Okay, I’ll say it out loud and get it over with. I have never, in all my life, eaten a genuine S’More. First off, a REAL S’More must apparently be cooked over an open fire, preferably on a camping trip, and camping trips were not part of my childhood. (My mother, offspring of a Boy Scout Leader and a Girl Scout Leader did so much camping in her childhood that she swore off it once she was old enough to decline.) My mother DID indulge us in letting us toast marshmallows over candles, but we may never have had the other two ingredients required.
The S’More is a folk recipe, invented, it seems, by Boy Scouts. Anyway, the first S’Mores recipe, which called them “Graham Cracker Sandwiches” and was published in an undated booklet from Campfire Marshmallows in the 1920s, attributes the recipe to Boy Scout tradition. (S’Mores must be considered a Great American Recipe since it consists of three ingredients, all primarily available as packaged foods: marshmallows, graham crackers, and candy bars. And how much of a coincidence is the name of the fine old marshmallow company that first printed the recipe?)
Half the fun in a lot of folk recipes is the occasion, the gathering, the whole process of making the recipe (a fact apparently lost on all the S’Mores cereals, candy bars, and other products which have emerged during the current burst of popularity.) The ingredients were handy and somebody who was having fun decided to play around with them. Who DID first toss a slice of cheese on a hot hamburger: some tired cook in a diner or some goofball kidding around at a campfire?
Consider, for example, what my piano teacher called “Stomach Ache Medicine” (she called it that because it was guaranteed to give you a stomach ache; must’ve been a family joke.) This was a personal recipe for a snack food with origins lost in the ists of time. It started with corporate marketing, but then what?
Breakfast cereal was a new and radical idea at the turn of the last century. Breakfast was supposed to be a leisurely meal involving appetizers, main courses, and sides, as well as dessert. A farm breakfast might include potatoes, pancakes, fried meat or one or three kinds, and pie for dessert. It was the health food folks who started suggesting a hearty bowl of cereal with toast and orange juice instead. Breakfast cereal was invented about the same time as modern marketing, and the rest is history.
But corporate America did not become what it is today without hedging its bets. Cold cereal (also marketed as ready-to-eat cereal because, unlike oatmeal or Cream of Wheat, it required no cooking) was marketed for other purposes as well. I stare at the advertisements showing people serving a side dish at dinner composed of a large Shredded Wheat biscuit covered with gravy. The custom of topping casseroles with crushed Corn Flakes must date from around the same time.
But someone discovered a box of cereal also provided a ready snack: the only thing in the kitchen, once upon a time, which was just “Open and Eat”, without even having to add a plate. Since breakfast cereal in those days was largely unflavored, though, it did lack a little something. So someone, realizing the difference between Puffed Rice and popcorn was just one of perception, started heating it up with a coating of butter and whatever seasonings were desired.
Corporate America caught on to this, and at some point in the early 1950s, Ralston began printing a recipe for “Party Mix” on the sides of its Wheat Chex and Corn Chex boxes. They pushed this so well (besides having a cereal that worked very well with the recipe), that the result became known as Chex Mix. That poor, deprived generation had to make its own batches though, using their own or Ralston’s recipe, because it was not until the 1980s that somebody said “Hey, why not sell it pre-packaged? That might cut back on sale of cereal, but it’s all money coming in!”
Like S’Mores, though, it’s the most fun to make your own. You can toss in almonds instead of bagel chips, or shove a gumdrop into your marshmallow before S’Moring it. If it’s going to be YOUR stomach ache, customize it all you want.
Today, we are going address unfair animadversions against human qualities. I realize that this material has been presented from other angles, but bloggery can be a haven for unpopular viewpoints. Why don’t people speak more pleasantly about
WRATH: Despite its popularity on social media, recognition of this as a major virtue goes back generations. The evidence is simply this: if you truly care about something, disrespect for it MUST make you angry. The focal moment of Network—“I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this any more!”—is the moment at which we are shown how virtuous wrath is. The number of politicians who have made mighty careers based on fanning people’s wrath is massive, and our politicians have always been champions of virtue.
AVARICE: And what about “Greed is good”? The great measurement of success is the amount of money something made. A movie is no good without blockbuster box office receipts; the fact that a great invention is nothing if no one wants to pay money for it was a lesson learned by the young Tom Edison, who vowed never again to spend his time on anything that wouldn’t make him rich. Some people have called this the greatest of all American values, but as I look over the rest of this list, I’m not so sure about that.
SLOTH: How many major industries tell you to take all that money you’ve made and spend it on taking life easy? We look on aghast at people who put in seventy-hour workweeks, using up their lives moving from job to job or project to project without ever contemplating a few months spent stretched out on a beach. At heart, we are told, all of us are really working for the weekend, and what is so normal must be a virtue.
PRIDE: Check the calendar. I’m sure it’s Something Pride Week, be it Freckle Pride Week or Moravian Pride Week, with a parade and forty YouTube videos in its honor. It started as a cure for people who had been made to feel ashamed of being a redhead, or being from a low-rent part of town. Now we must be loud and proud of whatever we are, with the accent on the loud, and those of you who aren’t can go slink off to a corner somewhere (unless you at LEAST carry a banner for us.)
LUST: Once upon a time, Jimmy Carter got into trouble for admitting to Playboy magazine that he “lusted in his heart.” That was then. Now, if you haven’t been loud and proud about whom you lust after, the world is suspicious. We assume that everybody normal is lusting after something or somebody else; for a while audiences fell silent as a stand-up comic identified as “inary—because I usually just have sex with myself.” But then it was decided that as long as he WAS lusting, it still counted as normal.
ENVY: We all want what other people have; this is partly our nature and partly because society at large is built on advertising to let us know what we don’t have yet. Wanting something because it is new, or expensive, or because Kumquat Kardashian has two of them is the way life was meant to be. If you are content with what you have, you’re not only suspicious but guilty of sabotaging the economy.
GLUTTONY: Unless, of course, you simply want a lot more of what you already have. We still all super-size things, even if that has been dropped from the vocabulary of fast food joints who took so much grief for using the phrase. I, personally, still react with a shudder to the memory of the time I bought something, was told they were having a two-for-one sale so I could get another one, and replied, “No, I just want one.” I have friends who reconsidered being seen with me for a long time after that.
All I’m saying, I guess, is give the Seven Deadlies a chance. “Sin” seems such an unnecessarily derogatory term for the qualities which make up modern life. We should be Proud to be upholding our end of the bargain. Anyway, I intend to exercise my Pride in my virtues by going off now to take that nap I earned. After I take care of Sloth, it’ll be time for dinner, so there’s Gluttony. If I’m Envious that someone else has even more pizza, that takes care of too more. As for how I handle Lust and Avarice after that…well, I guess we’re out of space right now, so you can’t check my Personals ads over on….
At length the hour of shutting up the counting-house arrived; with an ill-will Scrooge dismounted from his stool, and tacitly admitted the fact to the expectant clerk in the Tank, who instantly snuffed his candle out and put on his hat.
“You’ll want all day tomorrow, I suppose?” said Scrooge.
“If quite convenient, sir.”
“It’s not convenient,” said Scrooge, “and it’s not fair. If I was to stop half-a-crown for it, you’d think yourself ill-used, I’ll be bound.”
The clerk smiled faintly.
“And yet,” said Scrooge, “you don’t think ME ill-used, when I pay a day’s wages for no work.”
The clerk observed that it was only once a year.
“A poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket every twenty-fifth of December!” said Scrooge, buttoning his great-coat to the chin. “But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning!”
The clerk promised that he would, and Scrooge walked out with a growl. The office was closed in a twinkling, and the clerk, with the long ends of his white comforter dangling below his waist (for he boasted no great-coat), went down a slide on Cornhill, at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honour of its being Christmas-eve, and then ran home to Camden Town as hard as he could pelt, to play at blindman’s-buff.
There is little more indicative of Scrooge’s nature than a delicious “You’ll want all day tomorrow, I suppose?” Most screenwriters can’t resist it, and any actor playing Scrooge who doesn’t insist on full stage during it just isn’t taking advantage of the role.
Note that Dickens’s Scrooge takes it for granted, albeit crankily, that he must give Bob some time off, and pay for it. In two versions, Cratchit gets nowhere near that kind of understanding.
At 5 P.M., Matthau says he supposes Bob will want the whole day tomorrow. “I didn’t think I’d have to ask for it, sir. It is Christmas, sir.” “A poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket every twenty-fifth of December,” Scrooge snarls, but then goes on to work himself up into a tearful state about having to pay a whole day’s wages for no work when business is so bad. In spite of B.A.H. Hum bug’s warning, Cratchit weakens, and finally says he doesn’t need that day’s pay. Scrooge brightens at once. “First sensible thing you’ve said all day. Be here all the earlier the day after. Now, be off with you.” Bob moves out, groveling a bit more as he does so. “Oh yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Merry Christmas! Sorry, sir. I know, sir. Bah humbug, sir. Said it with you, sir. Good day, sir.” He then slips and falls in the snow. “Fool!” mutters Scrooge.
McDuck puts this right after the coal scene, to continue the persecution of Bob Cratchit. Bob here asks for only half a day off, and gets it, but loses half a day’s pay into the bargain. We learn that he has been paid two shillings a day until three years ago, when he started doing Mr. Scrooge’s laundry, and was raised to two shillings ha’penny. Scrooge tosses him another bag of shirts. Later, as night falls, Cratchit hears the clock strike seven and cheerfully closes his book. Scrooge casually checks his pocket watch. “Two minutes fast.” Bob jumps back onto the stool and re-opens the book, but Scrooge grants him those two minutes off. “Oh, thank you! You’re so kind!” “Never mind the mushy stuff! Just go! But be here all the earlier next day!” (Hmmm?) Bob wishes him a merry Christmas in leaving; Scrooge growls “Bah!” Scrooge himself does not leave the office until nine P.M.
In Owen, this sequence is a turning point in the plot. Cratchit here actually puts an ear to the clock to make sure it’s still running. At 6:30, Scrooge catches him checking the time again. “You keep close watch on closing time.” Bob replies that it is a half hour past closing time. “Then close up, close up!” Scrooge barks. “Don’t work overtime! You might make something of yourself!” As they move through the dialogue about the whole day off, Scrooge takes a sharp, scolding tone, and concludes with “Then be off!” Bob lingers, finally having to remind Scrooge that his wages fall due today. Scrooge grumbles about people who can’t wait to spend their money, but does count out the coins. Cratchit departs. Scrooge spots the bottle of port Fred left behind and is about to throw it away when he realizes there is some left; he slips the bottle into his tail pocket. Outside, in place of the ice-sliding scene, Bob becomes the target of a volley of snowballs. He takes this in good spirit, and rushes over to show the young rascals how to make snowballs. There is a call that a man in a tall hat, traditional target for rascals with snowballs, is coming. Bob lets a snowball fly with deadly accuracy, realizing too late he has just knocked off his employer’s hat. Running to retrieve it, he is too late; Scrooge’s hat has been run over by a passing carriage. Bob is summarily dismissed. The clerk summons his courage to point out that his contract allows him a week’s notice; Scrooge snaps that that week’s pay will do to buy him a new hat. No, in fact, that hat cost more than a week’s wages for the clerk, so Bob owes him an additional shilling. Bob pays him and Scrooge stalks off. The boys apologize to Cratchit for getting him into trouble, calling Scrooge an old stinker.
Two other versions bring Tiny Tim to the office for a first meeting with Ebenezer Scrooge. Scott is leaving for the exchange when he has the discussion with Bob about having the whole day off. On his way out, he growls at Tim, whom he thinks is a beggar; Tim replies cheerfully, and waits outside for his father. When Bob finally does reach closing time, Tim asks if they can go home by way of Cornhill, so he can watch the boys and girls gliding and playing in the snow. Bob agrees to this, and tells Tim about having tomorrow off. “Hurrah for Christmas!” cries Tim. They watch the children play; Bob tells Tim that he’ll be doing that himself soon. Tim says he is sure he’s getting stronger every day.
Curry’s Cratchit blows out his candle as the clock strikes seven. A small boy enters the counting house; Scrooge, thinking this is another beggar, prepares to strike him with a walking stick. Cratchit’s dives to stop him, explaining the boy is Tim Cratchit. Scrooge was unaware that his clerk had a family, and notes, “He’s awfully…Tiny.” While Bob and Scrooge discuss the day off, Tim gets acquainted with Debit. The dog, dubious at first, warms to the boy. Scrooge snuffs out the candles, setting one in his pocket to use at home. Dismissed, Bob tells his employer “And a very merry…er, merry evening.” Bob and Tim leave; Debit is sent to put out the rest of the lights.
Versions which do not materially change the scene still add their bits of business. Scrooge’s belief that Cratchit is leaving early, the fact of payday coming around, and Cratchit’s pause to wish, or not wish, his employer a merry Christmas become almost standard.
Hicks is upset to see Cratchit blowing out his candle while the clock is still striking seven; he reminds Bob that this clock is fast. They move through the dialogue as Bob helps Scrooge on with his coat. At the end, for one fleeting moment, it seems as if Scrooge might give Bob some little gift of the season. He is merely reaching for the key, so Cratchit can do the locking upBob wishes his employer a merry Christmas; with a “Bah! Humbug!”, Scrooge marches out, giving not so much as a glance to the beggar on the street. Bob locks up and walks out among the jovial crowd. When he sees the boys sliding, he has one go at it himself before hurrying home.
Sim I checks his pocket watch, closes his book, deliberately closes and sets away a bag of money, and turns down the lamp, all without a word. Cratchit fetches Scrooge’s coat; during the discussion of the day off, he tries to excuse himself. He’s asking for the time off just for the sake of his family, who :put their hearts and souls into Christmas, as it were, sir.” “And their hands into my pockets, as it were, sir!” When finally granted the day, Bob says “Thank you, sir. It’s more than generous of you.” “Yes, I know it is. You don’t have to tell me.” Bob wishes him “Merry Christmas, sir.” Turning, Scrooge demands, “Merry Christmas, sir?” and moves to the “I’ll retire to Bedlam” speech, with a chuckle of contempt. After he has departed, Bob joyously locks up.
March is told by his clerk, “It’s six o’clock, if you don’t mind, sir.” March snaps at him about having the whole day. After they have performed a shortened version of the scene, Bob turns for the door. He pauses there, as if to wish Scrooge a merry Christmas, thinks better of it, shrugs a little, and moves on out.
Having disposed of Fred, Rathbone barks, “Cratchit! Time to close up! And don’t forget to put your candle out!” He shuffles on his coat, and then steps out to stand nose-to-nose with his clerk to deliver “You’ll want all day tomorrow, I suppose.” They perform the dialogue much as written; Cratchit even smiles faintly when he’s supposed to. Scrooge concludes the scene, taking himself off with a “Merry Christas! Bah! Humbug!”
Magoo observes that it is closing time, and adds “We’ll finish tomorrow.” “Oh, but sir,” says Cratchit, “Tomorrow is Christmas Day. I have a holiday tomorrow.” Scrooge squints at him. “You’ll want all day, I suppose?” “Oh, yes, sir. Please, sir. You see, I….” “I know!” Scrooge snaps. “It’s Christmas! Oh, Lord help us. The whole population is mad!” He has been having trouble fixing his scarf; he now pushes Cratchit away, cutting off Bob’s attempts to help. “Fool! I’m quite capable!” As Scrooge stalks out, Bob calls “Merry Christmas to you, sir!” “Christmas! Ha! Bah, humbug!” Scrooge slams the door and turns to address it. “Merry Christmas! Out upon Merry Christmas!” and declaims that bit about every fool being boiled in his own pudding, and so on.
In Haddrick, we watch the gaslights being lit. Once Cratchit has been through the usual dialogue, and achieved his day off, he leaves quickly, kicking up his heels with a cry of “Tally-ho!” He enjoys a goofy bit of business with an organ-grinder’s monkey.
Cratchit helps Sim II don a coat through the dialogue. They leave the building together. We can see clearly that Scrooge is taller and wider of shoulder than his clerk.
When the clock strikes, tinnily, a smiling Cratchit moves to Finney to announce, “It’s seven o’clock, sir.” There is a long pause before Scrooge replies, not looking up, “Correct, Cratchit.” Cratchit does not like to be impertinent, but he would appreciate receiving his wages. The trouble with Cratchit, Scrooge declares, is that he thinks only of pleasure and of squandering money. “You’ll be wanting the whole day,” he continues, and they move through the written dialogue. Scrooge closes the discussion by stating that he does not pay good money for Cratchit to be forever on holiday. “I appreciate your kindness, sir.” “It’s my weakness. I’m a martyr to my own generosity. Give you one Christmas Day off and you expect them all.” “Merry Christmas, mr. Scrooge.” “Be gone from here and take your infernal merry Christmas with you.” “:Beg your pardon, sir. No offense, sir.” Finney closes with the “I’ll retire to Bedlam” speech.
Cratchit enters Caine’s office to explain that it is closing time. “Very well,” says his employer, “I’ll see you at eight tomorrow morning.” Pushed to it by the bookkeepers, Cratchit points out, “Sir, tomorrow’s Christmas.” Scrooge acknowledges this, saying “Eight-thirty, then.” Gathering his courage, Cratchit suggests rhat half an hour for Christmas hardly seems customary. “How much time off is customary, Mr. Cratchit?” Bob’s courage is flagging, but he swallows and replies, “The whole day.” When Scrooge demands “The entire day?”, the bookkeepers back off, murmuring about that being a mistake of Cratchit’s. But Bob persists. Everything else will be closed, he informs his employer; there will be no one to do business with. Opening the office will merely waste valuable coal. “It’s a poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket every twenty-fifth of December,” grumbles Scrooge, dashing everyone’s hopes. “But as I seem to be the only person around who knows that,” he continues, “Take the day off.” The bookkeepers cheer him until he barks at them to stop it. He departs, and Charles Dickens explains, in credibly Dickensian dialogue, that the bookkeepers can now enjoy their holiday. The musical number “One More Sleep ‘til Christmas” accompanies the closing of the office and their participation in a penguin party, which involves a lot of sliding on the ice. We close with Cratchit looking at the moon and stars; just back of him we see the little caroler from the previous segment, who sits, teeth chattering, in the shelter of a heap of trash.
Stewart finds the clock striking seven as he returns from chasing the carolers. Without a word, he fetches his coat. Almost reflectively, he begins the discussion of the next day’s work; he becomes fierce as the dialogue continues. Cratchit does try to smile on “It’s only once a year, sir.” At the end, departing, he says “Merry….” Before remembering where he is. Scrooge turns on him, alert for weakness. “You were about to say something, Cratchit?” Bob smiles in an ingratiating way. “Nothing, sir.” With a sneer, Scrooge marches out.
INTERLUDE
In Owen and in Finney, we find this section followed by episodes in which Cratchit shows a little of what he is like outside the office.
Fired by Owen over that incident with the snowball and the hat, Bob walks morosely through the streets. He gradually notices that the man walking ahead of him is carrying a freshly killed goose over his shoulder. The way the goose’s head sways back and forth as the man walks fascinates Bob, who starts to laugh and ends by wishing everyone a merry Christmas. Those within earshot return the greeting, and he jumps to complete his errands. He has what’s left of his wages, and he has a shopping list, and Christmas is coming.
Laden with his own goose, apples, lemons, potatoes, oranges, and hot chestnuts, he struggles through the little door of his house. Mrs. Cratchit is thrilled to see him, and the children, dressed for bed, rush to see what he has brought. They take turns guessing what’s in the big bundle, but no one gets it right until Bob has unwrapped it to display the goose. The children rush to stroke the bird.
“Go to the fire and have a warm, Bob,” says Mrs. Cratchit. “Did you get the day off for the holiday?”
“Without hardly any trouble at all.”
“Wasn’t Mr. Scrooge angry?”
“Well, you might say he was and you might say he wasn’t.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning I got the day off and we don’t want to talk about Mr. Scrooge tonight.” He then calls the children over to share out the hot chestnuts in his tail pocket.
In Finney, Bob comes upon his youngest daughter, Cathy, standing with Tim peering through a window at some mechanical toys. (Mechanical toys seem to say “Victorian Christmas: to filmmakers.) He apologizes for being late. “Mr. Scrooge and I had a lot of last-minute business to attend to.” Then he asks which toy each child likes best.
Cathy at once chooses the doll in the corner, but Tim won’t budge from the statement that he likes them all. “You said I couldn’t have none of them, so I might as well like ‘em all.” His father tells him he is a philosopher and a gentleman.
Bob now reveals he has fifteen shillings in his pocket, thrilling the children. They move on to buy supplies, to a song about the joy of being young during Christmas preparations. Everything Bob buys is contrasted with what someone richer is buying nearby. Bob purchases “mystery presents” wrapped in brown paper, four for a shilling, from a man dressed as Father Christmas. This man knows Bob has five children, and slips in an extra for free as another shopper staggers out of a store with huge presents wrapped in shining paper. Bob buys apples from a street vendor while a customer in the fruiterer’s shop is choosing oranges and pineapples. A man is buying fine wine (the 1846 vintage, specifically) while Bob fills a bottle from a keg, so as to have the basic ingredient for Christmas punch. “Christmas punch is a Cratchit specialty.” They also pay fourpence for a ready-made pudding.
Reaching home, they find it well-decorated. Mrs. Cratchit wants to show off what she and the older children have been doing. As Bob reaches to light another candle, the scene shifts to Scrooge blowing out his own candle.
Spring is here now, more or less. (One forecaster spoke of snow this weekend, but it IS only April.) It is the time of year when folks start getting out on their boats again. And seasonal though they might be, boats were regarded with just as much joy by postcard cartoonists as cars.
The joy of getting out on a boat, be it a vessel of your own or something larger where you were only a passenger, is celebrated on many cards. The images of sailboats against a serene sky are legion, and the photographs or even reproduced paintings of great ships under steam or sail are to be found everywhere.
But we spoke of cartoonists, who were paid to show off the misadventures of the poor dub who could not ride a bicycle without running over hapless pedestrians. So what could be expected of them when they went a-sailing?
Well, one thing above all else, really. This was an age, if you’ll recall from previous bloggery here, that did not shy away from the suspense of having just consumed Cascarets or castor oil or some other high powered intestinal cleansing agent.
So the enjoyment of wave-induced motion sickness was a constant.
It was so common a phenomenon, at least on postcards, that it brought new meaning to old phrases.
Take, for example, “fellow traveler”.
We regard our ancestors as being rather squeamish, afraid to mention or even suggest certain body functions. I am sure those of us who have been through the exploration of, say, chamber bot postcards have learned better. Well, they were the same way about the side effects of seasickness.
They might be restricted by postal authorities in what they could SHOW, but what the could suggest about the plight of people on a boat was less limited.
These postcards were not just printed and put out for sale (the pun just slipped out, if you’ll pardon the expression) but were actually sold and mailed. So among our ancestors there were those who really enjoyed these jokes. (Now I think I must conclude and go lie down for a while. WHICH generation is squeamish?)
One of the questions which comes up in considering of old-time comedy is “Why that?” Why do some things come up in jokes more than others? As noted hereintofore, we have plenty of cartoons about dogs peeing and horses pooping: how did we decide THAT was funny, when each animal obviously does both? Customer demand must have had something to do with it, but that just switches the responsibility for the attitude to the buyer instead of the seller.
Multiple births have been a source of wonder and humor for generations. Identical twins confusing their friends have been plot material for stage humor since well before Shakespeare; the trials and tribulations of parents dealing with duplicate children is an ancient theme. (Heard the one about the parents who named their identical twins Kate and Duplikate? No? How about the ones who named the kids Pete and Repete? I’ll stop now.)
But as I check through this inventory of postcards for sale, I find that though the postcard companies considered twins funny, they found triplets MUCH funnier. And quadruplets hardly appear at all? What determined the number that was funny? Two is good, three is better, but four is too much?
Maybe, as in the case shown above, it deals with a parent having only two arms to prop the babies on. That’s just enough to cause trouble. (Although the same sort of joke, when applied to entire families, seldom had fewer than four children, of different ages so some could be standing up to get into higher mischief while their crawling young siblings took care of disaster below.)
Or was it simply easier to fit three babies into the picture, and any more would have complicated things for the viewer? You want a scene where the main joke is clearly detectable, and not littered with distractions. (Sorry.)
The joke was a perennial one, not limited to the cards issued before World War I seen in the first part of this triple-header (no, really, I’m going to stop these.) This postcard is from a later generation, probably in the late 1930s.
While this one takes the situation into the 1950s or thereabouts.
Note that Mom appears in only a couple of the cards. That’s another convention of cartoon humor. Somehow, fathers dealing with squawling, disobedient, or simply numerous children was considered funnier than mother doing the same thing.
There seems to have been a sense, in the background of these jokes, that not only was Dad less likely to know how to handle kids, but that he was also responsible for the size of the delivery. As seen several times above, Papa is frequently dismayed at the outcome.
While others, like this big time gambler, are gratified by their winnings. Or maybe this is a CEO, taking pride in the efficient production at the home office. Perhaps so dedicated to thorough bookkeeping and liked his daughters in triplikate. (Enough, as the dads above might say.)
Meanwhile, the fog and darkness thickened so, that people ran about with flaring links, proffering their services to go before horses in carriages, and conduct them on their way. The ancient tower of a church, whose gruff old bell was always peeping slily down at Scrooge out of a Gothic window in the wall, became invisible, and struck the hours and quarters in the clouds, with tremendous vibrations afterwards, as if its teeth were chattering in its frozen head up there. The cold became intense. In the main street, at the corner of the court, some labourers were repairing the gas-pipes, and had lighted a great fire in a brazier, round which a party of ragged men and boys were gathered, warming their hands and winking their eyes before the blaze in rapture. The water-plug being left in solitude, its overflowings sullenly congealed, and turned to misanthropic ice. The brightness of the shops where holly sprigs and berries crackled in the lamp heat of the windows, made pale faces ruddy as they passed,. Poulterers’ and grocers’ trades became a splendid joke: a glorious pageant, with which it was next to impossible to believe that such dull principles as bargain and sale had anything to do. The Lord Mayor, in the stronghold of the mighty Mansion House, gave orders to his fifty cooks and butlers to keep Christmas as a lord Mayor’s household should; and even the little tailor, whom he had fined five shillings on the previous Monday for being drunk and blood-thirsty in the streets, stirred up to-morrow’s pudding in his garret, while his lean wife and the baby sallied out to buy the beef.
Foggier yet, and colder! Piercing, searching, biting cold. If the good St. Nicholas had but nipped the Evil Spirit’s nose with a touch of such weather as that, instead of using his familiar weapons, then indeed he would have roared to lusty purpose. The owner of one scant young nose, gnawed and mumbled by the hungry cold as bones are gnawed by dogs, stooped down at Scrooge’s keyhole to regale him with a Christmas carol; but at the first sound of—
God bless you merry gentlemen!
May nothing you dismay!
Scrooge seized the ruler with such energy of action, that the singer fled in terror, leaving the keyhole to the fog and even more congenial frost.
This passage does double duty for Dickens. He is able to emphasize that it is a very cold day, and hint that Scrooge is colder still. Screen versions generally use only the little caroler, to emphasize Scrooge’s dislike of Christmas and children (this latter being nowhere evident in the text.) The Lord Mayor does show up a little later in Hicks.
This caroler has the most to do in Magoo, Marsh, Caine, and Stewart. Magoo is confronted by three children singing “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing!” He bellows “Begone! Begone, you miserable little beggars, before I give you something to sing about!” Lashing out with one foot, he kicks their tin can into the air. The two older children leave, but the smallest stands staring at him, utterly uncomprehending until the door is slammed. Shedding a tear, he shuffles off. Inside, Scrooge growls “Nothing to eat and they sing of Christmas!” his version of the “I’ll retire to Bedlam” speech.
Leaving March’s office, Cratchit is enheartened by carolers who sing of Santa Claus. Scrooge, still inside, is enraged by this and delivers a lecture in verse about Santa Claus’s stupidity and hypocrisy. The chorus of this peroration is “Bah humbug! Bah humbug!” His irritation with carolers will come back into his story later.
In Caine, the caroler is a small rabbit who sings “Good King Wenceslaus”. Scrooge is amazed by this outrageous audacity. Seething, he charges to the door to demand “What do you want?” Asked for a penny, he slams the door. The bunny starts to leave but turns back in hope on hearing the door reopen. Scrooge hurls Fred’s wreath at him, and slams the door again.
In Stewart, carolers are moving along the street, delivering a passable “From Hev’n Above to Earth I Come” when a small member of the group cries, “I’m going to try Scrooge’s!” His friends warn him, but he makes the attempt anyhow. Bob Cratchit is pleasantly surprised by strains of “Good King Wenceslaus” but Scrooge is both amazed and appalled. Taking up his ruler, he charges to his front steps, terrifying not just the boy but the entire chorus, shouting “Away wiv ye!”
The caroler appears in passing in many other versions. When Hicks hears a trio at his window, he reacts rather as if mice were trying to creep past the sash. The singers see him reach for the ruler, and skedaddle before he reaches the door.
Long before this point in the story, Sim I snarled his way through a group of carolers, actually shoving one girl into the street when she implies that she’d like a penny.
The girl in the group drops a doll as Haddrick pushes through the carolers early in his version; he kicks the doll out of his way.
Finney opens with a quartet of carolers; when he threatens them with his coal shovel, they sing pleasantries likening him to Father Christmas. These boys, older than the general run of carolers seen in this role, will be back to torment Scrooge later in the picture.
Early in his version, Matthau spots children building a snowman at his window. When they call “Merry Christmas!”, he returns the wish by dashing outside, shaking his stick to disperse them.
Scott merely pushes past carolers in the street, resenting the nuisance, and growling at them to clear the way.
Curry uses a lot of the business about the cold, but his small boy beggar, oddly, just peers in at the window and the keyhole (the only caroler to make use of the keyhole) and never sings. He is frightened terribly by the sight of the growling Debit; Scrooge finally flings the door wide and hurls a handful of coal at him.
Sim I and Haddrick add some non-canonical business here, with similar intentions. Haddrick’s episode is brief: a grocer (whose mustache keeps changing color) remarks to his customers that Christmas brings no joy at all to Mr. Scrooge, a man so tight-fisted that he can’t get his gloves off when he goes to bed.
Sim I indulges in a bit of prop pride, as Tiny Tim studies a display of Victorian mechanical toys in action at a shop window. Mrs. Cratchit, who is bare inches taller than Tiny Tim, comes out of another shop and collects him, heading homeward as she delivers a few telling remarks about the horrid old slave driver her husband works for. She also mentions how Bob would be carrying Tim on his shoulder.
FUSS FUSS FUSS #5: Hark!
One of the mighty difficulties in mounting these productions is fitting Christmas carols into “A Christmas Carol”. Most of the songs WE regard as holiday standards simply didn’t exist in 1843, or had not yet made their way to English-speaking countries. Jingle Bells, for example, the great American scene-setting winter song, would not be written for another fifteen years. The only hint Dickens provides is these two lines from “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen”. (This existed well before the time of our story; a number of antiquaries insist, by the way, that the original text was “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen”. Dickens is no help at all his with “God Bless ye Merry gentlemen”, perhaps the only place in the text where he misses the chance to toss in a comma.)
In England, the scene-setting song preferred to let an audience know it’s That Time of Year is “Good King Wenceslaus”, which was perhaps a thousand years old when Dickens wrote, and much used in screen versions of the story. Less British but at least old enough, “The First Noel” is given frequent exposure here. Vaguely contemporary though less likely to be found in the repertoire of street singers of the time would be “O Come, All Ye Faithful” and “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing!’, which were growing in popularity through the 1830s.
Even in the criticism-inclined world of the Internet, however, most viewers are going to be a little vague on the proper dating of Christmas carols. So as long as you steer clear of “Jingle Bell Rock” or “Snoopy’s Christmas”, you’re probably safe.
The cartoonists who commented on life through postcards were of course alive to the constant comedy of romance, but the awkward first blushes to the elderly couple getting a divorce after seventy-five years of marriage because enough is enough. One facet of the procedure which has gotten attention from comics and philosophers in all trades is what we, in the US, call the “pick-up line.”
This is the lure cast out by those who are fishing for a new romance and is one of the few such wild game procedures enjoyed as much by the hunter as by the hunted. (Unless Walt Kelly’s Porky was right, and fish gather underwater on rainy days to tell lies about the size of the fishermen who nearly caught ‘em.) There have been books and online courses dedicated to the art of the opening gambit, as important in romance as in the less complex game of chess.
The whistle is now shunned as being rather crude (although it can still be seen in the wild, where it apparently works as well as it ever did.) One of the most successful pick-up lines I ever heard of was from a chap who would simply ask a new and lovely acquaintance “Will you marry me?” This is startling and attention-grabbing, and though he had been married a couple of times at last count, the other uses of it were more successful.
This suggestion is very popular among cows (on postcards, anyhow.) It would simply confuse other prospects, which is not always, despite the previous example, a good thing. One of the least successful pick-up lines I can recall was used by an extremely attractive young lady, who had read that the best way to start was with an inquiry about food, since, as the experts note “we all eat.” So she used to begin with a possible young man by asking “Do you like cheese?” Ensuing conversations did not continue very long.
Our postcard artists were, by the way, not the least bit shy about allowing the woman to apply the pick-up line. I have mentioned in this space before an acquaintance of mine who was a dedicated manhunter.
She was also something of a pioneer in highlighting. I dealt with one of her books on How To Attract Men which had been underlined in pencil and in pen, had entire pages highlighted in yellow, and was three times as thick at the top as at the bottom with pages which had been dog-eared, double dog-eared, triple dog-eared, and otherwise origamied in a system known only to herself. And her relationships…well, another day, another blog.
For just the right light touch in pick-up lines, it is necessary to turn to our Dutch kids, part of whose appeal was that in their youth and with their accent, they could say things the rest of us might not attempt.
They were experts in being sweet and innocent while at the same time suggesting they were both knowledgeable and guilty (an ideal combination, according to some experts on the art of the pick-up.)
Have any of these bachelor farmer dating reality shows tried this line, for exam[ple? You don’t even need the accent, and it strikes me as just about perfect. Out of the mouths of babes, after all.
Though even for the Dutch Kids, not every line was a success. Ah well, there’s plenty of fish in the sea. (Unless you prefer cheese?)
I suppose I’d be an influencer to be reckoned with in this world iof only I had developed a longer attention span at some point in my development. If I were willing to put more time into things, why, I might have followed my original passion, composing great music, and would now be so famous that people would have started calling me a has-been thirty years ago. But when someone looked at one of my early compositions, remarked that my staff had six lines instead of five, and suggested I look into how music was actually written, I decided to switch to something new. (Maybe that was my Lego phase, when I built one building over and over again because why…another loss for the world, this time in architecture.)
What has led me to this melancholy determination is the realization, when reading recently about Slo Poke candy was that I had not noticed the original Slo Poke—a long hunk of solid semihard caramel on a stick—was gone from the candy shelf, replaced by a new version, which is supposed to be the same thing, only without the stick. I realized shortly after that that I hadn’t noticed it missing because I hadn’t missed it.
Where I lived was more Sugar Daddy territory. The Sugar Daddy, a long hunk of solid semihard caramel on a stick, was very much in the commercials they pushed cartoons between on Saturday in my day because it was part of a family of products: Sugar Daddy, Sugar Mama, and Sugar Babies. I tried all of these at the time, and if you are familiar with these products at all, you may well guess that Sugar Babies, which I regard as one of nature’s perfect foods, are my favorite.
The Sugar Daddy came first, introduced in 1925, followed by the competing Slo Poke in 1926. (The Sugar Daddy NAME came along in 1932, when Sugar Babies were introduced. Before that is was known as, er, a Papa Sucker.) Both the Slo Poke and the Sugar Daddy appear with glowing reviews in all kinds of memoirs and nostalgia pieces. Their main attraction is suggested in the name of the Slo Poke: that caramel did NOT surrender easily and, if a kid was determined, could last a whole day. Our ancestors lived in an era when sugar in any form was rationed pretty carefully (see the column in this space about the folklore of stealing jam) and having all the caramel you could possibly want all day long was an intensely-felt luxury.
I grew up in a softer age, the despair of relatives who had gone through the Depression and the Second World War, and I had no time for such nonsense. Even had I been around in the Thirties, I would have preferred the smaller, more easily disposed-of Sugar Babies. What did you do with an all-day sucker if the impulse to play baseball came along? Shove the Sugar Daddy into a pocket and pry it free later? Where did you put it at lunchtime? Much better to take something you could chew, swallow, and dismiss from one’s list of responsibilities.
It isn’t that my tawdry era was devoid of long-lasting candy. We introduced, remember, the Sugar Mama, which was a Sugar Daddy with a chocolate coating. We had the Ring Pop, a long-lasting sucker which could be worn on the hand for easy reference. We pioneered the Astro Pop, a cone-shaped sucker with three stages of candy like a three-stage rocket (cherry, passionfruit, and pineapple, they tell me.) It isn’t as if EVERYBODY in my generation had the attention span of a fruitfly.
Nah, just me. I still prefer my caramel in the form of Rolo, or Sugar Babies or, if I can summon up the patience, Milk Duds (so named, by the way, because they kept coming out the wrong shape. But that’s a whole nother blog, and I don’t write a food blog.)
This lunatic, in letting Scrooge’s nephew out, had let two other people in. They were portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold, and now stood, with their hats off, in Scrooge’s office. They had books and papers in their hands, and bowed to him.
“Scrooge and Marley’s, I believe,” said on of the gentlemen, referring to his list. “Jave I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge, or Mr. Marley?”
“Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years,” Scrooge replied. “He died seven years ago, this very night.”
“We have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner,” said the gentleman, presenting his credentials.
It certainly was, for they had been two kindred spirits. At the ominous word “liberality”, Scrooge frowned, and shook his head, and handed the credentials back.
“At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge,” said the gentleman, taking up a pen, “it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries, hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir.”
“Are there no prisons?” asked Scrooge.
“Plenty of prisons,” said the gentleman, laying down the pen again.
“And the Union workhouses?” demanded Scrooge. “Are they still in operation?”
“They are. Still,” returned the gentleman, “I wish I could say they were not.”
“The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigour, then?” said Scrooge.
“Both very busy, sir.”
“Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course,” said Scrooge. “I’m very glad to hear it.”
“Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christmas cheer of mind or body to the multitude,” returned the gentleman, “A few of us are endeavoring to raise a fund to but the Poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. We choose this time because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?”
“Nothing,” Scrooge replied.
“You wish to be anonymous?”
“I wish to be left alone,” said Scrooge. “Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don’t make merry myself at Christmas, and I can’t afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned; they cost enough, and those who are badly off must go there.”
“They can’t go there, and many would rather die.”
“If they would rather die,” said scrooge, “they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. Besides—excuse me—I don’t know that.”
“But you might know it,” observed the gentleman.
“It’s not my business,” Scrooge returned. “It’s enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people’s. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen!”
Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue their point, the gentlemen withdrew. Scrooge resumed huis labors with an improved opinion of himself, and in a more facetious temper than was usual with him.
Whew! Everybody enjoys this scene twice. We get to feel superior to Scrooge’s meanness and yet, at the same time, we also get tired of fund drives and requests even from the worthiest charities. So we hiss Scrooge at the same time we wish we had his strength of character in the face of altruism. This scene is almost always rendered in full, with changes for passing time. (You don’t really want to spend precious onscreen moments explaining what the treadmill and union workhouses were.) Only Matthau omits it altogether; although it is lacking in the most common videocassette Hicks, the scene is in the full version.
Finney and Scott give us the most elaborate variations, both outdoors.
Finney meets two men only after he has locked up for the night, giving him an entire frozen street for his attempts to dodge their company. A persistent and optimistic pair, however, they cut him off time and again, intent on their mission and confident that they will win a donation from him. Trapping him briefly, one calls “Have we the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge or Mr. Marley?” Scrooge snaps back, “It’s no pleasure to me, sir, to be addressed by either of you.” The usual dialogue continues as he moves up stairs and down, through narrow alleys and around corners. When he finally convinces them that the institutions he had been “forced to pay for…through taxation” are all the provision he intends to make for the poor, they stand stunned before his cry of “Humbug!” This leads to two musical numbers, his own jolly diatribe “I Hate People” as he pushes through a holiday crowd collecting money from slow paying customers en route, and “Father Christmas”, a song used by the carolers to torment him. (They also steal his hat and play Keepaway with it.)
Scott leaves the office first that evening, snarling at Cratchit not to close a minute early before going through the “You’ll want the whole day” exchange (see later chapter.) Outside, he towers over Tiny Tim, growling “Humbug” at him, pushes through a group of carolers, and gleefully drives a hard bargain for corn at the Exchange. Leaving that discussion, he finds his way blocked by two men. “Mr. Scrooge, I presume?” “Indeed you do, sir.” “You don’t know us.” “Nor do I wish to,” he returns; this is not an option with such determined solicitors. Their names are Poole and Hacking, which interests Scrooge not at all. He continues to try to walk past them. When he does finally gather what they want, his face falls like an avalanche. “Are you seeking money from me, then?” he demands. Most of the speeches as written follow. Scrooge’s two most outrageous remarks—“the poor must go there” and “Then they had better die”—are delivered with smiles. “Surely you don’t mean that, sir,” they protest. “With all my heart,” he replies. “Now, if you will go about your business, gentlemen, and allow me to go about mine.”
Hicks, in the uncut version, has this at the very beginning of the picture. Cratchit has just started to slip over to steal coal when he spots two figures approaching through the fog. He opens the door; they cough and wish him a merry Christmas. He asks them inside, perhaps so he can close the door and shut out the fog. “Scrooge and Marley’s, I believe?” Bob asks if there is something he can do for them and is told “Well, if it is quite convenient, I would like to speak to a member of the firm.” Scrooge turns to let his face be seen for the first time. “You, ah, wish to see me I presume, sir.” “Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge or Mr. Marley?” “Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years.” “Oh.” “Dead as a doornail. Died seven years ago this very night.” The solicitors now explain they called at Mr. Scrooge’s address, assuming he’d have closed by now, but no one answered. Scrooge states that this is hardly surprising, since no one else lives there. The solicitors get down to business; Scrooge’s face turns petulant. He begins to walk around the office, passing them several times as they talk. “Are there no prisons?” elicits a glance between the men, and a subdued “Yes.” Somehow, however, they feel they are convincing him. One finally bursts out, “What shall I put you down for?” “Nothing,” dismays them only briefly; one exclaims, “Oh! Oh, I see! You wish to remain anonymous!” There is an explosive reply; we watch the faces of the solicitors as each realizes what sort of man they are dealing with. In parting, one makes a final attempt, apologizing for anything her might have said that upset Mr. Scrooge. Scrooge snaps “Good evening!”
Owen is one of the few versions to accord full dignity to the two men, laughing at them not at all. Scrooge is annoyed by the very entrance of Messers. Twill and Grubbage, who ask Bob Cratchit whether HE is Mr. Scrooge or Mr. Marley. Scrooge barks that Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years; he died seven years ago this very night. “On Christas Eve. Tsk tsk,” says one man. “As good a time as any!” snaps Scrooge. As the solicitors explain about many being in want of common comforts, Bob Cratchit nods agreement; fortunately, Scrooge does not observe this. Scrooge finally chases the men out, even as they are apologizing for the interruption. “Humbug!” he snarls, before turning his glare on Cratchit.
Sim I arrives at his office to find two very ingratiating men smiling at him. They begin to speak but he walks past as if he has not seen them at all. Eventually, the written conversation takes place. When, in response to Scrooge’s inquiries about prisons and so forth, one man begins to explain that a few of them are trying to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink, Scrooge breaks in with “Why?” When he tells them “Nothing”, his accompanying laugh would quench the spirits of all but the most ardent crusaders. They, for their part, are not shy about showing disapproval. When Scrooge tells them, “Besides, it’s not my business”, the chief solicitor replies, firmly, “Isn’t it, sir?” Dismissed, they say nothing to him.
March’s solicitors start early by receiving ten pounds from Jonas, the man who is buying “A Christmas Carol” at a bookstore. (This is a rare edition with the opening credits for this picture in it.) Checking a scroll, they move on to the firm of Scrooge & Marley. When they ask whom they are addressing, Scrooge growls, “That’s Marley,” pointing to a rather impressionistic portrait. The “Nothing” sequence comes immediately after, but the men persist. Scrooge ignores them and their expressions of concern and disbelief, stalking around them from desk to desk in his office. When he declares his sentiments, he follows “decrease the surplus population” with a grin, as if expecting them to laugh with him. They exchange a look. Finally he shows them the door.
Rathbone skips this sequence.
Magoo looks bored throughout the visit; he’s heard it all before. He is loud on the “I wish to be left alone” and ends the interview by shaking his fist and ordering “Begone! Out!”
Haddrick wears a tight scowl throughout, and goes on writing. The only variation in the scene as written is one of punctuation. When asked if the noble institutions Scrooge supports are in operation, one solicitor replies. “They are still. I wish I could say they are not.”
Sim II is confronted by a pair of portly, balding men. He is brusque, far too busy for this sort of thing. Further, he had dealt with this sort of request many’s the time. First he states that the poor had better go to the establishments he has mentioned but does not let the reply, explaining that they will no doubt tell him many would rather die, and goes on to suggest they do so. “Good evening, gentlemen,” is followed by a glowing grin of triumph and self-satisfaction.
McDuck is the only Scrooge who welcomes the two men, under the impression that they are customers. (Perhaps the other Scrooges are accustomed to clients too desperate for polite conversation.) The solicitors here are Rat and Mole, from “The Adventures of Mr. Toad”. Scrooge gets rid of them through a quibble: if he gives them money, they will give it to the poor who won’t be poor any more, so the two men will be out of work raising money for them. Surely they wouldn’t ask Scrooge to put them out of work ON CHRISTMAS EVE. Once he has them outside again, he becomes fierce, hurling Fred’s wreath at them. Slamming the door, he sighs, “What’s the world coming to, Cratchit? You work all your life to make money and people want you to give it away!”
In Caine, Charles Dickens explains the mission of the two men (Bunsen Honeydew and Beaker.) They do not speak of Marley; Scrooge, exasperated by nephew Fred, snaps “Who are you?” They are from the Order of Victoria Charities, raising funds for the poor and destitute. Fred joins in the following conversation, footnoting his uncle’s replies; when Scrooge asks if he hasn’t other things to do, he makes a donation himself and then leaves. Scrooge finally shows them the door as well and tells them to use it.
Curry also points to a portrait of Marley when explaining Mr. Marley died seven years ago this very night. Just as the solicitors are saying they are sure Mr. Marley’s generosity is shared by his surviving partner, Bob returns from fetching the coal Scrooge threw at the carolers earlier, and is abashed when Scrooge snarls at him for being one lump of coal short. This rightly worries the solicitors. But they hurry optimistically to “What shall I put you down for?” Scrooge replies that his taxes pay for the prisons and the workhouses, and that the poor must go there. When they persist, he sets his dog on them. Debit does tear a chunk out of the taller man’s coat.
Stewart is offered a hand by the solicitors; he does not take it. He is not in a welcoming mood. On explaining that Mr. Marley died seven years ago this very night, he turns reflective, saying it to himself as if the thought had just occurred to him. When Mr. Williams and Mr. Foster express regret at Marley’s death, Scrooge wonders whether they are relatives of his old partner. As the conversation goes on, these men grow increasingly uneasy; Cratchit retires to the security of the Tank. During the explanation of their errand, they pause to ask if Mr. Scrooge does not agree. Scrooge asks if they are new to the district. His subsequent declaration “I wish to be left alone” is simple exasperation. After declaring that the poor had better do their best to decrease the surplus population, he orders Cratchit to show the men out.
FUSS FUSS FUSS #4: What did Scrooge & Marley DO?
The partnership was clearly no multinational corporation, as all the work seems to be done by Ebenezer Scrooge and his clerk. A;; we know from Dickens is they the firm has a warehouse with a counting house (finance department) attached. Craychit, we are told, is copying letters, a necessity in the days before copy machines and computer files.
Later, Marley does refer to the office as a “money-changing hole”; this had led many people to conclude that Scrooge is a moneylender (an occupation considered a sin in and of itself by many Christian commentators.) Finney is the most explicit about this; his sign declares the firm to be “Private Merchant Bankers and Moneylenders”. Later, we get to watch Scrooge gouge higher interest payments on outstanding loans to a Punch and Judy operator, a druggist, an elderly pair of old clothes dealers, and, most notably, Tom Jenkins, the hot soup man. As for other versions which are specific, Scott speculates in the grain market, while Caine appears to have invested his profits in real estate, becoming a slumlord. Fred declares to Sim I that he has come neither for a loan nor a mortgage.
And how honest were Scrooge and Marley? This is discussed by most versions on reaching Jacob Marley’s appearance to his old partner, which allows Marley to wail about the misdeeds which led to his eternal punishment. McDuck frankly makes Marley a swindler, while Curry’s Marley can point to individual segments of his long chain and remember the individual crimes involved; he speaks of the time he cheated old Mrs. Avery. March’s Marley complains about thousands of injustices he committed without stating whether these were legal,; he elaborates only to the extent of bemoaning deeds of unkindness and the echo of empty houses. In general, the screenwriters attribute Marley’s fate and Scrooge’s probable damnation to their dishonest practices in dealing with the poor. (Especially against widows and orphans; the responsibility of a villain to evict widows and orphans is a theatrical tradition of long standing.)
Oddly, apart from calling Scrooge an old sinner, Dickens doesn’t say anything to imply that ebenezer Scrooge and Jacob Marley were anything but honest men. He seems to have felt that greed, disappropriation of the poor, and general injustice were perfectly possible within the law. And some people accuse him of being a clueless idealist.
I have read a lot of joke books You might have gathered that just generally, reading what I have to write, or perhaps you have been with this blog for a while and remember when I serialized my old joke quizbook. But I mean to say that I have read a LOT of joke books, and a lot of different kinds of jokebooks, from the little ones which appeared in boxes of Cracker Jacks to massive, exhaustive tomes. I have experienced, in a small way, the phenomenon from the days of vaudeville and minstrel shows when gag writers would simply publish a regular magazine for those involved in the trade, filled with jokes and skits to perform.
But I have never run into anything quite like these.
In format, they resemble the eight-page narratives I have discussed in this space, but these are NOT pornographic, and they come with twelve pages each.. Each page contains a different joke with an accompanying illustration, so you were not getting a LOT of jokes when you picked these up. They are the work of Ceagee Publishing a company which, um, I cannot find listed anywhere on the Interwebs. It may have been one person with a stencil machine and a mind for telling jokes. They all date from 1944, so it may have been a G.I. with an office job and time on his hands
Some of the jokes are hits and some are misses, but that’s true of every joke book and every reader. Not every joke is going to strike you as a Button Buster. “How much money do you earn, dear?” “About $1,500 a year.” “But we can’t live on that!”. “:Oh, but they pay me $7,000.”)
What fascinates me about the way he tells his jokes, though, is the casual relationship between the joke and the illustration. For the joke just cited, for example, we have what appears to be a secretary, holding her dictation pad, talking to a businessman who for some reason is lying on the floor next to his desk.
Take this classic bit of humor. There is no earthly reason why this dialogue should NOT be exchanged by two people, one of whom is fondling the other’s chest tattoo, but I’m afraid I don’t see why it should, either.
We are dealing with a number of artists here, some of whom can draw, and some of whom take aim at the target. This little witticism deals with a child explaining her father sells waterproof milk, because it holds water. (The text seeps off the page.)What’s the angry lady with the large posterior doing in our story? I admit she is by far the funniest thing on this page, but why….
It looks as if we’re dealing with someone who had a lot of stock illustrations, and a number of jokes. He then mixed these together as best he could.
That would help explain why some cartoons are drawn in the style of the forties, while others hearken back to an earlier day.
And some seem to exist in a world of their own.
I will go on hunting for Mr. or Ms. Ceagee. I’ve already checked to see if there was a Camp Ceagee or a Ceagee Field or a U.S.S. Ceagee some serviceman might have produced these on. It may have been some high school kid with access to the school machinery, or someone who edited a summer camp newsletter and had access to some cuts. Maybe there was a person whose initials were CAG, or three kids with those first initials. These could easily be the last existing copies of these little volumes on earth (he might also have stolen everything here wholesale from a larger joke magazine, which had the peculiar aesthetic I am crediting to Ceagee.)
But I salute you, oh auteur. You did what you could with what you had, which is all any humorist can do. If sometimes I laughed for the wrong reason, well, I laughed.
Blogsy Babbles 