DOI issue:
December 25, 1880
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17764#0299
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHAEIVARI. [December 25, 1880.
“Consummate! ” sighed an ZEsthetic Young Man, who had been found in the snow with
<a Lily in his hand, and a Peacock’s Leather behind his ear.
“ Mr. PdsTLETHWAiTE, I believe P ” said Mr. Punch, bowing.
The Esthetic gracefully acknowledged the salutation, and relapsed into silence.
“ The world’s a stage, Sir, as you say,” observed a sad-looking, middle-aged Man, in
■reply to some remark from the Un-blighted Tragedian ; “ but it’s the unprofessionals who
have most experience of its tragedy.”
Mr. Punch requested the Sad Traveller to oblige him by reading the manuscript which
!he had already produced.
“ It’s in verse,” said the Sad Traveller. “ And I call it ”-
Halloo!
“ Then heigh-ho, the holly !
This life is most jolly.”—Shakspeare.
The holly was full of berry, the winter was hard
and white,
As white as my girl-wife’s face, and as hard as our
life’s long fight.
“It will sell all the better,” she said, as she kissed
me a faint good-bye.
And I gathered the scant rags round her, and went,
with a tear-dimmed eye.
No fire in the rusted grate; chill cheer for our
Christmas Eye!
And I left her, to wheel out the holly, though
bitterly loth to leave.
It was brought from the far white woods, near the
Cottage where Polly was born,
Twenty long miles I had trudged with it, only that
same bleak morn.
But the shining red berries were thick on it, show-
ing so ruddily warm,
That I left just one scarlet spray on her pillow. Her frost-pinched form
Shook ’neath the tattered quilt; but she said, “ I feel cosy and well.
And I never saw holly so fine, Ton ; ’twill sell, dear, I’m sure it will sell.”
Sell! ’Twas hut little ’twould fetch, thougfi it sold to the last red spray.
But what other chance of comfort was left for our Christmas Day F
A shilling or two meant dinner, a hit of fire in the stove,
And Polly clasped warm in my arms, —yes warm as our sore tried love.
Ah! if only love could warm, spite of frost and of clothing scant,
Could keep off the biting of winter, the gnawing of hunger and want,
Then the cold had never
struck home through the
thin, thin rags of my wife,
Nor consumption’s merciless
clutch have been laid on
the core of her life.
The streets were white, but
the gaslight gleamed from
a myriad jets
On a myriad eager faces; e’en
poverty’s fevers and frets
Seemed stilled, or they stole
into corners, like bats
when the daylight breaks;
What have holiday buyers
to do with the vision of
hungers and aches ?
“Holly-ho! Holly-ho!
Holly-ho! ” Oh, I shouted
and smiled with the best,
And I chaffed with the jovial
chafferers, — longing for
midnight and rest.
And an old stave ran in my
head, about life being
jolly, most jolly, _
As I looked on the girls’ rosy
faces, and thought of the
white cheeks of Polly.
Yet the pennies came slowly in ; but, at last, when the throng had grown thin,
There passed me a portly old fellow, wool-swathed to his round red chin.
Was he caught by the gleam of the berries,—my face’s cold trouble? Who
knows ?
But he turned, and he bought the whole lot. What a laugh to my lips arose!
“Wheel it home to my house, my good man.” And I followed him home
through the night.
As clean as his smooth shaven face, was the Villa, all comfort and light;
And his daughters thronged to the hall, and they kissed
him, and welcomed the holly ;
And again ia my ears rang the cheery old strain, “ Life
is jolly, most jolly ! ”
Well, with six shining shillings in hand, wine-warmed,
with a flask “for my wife.”
It was hardly for me to be bitter, or mock at the lauders
of life.
The thought of the glisten of Polly’s dark eyes drew me
on, hot and swift,
Till my scant breath failed, and I reeled, as the latch I
was ready to lift.
One minute I paused on the threshold; I think that my
thought was a prayer,
A wordless thanksgiving for her who was waiting so
patiently there.
Hist! Was that her low voice? “Yoif/” Aye, I
heard it close at my ear,
The voice of the girl I had wooed in the holly wood,
wondrously faint and clear.
And I burst in, singing the strain, “ Oh, this life is jolly,
most jolly! ”
“ It is Christmas morning, my girl, and I’ve sold every
bit of our holly,
Save the spray on your pillow, my pet. Let me kiss
your qtoor cheeks as red.”
And I stooped, with my heart at my lips, almost happy,
— and Polly was dead !
Three minutes allowed for reflection, which was, however,
interrupted by Toby rushing in with something in bis mouth.
“That dog is very troublesome,” said Mr. Punch, apologeti-
cally. “One moment, Gentlemen,” and he took up a roll of
paper off the rug.
“ The last Turkish Circular Note,” he explained to the com-
pany, after perusing the document. “ Will anyone cash it ? ”
There was a quiet laugh, but no one made an offer.
“ Iuto the tire with it,” said the business-like host. “And
now, once more go on, if you please. Who’s next?”
“ I be ! ” cried a sturdy-lookmg Fellow, in velveteen.
“ And what’s your paper about ? ” inquired Mr. Punch.
“ Well, Zur, it be better nor Playactors’ ghoasties—it be about
reel ghoasties.” And laying down his pipe, the Velveteen Man
read out-
Cln $?aimtcb preserbu
(A Talc of a Village Tap-Room. Told by an Old Poacher.)
0 I believe in Ghoas-
ties ? Ees. Seeun is
beleevun. There wuz
sitch things once. There
used to be Ghoasties
afoor there wuz Raail-
ways ; but ’tis said
Steam ha’ swep’ um all
away.
Did I ever zee are a
Ghoast myself ? Aa,
didn’11! There ’ s them
now livun besides me
as remembers when
they heerd say as how
there wuz summut to
be sin down in Giles’s ’Ood. So there wuz; and I know’d
ut. I sin ut fust, though the fust to spake about ut
wuz Ned Norris, Sir Thomas’s Head Keeper; but I sin
ut afoor he. So ’twasn’t no news to me when ’a told
the storee, as I heer’d un tell ut at the “ White Hoss.”
’A said ’a wuz out one fine winter’s night, as med ha
been yesterday a little afoor this here heavy snow come
“Consummate! ” sighed an ZEsthetic Young Man, who had been found in the snow with
<a Lily in his hand, and a Peacock’s Leather behind his ear.
“ Mr. PdsTLETHWAiTE, I believe P ” said Mr. Punch, bowing.
The Esthetic gracefully acknowledged the salutation, and relapsed into silence.
“ The world’s a stage, Sir, as you say,” observed a sad-looking, middle-aged Man, in
■reply to some remark from the Un-blighted Tragedian ; “ but it’s the unprofessionals who
have most experience of its tragedy.”
Mr. Punch requested the Sad Traveller to oblige him by reading the manuscript which
!he had already produced.
“ It’s in verse,” said the Sad Traveller. “ And I call it ”-
Halloo!
“ Then heigh-ho, the holly !
This life is most jolly.”—Shakspeare.
The holly was full of berry, the winter was hard
and white,
As white as my girl-wife’s face, and as hard as our
life’s long fight.
“It will sell all the better,” she said, as she kissed
me a faint good-bye.
And I gathered the scant rags round her, and went,
with a tear-dimmed eye.
No fire in the rusted grate; chill cheer for our
Christmas Eye!
And I left her, to wheel out the holly, though
bitterly loth to leave.
It was brought from the far white woods, near the
Cottage where Polly was born,
Twenty long miles I had trudged with it, only that
same bleak morn.
But the shining red berries were thick on it, show-
ing so ruddily warm,
That I left just one scarlet spray on her pillow. Her frost-pinched form
Shook ’neath the tattered quilt; but she said, “ I feel cosy and well.
And I never saw holly so fine, Ton ; ’twill sell, dear, I’m sure it will sell.”
Sell! ’Twas hut little ’twould fetch, thougfi it sold to the last red spray.
But what other chance of comfort was left for our Christmas Day F
A shilling or two meant dinner, a hit of fire in the stove,
And Polly clasped warm in my arms, —yes warm as our sore tried love.
Ah! if only love could warm, spite of frost and of clothing scant,
Could keep off the biting of winter, the gnawing of hunger and want,
Then the cold had never
struck home through the
thin, thin rags of my wife,
Nor consumption’s merciless
clutch have been laid on
the core of her life.
The streets were white, but
the gaslight gleamed from
a myriad jets
On a myriad eager faces; e’en
poverty’s fevers and frets
Seemed stilled, or they stole
into corners, like bats
when the daylight breaks;
What have holiday buyers
to do with the vision of
hungers and aches ?
“Holly-ho! Holly-ho!
Holly-ho! ” Oh, I shouted
and smiled with the best,
And I chaffed with the jovial
chafferers, — longing for
midnight and rest.
And an old stave ran in my
head, about life being
jolly, most jolly, _
As I looked on the girls’ rosy
faces, and thought of the
white cheeks of Polly.
Yet the pennies came slowly in ; but, at last, when the throng had grown thin,
There passed me a portly old fellow, wool-swathed to his round red chin.
Was he caught by the gleam of the berries,—my face’s cold trouble? Who
knows ?
But he turned, and he bought the whole lot. What a laugh to my lips arose!
“Wheel it home to my house, my good man.” And I followed him home
through the night.
As clean as his smooth shaven face, was the Villa, all comfort and light;
And his daughters thronged to the hall, and they kissed
him, and welcomed the holly ;
And again ia my ears rang the cheery old strain, “ Life
is jolly, most jolly ! ”
Well, with six shining shillings in hand, wine-warmed,
with a flask “for my wife.”
It was hardly for me to be bitter, or mock at the lauders
of life.
The thought of the glisten of Polly’s dark eyes drew me
on, hot and swift,
Till my scant breath failed, and I reeled, as the latch I
was ready to lift.
One minute I paused on the threshold; I think that my
thought was a prayer,
A wordless thanksgiving for her who was waiting so
patiently there.
Hist! Was that her low voice? “Yoif/” Aye, I
heard it close at my ear,
The voice of the girl I had wooed in the holly wood,
wondrously faint and clear.
And I burst in, singing the strain, “ Oh, this life is jolly,
most jolly! ”
“ It is Christmas morning, my girl, and I’ve sold every
bit of our holly,
Save the spray on your pillow, my pet. Let me kiss
your qtoor cheeks as red.”
And I stooped, with my heart at my lips, almost happy,
— and Polly was dead !
Three minutes allowed for reflection, which was, however,
interrupted by Toby rushing in with something in bis mouth.
“That dog is very troublesome,” said Mr. Punch, apologeti-
cally. “One moment, Gentlemen,” and he took up a roll of
paper off the rug.
“ The last Turkish Circular Note,” he explained to the com-
pany, after perusing the document. “ Will anyone cash it ? ”
There was a quiet laugh, but no one made an offer.
“ Iuto the tire with it,” said the business-like host. “And
now, once more go on, if you please. Who’s next?”
“ I be ! ” cried a sturdy-lookmg Fellow, in velveteen.
“ And what’s your paper about ? ” inquired Mr. Punch.
“ Well, Zur, it be better nor Playactors’ ghoasties—it be about
reel ghoasties.” And laying down his pipe, the Velveteen Man
read out-
Cln $?aimtcb preserbu
(A Talc of a Village Tap-Room. Told by an Old Poacher.)
0 I believe in Ghoas-
ties ? Ees. Seeun is
beleevun. There wuz
sitch things once. There
used to be Ghoasties
afoor there wuz Raail-
ways ; but ’tis said
Steam ha’ swep’ um all
away.
Did I ever zee are a
Ghoast myself ? Aa,
didn’11! There ’ s them
now livun besides me
as remembers when
they heerd say as how
there wuz summut to
be sin down in Giles’s ’Ood. So there wuz; and I know’d
ut. I sin ut fust, though the fust to spake about ut
wuz Ned Norris, Sir Thomas’s Head Keeper; but I sin
ut afoor he. So ’twasn’t no news to me when ’a told
the storee, as I heer’d un tell ut at the “ White Hoss.”
’A said ’a wuz out one fine winter’s night, as med ha
been yesterday a little afoor this here heavy snow come