH. Silence, slave!
ROD. Good sir, I crave permission just to say
Before this worthy audience goes away,
There’s still one figure more to show—
A. N. SMITH (_in surprise_). No!
ROD. Indeed there is—one worth her weight in gold.
Berlinda, Roderigo’s bride, behold!
(_Uncovers the figure and leads BERLINDA to the audience._)
Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve played our little game—
We’re satisfied (aint we, Berlinda?) we hope you are the same.
And now as all the parts of our charade you’ve heard,
It only rests with you to say the word.
[_Exit._
The applause was deafening; never did the drawing-room echo back such
clapping of hands and hearty bravos as it did that Christmas Eve; the
doors were closed, but long and loud shouts for Alonzo Napoleon Smith
were raised, and they had again to be opened, for the performers to come
in and make their bows to the audience. Roderigo led in Berlinda, Richard
the Third came arm in arm with Joan of Arc, the Duke of Wellington
chaperoned the Queen of Night, and the livery servant brought in the
meandering musician’s fiddle!
And then came the puzzling part of the affair, to try and find out the
word. One guessed “Audience,” awe-die-hence; another “Entertainment,”
enter-tàen-ment; a third “Overlooking;” and others the most absurd and
improbable words possible, and words which were never introduced into the
charade at all. At last one sharp boy, who had been taking notes between
the acts, stumbled upon the right word, and it was ⸺.[2]
A question now arose as to whether there should be any more charades,
or whether the rooms should be cleared again for more general fun. The
set entertainments carried the day, however, and after an interval for
refreshment, and a little variety in the way of some songs by some of the
young ladies, the loud bell of the town crier was heard in the hall, and
Master Willie Cathcart, who represented that institution, announced—“O
yes! O yes! O yes! a great Reform Debate and Demonstration will take
place in this place on Christmas Eve, of which all persons interested in
the great questions of the day will be pleased to take notice. God save
the Queen.” In double-quick time the company fell into position, and then
came
THE GREAT REFORM DEBATE AND DEMONSTRATION.
The demonstration came first, and consisted of a procession all round
the drawing-room. “See, the Conquering Hero comes,” was struck up on
the piano, and Tom Martin accompanied it on the violin, but having
forgotten to get his instrument in tune with the piano beforehand, played
excruciatingly as he headed the procession. Then came Edward Barnes—
Clenching in his hand, as in a vice,
A banner with the strange device,
“Here we are again!”
A motley crew of reformers followed, some with flags, and some with
rosettes; one boy had some pieces of paper, and was chanting a parody on
Tennyson’s lines, “Sweet and low.” The first verse ran thus:—
“Bright and Lowe, Bright and Lowe,
Members of high degree;
Lowe, Lowe, spout and blow,
But Bright’s got the better of thee.”
Last of all, arm in arm, came the reform agitators. The cheering
that greeted them was loud and long, and when they had elbowed their
way through the crowd, which was purposely arranged so as to make it
difficult, they ascended the platform, which had been reared on the
spot lately occupied by the wax figures. And then, by one of those
transformations which are so easy in fiction and on the stage, the scene
was changed from Hyde Park to the House of Commons, represented by the
platform. Charlie Stanley took the chair as Speaker of the House, and
to the right and left of the table, in places marked “ministerial” and
“opposition,” the members arranged themselves. This arrangement was not
on the ground of political opinion, but it was deemed desirable that,
when any cries of “oh!” or “order!” were to be introduced, it would be
better for those on one side of the speaker to cry down those on the
other side. It was not a full house; only four honourable gentlemen
appeared on the platform beside the Speaker, and they were Messrs.
Walter Stanley, Alec Boyce, Arthur Mortram, and Oswald Layton. Edward
Barnes having carefully arranged his banner so that the motto should
appear above the head of the Speaker, acted as Usher, or Master of the
Ceremonies, and not being very familiar with the proceedings in the
House of Commons, commenced by crying “Silence in the Court,” which
immediately produced an uproar. However, this was soon put down, and then
the Speaker rose and said—
GENTLEMEN,
I think you will agree with me, it would be quite beside the mark
For us to sift the question of the riots in Hyde Park,
Or even bring that _railing_ accusation up again,
Which most suppose was settled then by might and _Mayne_.
We will not name the _Bright_ ideas in fashion long ago,
Nor condescend to thoughts that may be anything like _Lowe_.
Reform debates are very sober things, but still
They don’t go on successfully without a _Mill_.
Stick therefore to your points, and let us hope you’ll bring,
For all who are inclined _to roam_, a _Whalley-ping_.
We meet to-night to take the young idea by storm,
And quote the latest standard for reform.
We vote for Boyhood suffrage—that’s our motto,
We want no Dull uns’ cave, or hole, or grotto,
But urge that all our boys should boldly take their stand,
And in a solemn League go hand in hand,
And try to put down all the wrong that rules
In play-grounds, workshops, cricket-fields, or schools.
“Reform, complete and genuine Reform,” that is our maxim,
No bribery or corruption, or £7 rate to tax him;
But let each boy, who has a good opinion he can quote,
Be free to use, as best he can, his vote.
Now, Gentlemen, the weighty question lies with you,
Sift well its points, and show us something new.
Don’t fear, in studying the welfare of a lad,
To say of shuffling measures, “_Dis really_ is too bad.”
Don’t fear the Opposition, and to each who axes,
Say “Every one for all, and bother taxes.”— (_Cheers._)
Mr. ALEC BOYCE _rose and said_—
I take it that this point is ceded,
Namely, that Universal Boyhood Suffrage is needed.
I fear—(_Opposition, hear! hear!_)
I fear the subject is too vast for me to hold in hand,
So just upon one point I take my stand.
The point, in fine, is this; it’s plain and clear as day,
Reform is greatly needed with our boys at play;
I take it that in this debate the use is,
To “let fly” at our popular abuses.
Now what is it we see in almost every school?
Why right is the exception, wrong the rule.
Mr. WALTER STANLEY (_interrupting_).
I think, if, Mr. Speaker, I might make so bold,
The honourable member should be told—
SPEAKER.
Hold!
My duty is to take down several pegs
Whoever spars at any member when he’s on his legs.
Mr. ALEC BOYCE _resumes_.
The thread of my discourse is tangled; what I want to say
Is this, that boys are often awfully unfair in play,
Trench on the rights of youngsters, tease and frighten,
Make heavier the burdens which they ought to lighten,
Turn bullies, fag the weakest, and, in short,
Do many things which members of a play-ground never ought.
I know a school, not many hundred miles from here,
Where practices prevail which at the least are queer.
For instance, I have sometimes heard a boy declare,
With all the bombast of a champion’s air,
That he was best man in the school; and he would prove his right
By calling any trembling unfledged urchin out to fight;
Now fighting, gentlemen, is not to be applauded, and I say
That he’s the better man who does not fight, but runs away.
(_Opposition, Nay!_)
Neigh as you will, ay, even till you’re _hoarse_,
(_A racy_ bit of humour comes of _course_,)
I’ll say _nae mair_, but still, if fight he must, I hope
You’ll recommend his joining Garibaldi or the Pope.
And in that self-same school an evil still prevails,
Of settling disputes by means of heads and tails.
I hold it, Sir, unparliamentary for us to toss in air
The likeness of our sovereign lady fair,
And make her settle, whether or not she chooses,
Such points as “Heads I win, and tails he loses.”
I move, therefore, as one important clause in our reforming rules,
Leave fighting for the Pope, and “tossing” for his bulls.
Time will not now permit, or I would seek to show
How many more important measures we might take in tow,
And change _in toto_ many evil things which sway
The conduct of Young England when at play.
But as the hour advances, I feel, Sir, it is meet
That I should—er—hem! er—take my seat.
(_Satirical cries of “Hear, hear,” from the Opposition, and immense
applause from Arthur Mortram, the other member on the Ministerial
bench._)
Mr. WALTER STANLEY.
I rise in some surprise, to tell my noble friend,
Who brought his speech to such a cheery end,
That however much he is inclined to tax his mind,
Great faults in play-ground practices to find,
I have no hesitation, er—hem! in declaring,
That while in some degree his feeling sharing,
I cannot be in ignorance of the fact how much he lacked
A forcible expression of his views, and, did I chose,
I think I should be justified in saying
He made foul statements on fair playing.
He stated in a most decisive way—
Mr. ALEC BOYCE.
Allow me just to say—
Mr. WALTER STANLEY.
Eh?
Mr. ALEC BOYCE.
I wish to say in explanation, and for fear—
Mr. OSWALD LAYTON.
Hear! hear!
Mr. ARTHUR MORTRAM.
I rise to order, Mr. Speaker, and should like to know—
CHORUS.
Oh! oh!
Mr. SPEAKER, _in a passion_.
Chair, gentlemen! To wonder now at Balaam’s ass were weak,
It seems the custom for such animals to speak.
Mr. WALTER STANLEY _resumes_.
The point I wish to touch upon, if not amiss, is simply this—
An evil very great prevails, on which some folks are often joking,
I mean in sober seriousness the evil habit some boys have of smoking.
I cannot walk in London through a street
Unless some little rag-a-muffin boys I meet,
Smoking their pipes; or if young gentlemen they are,
Perhaps they sport a penny pickwick, or cigar.
I fear that many honourable members will get warm
At hearing that this habit needs a great reform.
I will not say a word about the habit as indulged by men,
Or raise the question of the “Counterblast” again;
Let each man please himself who’s old enough to know
Whether it’s good or bad, respectable or low.
But if there is a thing that makes me sad,
Or drives me into desperation, nearly mad,
It is to see behind a great cigar
A youngster who, if his good pa and ma
Knew what the little fellow was about,
Would quickly put their tempers, and his smoking, out.
But arguments are needed; it will not take me long
To find a backer to my statement that tobacco smoking’s wrong.
And first—If I’d a puppy, and I wanted all to know
That I could stop his growth and keep him low,
In very early dog days I’d begin
To dose the little fellow well with gin;
And if I wished to enervate a boy,
The fire and vigour of his life destroy,
And all his brightness and his briskness mar,
I’d daily give the little fellow a cigar.
Second—To keep my dog respectable, I’d make him stay at home,
He’d lose his character were he with other dogs to roam;
He’d learn to fight and quarrel, bite and bark—
Mr. A. MORTRAM.
“It is their nature too.”
Mr. WALTER STANLEY.
(The Doctor’s quite beside the mark.)
And when a boy likes smoke, he’s sure to try and find
Some other smoky fellows suited to his mind,
And very soon his native goodness they’ll destroy,
And he will soon become a bacca-nalian boy.
Third. If my pup has been and gone and done what is not right,
’Tis pitiful to see him slinking home at night;
His ears are back, his tail is down, his eyes
Have lost their merriment, and don’t look wise,
And while he suffers justly his disgrace,
He throws a gloom and coldness through the place.
So with a boy who smokes, or acts in any sort
His better sense and conscience seek to thwart,
He soon grows sly and underhanded in his ways,
He spoils his future in his early days;
He apes the man, and when he comes to man’s estate,
The love of boyish recollections turns to hate.
If any one, I care not who he is, is careless as a lad,
Dishonourable, sly, or mean, he’s sure to “turn out bad.”
And he who does a foolish thing, like smoking, let me say,
At once should give it up—it’ll give it him some day.
So, gentlemen, I beg you take this smoking citadel by storm,
And vote for anti-bacca in your measures of Reform.
Mr. A. MORTRAM.
I think the honourable gentleman who just now spoke
In such a piping tone of boys not consuming their own smoke
Should bear in mind in what direction he would cast his pearls,
Our movement takes in boys but not excludes the girls.
(_Cheers in the Ladies’ gallery._)
And therefore his ideas are narrow, unless he meant to try
And show that it was equally injurious for girls to pipe their eye.
The subject of my speech is—to be brief—
Mr. OSWALD LAYTON—That’s a relief.
Mr. ALEC BOYCE—Chair! chair!
Mr. ARTHUR MORTRAM.
Gentlemen, forbear! The sentence I began
Is this. The subject of my speech is “slang;”
We need Reform, a radical reform; we ought to teach
The Saxon, Lindley Murray parts of speech,
Use sparingly flash words imported from abroad,
Not always echoing the late Artemus Ward.
We want to root out words that pass as English in the town,
Learn lessons from, not imitate, a Sketchley’s “Mrs. Brown.”
We ought to cry down common phrases such as these—
“It’s all my eye,” I’m certain that is “not the cheese.”
’Twere better for a boy or girl to sit quite still and dumb
Than call their Father “Governor,” or Mother “Mum.”
Some call their fellows “bloke,” or “thing,” or “cove,”
Appeal to Jingo, Gimini, and George, and Jove;
Are “awfully” delighted, or “hideously” pleased,
Are suited “all to pieces,” or “villanously” teased.
If any man is tipsy they say he’s “screwed,” or “tight;”
Is any one ill-dressed? then he’s a “horrid fright;”
If one’s removed, he’s “mizzled,” “hooked it,” or else “cut;”
If any one is crazy, then he’s “off his nut;”
If appetite is bad, a man is “off his chump;”
Who pays for anything, must first “shell out,” or “stump.”
And so on—I might give a hundred sayings more,
But you would think me green, or p’raps a “bore.”
Yet, gentlemen, I cannot take my seat until I stoutly say
These slang expressions spoil the converse of our day.
They make young people flippant, loose in thought and speech,
And not worse English than worse morals do they teach,
For serious subjects have their slang expressions, but I dare
Not quote them here, so, Mr. Speaker, I forbear.
Yet ere I take my seat, I trust, my honourable friends, you will
Bring in the measure I propose in your forthcoming Bill.
Mr. OSWALD LAYTON.
Mr. Speaker, gentlemen, a certain sage
Was pleased to call our present time the iron age;
I will not argue on that point, but let it pass,
It seems to me the present is the age of brass.
At borrowed phrases the last speaker made a shy
In borrowed jokes allow me to reply—
Well, that the speech last heard was sound, it cannot be denied,
Grant that, and then it will be found, it’s little else beside.
The speech, no doubt, will be immortal of our friend,
For he who hears it, hears it to no end.
(_Mr. W. Stanley, hear! hear!_)
We must admit, though, that his speeches have great weight,
We’ve found it hard to bear them oft of late;
And also that his arguments are quite profound
For not a bit can anybody see the ground.
“Some say his wit’s refined, thus is explained
The seeming mystery—his wit is strained—
No wonder, therefore, the debate falls dead
Beneath such close and constant fire of lead.”
I will not occupy the meeting very long,
I wish to ask one question,—Am I right or wrong?
Each gentleman _exposed_ the faults he had been chiding,
Would it not be better, Sir, to give those faults a _hiding_?
I think we have been nibbling at our subject all the night
Instead of saying all we ought to say outright.
I say, Let every boy and girl throughout the land
On radical reform come boldly out and stand;
Fight against wrong in every shape and dress,
Gain for our slighted cause a sound redress;
Be manly, womanly, in everything they do,
And keep the true and blessed ends of life in view;
Succour the weak, be kind to foe and friend,
Tell old men it is not too late to mend;
Take children tempted into wrong and sin,
And seek for better ends their hearts to win;
And show through life’s dull day, and cloud, and storm,
The peace and shelter found beneath Reform!
(_Loud cheers_)
The Speaker vacates the chair and comes to the front of the platform—
MR. MERRY, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, it is proposed that we should now go
into a Committee of the whole house.
You’ve listened patiently to all that has been spoken—
You listen still, and so we take it as a token
That you approve the measures that we think are needed,
And which, we fear, by many folks are scarcely heeded;
So, you who would enroll yourselves beneath our banner,
Will signify it in the usual manner.
The Government and the Opposition, everybody in the room, and the
servants who were crowding round the door, held up their hands
immediately, and the Bill was carried amid such enthusiasm as is rarely
seen even in the House. And as the speakers came down from the platform,
headed by Tom Martin, who played “We won’t go home till morning,” (no
doubt under the impression that that best expressed the habits of Members
of Parliament,) they were cheered all the way to the refreshment room,
where they amicably settled their political differences over lemonade and
sherry.
* * * * *
How fast time flies when the evening is being merrily spent! Who would
have thought it was supper-time already? But so it was, and the lads and
lasses were fast pairing off for that event, when a loud rat-tat was
heard at the door.
“What, fresh arrivals at this time of night!” said one or two. “I wonder
who it can be!”
“It is a surprise of some sort or other,” said Ada Martin; “I am quite
sure it is. I can tell it by the twinkle in Mr. Merry’s eye.”
Rat-tat, again and again, at the door.
“I can’t bear this suspense any longer,” said Emily Cathcart; “I must
peep.” But the door was closed, and a firm hand on the outside kept it
fast.
“I say it’s a Punch and Judy,” said one.
“No; I say it’s Christy’s Minstrels,” said another.
“I believe it’s fireworks, to go off on the lawn,” said Arthur Mortram.
And in the midst of the speculations the doors were thrown open, and the
visitors were announced:
Mr. W. H. G. KINGSTON.
Mr. R. M. BALLANTYNE.
Mr. EDWIN HODDER.
Mrs. MONA BICKERSTAFFE.
Mr. SIDNEY DARYL.
Mr. R. HOPE MONCRIEFF.
COUSIN CYNTHA.
As each name was announced a buzz of welcome was heard, for every name
was associated with bright and happy recollections, and every one in the
room felt (as every child in the land feels) that the authors of the
tales which had been their delight for years could not be other than
their friends. So there was a great deal of hand-shaking, and many a kind
and cheery word given to the youngsters, and then Old Merry said:
“Let us give one good hearty cheer of welcome to our friends, and then
off to supper. And when that is over we will have our chairs brought
round the fire, and I may promise you, on behalf of my good friends here,
that each in turn will spin you a Christmas yarn. Now, hip! hip!”—and if
the visitors had not been thoroughly accustomed to youngsters they would
have been stunned and staggered at the “hurrah!” which burst from every
lip.
The fund of conversation which the new arrivals furnished for the supper
table was unlimited; but anxiety was so great to be back again in the
drawing-room, that the time usually allowed on such occasions for
refreshment was very much curtailed.
The chandeliers glistened and the fires burnt as they only do on
Christmas Eve. A large ring, with double rows of seats, was made all
round the room, and then the stories commenced. We will give them in the
order in which they came, and omit the occasional interruptions which
attended, and the questions and criticisms which followed, every story.
[2] As some of our young friends may like to guess out the word for
themselves, it is withheld, but will be published in the January number
of “Merry and Wise.”
FROZEN UP; OR, MY POLAR EXPERIENCES.
_By WILLIAM HENRY KINGSTON, Author of “Peter the Whaler,” “Washed
Ashore,” &c., &c._
[Illustration: “In a few minutes an Esquimaux, with his seal spear in
his hand and his dog by his side, stood before us.”—_Page 52._]