Struwwelpeter: Merry Stories and Funny Pictures

Adults had some strange ideas about what children should read in the 19th century. The cautionary tale, with appropriate punishments for transgression of the Christian moral code, served as both a warning and (theoretically) an entertainment. Only a milksop, goody-two-shoes could possibly find them readable. Heinrich Hoffmann (1809-1894) stands head and shoulders above these authors, satirising the genre in full Swiftian mode. The clue’s in the subtitle. Der Struwwelpeter (Shock-Headed Peter) kicks up the punishment dial to 11. Most of his subjects die horribly, or are dreadfully mutilated, for minor infractions of social etiquette. And apparently his book was hugely popular with children, who know a good thing when they see it.

Here’s the introduction, with links to individual poems.

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CONTENTS

Merry Stories And Funny Pictures

Shock-headed Peter

Cruel Frederick

The Dreadful Story of Harriet and the Matches

The Story of the Inky Boys

The Story of the Man that went out Shooting

The Story of Little Suck-a-Thumb

The Story of Augustus, who would not have any Soup

The Story of Fidgety Philip

The Story of Johnny Head-in-Air

The Story of Flying Robert

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Merry Stories And Funny Pictures

	When the children have been good, That is, be it understood, Good at meal-times, good at play, Good all night and good all day— They shall have the pretty things Merry Christmas always brings.Naughty, romping girls and boys Tear their clothes and make a noise, Spoil their pinafores and frocks, And deserve no Christmas-box. Such as these shall never look At this pretty Picture-book.

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It’s not surprising that The Tiger Lillies, who I saw twice in Seattle, gleefully seized on Shockheaded Peter and created a stage show based on these tales. Here’s a clip.

Christmas Lights Display at Melbourne Town Hall

I only know about this brilliant display of Christmas lights because Leanne Cole blogged about it and later posted this video. What makes it even better are the crowd noises off camera and the passing traffic. You feel as if you’re there. So thank you, Leanne, and I hope you don’t mind me using the video.

A Christmas Carol

Just the bit about Scrooge’s awakening.

The End Of It

Yes! and the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his own, to make amends in!

‘I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!’ Scrooge repeated, as he scrambled out of bed. ‘The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. Oh, Jacob Marley! Heaven, and the Christmas Time be praised for this! I say it on my knees, old Jacob, on my knees!’

He was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions, that his broken voice would scarcely answer to his call. He had been sobbing violently in his conflict with the Spirit, and his face was wet with tears.

‘They are not torn down.’ cried Scrooge, folding one of his bed-curtains in his arms, ‘they are not torn down, rings and all. They are here — I am here — the shadows of the things that would have been, may be dispelled. They will be. I know they will!’

His hands were busy with his garments all this time; turning them inside out, putting them on upside down, tearing them, mislaying them, making them parties to every kind of extravagance.

‘I don’t know what to do!’ cried Scrooge, laughing and crying in the same breath; and making a perfect Laocoon of himself with his stockings. ‘I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a schoolboy. I am as giddy as a drunken man. A merry Christmas to everybody! A happy New Year to all the world! Hallo here! Whoop! Hallo!’

He had frisked into the sitting-room, and was now standing there: perfectly winded.

‘There’s the saucepan that the gruel was in!’ cried Scrooge, starting off again, and going round the fireplace. ‘There’s the door, by which the Ghost of Jacob Marley entered! There’s the corner where the Ghost of Christmas Present sat! There’s the window where I saw the wandering Spirits! It’s all right, it’s all true, it all happened. Ha ha ha!’

Really, for a man who had been out of practice for so many years, it was a splendid laugh, a most illustrious laugh. The father of a long, long line of brilliant laughs!

‘I don’t know what day of the month it is.’ said Scrooge. ‘I don’t know how long I’ve been among the Spirits. I don’t know anything. I’m quite a baby. Never mind. I don’t care. I’d rather be a baby. Hallo! Whoop! Hallo here!’

He was checked in his transports by the churches ringing out the lustiest peals he had ever heard. Clash, clang, hammer; ding, dong, bell! Bell, dong, ding; hammer, clang, clash! Oh, glorious, glorious!

Running to the window, he opened it, and put out his head. No fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring, cold; cold, piping for the blood to dance to; Golden sunlight; Heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry bells. Oh, glorious! Glorious!

‘What’s to-day?’ cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy in Sunday clothes, who perhaps had loitered in to look about him.

‘Eh?’ returned the boy, with all his might of wonder.

‘What’s to-day, my fine fellow?’ said Scrooge.

‘To-day?’ replied the boy. ‘Why, Christmas Day.’

From A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens.

Through My Window

A couple of not very good photos of the place where Beautiful Railway Bridge is born. Presiding over it all is Chucky, the genius loci of this blog. You can see more of him here. Chucky says he’s thinking of you, and might even come for a visit in the New Year, unless you ask him nicely not to. Note also that indispensable handbook, Blogging for Dummies.

A Victorian Christmas at Dingley Dell & A Christmas Carol

For many people, Simon Callow has become the face and voice of Charles Dickens for our time. I first saw him play Dickens in an episode from season one of Doctor Who, where he gave a public reading of A Christmas Carol, interrupted by extra-terrestrial ghosts. Callow has also given readings, as Dickens did, and performed in theatrical adaptations of the story.

The Guardian, in another manifestation of Yuletide Spirit (see their Nutcracker), offers a reading by Callow of the Christmas episode from Pickwick Papers. I’m ashamed to say that, tasty as it is episode-by-episode, I’ve never managed to work through the entire novel. A new resolution, possibly. Here’s the podcast:

Simon Callow reads the Christmas episode from Pickwick Papers.

And here’s Alastair Sim’s 1951 take on Scrooge, one of my favourite versions of A Christmas Carol.

The Christmas Goose

McGonagall would like to wish you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! He wrote a poem especially for you. Click on the picture to hear the poem.

The Christmas Goose

Mr. SMIGGS was a gentleman,
And he lived in London town;
His wife she was a good kind soul,
And seldom known to frown.

‘Twas on Christmas eve,
And Smiggs and his wife lay cosy in bed,
When the thought of buying a goose
Came into his head.

So the next morning,
Just as the sun rose,
He jump’d out of bed,
And he donn’d his clothes,

Saying, “Peggy, my dear.
You need not frown,
For I’ll buy you the best goose
In all London town.”

So away to the poultry shop he goes,
And bought the goose, as he did propose,
And for it he paid one crown,
The finest, he thought, in London town.

When Smiggs bought the goose
He suspected no harm,
But a naughty boy stole it
From under his arm.

Then Smiggs he cried, “Stop, thief!
Come back with my goose!”
But the naughty boy laugh’d at him,
And gave him much abuse.

But a policeman captur’d the naughty boy,
And gave the goose to Smiggs,
And said he was greatly bother’d
By a set of juvenile prigs.

So the naughty boy was put in prison
For stealing the goose.,
And got ten days’ confinement
Before he got loose.

So Smiggs ran home to his dear Peggy,
Saying, “Hurry, and get this fat goose ready,
That I have bought for one crown;
So, my darling, you need not frown.”

“Dear Mr Smiggs, I will not frown:
I’m sure ’tis cheap for one crown,
Especially at Christmas time —
Oh! Mr Smiggs, it’s really fine.”

“Peggy. it is Christmas time,
So let us drive dull care away,
For we have got a Christmas goose,
So cook it well, I pray.

“No matter how the poor are clothed,
Or if they starve at home,
We’ll drink our wine, and eat our goose,
Aye, and pick it to the bone.”

– William McGonagall

Zen and the Art of Recycling

I’m all in favour of recycling as much stuff as possible. I’m also lazy. Given that the nearest recycling bins are behind Tesco, five minutes walk from the flat, this means I recycle assiduously but none of it gets turned back into useful materials.

As part of my Yuletide present to the world…no, that’s not true. Because someone is coming over tomorrow to look at my leaky shower, and the rotting boards beneath, I decided to have a purge of the accumulated recycling, which covered almost half the floorspace in the bedroom.

I’m brilliant at making plans, scheduling things, making charts and timetables. Think of me as Arnold Rimmer, with his revision plan for the astronavigation exam. My plan involved getting up 6:00 am, taking all the recycling out in the morning, and having a thorough clean-up of the flat in the afternoon.

It did not turn out that way.

I slept late, faffed away the morning, and didn’t get out with the first load until early afternoon. Six loads later – 28 plastic bags full of tin cans and milk jugs, plus a little paper and glass – and the afternoon gone. Still most of the paper left.

You know, I learned something today, in my best Stan Marsh voice. It’s not what you do, but how you do it that matters. First trip out was horrible, gale force gusts of wind from the loch, so the milk jug bags were like sails holding me back – three men overboard and I didn’t go back to rescue them. I chose a different route next time. Even so, I was sliding into a fetid mood. But a startling thought occurred to me – why not try to enjoy this?

Which meant not rushing, walking at a steady pace, paying attention to my surroundings, and being one with moment. Well, no, didn’t manage the last bit, but I did focus on the act, and listened to the clank of the cans and crash of the glass. I tried to be there, rather than furiously thinking of something else in the hope that the present task would magically go away. Sometimes it worked.

And then it got dark. In Tesco afterwards, there was a child singing Jingle Bells on a loop, which gave me a warm feeling, while at the same time being glad I wasn’t her dad.

I’ll put the remaining paper in the trash.

For no other reason than I like it, here’s the Arnold Rimmer song.