PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 99.
December 27, 1890.
[Illustration: 'DRESSED-CRAB']
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
The origin of the phrase, _Le Coup de Jarnac_, is interesting, and
the story is well told by Mr. _MAC_DOWALL in Mac_millan's Magazine_.
Good, this, for "The Two Macs."
[Illustration]
In _The Argosy_, edited by Mr. CHARLES WOOD, there are two good most
seasonable Ghost Stories, by CHARLES W. WOOD, the "Rev. F.O.W." The
first is not new, as there is a similar legend attached to several old
Manor Houses, one of a Sussex Family House, the Baron had first-hand,
from a witness on the premises. It lacked corroboration at the time,
and is likely to do so.
The Letters passing between a fine young English Cantab, "all of the
modern style," and his family at home, are uncommonly amusing. _Harry
Fludyer at Cambridge_ is the title of the book, published by CHATTO
AND WINDUS. Well, to quote the ancient witticism in vogue _tempore
EDOUARDI RECTI et DON PAOLO BEDFORDI_ (the great Adelphoi, or rather
the great "Fill-Adelphians," as they were once called), "Things is
werry much as they used to was" at Cambridge, and University life of
to-day differs very little from that of yesterday, or the day before,
or the day before that. "_Hæc olim meminisse juvabit_," when, half a
century hence, the rollicking author of these letters--which, by the
way, first appeared in _The Granta_--is telling his _Minimus_ what "a
dog," he, the writer, was, and what "a day he used to have," in the
merry time that's past and gone. "His health and book!" quoth the
Baron.
A more muddle-headed story than _The Missing Member_ I have not read
for some considerable time.
The Baron sends HACHETTE & CIE.'S "_Mon Premier Alphabet_," and the
moral tale of "_Mlle. Marie Sans-souci_," up to the nursery where they
will be much appreciated by the little Barons.
"LETT's get a Diary," quoth a Barren Jester, not _the_ Baron DE B.W.,
who, had it not been Christmas time, would have expelled the witty
youth. "No joke, if you please," quoth he, "about LETTS's Diaries. We
may advertise these useful and hardy annuals in canine Latin and say,
'_Libera nos_!' i.e., Letts out!"
BARON DE BOOK-WORMS & Co.
_P.S._ I have it on the best authority that Mrs. SUTHERLAND EDWARDS,
Author of _The Secret of the Princess; a Tale of Country, Camp, Court,
Convict, and Cloister Life in Russia_, is about to produce a highly
sensational work, entitled _The Bargain of the Barmaid; a Story of
Claret, Cheese, Coffee, Cognac, and Cigar Life in London_.
* * * * *
CINDERELLA; FIN DE SIÈCLE.
(_A FAIRY TALE FOR CHRISTMAS._)
The Lady Help was busy at her domestic duties when her Godmother
knocked at the kitchen-door, and entered.
"Alas, poor CINDERELLA!" said the Fairy, in a compassionate tone, "and
so your stepmother and sisters have gone to the Prince's ball, and
left you to cleanse the pots and pans?"
"Thank you," returned her God-daughter; "I am perfectly well satisfied
to be left with my books. As a matter of fact, dances bore me."
And she carelessly glanced at some mathematical works that she had
used when cramming for the Senior Wranglership.
"Nonsense, my dear," responded the well-intentioned Fairy, "Get me a
pumpkin, some mice--"
"Quite out of date," interrupted CINDERELLA. "I presume you intend to
turn the pumpkin into a great coach, and so forth. Eh?"
"Well," admitted the Fairy, taken aback, "ye-es."
"Quite so. Believe me, the idea is distinctly old-fashioned. Pray
understand, I don't say you can't do it. Nowadays, with EDISON and
KOCH, it would be dangerous to suggest that anything was impossible.
No, I merely object to travel in a conveyance that will naturally be
redolent of the odours of the kitchen garden, and to be driven by a
coachman derived from a rodent."
"But this objection is contrary to precedent," urged the Fairy. "You
ought to express unbounded delight, and then depart in your carriage
with the greatest _éclat_ possible."
"You are most kind, but, if I am to do anything of _that_ sort, I
would prefer leaving the matter in the hands of Mr. Sheriff AUGUSTUS
HARRIS who thoroughly understands the entire business."
"It seems to me," said the Fairy, "you are very ungrateful. But surely
you want a magnificent costume?"
"Thanks, no; I get everything from Paris."
"And you think of the feelings of your _modiste_, and ignore those
of your poor old (but well-preserved) Godmother!" And the Fairy was
nearly moved to tears.
"Oh, I did not mean to pain you!" exclaimed CINDERELLA. "Stay, my dear
Lady, do you believe in hypnotism? No? Well, I do, and exercise it.
Pardon me!"
And as she made a few passes, the Fairy sank into a mesmeric trance.
Then, CINDERELLA desired that her Godmother should imagine that she
had been the heroine of a Fairy Story.
"Dear me," cried the now-satisfied dame, as she regained
consciousness; "and so you went to the ball, lost your slipper, and
married the Prince?"
"That was the impression I wished to convey to you. And now, my dear,
good Lady, I am afraid I must ask you to leave me."
And as the Fairy disappeared, CINDERELLA resumed her self-imposed
tasks of making an omelette and squaring the circle.
* * * * *
RE-"MARKS."--New Legal Measure, "One Gill more than equal to Several
Legal Pints." [Formula, 1 Gill = 1 + _x_ pints.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: Sir Charles Russell troubled by a Pair of Gills.]
Mr. GILL objected to Sir CHARLES RUSSELL's yawning in Court; but he
forgot that a Queen's Counsel of Sir CHARLES's standing and reputation
has a right to "open his mouth" pretty wide.
* * * * *
THE KNELL OF HOME RULE.--Par-nell.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A PARLIAMENTARY PANTOMIME OPENING.
(_Seasonable Suggestion to Augustus Druriolanus._)]
* * * * *
BETWEEN THE LEAVES;
OR, HOW TO LET IN THE ADVERTISERS NEATLY.
CHAPTER LXVII.
The fair girl stepped lightly into the room, and, having daintily
removed the dust from her feet by wiping them on one of BIGLOW AND
SONS' Patent Crocodile Matting Rugs (delivered carriage free within a
radius of twelve miles of their establishment at Ludgate Circus) that
was placed before the door, gave a hasty glance round the apartment.
She saw at ones from the octagonal ebonised table three feet six, by
two feet five inches, the afternoon lounge couch (as advertised), the
gent's easy shake-down chair, ladies ditto, and half dozen occasional
chairs, all upholstered in rich material in Messrs. MULGRAVE & Co. of
170, Walbrook, City, E.C.'s best style, that a refined taste inspired
by a wholesome economy had been exercised in the furnishing of the
apartment, and she turned to the old Duke with a grateful nod of
recognition.
"What," he asked, in a feeble voice, "is it my own ANGELICA? Surely it
is! Come, my child, let me look at you?" He turned up the burner of
a BOYCOTLE's Patent Incandescent Gas Lamp (price 13s. 9d. with full
paper of instructions complete), and as he stood erect in his rich
calico-lined fox-fur dressing-gown (supplied in three qualities by
BROHAM & Co, with a discount of 15 per cent. for cash), he looked,
every foot of him, a worthy scion of that ancient family of which he
was the last living representative. "Let me look at you," he again
repeated, drawing his neatly-dressed granddaughter more fully into the
light before him. As it fell upon the graceful curves of her lissom
figure, it was easy to perceive that she was wearing one of Madame
BEAUMONT's celebrated Porcupine Quill Corsets, which lent a wonderful
finish to a two-guinea tailor-made gingham cloth "Gem" costume,
braided with best silk (horn buttons included), which showed off her
young form to such advantage.
He would have added more, but a sudden pallor stole over his
complexion, and he reeled towards a chair.
In an instant the bright girl was on her knees at his side. "Dear
Grandfather, you are faint!" she cried, an expression of alarm
suffusing her beautiful features.
The Duke pointed to a small table--"My Liquid Pork!" he gasped. "Ah!
of course!" was her quick response, as she bounded across the room,
and returned with an eleven-and-sixpenny bottle of "BOLKIN's
Liquid Pork, or, the Emaciated Invalid's Hog-wash"--a stimulating,
flesh-creating, life-sustaining food; sold in bottles at 1s. 1½d.,
2s. 9d., 5s. 7d., and 11s. 6d.,--of which she quickly poured out half
a tumbler, and raised it to the quivering lips of the staggering old
nobleman by her side. "How foolish of me not to have thought of this
before!" she continued, replenishing the glass, which he emptied in
feverish haste.
"I save threepence-halfpenny in a sovereign," he went on, a
wicked twinkle kindling in his eye as he spoke, "by taking the
eleven-and-sixpenny size--and that _is_ a consideration, my dear. If
you don't think so now, with all your young life before you, you will
when you come to be my age!"
[Illustration]
He sank back in his arm-chair as he spoke, apparently about to deliver
himself to the calm delights of a retrospective _rêverie_. But he was
not destined to enjoy it. At that moment a whiff of stifling smoke,
quite choking in its intensity, forced itself under the door. In
another moment the matter was soon explained. With a wild rush the
butler burst into the room.
"Fly, your Grace, for your life!" he cried; "the place is on fire!"
A blaze of flame that followed the terrified menial into the room,
only too truly corroborated his statement. In a another moment the
fire had seized hold of the new furniture, and in greedy fury, as
if it were some demon spirit, licked the walls with great tongues of
flame.
"In the cupboard, my dear," said the Duke, the proud blood of his
race coming to his aid in a perfect and commanding coolness in the
face of the terrible danger that faced him, "you will find three cans
of JOBSON's Patent Fire Annihilating Essence. It is advertised as
infallible. Give one to the butler, take one yourself, and give the
third to me. This appears to be a good opportunity for testing its
efficacy."
The quick bright girl instantly obeyed his injunction. The cans were
distributed, and opened. A colourless gas was liberated. In a few
seconds the flames were entirely quenched.
"Ah!" said the old Duke, flinging himself back into his armchair with
a sigh of relief. "And now, ANGELICA, my dear, you can tell me why you
came to see me!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: A FAIR WARNING.
"DADDY, I WANT YOU TO GIVE ME FIVE SHILLINGS A WEEK POCKET-MONEY!"
"I COULDN'T DO IT, MY LITTLE CHAP. IT'S TOO MUCH!"
"WELL, I MUST HAVE IT. IF YOU WON'T, I SHALL GO AND BET!']
* * * * *
THEORY AND PRACTICE.
(_TO BE REPRESENTED DURING THE PERFORMANCE OF THE CHRISTMAS
PANTOMIME._)
SCENE--_Interior of Private Box. Grandfather and Grandchildren
discovered listening to the Overture. Father and Mother in
attendance._
_Grandfather_. Yes, my dears, I am glad to say that the afterpart is
_not_ to be discontinued. You are to see the Clown, and the Pantaloon,
and the Columbine, and the Harlequin.
[Illustration: Peg-Top after seeing a Pantomime.]
_Chorus of Grandchildren_. Oh! Oh, won't that be delicious!
_Grandfather_. Yes, my dears, you will see the regular old-fashioned
comic business that used to delight _me_ when _I_ was a boy. I
remember when I was about your age, my dears, seeing TOM MATHEWS, and
it was _so_ amusing. He used to sing a song--
_Chorus_ (_interrupting as the Curtain rises_). Hush, Grandpa! it's
going to begin! (_The party subside, and direct their attention to
twenty sets or so of the most magnificent scenery, illustrated by
gorgeous Processions. The hands of the clock revolve, leaving Eight
and reaching Eleven, when Grand Transformation takes place, amidst
various coloured fires. Then enter_ Old Christmas Clown.)
_Old Christmas Clown_. Here we are again! How are you to-morrow?
_Chorus of Children_. Oh, we are _so_ tired! And we have heard that
before!
_Mother_. And I am afraid we shall miss our train.
_Father_. And the roads are _so_ bad!
_Grandfather_. Well, well, perhaps we had better go; but in my time we
all used to enjoy it _so_ much. (_Aside._) And perhaps, after all, the
red-hot poker business _is_ rather stale at the end of the Nineteenth
Century!
[_Exeunt the Party, plus five-sixths of the Audience._
* * * * *
VOCES POPULI.
A CHRISTMAS ROMP.
SCENE--_Mrs. CHIPPERFIELD's Drawing-room. It is after the
Christmas dinner, and the Gentlemen have not yet appeared.
Mrs. C. is laboriously attempting to be gracious to her
Brother's Fiancée, whose acquaintance she has made for the
first time, and with whom she is disappointed. Married Sisters
and Maiden Aunts confer in corners with a sleepy acidity._
_First Married Sister_ (_to Second_). I felt quite sorry for FRED,
to see him sitting there, looking--and no wonder--so ashamed of
himself--but I always will say, and I always _must_ say, CAROLINE,
that if you and ROBERT had been _firmer_ with him when he was younger,
he would never have turned out so badly! Now, there's my GEORGE--&c.,
&c.
[Illustration]
_Mrs. C._ (_to the Fiancée_). Well, my dear, I don't approve of young
men getting engaged until they have some prospects of being able to
marry, and dear ALGY was always my favourite brother, and I've seen so
much misery from long engagements. However, we must hope for the best,
that's all!
_A Maiden Aunt_ (_to Second Ditto_). Exactly what struck _me_, MARTHA.
_One_ waiter would have been quite sufficient, and if JAMES _must_
be grand and give champagne, he might have given us a little _more_
of it; I'm sure I'd little more than foam in _my_ glass! And every
plate as cold as a stone, and you and I the only people who were not
considered worthy of silver forks, and the children encouraged to
behave as they please, and JOSEPH PODMORE made such a fuss with,
because he's well off--and not enough sweetbread to go the round. Ah,
well, thank goodness, we needn't dine here for another year!
_Mr. Chipperfield_ (_at the door_). Sorry to cut you short in your
cigar, Uncle, and you LIMPETT; but fact is, being Christmas night, I
thought we'd come up a little sooner and all have a bit of a romp....
Well, EMILY, my dear, here we are, all of us--ready for anything
in the way of a frolic--what's it to be? Forfeits, games, Puss in
the Corner, something to cheer us all up, eh? Won't anyone make a
suggestion? [_General expression of gloomy blankness._
_Algernon_ (_to his Fiancée--whom he wants to see shine_). ZEFFIE,
you know no end of games--what's that one you played at home, with
potatoes and a salt-spoon, _you_ know?
_Zeffie_ (_blushing_). No, _please_, ALGY! I don't know _any_ games,
indeed, I couldn't, _really_!
_Mr. C._ Uncle JOSEPH will set us going, I'm sure--what do _you_ say,
Uncle?
_Uncle Joseph_. Well, I won't say "no" to a quiet rubber.
_Mrs. C._ But, you see, we can't _all_ play in that, and there _is_ a
pack of cards in the house somewhere; but I know two of the aces are
gone, and I don't think all the court cards were there the last time
we played. Still, if you can manage with what is left, we might get up
a game for you.
_Uncle J._ (_grimly_). Thank you, my dear, but, on the whole, I think
I would almost rather romp--
_Mr. C._ Uncle JOSEPH votes for romping! What do you say to Dumb
Crambo? Great fun--half of us go out, and come in on all-fours, to
rhyme to "cat," or "bat," or something--_you_ can play that, LIMPETT?
_Mr. Limpett_. If I _must_ find a rhyme to cat, I prefer, so soon
after dinner, not to go on all-fours for it, I confess.
_Mr. C._ Well, let's have something quieter, then--only _do_ settle.
Musical Chairs, eh?
_Algy_. ZEFFIE will play the piano for you--she plays beautifully.
_Zeffie_. Not without notes, ALGY, and I forgot to bring my music with
me. Shall we play "Consequences"? It's a very quiet game--you play it
sitting down, with paper and pencil, you know!
_Mr. Limpett_ (_sardonically, and sotto voce_). Ah, this is something
_like_ a rollick now. "Consequences," eh?
_Algy_ (_who has overheard--in a savage undertone_). If that isn't
good enough for you, suggest something better--or shut up!
[_Mr. L. prefers the latter alternative._
_Mr. C._ Now, then, have you given everybody a piece of paper, EMILY?
CAROLINE, you're going to play--we can't leave _you_ out of it.
_Aunt Caroline_. No, JAMES, I'd rather look on, and see you all
enjoying yourselves--I've _no_ animal spirits now!
_Mr. C._ Oh, nonsense! Christmas-time, you know. Let's be jolly while
we can--give her a pencil, EMILY!
_Aunt C._ No, I can't, really. You must excuse me. I know I'm a
wet blanket; but, when I think that I mayn't be with you another
Christmas, we may _most_ of us be dead by then, why--(_sobs_).
_Fred_ (_the Family Failure_). That's right, Mater--trust you to see a
humorous side to everything!
_Another Aunt_. For shame, FRED! If you don't know who is responsible
for your poor mother's low spirits, others do!
[_The Family Failure collapses._
_Mr. Limpett_. Well, as we've all got pencils, is there any reason why
the revelry should not commence?
_Mr. C._ No--don't let's waste any more time. Miss ZEFFIE says she
will write down on the top of her paper "Who met whom" (must be a Lady
and Gentleman in the party, you know), then she folds it down, and
passes it on to the next, who writes, "What he said to her"--the next,
"What she said to him"--next, "What the consequences were," and the
last, "What the world said." Capital game--first-rate. Now, then!
[_The whole party pass papers in silence from one to another,
and scribble industriously with knitted brows._
_Mr. C._ Time's up, all of you. I'll read the first paper aloud.
(_Glances at it, and explodes._) He-he!--this is really very funny.
(_Reads._) "Uncle JOSEPH met Aunt CAROLINE at the--ho--ho!--the
Empire! He said to her, '_What are the wild waves saying?_' and she
said to him, 'It's time you were taken away!' The consequences were
that they both went and had their hair out, and the world said they
had always suspected there was something between them!"
_Uncle J._ I consider that a piece of confounded impertinence!
[_Puffs._
_Aunt C._ It's not true. I _never_ met JOSEPH at the Empire. I
don't go to such places. I _didn't_ think I should be insulted like
this--(_Weeps._)--on Christmas too!
_Aunts' Chorus_. FRED _again_!
[_They regard Family Failure indignantly._
_Mr. C._ There, then, it was all fun--no harm meant. I'll read the
next. "Mr. LIMPETT met Miss ZEFFIE in the Burlington Arcade. He
said to her, 'O, you little duck!' She said to him, 'Fowls are cheap
to-day!' The consequences were that they never smiled again, and the
world said, 'What price hot potatoes?'" (_Everybody looks depressed._)
H'm--not bad--but I think we'll play something else now. [_ZEFFIE
perceives that ALGY is not pleased with her._
_Tommy_. (_To Uncle JOSEPH_). Uncle, why didn't _you_ carve at dinner?
_Uncle J._ Well, TOMMY, because the carving was done at a side
table--and uncommon badly done, too. Why do you want to know?
_Tommy_. Parpar thought you _would_ carve, I know. He told Mummy she
must ask you, because--
_Mrs. C._ (_With a prophetic instinct._) Now, TOMMY, you mustn't tease
your Uncle. Come away, and tell your new Aunt ZEFFIE what you're going
to do with your Christmas boxes.
_Tommy_. But mayn't I tell him what Parpar said, first?
_Mrs. C._ No, no; by and by--not now! [_She averts the danger._
[_Later; the Company are playing "Hide the Thimble;" i.e.,
someone has planted that article in a place so conspicuous
that few would expect to find it there. As each person catches
sight of it, he or she sits down. Uncle JOSEPH is still,
to the general merriment, wandering about and getting angrier
every moment._
_Mr. C._ That's it, Uncle, you're _warm_--you're _getting_ warm!
_Uncle J._ (_Boiling over._) _Warm_, Sir? _I am_ warm--and something
more. I can tell you! [_Sits down with a bump._
_Mr. C._ You haven't _seen_ it! I'm sure you haven't seen it. Come
now, Uncle!
_Uncle J._ Never mind whether I have or have not. Perhaps I don't
_want_ to see it, Sir!
_The Children_. Then do you give it up? Do you want to be told? Why,
it's staring you in the face all the time!
_Uncle J._ I don't care whether it's staring or not--I don't want to
be told anything more about it.
_The Children_. Then you're _cheating_, Uncle--you must go on walking
till you _do_ see it!
_Uncle J._ Oh, that's it, eh? Very well, then--I'll walk!
[_Walks out, leaving the company paralysed._
_Mrs. C._ Run after him, TOMMY, and tell him--quick! [_Exit TOMMY._
_Mr. C._ (_feebly_). I think when Uncle JOSEPH does come back, we'd
better try to think of some game he _can't_ lose his temper at. Ah,
here's TOMMY!
_Tommy_. I _told_ him--but he went all the same, and slammed the door.
He said I was to go back and tell you that you would find he _was_ cut
up--and cut up rough, too!
_Mrs. C._ But what did you tell _him_?
_Tommy_. Why, only that Parpar asked him to come to-night because he
was sure to cut up well. You said I might!
[_Sensation; Prompt departure of TOMMY for bed; moralising
by Aunts; a spirit of perfect candour prevails; names are
called--also cabs; further hostilities postponed till next
Christmas._
* * * * *
NOTE-PAPER CURRENCY AT CHRISTMAS.--We see that a "Riparian" note-paper
has been brought out by Messrs. GOODALL AND SON. This "Riparian
Paper"--rather suggestive of "Rupee Paper"--ought to be as safe as the
Bank. "G. AND SON" (this suggests G.O.M. and Master HERBERT) should
bring out The Loyers' Note-paper, and call it "Papier Mashy."
* * * * *
BLACK AND WHITE; OR, THE PHANTOM STEED!
(_A TYPICAL GHOST STORY FOR CHRISTMAS, BY A WITNESS OF THE TRUTH._)
[Illustration]
I was walking in one of the slums in the neighbourhood of Oxford
Street, some years ago, and always fond of horse-flesh (I had
driven--as a boy--a bathing-machine for my pleasure along the wild
coast line of the great Congo Continent) was greatly attracted by
a hack standing within the shafts of a cart belonging to a funeral
furnisher. Like many of its class, the horse was jet black, with a
long flowing tail and a mane to match. As I gazed upon the creature
the driver came out of the shop (to which doleful establishment the
equipage belonged) and drove slowly away. I felt forced to follow, and
soon found myself outside a knacker's yard. Guessing the intention of
the driver to treat his steed as only fit for canine food, I offered
to purchase the seemingly doomed animal. To my surprise, the man
expressed his willingness to treat with me, and suggested that I might
have the carcase at the rate of 4s. 11¾d. a pound. Considering the
price not excessive, I agreed, and, having weighed the horse at an
automatic weighing machine, I handed over £100--in notes. Then the
first strange thing happened. Before I could replace my pocket-book in
its receptacle in my coat, the driver had absolutely vanished! I could
not see him anywhere. I was the more annoyed at this, as I found that
(by mistake) I had given him notes on the Bank of Elegance, which
everyone knows are of less value than notes on the Bank of England.
However, it was too late to search for the vendor, and I walked
away as I could, leading by the bridle the steed I had so recently
acquired.
It was now necessary to get quarters for the night, but I found, at
that advanced hour, that many of the leading hotels were either full
or unwilling to supply me with a bedroom-and-stable-combined until the
morning. I was refused firmly but civilly at the Grand, the Métropole,
the Grosvenor, and the Pig and Whistle Tavern, South East Hackney.
At the latter caravanserai, the night-porter (who was busying himself
cleaning the pewter pots) suggested that I should go to Bath.
Adopting this idea, I mounted my steed (which answered, after a little
practice, to the name of _Cats'-meat_), and took the Old Kent Road
until I reached St. Albans.
[Illustration: Everything comes to him who _waits_.]
It was now morning, and the old abbey stood out in grand outline
against the glorious scarlet of the setting sun. Entering an inn,
I called for refreshment for man and beast, and, having authority
for considering myself qualified to act as representative of both,
consumed the double portion. Thinking about the whiskey I had just
discussed, as I rode along, I came to a milestone, standing on its
head, and a sign-post in the last stage of hopeless intoxication. It
was here that a police constable turned his lantern upon me with a
pertinacity that apparently was calculated to challenge observation.
Annoyed, but not altogether surprised, I declared my opinion that it
was "all right," and fell asleep. When I awoke, I found that I had
travelled some hundreds of miles, and, strange to say, my horse was as
good as when it had started. From what I could gather from the signs
on the road (I have been accustomed to Forestry from my earliest
childhood), it seemed to me that, while I was slumbering, I must
have passed Macclesfield, Ramsgate, Richmond (both in Surrey and
in Yorkshire), and was now close to the weirdest spot in all
phantom-populated Wiltshire--a place in its rugged desolation
suggestive of the Boundless Prairies and BUFFALO BILL--Wild-Westbury!
Greatly fatigued, I entered a second inn, and enjoyed a hearty meal,
which was also a simple one. I am a liquidarian, and take no animal
or vegetable food, and have not tasted fish for nearly a quarter of a
century.
When I wished to continue my journey to Bath, I found _Cats'-meat_
so disinclined to move, that I thought the best thing to do in the
interest of progress, was to carry him myself. He was very light--so
light that I imagined the automatic weighing-machine must have been
out of order when I tested it. Almost in a trance I walked along,
until, stumbling, I fell, and dropped _Cats'-meat_ into a well. And
then another strange thing happened. The horse with its jet-black tail
and mane, emerged from the water as white as snow! Apparently annoyed
at the treatment to which it had been accidentally subjected, it
fled away, and I lost sight of it amongst the hills that overlook
Wild-Westbury. And then the strangest thing of all happened, and has
been happening ever since!
[Illustration: Interesting to the Medical Profession. "The Annual
Indigest."]
In clear weather, on the side of one of these hills, _Cat's-meat_, in
the habit as he stood when he left the well on that fatal day, may
be seen patiently waiting until the time shall arrive when he shall
receive a coat of blacking, a companion steed to share with him his
labours, and a hearse! I am not the only person who has seen him thus.
The spectre (if it be a spectre) is known for miles around, and has
been watched by thousands. Nay, more. On occasions of great rejoicing,
when merry-making has been the order of the day or night, several
_Cats'-meats_ have appeared to the carousing watchers strangely
blended together. Speaking for myself, if I have seen one I have seen
half-a-dozen--nay, more--with hills to match! And those who do not
believe me can continue the journey I once commenced, and (after
I have wished them a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year) proceed
to--Bath!
* * * * *
CHRISTMAS "CRACKERS."
Plum-pudding never disagrees with me, _however much I take of it_.
No more do mince-pies, _no matter how many I eat_. Steaming
hot-and-strong gin-punch is _the most wholesome beverage_; so,
also, is brandy-punch. It can't harm anybody who, on the Pickwickian
principle, "takes enough of it." Both beverages go admirably with
cigars and pipes. If you have anything like a headache on Boxing-day
morning, depend upon it, it comes from abstemiousness in drinking,
eating, and smoking.
* * * * *
[Illustration: SUGGESTION FOR PICTORIAL DIRECTORY.
"Hide Pa Corner."
Eatin' Plaice.]
* * * * *
LITERARY AND DRAMATIC.--It is now generally known, and, if not, it
is high time it should be, that _A Million of Money_, advertised as
original, is only an instance of genuine "translation" from Old
Drury Lane to Covent Garden, where it ought to continue its previous
success.
* * * * *
SHAKSPEARE AT YULETIDE.--Excellent arrangements at the Lyceum for
Christmas. Genial _Ravenswood_ is to be performed only on a Friday.
For the rest,--no not "the rest" where so much work is involved,--for
"the remainder" of the week, the Master of the Shakespearian Revels
gives us _Much Ado About Nothing_, with our ELLEN and HENRY as
_Beatrice_ and _Benedick_, and with all its memorable glory of costume
and scenery,--a Shakspearian revival well worthy to be reckoned as
among the foremost of all the attractions offered by the theatres this
Christmas.
* * * * *
[Illustration: CHRISTMAS EVE AT THE MOATED GRANGE.
_Emily_ (_in the midst of Aunt Marianna's blood-curdling
Ghost Story_). "HUSH! LISTEN! THERE'S A DOOR BANGING SOMEWHERE
DOWNSTAIRS!--AND YET THE SERVANTS HAVE GONE TO BED. GEORGE, DO JUST
RUN DOWN AND SEE WHAT IT CAN BE!"
[_George wishes himself back at Charterhouse._]]
* * * * *
"KEEP THE POT A-BOILING!"
(_A SEASONABLE SUGGESTION._)
Christmas comes once more,
Well-beloved Old Father!
Though the season's hoar,
Warm his welcome--rather!
Parties come and go,
True to _him_ our heart is,
With his beard of snow,
Best of (Christmas) Parties!
Say the day is chill,
Say the weather's windy,
He brings warm good-will,
Not heart-freezing shindy.
"Union!" is his cry,--
Hearts and hands and voices.
Confraternity
His kind soul rejoices.
When the youngsters slide
On the frozen river.
As they glow and glide,
Do they shrink or shiver?
Nay; nor dread nor doubt
Their brisk sport is spoiling,
Gleefully they shout,
"Keep the Pot a-boiling!"
Keep it? Ay, by Jove!
We are on our mettle.
'Tis a game we love
More than Pot and Kettle.
Poorish sport that same,
Angry mutual blackening.
Here's a merrier game.
Pull up there! Who's slackening?
Not the leader, _Punch_!
On he goes, amazing,
To the rest his hunch
Like a beacon blazing.
Not Old Father X!
How the Ancient goes it!
'Tis a sight to vex
Malice, and he knows it;
Not young Master BULL!
At the game _he_'s handy,
Nor has much the pull
Of his pal, young SANDY;
Not that dark-eyed girl
With her cloak a-flying,
She can swing and swirl
With the boys. She's trying
Everything she knows.
As for Master PADDY,
Whoop there! Down he goes!
Bumped a bit, poor laddy!
What then? At this game
Who would be a stopper
Just because he came
Now and then a cropper?
Up and on once more,
Chance by courage foiling!
Hark the jovial roar!
"Keep the Pot a-boiling!"
Father Christmas, hail!
Sure 'tis flagrant folly
Now to rave and rail.
Truce--beneath your holly!
Darkest England waits
Care Co-operative;
Mood that moat elates
Is to-day--the dative!
You need not doubt,
You're no "Grecian" giver.
Many "cold without,"
Foodless, hopeless, shiver;
Many a poor man's pot,
Even at your season,
With no pudding hot
Bubbles. Is't not treason
Unto more than kings
To waste time in fighting
Whilst such crooked things
Stand in need of righting?
In the name of those
Starving, suffering, toiling,
Let our quarrels close--
"Keep the Pot a-boiling!"
* * * * *
FIGHTING THE FOG.
(_A SEASONABLE HINT._)
Sir,--I have read several letters in the papers complaining of the
fog, and asking not only how one is to protect the system from its
injurious effects, but also soliciting information as to how one is
to safeguard oneself against street accident, if obliged to quit the
premises during its prevalence. The first is simple enough. Get a
complete diver's suit, put it on, and let an attendant follow you with
a pumping apparatus, for the purpose of supplying you with the fumes
of hydro-bi-carbon (DAFFY's solution) in a state of suspension. This
will considerably assist the breathing. To avoid street accident,
wear an electric (SWANN) light, five hundred candle power, on the top
of your hat, round the brim of which, in case of accident, you have
arranged a dozen lighted night-lights. Strap a Duplex Reflector on to
your back, and fasten a Hansom cab-lamp on to each knee. Let a couple
of boys, bearing flaming links, and beating dinner-gongs, clear the
way for you, while you yourself shout "_Here comes the Bogie Man!_"
or any other appropriate ditty, through a fog-horn, which you carry
in one hand, while you spring a policeman's ancient rattle vigorously
with the other. You will, if thus provided, get along capitally.
Be careful at crossings, for your sudden appearance might possibly
frighten an omnibus horse or two, and cause trouble.
I haven't tried all this _yet_ myself, but a friend of mine at Colney
Hatch assures me he has, and found it a great success. As I think,
therefore, it may prove a boon to your numerous readers, I place it at
your disposal with much pleasure, and have the honour to be, Sir,
Your obedient servant, A CAUTIOUS CARD.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "KEEP THE POT A-BOILING!"]
* * * * *
[Blank Page]
THE CHRISTMAS COLLEGE FAIRY.
CHAPTER I.--_THE STRANGE VISITOR._
On the evening of the 24th of December, 1874, the Senior Dean of St.
Michael's, the Reverend HENRY BURROWES, was sitting in his comfortable
rooms in the Great Court. He had, for reasons of his own, decided
to spend the Christmas Vacation in Cambridge. His bed-maker, Mrs.
JOGGINS, had entered a mild protest, but it been unavailing. Mr.
BURROWES was a man of forbidding aspect and of unbending character.
During the five years that he had held his office, he had enforced
discipline at the point of the bayonet, as it were, and he boasted
with pardonable pride that he had broken the spirit of the haughtiest
and least tractable of the Undergraduates. Everybody had been gated at
eight o'clock. Many had been sent down. Tears and denunciations were
alike unavailing. The ruthless Dean had pursued his course without
flinching. A very mild reading-man had attempted his life by dropping
a Liddell and Scott on to his head from a first-floor room. This
abandoned youth had been screened by his comrades, and had ultimately
escaped in spite of the efforts of the justly incensed Dean.
[Illustration]
It was nine o'clock. The bells at St. Mary's were ringing the
customary curfew. The Dean was seated before the fire in his
arm-chair. An open book, a treatise on some abstruse question of pure
mathematics, lay on the table by his side. He was meditating on his
past exploits, and planning new punishments. But somehow there was
a strange sinking at his heart. What could be the reason of it? The
dinner in hall had been of the usual moderate excellence, he had
only drunk a bottle and a half of claret. "Pshaw," he said, "this is
folly. I have not been severe enough. Conscience reproaches me. I am
unmanned." He rose and paced about the room. At this moment his door
opened, and the familiar figure of Mrs. JOGGINS appeared.
"Beg your pardon, Sir," she said, hesitatingly, "I thought you
called."
"No, Mrs. JOGGINS," said the Dean. "I did not call. Are you not rather
late in College? Is it usual for you to stay--" Here the Dean stopped
abruptly. He rubbed his eyes, and clung to his book-shelf for support.
His hair stood on end, and his knees shook. In fact he expressed
terror in a thoroughly orthodox manner, for he had suddenly become
aware that there was in the face of Mrs. JOGGINS a strange radiance,
and that two gossamer wings had suddenly appeared on her back in place
of the substantial shawl she was wont to wear. Mr. BURROWES gazed * *
* then consciousness forsook him.