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Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 99, October 4, 1890 By: Various |
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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... Continue reading book >>
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Essay/Short nonfiction |
Non-fiction |
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