Read Ebook: Punch or the London Charivari January 5th 1895 by Various Burnand F C Francis Cowley Editor

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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!

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!"

THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH.

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. 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 it was my wife who had persisted in going away, and 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 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!

THE OLD FERRYMAN'S NEW FARE.

O-hoi-ye-ho! Ho-ye-ho! Who's for the ferry? 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! One flits slow from the ferry, 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, 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, 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.

Altogether the show is calculated to promote business--which is the true end of Art; it also opens out infinite possibilities for house-decoration.

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.

VAN DE VELDE asserts he knows less of a wave, It's colour and drawing, than MOORE at his best.-- But when of your COLES and your HUNTERS you rave, I protest!

Talk of TITIAN and WATTS in a breath--which you may; Young GILBERT and SWAN you may praise if you will; But the thought of the annual summer display Makes me ill!

Yet that's what the mass of the people enjoyed. And the few who come here, both the great and the small, Mostly come to be seen. What--you think I'm annoyed? Not at all!

We expect it.--I said just as much to VANDYCK-- There's but one in a hundred that comes who'll descry The beauty of Art. It's the sham I dislike. Well--good-bye!

HOW TO WRITE AN EXTRA NUMBER.

The author was hard at work. He heeded not the snow that beat against the window, nor the wintry wind that whistled through the leafless trees. The fire burned brightly in the grate, and the shadows on the walls seemed to inspire him with seasonable tales. He wrote for dear life, as his copy was late, and he knew that the printers were clamouring for more and more from his facile pen. Every now and again he glanced at a volume of drawings , and, pausing for a moment, seemed to be lost in thought. Then he would resume his labours with fresh energy. Very rarely he would murmur to himself, and then his words would be few.

"Confusion!" he muttered on one such occasion; "how the Dickens am I to get in the Christmas waits?" He pondered for a moment, and then his eyes glistened with delight. "Eureka! I have it! They must appear in a dream. Yes, that will get over the difficulty, they must appear in a dream!"

And then he continued his writing. During the whole day he had been hard at work. His breakfast was scarcely touched. He waved away the servant girl who would have set before him his lunch. It was now close upon his customary dinner hour, but still he insisted upon isolation. Even the wife of his devotion did not dare to come near him. She knew that he would not speak to her, but only cast at her a glance. But such a glance! A terrible tirade compressed into a solitary look!

The short day waned and passed away. The evening quickly changed into night. There were cheery songs without, as it was Christmas Eve, when all men were thinking of wassail, and holly and mistletoe. Even the performers in the forthcoming pantomime were nearing the close of their last rehearsal, when they would go back to their homes to count the mince pies and glance for the last time at the cooking of the familiar plum pudding.

At length the writer was interrupted, and by his old familiar friend.

"I will not disturb you," said the caller, taking up a newspaper and commencing its perusal; "I know how busy you are, and will be silent as Cornhill on a Sunday."

The writer nodded and continued his work. His pen moved quicker and quicker until at length it stopped.

"Hurrah!" shouted the author. "At last my task is completed. I have brought in every cut and got through the necessary number of lines. Yes, my dear old comrade, I have done. The printer will be satisfied, and the publisher will cease to be alarmed. And now, my dear fellow, I can enjoy Christmas conscious of the fact that I have thoroughly earned a holiday."

"Ah!" observed the visitor glancing at the recently-written pages; "I see you have been writing something for Yuletide."

"Yuletide!" exclaimed the author. "Why, that was accomplished ages ago. No, my dear fellow, I have just finished a summer number timed to appear in August. I shan't think of touching the work of next year's Christmas until April!"

"YOU CAME TO TEA."

In spite of Fate invincible, Of lack of wit, and lack of gold, Of pictures that too cheaply sell, Or pictures never sold, Oh, yet, when I am old and grey, If old and grey I live to be, I shall recall one happy day, The day you came to tea!

You came. Of course I am aware You did not, could not, come alone. You were between the millionaire And a stout chaperon. My work they called to criticise, But what they said I do not know, For gleams of laughter in your eyes That seemed to come and go.

The hurrying moments how I rued! There flashed a scheme into my brain. With unexpected tea, I would My visitors detain. The ever-willing household slave Into my service I impressed; To her my tea, my gold I gave, She vowed to do the rest.

That tea was strong, for all my hoard, Some half a pound, two shilling tea, Into the teapot had been poured-- Only the milk--ah me! So pallid, comfortless a stream, Into your cup I saw it glide. For a true jug of country cream I felt I would have died!

But with the cake I was content, Its richness no one could mistake, For my whole store the slave had spent On a superior cake. 'Twas all in layers, almonded, And crowned with white and rosy ice: "What a delightful cake!" you said; "But, please, a smaller slice!"

I flushed and stammered. I suspect A pound I'd cut you unaware. On what I did could I reflect When you were sitting there? That revel, ah, how soon 'twas o'er! How swiftly came the moment when After my guests I shut the door, I mounted to my den.

Then down I sat beside the wall, And, feeling doubtful and amazed, I strove your accent to recall As at your chair I gazed. I heard your soft laugh echo through The dingy room grown dear to me, Where now was silence; and I knew That you had been to tea!

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