PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 99.
October 4, 1890.
MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS.
NEW SERIES.--IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT.
This age has been called an Age of Progress, an Age of Reform, an Age
of Intellect, an Age of Shams; everything in fact except an Age of
Prizes. And yet, it is perhaps as an Age of Prizes that it is destined
to be chiefly remembered. The humble but frantic solver of Acrostics
has had his turn, the correct expounder of the law of Hard Cases
has by this time established a complete code of etiquette; the
doll-dresser, the epigram-maker, the teller of witty stories, the
calculator who can discover by an instinct the number of letters in
a given page of print, all have displayed their ingenuity, and have
been magnificently rewarded by prizes varying in value from the mere
publication of their names, up to a policy of life insurance, or a
completely furnished mansion in Peckham Rye. In fact, it has been
calculated by competent actuaries that taking a generation at about
thirty-three years, and making every reasonable allowance for errors
of postage, stoppage _in transitu_, fraudulent bankruptcies and
unauthorised conversions, 120 per cent. of all persons alive in Great
Britain and Ireland in any given day of twenty-four hours, must have
received a prize of some sort.
Novelists, however, have not as yet received a prize of any sort,
at least as novelists. The reproach is about to be removed. A prize
of £1000 has been offered for the best novel by the Editor of a
newspaper. The most distinguished writers are, so it is declared,
entered for the Competition, but only the name of the prize-winner is
to be revealed, only the prize-winning novel is to be published. Such
at least has been the assurance given to all the eminent authors
by the Editor in question. But _Mr. Punch_ laughs at other people's
assurances, and by means of powers conferred upon him by himself for
that purpose, he has been able to obtain access to all the novels
hitherto sent in, and will now publish a selection of Prize Novels,
together with the names of their authors, and a few notes of his own,
wherever the text may seem to require them.
In acting thus _Mr. Punch_ feels, in the true spirit of the newest
and the Reviewest of Reviews, that he is conferring a favour on the
authors concerned by allowing them the publicity of these columns.
Sometimes pruning and condensation may be necessary. The operation
will be performed as kindly as circumstances permit. It is hardly
necessary to add that _Mr. Punch_ will _give his own prize in his own
way, and at his own time_, to the author he may deem the best. And
herewith _Mr. Punch_ gives a specimen of--
NO. I.--ONE MAN IN A COAT.
(_BY_ ARRY O.K. ARRY, _AUTHOR OF "STIGE FICES," "CHEAP WORDS OF A
CHIPPY CHAPPIE," ETSETTERER._)
[PREFATORY NOTE.--This Novel was carefully wrapped up in
some odd leaves of MARK TWAIN'S _Innocents Abroad_, and was
accompanied by a letter in which the author declared that
the book was worth £3000, but that "to save any more blooming
trouble," he would be willing to take the prize of £1000 by
return of post, and say no more about it.--ED.]
CHAPTER I.
It was all the Slavey what got us into the mess. Have you ever noticed
what a way a Slavey has of snuffling and saying, "Lor, Sir, oo'd 'a
thought it?" on the slightest provocation. She comes into your room
just as you are about to fill your finest two-handed meerschaum with
Navy-cut, and looks at you with a far-away look in her eyes, and a
wisp of hair winding carelessly round the neck of her print dress. You
murmur something in an insinuating way about that box of Vestas you
bought last night from the blind man who stands outside "The Old King
of Prussia" pub round the corner. Then one of her hairpins drops into
the fireplace, and you rush to pick it up, and she rushes at the same
moment, and your head goes crack against her head, and you see some
stars, and a weary kind of sensation comes over you, and just as you
feel inclined to send for the cat's-meat man down the next court to
come and fetch you away to the Dogs' Home, in bounces your landlady,
and with two or three "Well, I nevers!" and "There's an imperent
'ussey, for you!" nearly bursts the patent non-combustible bootlace
you lent her last night to hang the brass locket round her neck by.
POTTLE says his landlady's different, but then POTTLE always was
a rum 'un, and nobody knows what old rag-and-bone shop he gets his
landladies from. I always get mine only at the best places, and
advise everybody else to do the same. I mentioned this once to BILL
MOSER, who looks after the calico department in the big store in the
High Street, but he only sniffed, and said, "Garne, you don't know
everythink!" which was rude of him. I might have given him one for
himself just then, but I didn't. I always was a lamb; but I made up my
mind that next time I go into the ham-and-beef shop kept by old Mother
MOSER I'll say something about "'orses from Belgium" that the old lady
won't like.
Did you ever go into a ham-and-beef shop? It's just like this. I went
into MOSER'S last week. Just when I got in I tripped over some ribs of
beef lying in the doorway, and before I had time to say I preferred my
beef without any boot-blacking, I fell head-first against an immense
sirloin on the parlour table. Mrs. MOSER called all the men who were
loafing around, and all the boys and girls, and they carved away at
the sirloin for five hours without being able to get my head out.
At last an old gentleman, who was having his dinner there, said he
couldn't bear whiskers served up as a vegetable with his beef. Then
they knew they'd got near my face, so they sent away the Coroner and
pulled me out, and when I got home my coat-tail pockets were full of
old ham-bones. The boy did that--young varmint! I'll ham-bone him when
I catch him next!
CHAPTER II.
Let me see, what was I after? Oh, yes, I remember. I was going to
tell you about our Slavey and the pretty pickle she got us into. I'm
not sure it wasn't POTTLE'S fault. I said to him, just as he was
wiping his mouth on the back of his hand after his fourth pint of
shandy-gaff, "POTTLE, my boy," I said, "you're no end of a chap for
shouting 'Cash forward!' so that all the girls in the shop hear you
and say to one another, 'My, what a lovely voice that young POTTLE'S
got!' But you're not much good at helping a pal to order a new coat,
nor for the matter of that, in helping him to try it on." But POTTLE
only hooked up his nose and looked scornful. Well, when the coat came
home the Slavey brought it up, and put it on my best three-legged
chair, and then flung out of the room with a toss of her head, as much
as to say, "'Ere's extravagance!" First I looked at the coat, and then
the coat seemed to look at me. Then I lifted it up and put it down
again, and sent out for three-ha'porth of gin. Then I tackled the
blooming thing again. One arm went in with a ten-horse power shove.
Next I tried the other. After no end of fumbling I found the sleeve.
"In you go!" I said to my arm, and in he went, only it happened to be
the breast-pocket. I jammed, the pocket creaked, but I jammed hardest,
and in went my fist, and out went the pocket.
Then I sat down, tired and sad, and the lodging-house cat came in and
lapped up the milk for my tea, and MOSER'S bull-dog just looked me
up, and went off with the left leg of my trousers, and the landlady's
little boy peeped round the door and cried, "Oh, Mar, the poor
gentleman's red in the face--I'm sure he's on fire!" And the local
fire-brigade was called up, and they pumped on me for ten minutes, and
then wrote "Inextinguishable" in their note-books, and went home; and
all the time I couldn't move, because my arms were stuck tight in a
coat two sizes too small for me.
CHAPTER III.
The Slavey managed--
[No, thank you. No more.--ED.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _His Reverence_. "DINNER, 7:30. I'LL GIVE YOU A QUARTER
OF AN HOUR'S GRACE!"
_His Irreverence_. "THEN COMMENCE AT 7:30, AND I'LL BE THERE AT
7:45!"]
* * * * *
FAVOURITE TOOL OF RAILWAY COMPANIES.--A Screw-Driver!
* * * * *
[Illustration: "C'EST MAGNIFIQUE! MAIS--"
_Mr. Bull_ (_Paymaster_). "WELL, WHAT DO YOU THINK OF IT?"
_Mr. Punch_ (_Umpire-in Chief_). "FINE RIDER--FINE HORSE! BUT--AS A
CAVALRY SOLDIER--HAS TO LEARN HIS BUSINESS!"]
["How then about the British Cavalry of September, 1890? A
spectator who has taken part in modern regular war, and has
watched the manoeuvres, said one day to me when I accosted
him, in an apologetic tone, 'I have hitherto done your Army
injustice, I will not do so again; I had no idea how well
your officers and your troopers ride,--they are very fine
horsemen.' There he stopped; I waited for more, but he had
ended; his silence was a crushing criticism, unintentionally
too severe, but very true.... I assert, therefore, that at
this moment, our Cavalry is inefficient, and not prepared
for war."--_The Times Military Correspondent_.]
AIR--"_TALLY-HO!_" (_FROM THE BALLIOL SONG-BOOK._)
"Of all the recreations with which mortal man is blest"
(Says BALLIOL's Song) "fox-hunting still is pleasantest and best."
A Briton in the saddle is a picture, and our pride,
In scarlet or in uniform at least our lads can _ride_.
Away, away they go,
With a tally, tally-ho!
With a tally, tally, tally, tally, tally, tally-ho!
But riding, for our Cavalry, is, after all, not all.
To lead the field, to leap a fence, to bravely face a fall,
Are well enough. And first-rate stuff from the hunting-field may come,
But something more is wanted when Bellona beats her drum,
And calls our lads to go,
With a rally, rally-ho! &c.
Good men and rattling horses are not all that England needs;
She wants sound knowledge in the men, and training in the steeds.
Scouting and reconnaissance are not needed for the fox,
Nor "leading in big masses" for the furious final shocks,
When away the troopers go,
With a rally, rally, ho! &c.
But when a squadron charges on the real field of war,
Courage and a good seat alone will not go very far;
Our lads must "know their business," and their officers must "lead,"
Not with cross-country dash alone, but skill and prudent heed,
When away the troopers go,
With a rally, rally, ho! &c.
War's field will test the Cavalry, or clad in blue or red;
In all things they must "thorough" be, as well as thorough-bred.
"Heavy" or "light," they'll have to _fight_; not such mad, headlong fray,
As marked for fame with pride--and shame--that Balaklava day,
When away our lads did go,
With a rally, rally, ho! &c.
Eh? "Inefficient," Mr. BULL, "and not prepared for war?"
That judgment, if 'tis _near_ the truth, on patriot souls must jar.
And _Mr. Punch_ (Umpire-in-Chief) to JOHN (Paymaster), cries,
"You'll have to test the truth of this before the need arise
For our lads away to go.
With a rally, rally-ho!" &c
And since that Soldier's incomplete for _Duty_ unprepared,
Although he's game to dare the worst that ever Briton dared,
To supplement our trooper's skill in saddle, pluck and dash,
You must have more manoeuvres, JOHN, and--if needs be,--_more cash!_
Then away away we'll go
With a tally rally-ho!
And never be afraid to face the strongest, fiercest foe.
* * * * *
[Illustration: JOURNALISM IN FRANCE. JOURNALISM IN ENGLAND. (A
Contrast.)]
* * * * *
HAD HE SUCCEEDED!
(_A POSSIBLE PAGE IN FRENCH HISTORY THAT PROBABLY WILL NEVER BE
WRITTEN._)
The General-President had been established at the Elysée for
some three months, when his _aides-de-camp_ found their labours
considerably increased. At all hours of the day and night they were
called up to receive persons who desired an interview with their chief
and master. As they had received strict orders from His Highness
never to appear in anything but full uniform (cloth of gold tunics,
silver-tissue trousers, and belts and epaulettes of diamonds) they
spent most of their time in changing their costume.
"I am here to see anyone and everyone," said His Highness; "but I look
to you, Gentlemen of the Ring, I should say Household, to see that I
am disturbed by only those who have the right of _entrée_. And now,
_houp-là!_ You can go."
Thus dismissed, the unfortunate _aides-de-camp_ could but bow,
and retire in silence. But, though they gave no utterance to their
thoughts, their reflections were of a painful character. They felt
what with five reviews a day, to say nothing of what might be termed
scenes in the circle (attendances at the Bois, dances at the Hôtel de
Ville, and the like), their entire exhaustion was only a question of
weeks, or even days.
One morning the General-President, weary of interviews, was about to
retire into his _salle-à-manger_, there to discuss the twenty-five
courses of his simple _déjeuner à la fourchette_, when he was stopped
by a person in a garb more remarkable for its eccentricity than its
richness. This person wore a coat with tails a yard long, enormous
boots, a battered hat, and a red wig. A close observer would have
doubted whether his nose was real or artificial. The strangely-garbed
intruder bowed grotesquely.
"What do you want with me?" asked the General-President, sharply. "Do
you not know I am busy?"
"Not too busy to see me," retorted the unwelcome guest, striking up a
lively tune upon a banjo which he had concealed about his person while
passing the Palace Guard, but which he now produced. "I pray you step
with me a measure."
Thus courteously invited, His Highness could but comply, and for some
ten minutes host and guest indulged in a breakdown.
"And now, what do you want with me?" asked the General-President when
the dance had been brought to a satisfactory conclusion.
"My reward," was the prompt reply.
"Reward!" echoed His Highness. "Why, my good friend, I have refused
a Royal Duke, an Imperial Prince, a Powerful Order, and any number of
individuals, who have made a like demand."
"Ah! but they did not do so much for you as I did."
"Well, I don't know," returned the General-President, "but they parted
with their gold pretty freely."
"Gold!" retorted the visitor, contemptuously, "I gave you more
than gold. From me you had notes. Where would you have been without
my songs?" He took off his false nose, and thus enabled the
General-President to recognise the "Pride of the Music Halls!"
"You will find I am not ungrateful," said the Chief of the State, with
difficulty suppressing his emotion.
His Highness was as good as his word. The next night at the _Café
des Ambassadeurs_ there was a novel attraction. An old favourite was
described in the _affiches_ as _le Due de Nouveau-Cirque_.
The reception that old favourite received in the course of the
evening was fairly, but not too cordial. But enthusiasm and hilarity
reached fever-heat when, on turning his face from them, the audience
discovered that their droll was wearing (in a somewhat grotesque
fashion) the _grand cordon_ of the Legion of Honour on his back! Then
it was felt that France _must_ be safe in the hands of a man whose
sense of the fitness of things rivalled the taste of the pig whose
soul soared above the charm of pearls!
* * * * *
SCOTT-FREE; OR, RAVENSWOOD-NOTES WILD.
ACT I.--A grand old Castle in the distance, with foreground of rude
and rugged rocks. Around the rugged rocks a quaint funeral service.
HENRY IRVING, "the Master" not only of _Ravenswood_, but the art of
acting (as instanced by a score of fine impersonations), flouts the
veteran comedian, HOWE; and, Howe attired? He is in some strange
garb as a nondescript parson. Then "Master" (as the _Sporting Times_
would irreverently speak of him) soliloquises over Master's father's
coffin. Arrival of _Sir William Ashton_. Row and flashing of steel
in torchlight. Appearance of one lovely beyond compare--ELLEN TERRY,
otherwise _Lucy Ashton_; graceful as a Swan. Swan and Edgar. Curtain.
[Illustration: MR. IRVING MAKING HIS GREAT HIT. THE BULL'S-EYE!
After such a hit,--"there is no cause for fear now!"]