Punch (102.1892)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [January 2, 1892.

stern regard, of any hope, or ioy or pain, or sorrow, of the many-
sorrowed throng-; who hears us make response to any creed that
gauges human passions and affections as it gauges the amount of
miserable food on which humanity may pine and wither, does us
wrong ! "

" Right you are! " cried Punch, cordially, Toby yapping assent.

He might have said more, but the Bells, the dear familiar Bells,

his own dear constant, steady friends, the Chimes, began to ring the

joy-peals for a New Year so lustily, so merrily, so happily, so gaily,

that he (like poor old Trotty VecJc) leapt to his feet, and broke the

spell that bound him.

**###*

"Yes, that is still the true Spirit of the Chimes," mused
Mr. Punch, as he took pen in hand to open up his new Yolume.
" And that's the spirit I hope to keep up right through the twelve
months of just-born Eighteen Hundred and Ninety-two, which I
trust may be—with my willing assistance,

A Happy New Yeah xo All op You !!! "

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

One of the Baron's Critical Faculty sends him his opinion of our
Mr. Dtr Mauri er's latest novel, which is also his first. And here
let it be published urbi et orbi that there is no truth whatever in a
report which appeared m an evening paper to the effect that Mr. Du
Maurier, however retiring he may be, was about to retire or had
retired from Mr. Punch's Staff. The St. James's Gazette has already
"authoritatively" denied the assertion; and this denial the Baron
for Mr. Punch, decisively confirms. Now, to the notice of the book
above-mentioned. Here it is:—

"There has been a certain deliberateness in Mr. Du Maurier's
incursion into literature that speaks eloquently for his modesty. He

is, to our certain know-
ledge, at least 40 years
old, and Peter Ibbetson,
which Messrs. Osgood &
Co. present in two daintily
dressed volumes, is his
first essay in romantic
writing. Beading the
book, it is hard to conceive
this to be the fact. The
work is entirely free from
those traces of amateurish-
ness, almost inseparable
from a first effort. The
literary style is consider-
ably above the average
modern novelist; the plot
is marked by audacious
invention, worked out with
great skill; the hero is a
madman, not in itself an
attractive arrangement,
but there is such admi-
rable method in his mad-
ness, such fine poetic
feeling in the conception
of character, and the
ghosts who flit through
the pages of the story are so exceedingly human, that one feels
quite at home with Peter, and is really sorry when, all too soon,
his madness passes away, and he awakes to a new life, to find
himself an old man. Apart from its strong dramatic interest, Peter
Ibbetson has rare value, from the pictures of Old Baris in the last
days of Locis-Bhilippe, wbich crowd in charming succession through
the first volume. Mr. George p>u Matjrier, the well-known
artist in black and white, has generously assisted Mr. George du
Maurier, the rising novelist, by profusely illustrating the work. 'Tis
a pretty rivalry ; hard to say which has the better of it. Wherein a
discerning Bublic, long familiar with Dtj Maurier's sketches, will
recognise a note of highest praise for the new departure."

The Baron recommends Mrs. Oliphant's The Paihvay Man and
his Children, which is a good story, with just such a dash of the
improbable—but there, who can bring improbability as a charge
against the plot constructed by any novelist after this great Jewel
Case so recently tried ? Mrs. Oliphant's types are well drawn;
but the story is drawn out by just one volume too much. '' For a one-
volume novel commend me," quoth the Baron, "to Miss Bhoda-
Broughton-cum-Elpzabeth-Bisland's A Widower Indeed. But
. . . wait till after the festivities are over to read it, as the tale is
sad. En attendant, A Happy New Year to everyone, says

The Benign Baron de Book-Worms.

SIMPLE STORIES.

" Be always kind to animals wherever you may be!"

FRANK AND THE FOX.

Frank was a very studious and clever little boy.
He took the keenest delight in music; and when he had mastered
his lessons, he was very fond of playing on the concertina, and
singing to his own accompaniment. He could already play " The
Bells go a-ringing for Sarah ! " with considerable finish and expres-
sion, and since his Uncle Doddlewig had presented him with

j half-a-crown for his per-
formance, he had given the
air with variations, and
the song with every de-
scription of embellishment,
all over the paternal man-
sion, and in most corners
of the ancestral estate.

To tell the truth, his
family were getting some-
what tired of his continued
asseverations concerning
the tintinabulatory tribute
everlastingly rendered to
the excellent young woman.
And had he not been so
markedly encouraged by
rich old Uncle Doddle-
wig, there is every reason
to suppose that Frank and
his concertina Would have
been speedily sup-
pressed.

Frank heard
his Bapa lament-
ing that foxes were
so very scarce,
that recently they
had had no sport
whatever. "There
must be plenty of
foxes in the
country," said the
Squire, "butthey
won't show."

Now Frank had
been reading
about Orpheus,
and how he charmed ail the wild beasts with his melody. It was
true the boy had not a lyre, but he had no doubt that his concertina
would do as well, and he was quite certain he had seen a fox while
taking his rambles in Tippity Thicket,

One day when he had a holiday, and his Bapa had gone a hunting
with his friends, he strolled off with his concertina to endeavour to
lure a fox out into the open. He approached the hole where he had
previously seen the fox, and sat down, and began to play vigorously
on his concertina, and to sing at the top of his voice, "The Bells go
a-ringing for Say-rah! Say-rahl Say-rah\" Bresently he
saw a huge Fox poke his nose out of the hole. He was delighted!
He sang and played with renewed energy, and began to walk away,
still singing and playing.

The Fox followed, snarling, and snapping, and appearing very
angry. The more he played, the more the Fox snarled and
snapped. At last the animal became furious, all the hair on its
back stood on end, and it began to make short runs with its mouth
open at the young musician.

It sprang upon him! He was terrified! He dropped his song
and his concertina at the same moment, and scrambled up the
nearest tree.

The Fox's fury then knew no bounds; he trampled on the con-
certina, he bit it, he tore open the bellows, and having reduced it
to a shapeless mass, bore it away to his hole.

When the coast was quite clear, Frank descended, and slunk
home.

The next morning one of the keepers found a dead fox. It had
apparently died of suffocation, as sixteen ivory concertina-stops
were found in its throat.

Frank now has entirely ceased to belieye in Ancient Mythology,
and has been even heard to hint that he considers Dr. Lempriere a
bit of a humbug.

" Lost to Sight, to Memory Dear."—An animal very difficult to
secure again when once off . . . and that is ..." a pony," when
you've lost it on Newmarket Heath.