The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, January 5th, 1895, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, January 5th, 1895 Author: Various Editor: Sir Francis Burnand Release Date: April 7, 2013 [EBook #42477] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, JANUARY 5TH, 1895 *** Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Lesley Halamek and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Book cover PUNCH VOL CVIII The Double Ev ent 1894. — 1895. LONDON. PUBLISHED AT THE OFFICE, 83 FLEET STREET, Also sold by all booksellers 1895 LONDON: BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. [pg i] [pg ii] PREFACE PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. JUNE 29, 1895. A Midsummer Day-dream, and its waking Sequel. A Midsummer Day-dream, and its waking Sequel. IT WAS THE LUNCHEON-HOUR AT LORD'S. LIKEWISE IT WAS EXCEEDING HOT, AND MR. PUNCH, AFTER AN EXCITING MORNING'S CRICKET, was endeavouring to cool himself with an iced tankard, a puggreed "straw," and a fragrant whiff. "WILLOW THE KING!" PIPED MR. PUNCH, PENSIVELY. "QUITE SO! A MERRIER MONARCH THAN THE SECOND CHARLES IS WILLIAM (GILBERT) THE VERY FIRST! AND NO ONE KICKS AT KING WILLOW, EVEN IN THESE DEMOCRATIC DAYS. THE VERDANT, SMOOTH- SHAVEN LAWN, WHEN WICKETS ARE PITCHED, IS YOUR VERY BEST 'LEVELLER'—IN ONE SENSE, THOUGH, IN ANOTHER, WHAT STYLISH RICHARD DAFT CALLS 'KINGS OF CRICKET' ('BY MERIT RAISED TO THAT good EMINENCE'), RECEIVE THE CROWD'S LOYAL AND MOST ENTHUSIASTIC HOMAGE. BUT, BY JOVE, THE HARROW BOYS WILL WANT A NEW VERSION OF THEIR FAVOURITE CRICKET SONG, IF PRODIGY BE PILED ON PRODIGY, LIKE PELION ON OSSA, IN THE FASHION TO WHICH THE DOCTOR DURING THE FIRST MONTH OF SUMMER IN THIS year of Grace has accustomed us." "The 'Doctor's' throne has never been disputed by anyone outside Bedlam," said a strong and sonorous voice. MR. PUNCH LOOKED UP, AND PERCEIVED BEFORE HIM A STALWART SIX-FOOTER IN FLANNELS, BROAD-BELTED AT THE EQUATOR, AND wearing broad-brim'd silken stove-pipe. "ALFRED MYNN, quoting 'the Old Buffer,' or I'm a Dutchman," said the omniscient and ever-ready one. "'And, whatever fame and glory these and other bats may win, Still the monarch of hard hitters, to my mind, was ALFRED MYNN; With his tall and stately presence, with his nobly-moulded form, His broad hand was ever open, his brave heart was ever warm'— as PROWSE sang pleasantly." THE KENTISH TITAN BLUSHED—IF SHADES CAN WITH MODESTY SUFFUSE. "YOU KNOW everything, OF COURSE, MR. PUNCH," SAID HE; "AND THEREFORE YOU KNOW THAT THE OBJECT OF MY VISIT IS not TO HAVE MY PRAISES SUNG EVEN BY YOU OR THE POET PROWSE, but to back up that National Testimonial to the CRICKETER OF THE CENTURY—AND THE 'CENTURIES'—OF WHICH I'M GLAD TO HEAR WHISPERS IN THE ELYSIAN FIELDS, WHERE—ALAS!—WE DO not PITCH THE STUMPS OR CHASE THE FLYING 'LEATHERY DUKE' OF HARROW song." "WELL, IT'S A FAR CRY FROM HAMBLEDON TO DOWNEND," QUOTH MR. PUNCH, PENSIVELY; "BUT EVEN THE GODS OF 'THE HAMBLEDON PANTHEON,' AS PICTURESQUE JOHN NYREN CALLED THEM, MIGHT HAVE ADMITTED THE DOWNEND DOCTOR AS THEIR JOVE. OR, [pg iii] "Centuries all round us, Volley and thunder! adopting his other figure, have made him the King ARTHUR of their Round Table, vice old RICHARD NYREN retired." "I SEE YOU READ WHAT IS WORTH READING," RESPONDED THE KENTISH BIG 'UN. " DICK NYREN'S STYLE WAS AS SOUND AND HONEST AND BRISK AS THE ENGLISH ALE HE LAUDED,—'BARLEYCORN, SUCH AS WOULD PUT THE SOUL OF THREE BUTCHERS INTO ONE WEAVER.' BUT the great Gloucestershire gentleman is worthy to bend the bow of Ulysses." "Or to wear the pads of ALFRED MYNN, which, I believe, were presented to him," said Mr. PUNCH, cordially. "AH! THERE IS ANOTHER AND A BIGGER PRESENTATION AFOOT, I UNDERSTAND, THANKS LARGELY TO A TRULY GRACIOUS PRINCE," RETURNED "THE MONARCH OF HARD HITTERS." "A KNIGHTHOOD? WELL, THAT'S AS IT MAY BE! QUITE DESERVED INDEED; BUT A 'KING' HARDLY NEEDS THE ADDITION OF THE LESSER HONOUR, AND INDEED W. G. WON HIS SPURS ON THE TENTED FIELD YEARS AND YEARS AGONE. BUT A NATIONAL TESTIMONIAL! FAITH, THE BRITON WHO GRUDGES A SUBSCRIPTION TO that DOESN'T DESERVE TO SEE A SIXER RUN OUT, OR DRINK A FLAGON OF GENUINE BONIFACE AT THE 'BAT AND BALL' ON BROAD HALFPENNY. ONLY WISH WE OLD WILLOW-WIELDERS IN THE Elysian Fields could contribute each our obolus. By Castor and Pollux, here he comes!" BROAD, BRONZED, BLACK-BEARDED, BEAR-PAWED, BELL-MOUTHED, BEAMING, IN LOOSE-CUT FLANNELS AND M. C. C. CAP, THE REDOUBTABLE DOCTOR ENTERED. 'TWAS A SIGHT TO SEE THOSE TWO SIX-FOOT-ODDERS SHAKE HANDS! AND TO HEAR THE TALK OF THE Cricket Heroes of two generations—— * * * "Hillo, Mr. PUNCH! Wake up, old man! Match over!" IT WAS THE VERITABLE VOICE OF THE GLOUCESTER GIANT. BUT WHERE WAS THE PRIDE OF KENT? HE CAME LIKE A SHADOW IN SUMMER slumber, and so departed. But WILLIAM GILBERT was at least satisfactorily solid. "Where are the Bats of yester year?" murmured the drowsy Sage. "Oh, still scoring—some of 'em," said the practical smiter, cheerfully. "Keeping up a fair average, too." "What is yours just now, Doctor?" "Oh, ask DRUCE! His tops it, I believe—for the present." "AH, WELL! BUT THE CENTURY OF CENTURIES, THE THOUSAND OF MERRY MAY, THE SUGGESTED KNIGHTHOOD, THE COMING NATIONAL Testimonial, H. R. H.'s letter——" "I NEVER SAW A NICER LETTER, AND I HOPE TO SEE AS GOOD WHEREVER I GO," INTERRUPTED THE MODEST AND TACITURN GIANT, WITH A grin reminiscent of Wickets in the West and "the rapt oration flowing free," in a fourfold iteration of a single sentence. "BETTER before THE STUMP THAN on IT, EH, WILLIAM?" SMILED THE SAGE, WHO HAD READ HIS ROLLICKING R. A. FITZGERALD, and understood W. G.'s allusion. "Unlike the other W. G., at present out in the Baltic." "Ah, he could give the bowling beans, in his own way, which certainly isn't mine," said the Man of Many Centuries. "What a season!" exclaimed Mr. PUNCH, preparing to puff. "Centuries to right of us, Centuries to left of us, MYNN was here just now—in my vision. Wish you could have met him, as I dreamed you did! Par nobile fratrum! But even he NEVER HIT HIS HUNDRED HUNDREDS, THOUGH HE PLAYED UP TO THE AGE OF FIFTY. WELL, WILLIAM MINE, YOU'VE TOPPED THE TOPPERS AND CUT ALL RECORDS. MAY THE NATIONAL TESTIMONIAL DO LIKEWISE. WISH YOU A SOVEREIGN REWARD FOR EVERY GOOD HIT WITH WHICH YOU'VE PLEASED THE POPULACE—A ' quid' for every quo. AND, TO PROVE THE SINCERITY OF MY LOVE AND ADMIRATION FOR THE GREATEST CRICKETER OF ALL TIME, I PROPOSE, MY DEAR (PROSPECTIVE) SIR WILLIAM GILBERT GRACE, K.G. (KNIGHT OF the Game), to head that same National Testimonial with a contribution outshining and out summing all others, to wit my One Hundred and Eighth Volume! [pg iv] Dr. W. G. Grace PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI Volume 108, January 5, 1895. edited by Sir Francis Burnand Vol. CVIII MR. PUNCH WELCOMES THE NEW YEAR. So, 'Ninety-Five, my boy, you've come at last! Another year has gone, and I am here [pg 1] To greet you, as your brothers in the past Were greeted on their coming, year by year; For it's always been my practice, Sir—a bit of Punch's lore— Since the day that I was volumed, until now I'm fifty-four Aye, fifty-three New Years I've welcomed. This I pray to Heaven in its arms may bear A whole New Yearful of a nation's bliss— A world without a tear, without a care. 'Tis thus that I have prayed, young Sir, full many years before; But to know how oft I've prayed in vain, would make your young heart sore. The Year that's dead was better, sure, than some; But even he brought with him strikes and war, Whose ghastly horrors smote the soft heart numb And wrung and chilled it to the very core. 'Twas a villainous attention, this suffering and gore, That we'd rather have dispensed with, from your brother 'Ninety-Four But even he, my lad, a jest could work, And on occasion smile, and nod, and beck; To England gave—a rising Son of York, And gave to Ireland—Mr. GLADSTONE'S cheque! Thus tickling Mr. BULL from smiles and laughter to a roar. But hearty laughs like these, my friend, were few in 'Ninety-Four. And you, young shaver, what is it you bring? Razor and soap, like shavers young and old— The soap to soothe, razor to cut and sting?— Will wedding-bell be heard, and death-knell toll'd? You see, my lad, we're anxious as to what you have in store, For there's still some things to put to rights bequeathed by Ninety-Four. In Parliament, no doubt, you'll make your game— In Camp, and Court, and County Council, too? Make sport of love—make foul an honoured name— And all the little fun you're wont to do? Well—take my tip. Just do your level best, remember! For The blame, my son, lies at your own, not Mr. Punch's door. So mind, young Sir, for Mr. Punch's eye Is cocked upon you through your little life. Go—rule the world!—and if before you die You fill the earth with joy instead of strife, You'll be the first of all your race—for all the smiles they wore— That gave the country what she asked—from 0 to '94! PROTEST FROM THE PLAYGROUND. DEAR MR. PUNCH,—I KNOW YOU SYMPATHISE WITH BOYS, AND ISN'T IT A JOLLY SHAME THE MASTERS SET US SUCH AWFULLY HARD QUESTIONS IN EXAMS.? MY REPORT HAS JUST COME HOME, AND MY PATER HAS GIVEN ME A FEARFUL ROWING, AND ALL BECAUSE IT says "WILKINS TERTS. (THAT'S ME) HAS DONE BADLY IN EXAMINATIONS, AND DOES NOT TAKE THE TROUBLE TO USE WHAT INTELLIGENCE HE POSSESSES." MY PATER THREATENS NOT TO TAKE ME TO THE PANTYMIME, AND I HEAR IT'S AWFULLY BEEFY THIS YEAR! WELL, WE HAD A "HISTORY AND GENERAL KNOWLEDGE" PAPER, AND ONE OF THE QUESTIONS WAS THIS BEASTLY ONE, AND OF COURSE I COULDN'T TACKLE IT—"WHAT, OR WHERE, ARE THE FOLLOWING:—'IMPERIUM IN IMPERIO, THE KOREA, BIMETALLISM, THE GRAND LLAMA, BALANCE OF POWER, AND ONE MAN ONE VOTE?'" I ANSWERED ALL RIGHT ABOUT THE KOREA, BECAUSE I KICKED YOUNG SMITH UNDER THE TABLE TO GIVE ME A TIP ABOUT IT, AND HE SAID IT WAS THE BOOK THE TURKS USE IN CHURCH; AND I PUT THAT DOWN, BUT ALL THE OTHER THINGS FLOORED ME. PLEASE WILL YOU SAY WHAT BIMETALLISM IS? JONES JUNIOR SAID AFTERWARDS, IN THE PLAYGROUND, THAT IT WAS A SORT OF LOZENGE, AND ROBINSON SENIOR SAID HE DIDN'T KNOW WHAT IT WAS, BUT HE KNEW HIS PATER WAS A BIMETALLIST; AND JONES SAID ROBINSON SENIOR'S PATER MUST BE A CONFECTIONER THEN; AND SO ROBINSON PUNCHED JONES'S HEAD; BUT WHAT is IT? AND IS IT FAIR TO ASK US BOYS SUCH QUESTIONS? MY PATER SAID AT BREAKFAST THE SCHOOL BOARD WAS fond of sending out sirkulers. Do you think they would send one to our Head-master, and ask him to stop such rot? Your obedient young friend JACKY. SPORT IN COURT. SPORT IN COURT. ["The Anti-Gambling League has decided to take proceedings against the Jockey Club.... In the view of the League every member of the Jockey Club is equally open to indictment."—Morning Post.] A VIEW HALLOO. A VIEW HALLOO. (Hounds at fault.) Whip (bustling up to Young Hodge, who has just begun to wave his cap and sing out lustily). "Now then, where is he?" Young H. "Yonder, Sir! Acomin' across yonder!" Whip. "Get out, why there ain't no Fox there, stoopid!" Young H. "No, Sir; but there be our Billy on t' Jackass!" SPORT IN COURT; Or, The New Year Dream of the National Anti-Gambling Leaguer. Oh! it must have been the grog, for I slumbered like a log, And I dreamed—such a dream! I was holding forth in court, [pg 2] [pg 3] And the prisoners in the dock,—how the Sporting League 'twould shock!— Were the Princes, and the Nobles, and the Leading Lights of Sport. A supreme, successful raid on the Jockey Club we'd made. No mere stuffy, sordid set, of poor betting-men this time, No cheap winner-spotting snobs, but a lot of topping nobs, And I had them on the hip, and I charged the lot with Crime! It was prime to see a Prince at my language flush and wince, And a Lord Chief Justice squirm, and a stern-faced Judge quite blench. But—I could not fail to mark the demeanour of the Clerk, Who looked on it as a lark!—and that Beak upon the bench— Ah! he had a mighty "beak," which I felt a wish to tweak— Had a wink in his left eye which seemed frivolous, if funny; And he didn't seem to suit us, for we wished a stern-faced BRUTUS; Nay, a ruthless RHADAMANTHUS were the big-wig for my money. Ah! it wanted resolution to conduct that prosecution, With a Prince and several Dooks, and an Earl, a County Squire, And a Mephistopheles, who sat lounging at his ease, Whom the culprits all called "JIMMY," and seemed hugely to admire; For although I ramped and raved, Beak and Prisoners behaved In a fashion which seemed scornful, and assuredly was light; And that Clerk—confound his mug, which looked strangely like a pug!— And the chap for the defence, with his eyes so brisk and bright, They seemed all upon the grin, or almost, which was a sin, And I'm sure I heard a Dook whisper in a Judge's ear, "Don't old Mulberry Nose look funny? I will bet you any money——!—" Well, I missed the wager's point; but oh, dear! oh dear!! oh dear!!! Think of betting—in a Court! And I thundered against Sport, Which meant Gambling, more or less, and red ruin, and disgrace. From the girls who, though they're loves, wager wickedly—in gloves, To the Plunger Peer who shames his ancient race—to win a Race. Ah! I think I "gave them beans." I'm uncertain what that means, But the Lord Chief Justice whispered I was doing so—to "JIM"— And the phrase I overhead, and although it sounds absurd, I felt it meant a compliment to me, compelled from him. So I said "Sport may intrigue and set up a rival League To our holy Anti-Gambling One; but Sport is a Foul Sink We have pledged ourselves to purge with a besom and a scourge——" But here that Punchian eye indulged in a prodigious wink, Such a spasm of sheer fun, that I felt the case was done; Court, Prisoners, Judge, assumed the guise of a colossal Joke! My head appeared to swim, the wild vision did dislimn, And with a shriek of bitter disappointment I—awoke! "ANGLO-INDIAN."—WE ARE INDISPOSED TO GO THE FULL LENGTH OF AGREEMENT WITH THE LEARNED EDITORS OF THE New English Dictionary IN THEIR STUDY OF THE DERIVATION OF THE OBJECTIONABLE WORD "DAMN." IN THE INTERESTING EXTRACT YOU INCLOSE THEY REMARK: "THE CONJECTURE THAT THE WORD IS THE HINDI dām, dawm, AN ANCIENT COPPER coin, of which 1,600 went to a rupee (see YULE), is ingenious, but has no basis in fact." That may be so. It is, NEVERTHELESS, A CURIOUS COINCIDENCE THAT AT THE PRESENT TIME THE STEADY DECLENSION OF THE MONEY VALUE OF THE RUPEE, COMBINED WITH ITS IMMOVEABLE RATING IN THE SALARY LIST, PRODUCES IN THE CIVIL SERVICE AND THE ARMY IN INDIA A STATE OF FEELING SUBJECT TO WHICH AT LEAST 1,600 DAMS GO TO A RUPEE. WE MUCH FEAR THAT, UNDER THIS PROVOCATION, OUR ARMY IN INDIA IS ABLE TO COMPETE WITH REGIMENTS EARLIER ENROLLED, WHO, YOU WILL REMEMBER, "swore terribly in Flanders." [pg 4] COMBINATION COSTUMES FOR COVENT GARDEN. COMBINATION COSTUMES FOR COVENT GARDEN. "THE TWENTY-FIRST OF DECEMBER!" "What nonsense you do talk. How do you make that out?" "Why, any Fool could see that. The Shortest Dey and the Longest Knight, of course!" NEW YEAR NOTIONS. (By an Old Buffer.) "There is nothing new under the sun," someone says; I wish that there wasn't, by Jingo! It seems to me everything's New in these days, And nothing is genuine old stingo. A New Poet turns up about once a week (According to log-rolling rumour); And there's the New Politics, all grab and sneak; And something dull dubbed the New Humour! The New Art; I'm certain it comes from Old Nick, It's so diabolic and dirty. Faith! some of their Novelties make me feel sick, And most of them make me feel "shirty." The New Year!—well, that is as old as the hills. The New Leaf—we annually turn it. Ah! if the New Newness would banish Old Ills. Not e'en an Old Fogey would spurn it. New Year, give us books that are healthy and gay, And Art that's not impish or queer, Sir! And if you'll but cart the New Woman away, You will be a Happy New Year, Sir! THE MODERN THEATRE LAUGH. DEAR MR. PUNCH,—I CRAVE THE HOSPITALITY OF YOUR COLUMNS UNDER THE FOLLOWING CIRCUMSTANCES. THE OTHER NIGHT I WENT TO A BURLESQUE. BEING A MAN OF MODEST MEANS, I CONTENTED MYSELF WITH PAYING HALF-A-CROWN, FOR which sum I was able not only to sit with the plebs in the pit, but to see Society in the stalls. WILL IT BE BELIEVED, AT THE END OF THIS SO-CALLED NINETEENTH CENTURY, THAT SONGS WERE SUNG AND THINGS WERE SAID WHICH MADE THOSE EVERYWHERE AROUND ME laugh? SADDER STILL, TWO-THIRDS OF THOSE I SAW WERE WOMEN!— women, who are our mothers and sisters, when they are not our wives and sweethearts! I HAVEN'T THE LEAST NOTION WHERE THE HARM IN ALL THIS COMES IN, BUT I'M CONFIDENT THERE'S SOME SOMEWHERE. IN ANY EVENT IT'S A SERIOUS SIGN OF THE TIMES; WHICH REMINDS ME THAT I SHOULD HAVE SENT THIS TO THE Times, IF I HAD NOT THOUGHT THE RECENT SOCIETY-PLAY CORRESPONDENCE SUFFICIENT FOR ONE SEASON. I'M SO AFRAID THE DEAR OLD Thunderer will drop the telegraphic news and take to Telegraphic Correspondence. In any case, I invite letters on "The Seriousness of Laughter." Yours distressedly, A DI-TRI-SYLLABIC PITTITE. [No letters on this subject will be inserted.—Ed.] NEW YEAR. "Ring out, wild bells." We hope that you, With '94 that's rung out, Will kindly ring out just a few Of all those things entitled "new" Which plagued us till quite mad we grew As mad as dog with tongue out. Those novelties! The newest kind— With turned up nose and weird, slee- -py eyes, that told of vacant mind, And monstrous chignon massed behind— Were those appalling things designed By Mr. AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Yes, "things"; for nought of human shape, However strangely bizarre, Is there portrayed; there's not an ape, That feeds on cocoa-nut or grape, Between Morocco and the Cape, So hideous as these are. For goodness' sake, don't let us see New Art which courts disaster! We much prefer to Mr. B. VELASQUEZ, REMBRANDT, even P. P. RUBENS or VANDYKE, for we Like oldness in a master. And then "New Humour." Heavens, why It's but a pleasure killer! A cause of weary yawn and sigh, Which makes us almost long to fly To those old jokes collected by A certain Mr. MILLER. In politics Newcastle, too, With programme was prophetic; And now Leeds leads, and shows who's who. The Grand Old Man—there's age for you!— Has found much better things to do, Not prosy but poetic. But all the things, so new in time, Are nothing to the woman, Who now is "new," and seeks to climb To heights which seem to her sublime; (Excuse the execrable rhyme) She is indeed a rum 'un. Of course we know that youth is sweet; Old women are not charming; But no old woman we could meet, With featless form and formless feet, This wild New Woman now could beat, She's perfectly alarming. Ring out, wild bells, wild belles like these New-fangled fancies screaming; Ring in the woman bound to please, A lady, always at her ease, Not manlike woman, by degrees More man that woman seeming. Old '94, who now has fled, Encouraged blatant boldness In things called "new," as we have said; New '95, now he is dead, Might bring some things which are instead Remarkable for oldness. A VITAL QUESTION. A VITAL QUESTION. (Asked at a Penny Reading.) "Who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me?" "SHOULD CHRISTMAS BE ABOLISHED?" [A symposium on the above question appears in the December Number of The Idler.] With what philosophy sublime The institutions are discussed, Which foolish men of olden time Were well content to take on trust! "Is life one great mistake?" we cry, "Our modern teachers deem it so;" "Man's place shall woman occupy?" And now this last—"Shall Christmas go?" They mock at any plea for mirth, With fine derision they allude To any wish for peace on earth As just a pulpit platitude; This Christmas-time, it seems, is fraught With fancies anything but clever; The lessons that CHARLES DICKENS taught Are obsolete, and gone for ever! [pg 5] They tell us, in their stead, to praise The jokes on seasonable ills, The epigrams on quarter-days, The jeux d'esprit on mud and bills; But as for honest glee and cheer, Since every cause for joy's demolished, Why, Christmas, too, it's amply clear, Should be left out—in fact, "abolished." Well, let them talk; to please themselves By all means let them demonstrate That fairies, Santa Claus, and elves Are manifestly out-of-date. Well, let them talk; and find a joy In cynical philosophy, But every English girl and boy Will give their empty words the lie! Nor only these: In every land When Christmas brings, to brighten life, The sturdy grip of hand with hand, The softened heart, the ended strife,— Then air your pessimistic views, Then ask again, "Shall Christmas go?" And find your answer, if you choose, In one emphatic, hearty—"NO!" 'Look what I've bought you for a Christmas Box!' "Look what I've bought you for a Christmas Box!" THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH. VIII.—After the Poll. I AM OVERWHELMED WITH CONGRATULATIONS, FROM ALL CLASSES, FROM ALL SECTIONS, FROM ALL RANKS, AND I AM ACCLAIMED ON ALL HANDS AS A WORTHY HEAD MAN FOR A MUDFORD, IF NOT YET A MODEL, VILLAGE. NOT THE LEAST WELCOME HAVE BEEN THE COMMUNICATIONS WHICH HAVE REACHED ME FROM THOSE WHO HAVE MADE MY ACQUAINTANCE IN THESE PUBLISHED CHRONICLES. THE MAYOR OF A BOROUGH WHOSE CHARTER DATES WELL BACK INTO THE BEGINNING OF THE SECOND HALF OF THE PRESENT CENTURY, WROTE TO SAY THAT HE IS EMBOLDENED BY THE FACT THAT HIS WIFE'S MAIDEN NAME COMMENCED WITH A W TO WRITE TO TELL ME HOW REJOICED HE IS TO HEAR OF MY SUCCESS. A GENTLEMAN WRITES FROM "THE BURNING PLAINS OF THE SAHARA" TO SAY THAT HE IS ALWAYS PROUD OF THE TRIUMPHS OF A TIMOTHY. (MY DAUGHTER POINTS OUT THAT THIS IS CLEARLY A FORGERY, SINCE THE SAHARA MAIL ISN'T IN TILL NEXT WEEK. BUT I CAN'T GO INTO THAT.) THEN THERE IS A VERY IMPORTANT LETTER FROM BIRMINGHAM, OF WHICH I WILL ONLY SAY THAT WINKINS, WHO HAS BACKED MANY A BILL, MAY YET LIVE TO INDORSE A PROGRAMME. I MAY HERE ADD THAT THERE HAS BEEN AN ATTEMPT IN SOME QUARTERS TO DECRY THESE CHRONICLES AS ABSURD AND IMAGINARY. MY BIRMINGHAM CORRESPONDENT describes them as "an important picture of things as they actually are." He is right. I am as serious as a Prime Minister. MY WIFE IS BACK—WHICH REMINDS ME THAT I RECEIVED A POST-CARD, WHICH HIS HAD THE EFFECT USUALLY PRODUCED BY A BOMB. Here is what was on it:— AFTER THE POLL. After the poll is over, After the voting's done, Mudford will be much duller, No more election fun. But ONE man will be more happy, Not so disturbed in his soul (?), WINKINS'S wife is come back now— After the Poll! OF COURSE, I SHOULD HAVE DESTROYED THE CARD AT ONCE—BUT I WAS OUT WHEN IT CAME, AND MARIA READ IT FIRST! WHAT HAPPENED WAS A GOOD INSTANCE OF THE MONSTROUS WAY IN WHICH ONE MAN'S SIN IS ANOTHER MAN'S PUNISHMENT. IN THIS CASE (1) IT WAS MY WIFE WHO HAD PERSISTED IN GOING AWAY, AND (2) IT WAS AN UNKNOWN POST-CARDIST WHO HAD WRITTEN THE insulting doggerel. Yet I paid the entire penalty. THE GREAT PUZZLE—WHO IS THE SEVENTH COUNCILLOR?—IS STILL UNSOLVED. ALL THAT HAS HAPPENED SO FAR IS THAT MRS. LETHAM HAVITT AND MRS. ARBLE MARCH ARE NO LONGER ON SPEAKING TERMS. IT HAS LEAKED OUT THAT MRS. MARCH HAD MORE plumpers than Mrs. HAVITT, whereupon ructions—as JACKY, WHO HAS JUST COME HOME FOR THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS SAYS. I think he's quite right. OUR PARISH COUNCIL MEETS NEXT MONDAY—ON THE 7TH. WITH THE NEW YEAR WE COMMENCE OUR REIGN OF BENEFICENT ACTIVITY. I NEED HARDLY SAY THAT IT IS CERTAIN THAT I AM TO BE CHAIRMAN. MY POSITION ON THE POLL SUGGESTS IT, COMMON decency demands it, moreover I expect it. I refuse to believe that I shall be disappointed. A GLAD NEW YEAR. A Reflecting Roundel. "A Glad New Year!" Why, bless my heart, how fast The time flies by! The year's no sooner here Than it is gone and numbered with the past— A Glad New Year! For some the sun shines bright, the sky is clear, No threatening clouds o'erhead exist to cast A single shadow. Yet, ah me, how drear The sad estate in which some lives are passed! The day when none are sad may not be near, But then—and not till then—there'll be at last A Glad New Year! UP-TO-DATE VERSION FOR MATURE VIRGINS AND PREMATURELY GRIZZLED WORKING MEN.— They whom the gods don't love, dye young! [pg 6] [Scores. THE PROBLEM PLAY. THE PROBLEM PLAY. New Woman (with the hat). "No! My Principle is simply this—If there's a demand for these Plays, it must be supplied!" Woman not New (with the bonnet). "Precisely! Just as with the Bull-fights in Spain!" THE OLD FERRYMAN'S NEW FARE. AIR—"Twickenham Ferry." O-hoi-ye-ho! Ho-ye-ho! Who's for the ferry? (The moon sails on high, and the snow's coming down,) A light gleams afar, and the church chimes are merry, Their message goes pealing o'er country and town. The ferryman's grey, and the ferryman's old; But the passenger's young, and the passenger's bold; And he's fresh as a pippin, and brown as a berry, He laughs at the night, and he heeds not the cold. O-hoi-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho-Ho! O-hoi-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho! "I'm for the ferry!" (The moon rides on high, and the snow's coming down,) "Sure it's late that it is, but I care not a penny; I'll brave the rough river and winter's grim frown." He'd his hands in his pockets, and oh! he looked brave As the toughtest old tar who e'er ventured the wave. With his cheeks like a rose, and his lips like a cherry, "Ah! sure, and you're welcome! Your presence all crave!" O-hoi-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho-Ho! O-hoi-ye-ho, Ho! One flits slow from the ferry, (The moon rides on high, and the snow's coming down,) With shadowy form, and with footfall unsteady; You'd think 'twas a ghost at the dawn-signal flown. The ferryman turns on the phantom a glance, But the eyes of the youngster there glitter and dance, And with youth like a star in the stern of the wherry There is but one watchword for Time,—tis "Advance!" O-hoi-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho-Ho! O-hoi-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho! Old is that ferry, (The moon rides on high, and the snow's drifting down,) Still, older that steersman, though stalwart and steady, And many a journey and fare hath he known. For the Ferryman's Time, and his fares are the Years, And they greet him with smiles, and oft leave him in tears, And the youth who to-night takes his seat in that wherry, Knows not how 'tis freighted with hopes and with fears. O-hoi-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho-Ho! O-hoi-ye-ho-Ho! 'NINETY-FIVE tries the ferry, (The moon rides on high, and the snow silvers down,) There's a smile on his lips, and his laughter is merry; Right little he bodeth of Fortune's dark frown. But the Ferryman's old, and the Ferryman knows That River of Years, with its joys and its woes; But we'll wish the young fare a snug seat in Time's wherry, And sun on his way, though he starts 'midst the snows. O-hoi-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho, Ho-ye-ho-Ho!! THE WINTER ACADEMY OF 1995. (An Elegant Extract from a Future Development.) THE COMMITTEE THIS YEAR HAS WISELY BEEN RECRUITED FROM THE MASTER BILL POSTERS' GUILD; THE OLD-FASHIONED METHOD OF "HANGING" IS ABANDONED, AND ADVERTISEMENTS ARE NOW "STUCK" ON THE WALLS BY THE NEW "B" GUM PROCESS (FOR WHICH SIR J. MILLBOARD CONTRIBUTES A CHARMING ILLUSTRATION NO. 20,000). DURING A PRELIMINARY SURVEY, WE WERE ASTONISHED BY THE BLATANT EXCELLENCE OF THE EXHIBITION. " A Bicycle Made for Five," BY MR. LOWTHER R. CADE (NO. 2006), IS ESPECIALLY DELICATE AND SUDDEN; THE TONE IS ALUMINIUM THROUGHOUT, AND ALTHOUGH NO CHILDREN ARE REPRESENTED AS BODILY ON THE MACHINE, A KINETO-PHONOGRAPH INSERTED IN THE AXLE DEXTEROUSLY RESPONDS TO A PENNY IN THE SLOT—WHEN THE YOUTHFUL ATHLETES ARE BOTH SEEN AND heard IN THE ADJACENT HORSE-POND. "Gregory the Grateful" (NO. 612) FULLY SUSTAINS DR. UTTERSON'S REPUTATION FOR HISTORICAL ADVERTISEMENT; BY PRESSING A SPRING THE POPE ACTUALLY SWALLOWS THE POWDER, AND SEEMS TO LIKE IT. IT IS QUITE EQUAL TO THIS MASTER'S " Columbus in Wall Street" OF LAST YEAR. MR. G. MORLAND'S "Carter's Pill- gathering in the Old Kent Road" (NO. 69) IS TOO REALISTIC FOR MODERN TASTE; THE FINE OAKS IN THE BACKGROUND ARE ABSOLUTELY HIDDEN BY PLACARDS; BUT LORD BOXALL'S "While there is Life there is Soap" (NO. 15,000Z) IS TRULY IMPRESSIONIST; THE LIFE IS FULL OF SOAP, AND THE SOAP FULL OF LIFE. IN " Glycerine" (UNNUMBERED), BY MISS TOPSY TURVY (THE PRESIDENTESS), WE HAVE A FINE EXAMPLE OF " The Newer Symbolism,"—A PATENT REVOLVING motor displays its liquidity to equal advantage upside down. ALTOGETHER THE SHOW IS CALCULATED TO PROMOTE BUSINESS—WHICH IS THE TRUE END OF ART; IT ALSO OPENS OUT INFINITE possibilities for house-decoration. THE NEW PASSENGER. [pg 7] THE NEW PASSENGER. AN "OLD MASTER'S" GROWL. Burlington House, January 1, 1895. AN 'OLD MASTER'S' GROWL. It's all very pretty to hang us up here, And pretend that you worship our genius and paint; You fancy it's "Cultchah" that rings in the year— But it ain't! You find us, you say, "a delight to the eye;" You exclaim that "such painting you never did see!" You "do" us—then scamper below with the cry— "Cup o' tea!" "Old Masters," indeed! It's "Young Students" with you— To their show in your thousands you flock in the spring; But of Me you exclaim, as you come in my view— "What a thing!" Just six months ago in these rooms you'd declare It was "exquisite Art" that you saw; you forgot That you'd said that of us. Bah! What do you care? Not a jot! Of course, there are some who are men of the day, Who belong to the band of the talented few; Right gladly we put forth our hand, as we say— "How de do?" For example, young RAPHAEL—my excellent friend— And the later Italians and Germans as well, They consider Sir FREDERIC LEIGHTON no end Of a swell. Then REYNOLDS declared, in the course of a chat, The "Cherry Ripe" picture of MILLAIS to be [pg 8] [pg 9]