Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, December 24, 1892
Author: Various
Editor: F. C. Burnand
Release date: January 11, 2007 [eBook #20338]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20338
Credits: Produced by V. L. Simpson, Malcolm Farmer and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
He. "A—don't you find Existence an awful Bore?"
She. "A—well, some People's existence—most decidedly!"
And they made merry in the good old fashion. The pictures on the walls were covered with holly and mistletoe. They had come from British woods. Then the tables groaned with Christmas cheer. The baron of beef was flanked with plum-pudding and mince-pies. There never was a more jovial crew. The compliments of the season were passed round, and the Christmas Waits, singing their Christmas carols, were entertained right royally. For was it not a time of peace and good will? Then there was a mighty laugh. A huge joke had been perpetrated. Grandfather had been asleep, and he was telling the youngsters, who had been playing a round game, the character of his dream.
"I give you my word it is true," said the old man. "Yes, I actually forgot it was Christmas!"
"But it was only in your dreams, Grandpapa," urged one of his descendants.
"Yes, but that was bad enough," cried the old man in a tone of self-reproach, "fancy forgetting Christmas—even in one's dreams! Everything seems changing nowadays!"
But the Grandfather was wrong—the Christmas bills were unchangeable. And ever will be!
And certainly it was dull enough in all conscience. Nowadays everything is dull. Although it was towards the end of December, the room was decorated with summer flowers. They had come from Algeria. Then the side-table was spread with a recherché repast, for they were all going to dine à la Russe. But the guests were sad and thoroughly bored. They had sent a policeman after the itinerant street-musicians, with the desired result. Inside and outside silence reigned triumphant. Was it not a time for "moving on" and threatening "six weeks without the option of a fine"?
Then there was a deep groan. A young man—somebody's Grandson—suggested a round game. At first the suggestion was received with derision.
"You can't get up a Missing Word Competition," said one. "No, my Grandson, you can't."
"Can't I?" said the youngster, who had been called 'Grandson.' "Can't I? Look here, I will write out a Word, and I will bet you none of you will guess it."
And "Grandson" wrote out a Word on a piece of paper, and sealed it in a packet. Then he called out the sentence, "The present season of the year is known as——"
Then they all tried to guess it. Some one said "unfavourable," another "pleasant," a third "dreary," and a fourth "troublesome."
But they all were wrong.
At last the sealed-up packet was produced, and opened. For the first time there was a smile when the Word was known.
"Who would have thought of it?" was the cry.
The word chosen was "Christmas."
"Fancy anyone remembering Christmas! Even for a Missing Word Competition! Everything seems changing nowadays!"
But the Grandson was wrong—his Christmas bills were unchangeable. And ever will be!
"Since these competitions were started, the public had been educated in artistic matters, and their judgment was almost equal to that of the members of the Royal Academy."—Mr. Poland's Speech in the "Missing Word" case.
"A Note on the Appreciation of Gold."—Send a five-pound note (verified by the Bank of England) to our office, and we will undertake to get it changed immediately, and thereupon to hand over to the Bearer, in exchange for the note, two golden sovereigns, and one golden half-sovereign, ready cash. This will show what is our appreciation of gold.
"I confess it does seem to me that certain decisions made by a competent tribunal hare rendered it extremely doubtful whether there is a single one of the 670 gentlemen who now compose the House of Commons, who might not find himself, by some accident, unseated, if a full investigation were made into everything that had taken place in his constituency, say, during the ten years preceding his candidature."—Mr. Balfour at Sheffield.
M.P. (of any Party you please), loquitur:—
Uncle John (losing his money and his temper). "Now, Jane, do me a Favour for once, and don't show your Hand!"
Aunt Jane (whose best Cards her Partner has invariably over-trumped). "I can't help it. You show your Hands, and I'm sure they're no Beauties!" [After this, there's a prospect of a very pleasant evening.
(Signed) Touchstone.
Military Motto for the New South London Ophthalmic Hospital opened last Friday by the Duke of York.—"Eyes right!"
Scene.—The Breakfast Room at Linoleum Lodge, the suburban residence of Samuel Stodgeford, Esq. Mr. and Mrs. Stodgeford, their son Parmenas, and daughters Pompilia and Priscilla, discovered at breakfast.
Mr. Stodgeford. We shall probably get it by the second post, and though the delay is—ah—to some extent, annoying, we must not allow ourselves to be unduly impatient. Personally, I regard these—ah—weekly competitions as chiefly valuable in providing an innocent form of domestic recreation, and an interesting example of the—ah—value of words.
Parmenas S. The value of one word, I should say, Father. Last week, as there were very few who guessed right, it amounted to a considerable sum.
Mr. S. That is a stimulant to ingenuity, no doubt, with some minds, but let us put that aside. We feel some natural curiosity to know whether we have selected the missing adjective, and I see no reason myself to doubt that our united efforts will this time be crowned with success.
Pompilia. It is almost impossible that it won't be one of the two hundred and fifty we sent in.
Parmenas. I drew up a list of synonyms which, I flatter myself, was practically exhaustive.
Priscilla. I dreamt I heard a voice saying quite clearly in my ear, "Nonsensical! nonsensical!"—like that—so I sent it in the first thing next morning.
Mr. S. These—ah—supernatural monitions are not vouchsafed to us without a purpose. It may be "nonsensical."
Mrs. S. The only two words I could think of were, "absurd" and "idiotic," and I'm afraid they haven't much chance.
Mr. S. I wouldn't say that, Sophronia. It is not always the most appropriate epithet that—let me run over the paragraph again—where is last week's paper? Ah, I have it. (He procures it and reads with unction.) "The lark, as has been frequently observed by the poets, is in the habit of ascending to high altitudes in the exercise of his vocal functions. Scientific meteorologists, it is true, do not consider that there is any immediate danger of a descent of the sky, but many bird-catchers of experience are of opinion that, should such a contingency happen, the number of these feathered songsters included in the catastrophe would, in all probability, be simply——" It might be "idiotic," of course, but I fancy "incalculable," or "appalling" would be nearer the mark.
Parmenas. Too obvious, I should say. If you had adopted a few more of the words I got from Roget's Thesaurus, we should have been safer. Sending in a word like "disgusting" was sheer waste of one-and-twopence! And as for Pompilia, with her synonyms to "sensational," and Priscilla, with her rubbishy superstition, depend upon it, they're no good!
Pompilia. You think you know so much, because you've been to London University—but we've been to a High School; so we're not absolute idiots. Parmenas!
Priscilla. And I'm sure people have dreamt which horse was going to win a race over and over again!
Mr. S. Come, come, let us have none of these unseemly disputes! And, when you compare a literary competition with—ah—a mere gambling transaction, Priscilla, you do a grave injustice to us all. You forget that we have, all of us, worked hard for success; we have given our whole thoughts and time to the subject. I have stayed at home from the office day after day. Your mother has had no leisure for the cares of the household; your brother has suspended his studies for his approaching examination, and your elder sister her labours at the East End—on purpose to devote our combined intelligence to the subject. And are we to be told that we are no better than the brainless multitude who speculate on horse-racing! I am not angry, my child, I am only—(Enter Robert, the Page, with a paper in a postal wrapper.) Tiddler's Miscellany—ha, at last! Why didn't you bring it up before, Sir? You must have known it was important!
Robert. Please, Sir, it's on'y just come, Sir.
Mr. S. (snatching the paper from him, and tearing it open; the other members of the family crowd round excitedly). Now we shall see! Where's the place? Confound the thing! Why can't they print the result in a——(His face falls.) What are you waiting for, Sir? Leave the room!
[To Robert, who has lingered about the sideboard.
Robert. Beg pardon, Sir, but would you mind reading out the Word—'cause I'm——
The Family. Read the Word, Papa, do!
Mr. S. (keeping the Journal). All in good time. (Addressing Robert.) Am I to understand, Sir, that you have actually had the presumption to engage in this competition?—an uneducated young rascal like you!
Robert. I didn't mean no harm, Sir, I sent in nothink—it was on'y a lark, Sir!
The Family (dancing with suspense). Oh, never mind Robert now, Father—do read out the Word!
Mr. S. (ignoring their anxiety). If you sent in nothing, Sir, so much the better. But, in case you should be tempted to such a piece of infatuation in future, let me tell you this by way of—ah—warning. I and my family, have, with every advantage that superior education and abilities can bestow, sent in, after prolonged and careful deliberation, no less than two hundred and fifty separate solutions, and not a single one of these solutions, Sir, proves to be the correct one!
The Family (collapsing on the nearest chairs). Oh, it can't be true—one of them must be right!
Mr. S. Unfortunately, they are not. I will read you the sentence as completed. (Reads.) "Should such a contingency happen, the number of these feathered songsters included in the catastrophe would, in all probability, be simply—ah—nought!" Now I venture to assert that nothing short of—ah—absolute genius could possibly—— (To Robert.) What do you mean by interrupting me, Sir?
Robert. Please, Sir, I said nothink, Sir!
Pompilia. Oh, what does it matter? Give me the paper, Papa. (She snatches it.) Oh, listen to this:—"The number of solutions sent in was five hundred thousand, which means that twenty-five thousand pounds remain for division. The only competitor who gave the correct solution was Mr. Robert Conkling, of Linoleum Lodge, Camberwell...." Oh! Why, that's you, Robert!
Robert. Yes, Miss, I told you I said "Nothink," Miss. I'm sure if I'd thought——
Mr. S. (gasping). Twenty-five thousand pounds! Ah, Robert, I trust you will not forget that this piece of—ah—unmerited good fortune was acquired by you under this humble roof. Shake hands, my boy!
Pompilia. Wait, Papa—don't shake hands till I've done—(continuing)—"Mr. Conkling, however, having elected to disregard our conditions, requiring the solution to be written out in full, and to express the word "Nought" by a cipher, we cannot consider him legally entitled to the prize——"
Mr. S. How dare you use my private address for your illiterate attempts, Sir?
Prisc. (seizing the paper). Why don't you read it all?——"We are prepared, nevertheless, to waive this informality, and a cheque for the full amount of twenty-five thousand pounds, payable to his order, will be forwarded to Mr. CONKLING accordingly——"
Mr. S. Well, Robert, you deserve it, I must say—shake hands!—I—ah—mean it.
Robert. Thankee, Sir, I'm sure—it was Cook and Jane 'elped me, Sir, but—(dolefully)—I sold my chanst to the butcher-boy, for tuppence and a mouth-orgin, Sir.
Mr. S. You unspeakable young idiot! But there, you will know better another time; and now go out at once, and order five hundred copies of Tiddler—a periodical which offers such intellectual and—ah—substantial advantages, deserves some encouragement. (Exit Robert.) Now Mother, Parmenas, girls—all of you, let us set to work, and see—just for the—ah—fun of the thing—if we can't be more fortunate with the next competition. We'll have Cook and Jane, and—ah—Robert in to help; the housework can look after itself for once ... what is it now, Priscilla?
Prisc. (faintly). I've just seen this. (Reads.) "In consequence of the recent decision at Bow Street, those who send solutions for this, and any future competitions, will not be required to forward any remittance with their coupons——"
Mr. S. (approvingly). An admirable arrangement—puts a stop at once to any pernicious tendency to—ah—speculation!
Prisc. (continuing)—"and successful competitors must, we fear, be content with no other reward than that of honourable mention."
Mr. S. Here, send after Robert, somebody! It's scandalous that the precious time of a whole family should be frittered away in these unedifying and—ah—idiotic competitions. I will not allow another Tiddler to enter my house!
Robert (entering with his arms full of "Tiddlers"). Please, Sir, I brought a 'undred, Sir, and they'll send up the rest as soon as ever they——Oh Lor, Sir, I on'y done as I was told, Sir!
[He is pounced upon, severely cuffed by a righteously indignant family, and sent flying in a whirlwind of tattered "Tiddlers," as the Scene closes.
[It remains true that for those who want a brief and exhilarating change, and are glad to reap for the nonce the harvest of a quiet eye, there are spots within the borders of England which, both in climate and in scenery, can vie with the proudest and most vaunted watering-places of the Sunny South.—Daily Paper.]
Damon on the Riviera, to Pythias at Torquay.—"Here I am, by the blue Mediterranean! At least, the attendant of the sleeping-car says the Mediterranean is somewhere about, only, as a violent rain-storm is going on, we can't see it. Very tired by journey. Feel that, after all, you were probably right in deciding to try the coast of Devonshire this winter, instead of Riviera."
Pythias at Torquay, to Damon at Nice.—"Coast of Devonshire delightful, so far. Pleasant run down from London by G. W. R.—only five hours. Thought of and pitied your crossing to Calais, and long night-and-day journey after. You should just see our geraniums and fuchsias, growing out-of-doors in winter! Mind and tell me in your next how the olives and orange-trees look."
Damon to Pythias.—"Olives all diseased—have not seen an orange-tree yet—there is my reply to the query in your last. Hitherto I have not had much opportunity of seeing anything, as the mistral has been blowing, and it has been rather colder than England in March. Wretched cold in my head. No decent fires—only pine-cones and logs to burn, instead of coal! Wish I were at Torquay with you!"
Pythias to Damon.—"Sorry to hear that Riviera is such a failure. More pleased than ever with Devonshire. Glorious warm sunshine to-day. Natives say they hardly ever have frost. Children digging on sand on Christmas Eve—too hot for great-coat. Rain comes down occasionally, but then it dries up in no time. Quite a little Earthly Paradise. Glad I found it out."
Later from Damon.—"Riviera better. Mistral gone. Sun warm, and have seen my first orange-tree. Have also found that there's a place called Monte Carlo near Nice. Have you ever heard of it? There's a Casino there, where they have free concerts. Off there now!"
Later from Pythias.—"After all, Devonshire is sometimes a little damp. Yes, I have heard of Monte Carlo Casino, and I wish there was anything of the sort at Torquay. Walks and drives pretty, but monotonous. Hills annoying. Still, evidently far superior to any part of Riviera."
Still later from Damon.—"Glorious place, Monte Carlo. Superb grounds! Scenery lovely, and Casinery still lovelier! And, between ourselves, I have already more than paid for expenses of my trip by my winnings at the Tables. No time for more just now. Must back the red!"
Reply to above from Pythias.—"Very sorry to hear you have been playing at the Tables. Sure to end in ruin. By the bye, what system do you use? The subject interests me merely as a mathematical problem, of course. Wish I could pay expenses of my Devonshire hotel so easily. But then one ought to have some reward for visiting such a dreary place as the Riviera, with its Mistrals, and diseased olive-trees, and all that."
Latest from Damon.—"Since writing my last letter, my views of the Riviera have altered. The climate, I find, does not suit me. Sun doesn't shine as much as I expected—not at night, for instance. Then the existence of an olive disease anywhere near is naturally very dégoûtant (as they say here). And the Casino at Monte Carlo is simply an organised swindle. It ought to be put down! After staking ten times in succession on "Zero," and doubling my stake each time, I was absolutely cleared out! Only just enough money to take me home. Shall follow your example, and try Torquay for the rest of the winter."
Latest from Pythias.—"Just a hasty line to say—don't come to Torquay! I am leaving it. Since I last wrote, my views of Devonshire have also altered. Can't conceal from myself that the climate is a mistake. Damp, dull, and depressing. Your account of Monte Carlo—not the Casino, of course—so enchanting, that I've determined to try it. Just off to London to catch 'train de luxe!'"
(By a much-badgered Barmaid.)
Autobiographical.—I should be glad to know whether it would be advisable for me to write a book of "Reminiscences," as I see is now the fashion. My life has been chiefly passed in a moorland-village in Yorkshire, so that it has not been very eventful, and I have never written anything before; still the public might like to hear my opinions on things in general, and I think I could make the anecdote of how our kitchen chimney once caught fire—which would be the most important incident chronicled—rather thrilling. Among interesting and eminent persons I have met, and of whom I could give some account in my forthcoming work, are Mr. Gladstone (who passed through our station in a train going at fifty miles an hour while I was on the platform), Lord Salisbury whom I met (under similar circumstances, and the back of whose head I feel confident that I actually saw) and the Lord Chief Justice of England, who ordered an Usher to remove me from his Court at the Assizes as I was (incorrectly) alleged to be snoring. I should be glad to hear of any leading Publisher who would be likely to offer a good price for such a book.—Rusticus Expectans.
The Captain. "At this stage of the proceedings I've got to Kiss you, Lady Grace. Will your Husband mind, do you think?"
Lady Grace. "Oh No! It's for a Charity, you know!"
Rather too Premature.—We see "Christmas Leaves" advertised everywhere in glaring colours. This announcement is too early. "Christmas Comes," it should be, and then, any time after the 25th, will be appropriate for the announcement of his departure.
[A meeting at Manchester has raised a protest against the nuisance caused by the needlessly loud "slamming" of railway carriage doors.]
Kelly's Directory for 1893.—Invaluable, and considered as "portable property" (to quote Pip's friend), admirably suited for the pocket of any individual who should happen to be about twenty-five feet high. How to use it? Why—see inside—it is full of "Directions."