A VOICE FROM THE SEA."O let me Kiss him for his Mother!"
"O let me Kiss him for his Mother!"
Itbecame our duty, some weeks ago, to invite the attention of our readers to the fact that a Memorial Fund, in aid of the Widow and unmarried Daughters of our late lamented friend,Mark Lemon, had been opened. On a page at the end of our present issue will be found the list of those who have subscribed to the Fund. Several donors have been generous, many have been very liberal, and thanks are due to those who have "done what they could." But the aggregate amount as yet obtained is altogether inadequate to the purpose, that of making a permanent provision for those so dear to one who never lost an opportunity of doing a kindness. It is with reluctance that, after examining the list, we admit to ourselves that very much is owed to private friendship, and comparatively little to public recognition of the noble character and the merits ofMark Lemon. Believing, as we sincerely believe, that we may account for this by supposing that thousands are still unacquainted with the fact that their aid is invited, we re-iterate our Appeal. We venture also to ask our contemporaries, who have already so ably and kindly promoted the object, again to perform that labour of love. We, lastly, call attention to the notice at the foot of the list, stating how subscriptions can be forwarded. Some misapprehension on this point may have retarded the liberality which we refuse to believe will not be shown to those who possess such inherited and such personal claim to the kindly consideration of all.
ASagesaid to a Schoolboy, home for the holidays, "A contented mind is a continual feast." "Is it?" quoth young Hopeful, "I should rather say that a continual feast was a contented mind."
The American Pressadmires the reticence which the British Press has practised during the seventy odd days occupied in hearing one side of a cause which will be celebrated. The English Press also takes credit to itself for that reticence. It is, doubtless, exemplary. By not interfering with, we know how much it furthers, the administration of Justice. A trial such as the great lawsuit now pending, or any other in a British Court of Law, is determined, we all know, simply by the weight of evidence, in relation to which the minds of the jury are mere scales. The Counsel on either side respectively confine themselves to the production of true evidence each on behalf of his client, and the refutation of false evidence advanced for the opposite party. The Judge is the only person in Court who expresses any opinion on the case which could possibly influence the jury; his opinion being expressed under the obligation of strict impartiality. No barrister, whether counsel for the plaintiff or the defendant, ever attempts to bias their decision either by sophistry or appeals to their passions and prejudices. It is therefore highly necessary that the Press should abstain as strictly as it does from any explanation or argument with reference to a pending suit which, how sincerely soever meant to instruct, might possibly have the effect of misleading the jury sitting thereon.
If, indeed, Counsel were usually accustomed to employ the arts of oratory, and the dodges of dialectics, in order to make the worst appear the better cause in the eyes of twelve men more or less liable to be deceived and deluded, then, indeed, the reticence of a respectable and intelligent Press, in abstaining from any remarks capable of helping a jury to deliver a righteous verdict, would not perhaps be quite so purely advantageous as it is now.
Whyare the two letters at the tail the most sensible of all the Alphabet?—Because they are theWise Head.
THE BIG CRACKER.Mr. Punch."PULL AWAY, MY DEAR! I'LL BET YOU A KISS IT CONTAINS SOMETHING WE SHALL BOTH LIKE. PULL AWAY!"
Mr. Punch."PULL AWAY, MY DEAR! I'LL BET YOU A KISS IT CONTAINS SOMETHING WE SHALL BOTH LIKE. PULL AWAY!"
T
ALK over all these arrangements at dinner. Then, as we have,Pendelltells me, to be up early for otter-hunting, we determine upon going to bed early.
Process of Going to Bed Early.—Mrs. Pendellretires at nine, having seen that "everything we want" is left out on the sideboard.Pendellobserves that he shan't be half an hour at most before he's upstairs. I yawn, to show how tired I am, and corroborate his statement as to the time we intend to pass in front of the fire.
Mrs. Pendellhas retired.Pendellwishes to know what I'll take. Nothing, I thank him.Pendelldoesn't "think—um—that—he'll—um—take anything," and stands before a row of bottles with the critical air of a Commander-in-Chief reviewing the line. It almost looks as if he wanted a bottle to step out of the rank and invite him to make up his mind at once and take a drop ofhim. In order not to prevent him from enjoying himself, I sacrifice myself, and say, "Well, I'll have just the smallest glass of whiskey."Pendellis of opinion that no one can do better than whiskey, it being, he says, the most wholesome spirit.
We whiskey. The quarter-past arrives. We take no notice of it, except thatPendellremarks thatthatclock is about twelve minutes fast, in which case, of course, we have nearly half an hour at our disposal. Conversation commences. We somehow get upon Literature, especially upon the subject of myAnalytical History of Motion.Pendellquotes a line from somewhere. We can't think where it is to be found.
This leadsPendellto the book-shelves. While he is up, would he mind just mixing me the least drop more whiskey—and water, plenty of water. He does so, and continues his search for the book, ending by bringing down theIngoldsby Legends. "Do I remember this one?" he asks me. No, I have forgotten it. He thinks the line he quoted is there. He is, he says, going to give it at a Penny Reading, and has already done so with great success. He reads a few lines.
Flash.—Ask him to read. Nothing so pleasant as the sound of some one reading poetry when you're very tired, and are sitting before a good fire. Light a pipe as an aid to listening comfortably. Better than going to bed. Besides, if he reads, it'shisfault that we don't go to bed early, as we toldMrs. Pendellwe would.
He reads aloud. I interrupt him occasionally (opening my eyes to do so), just to show I am attending, and twice I dispute the propriety of his emphasis; but I don't sustain my side of the argument, from a feeling that to close my eyes and be droned to sleep, is preferable to straining every nerve in order to talk and keep awake.
11 o'clock,P.M.—Pendellstops, and says, "Why, you're asleep!" I reply that he is mistaken (having, in fact, just been awoke by feeling as if a spring had given way at the nape of my neck), but I own, candidly, to feeling a little tired.
"Um!" saysPendell, and puts his selection for a Penny Reading away. Bed.
Morning.—Am aroused byPendell, who is always fresh. "Lovely morning," he says, opening the curtains. [Note.—When you're only one quarter awake there's something peculiarly obtrusive in any remark about the beauty of the day. To a person comfortably in bed and wishing to remain there, the state of the weather is comparatively uninteresting, unless it's dismally foggy or thoroughly rainy, when, in either case, you can congratulate yourself upon your cleverness and forethought in not having got up.] "Is it?" I ask. Through the window I see only mist and drizzle.
"Just the morning for otter-hunting!" exclaimsPendell, enthusiastically. Then, as he's leaving the room, he turns, and says, "O, by the way, I've just remembered that OldRuddock'spretty sure to be out with the hounds. He's great fun out hunting."
This stirs me into something like exertion. Otters andRuddock.Ruddock, during a check, setting the field in a roar.
At Breakfast.—"Um," saysPendell, thinking over something as he cuts a ham, "we shan't want to take anything with us, because OldPenolvergives us lunch. He's a picture of an Old English Squire isPenolver. Quite a picture of a—um—yes——" here he apparently considers to himself whether he has given a correct definition ofPenolveror not. He seems satisfied, and closes his account of him by repeating, "Yes—um—yes—an Old English Squire, you know—quite a character in his way," (I thought so,) "and you'll have pasties and cider."
"Pasties!" I exclaim. The word recalls BluffKing Hal'stime, the jollifications—by my halidame!—gadso!—crushing a cup, and so forth. Now I have the picture before me (in my mind's eye) of the Old English Squire, attended by grooms bearing pasties and flagons, meeting the Otter Hunters with spears and dogs. Good! Excellent! I feel that My Health will be benefited by the air of the olden time. And perhaps by the pasties.
"Do any ladies come?" I ask.
"Safe to," answersPendell, "last day of hunting—all the ladies out—sort of show meet, and lounge."
Pasties, flagons, dames, gallants with lutes, and pages with beakers of wine. I am all anxiety to start.
The Drive.—Bleak, misty, sharp, dreary. I am in summer costume of flannels, intended for running. Hope weshallhave some running, as at present I'm blue with cold and shivering.
Six miles finished.—We get out at a tumble-down roadside inn. Three boys, each one lankier and colder-looking than the other, are standing together with their hands in their pockets, there being evidently among them a dearth of gloves. A rough man in a velveteen coat and leggings appears, carrying a sort of quarter-staff spiked. I connect him at once with otters.Pendellreturns his salute. This is the Huntsman. The three chilly boys are the Field. We are all shivering, and evidently only half awake. Is this whatPendellcalls a "show meet, and a lounge?"
Flash.—To say brightly, "Well, it couldn't have beencolderfor anotterhunt." The chilly boys hearing this, turn away, the man with the spear takes it literally and is offended, "because," he says, "we might ha' had a much worse day."Pendellsays to himself, thoughtfully. "Um—colder—otter—ha! Yes, I see. I've made that myself lots of times." I thought that down here, perhaps, it wouldn't have been known. Never risk an old joke again. If I feel it's the only one I've got, preface it by saying, "Of course you've heard what the Attorney-General said the other day to (some one)?" and then, if on being told, they say, "O! that's very old," why it's not your fault.
A fly appears on the road with the Master. He welcomesPendelland friend heartily and courteously. Is sorry that it's the last meet. Thinks it's a bad day, and in the most genial manner possible damps all my hopes of seeing an otter. "A few weeks ago," he says, "there were plenty of otters."
Flash.—To find out if that spearing-picture is correct. Show myself deeply interested in otters.
The Master says that spearing is unsportsmanlike. Damper number two. No spears. We walk on, and get a little warmer.
More "Field" meets us: some mounted.
Note on Otter-Hunting.—Better than fox-hunting, because you trust toyour ownlegs. You can't be thrown, you can't be kicked off, or reared off; and, except you find yourself alone with the otter in a corner, there's no danger.
Note Number Two. Additional.—Yes, there is one other danger. A great one.
Here it is:—
We have been walking miles along the banks of a stream, crossing difficult stepping-stones, climbing over banks eight feet high [thank goodness, impossible for horses], with drops on the other side, and occasional jumpings down, which shake your teeth, but still you land onyour ownlegs, and if you fall you haven't got a brute on the top of you, or rolling over you, or kicking out your brains with his hind hoofs. We number about sixty in the Field. The shaggy, rough hounds are working up-stream, swimming and trotting, and stopping to examine the surface of any boulder which strikes their noses as having been lately the temporary resting-place of an otter. A few people on horseback are proceeding, slowly in single file, along the bank. Difficult work for them. Ladies, too, are on foot, and all going along as pleasantly as possible. Suddenly a cry—a large dog is seen shaking its head wildly, and rubbing his front paws over his ears—another dog is rolling on the bank—another plunges into the river furiously, also shaking his head as if he was objecting to everything generally, and would rather drown than change his opinions.
Another cry.
Horses plunging—one almost into the river—shrieks of ladies—exclamations from pedestrians—the field is scattered—some attempt to ford the river—some jump right in—some on horseback cross it shouting—some plunge into the plantation on the left—some are running back upon us! A panic.
Mad bull, perhaps—if so—with admirable presence of mind I jump into the water up to my waist, and am making for the opposite side, when a man, running and smoking a short pipe, answers my question as to the bull with—
"No! Wasps! Wasps' nest!!" In a second I see them.Atme. Pursuing me. I dive my head under water. Wet through! Scramble up bank. One wasp is after me. One pertinaciously. My foot catches in a root, I am down. Wasp down too, close at my ear. A minute more I am up. Wasp up too, by my right ear.
An Inspiration.—It flashes across me that wasps hate mud. Don't know where I heard it. Think it was in some child's educational book. No time for thinking. Jump—squish—into the mud! Over my knees—boots nearly off. The last thing I see ofPendellis holding on his spectacles with his left hand, and fighting a wasp with his stick in his right. Squish—flop—flosh!... Up against a stump—down in a morass. Wasp at me. Close to my ear as if he wanted to tell me a secret. I won't hear it! Now I understand why the dog shook his head. Through a bramble bush (like the Man in the Nursery Rhyme, who scratched both his eyes out and in again by a similar operation), and come out torn and scratched, but dry as a pen after being dragged through a patent wiper of erect bristles. No wasp. Gone. I am free. But still I keep on.
That's the only great danger in Otter-Hunting. At least, that I know of at present.
I pick up the man with pipe. Kindest creature in the world. He has two pipes, and he fills and gives me one. He says, "Wasps won't attack a smoker."
Flash.—Smoke.
Pendellcomes up. "Um!—aha!" he says; "narrow escape!" He hasnotbeen stung.
The Field is pulling itself together again.Pendellchuckles. "Did you see OldRuddock?" he asks. "There were two wasps at him."
No! It appears that OldRuddockhas been quite close to me throughout the day. Yet there was no laughing crowd, and I haven't heard one ofRuddock'sjokes bruited about. Odd. Wonder how the wasps likedRuddock.
COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON.Squire(who interests himself with the Moral and Material Condition of his Peasantry). "Hullo, Woodruff! what an Eye you've got! How did you get that?!"Labourer."O, it's nawthin' Partic'lar, Sir. Last Night—at the White 'Art, Sir. But—(in extenuation)—Chrishmash Time, Sir—on'y Once a Year!"
Squire(who interests himself with the Moral and Material Condition of his Peasantry). "Hullo, Woodruff! what an Eye you've got! How did you get that?!"
Labourer."O, it's nawthin' Partic'lar, Sir. Last Night—at the White 'Art, Sir. But—(in extenuation)—Chrishmash Time, Sir—on'y Once a Year!"
Master M'Grathhas passed away;He breathed his last on Christmas Day.He quitted this terrestrial sphere,In doghood's prime—his twice-third year.He was a dog of high repute.But now he'll be for ever mute.—Though living he gave little tongue—Ah, well! the dogs we love die young.Master M'Grath, old Ireland's pride,The fleetest Saxon dogs defied,Alike to run with him or kill:His legs, once limber, now are still.This peerless paragon of hounds,Did win his good lord—Lurgan—poundsBy thousands; dog as good as horse—The canine Courser is a corpse.He was presented to theQueen,As many a puppy may have been,Who yet that honour lives to boast—But is not worth the dog that's lost.M'Grathreturns to his Dam Earth.The papers mostly to his worthPublish a tribute, not too long,A paragraph—and here's a song.They won't continue, for a week,Each day aboutM'Grathto speakIn memoirs, and in leading columns,To preach of prosy sermons volumes.Upon the Dog defunct that liesBriefest is best to moralise,As every dog, then, let us say,Must have,M'Grathhas had his day.
Master M'Grathhas passed away;He breathed his last on Christmas Day.He quitted this terrestrial sphere,In doghood's prime—his twice-third year.
Master M'Grathhas passed away;
He breathed his last on Christmas Day.
He quitted this terrestrial sphere,
In doghood's prime—his twice-third year.
He was a dog of high repute.But now he'll be for ever mute.—Though living he gave little tongue—Ah, well! the dogs we love die young.
He was a dog of high repute.
But now he'll be for ever mute.
—Though living he gave little tongue—
Ah, well! the dogs we love die young.
Master M'Grath, old Ireland's pride,The fleetest Saxon dogs defied,Alike to run with him or kill:His legs, once limber, now are still.
Master M'Grath, old Ireland's pride,
The fleetest Saxon dogs defied,
Alike to run with him or kill:
His legs, once limber, now are still.
This peerless paragon of hounds,Did win his good lord—Lurgan—poundsBy thousands; dog as good as horse—The canine Courser is a corpse.
This peerless paragon of hounds,
Did win his good lord—Lurgan—pounds
By thousands; dog as good as horse—
The canine Courser is a corpse.
He was presented to theQueen,As many a puppy may have been,Who yet that honour lives to boast—But is not worth the dog that's lost.
He was presented to theQueen,
As many a puppy may have been,
Who yet that honour lives to boast—
But is not worth the dog that's lost.
M'Grathreturns to his Dam Earth.The papers mostly to his worthPublish a tribute, not too long,A paragraph—and here's a song.
M'Grathreturns to his Dam Earth.
The papers mostly to his worth
Publish a tribute, not too long,
A paragraph—and here's a song.
They won't continue, for a week,Each day aboutM'Grathto speakIn memoirs, and in leading columns,To preach of prosy sermons volumes.
They won't continue, for a week,
Each day aboutM'Grathto speak
In memoirs, and in leading columns,
To preach of prosy sermons volumes.
Upon the Dog defunct that liesBriefest is best to moralise,As every dog, then, let us say,Must have,M'Grathhas had his day.
Upon the Dog defunct that lies
Briefest is best to moralise,
As every dog, then, let us say,
Must have,M'Grathhas had his day.
Wehave just read in a delightful book that "Japanese verse is for the most part lyric or descriptive." It is of two kinds, "Uta," of purely native growth, and "Shi," of Chinese origin and structure. The difference between the Japanese and the English is that nearly all the modern poetry of the latter is Shi.
Ata meeting of Railway Directors, which will probably be held in the middle of next week, it will be resolved, in order to increase the safety of the public, that no pointsman, guard, or engine-driver, shall ever be on duty much more than six-and-forty hours at a stretch; and that every such servant shall always, when on duty, be allowed at least four minutes, no less than three times daily, for enjoyment of his meals. With the like view of security, it will also be resolved that porters shall on branch lines be required to act as pointsmen, signalmen, and ticket-clerks, and that due and timely notice of the changes in the time-bills shall on no account be furnished to the drivers of goods trains.
A wordof comforting advice to all those—and they are many—both men and women, who are nursing a secret sorrow, grieving that they are short, small of stature, below the average size. Let them think of those more than consolatory words, in that famous passage inHenry the Eighth, whereShakspearespeaks of—"the blessedness of being little."
EASILY SOLD.Scene—Railway Station in a Town where Highland Regiment is quartered. Foxhunters taking Train for the Meet.Little London Gent."He ain't going out Hunting, too, is he?"Funny Friend."Of course he is."Little London Gent."Well, but—won't it be rather Risky riding in those——Togs?"
Scene—Railway Station in a Town where Highland Regiment is quartered. Foxhunters taking Train for the Meet.
Little London Gent."He ain't going out Hunting, too, is he?"
Funny Friend."Of course he is."
Little London Gent."Well, but—won't it be rather Risky riding in those——Togs?"
Knockat a shop-door, and then lie down flat in front of it, so that the shopman, coming out, may tumble headlong over you. Then bolt into the shop, and cram into your pockets all the big things you can find, so that in trying to get out, you cannot squeeze them through the doorway. For instance, if it be a watchmaker's, clap an eight-day kitchen clock and a barometer or two, let us say, in your right pocket, and a brass warming-pan, or some such little article of jewellery (as you will take care to call it) in your left one; taking pains, of course, to let the handle stick well out of it. If it be a butcher's, pouch a leg of beef and half a sheep or so, and be sure not to forget to bring a yard or two of sausages trailing on the ground behind you. Then, if you can't squeeze through the doorway, the simplest plan will be to jump clean through the shop-front, and in doing this take care to smash as many panes of glass as you are able, crying out, of course, that you took "great pains" to do so.En passant, you will kick into the street whatever goods are in the window, and then run off as quickly as your heels can carry you.
If the shopman should pursue you, as most probably he will, make him a low bow, and say that it was really quite an accident, and that of course you mean to pay him—indeed, yes, "on yourhonour!" If he won't believe you, punch him in the waistcoat, and batter him about with his barometer and warming-pan, or sausages and mutton.
Should a policeman interfere, and want to know what you are up to, catch up your red-hot poker (which you will always have about you), and hold it hidden behind your back, while you beg him to shake hands with you, because you mean to "square the job" with him. Then, when he puts his hand out, slap the poker into it, and run away as fast as your stolen goods will let you.
But after a few steps, of course you must take care to let the handle of your warming-pan get stuck between your legs, and trip you up occasionally; and you will manage that your sausages become entangled so about you that, at every second step, you are obliged to tumble down and roll along the ground, and double up into a heap, till the policeman, who keeps up the chace, comes close enough to catch you. Then you will spring up again, and, jumping on his back, you will be carried off to Bow Street, with the small boys shouting after you; or, else, if you prefer it, you may "bonnet" the policeman, and run away and hide yourself ere he can lift his hat up, to see where you are gone to.
Sir Charles Lyell, according to a correspondent of theDaily Telegraph, is credited with the saying that there are three things necessary for a geologist: the first is to travel; the second is to travel; and the third, also, is to travel. This seems to mean that your geologist must travel, travel, travel over the face of the earth in order to be enabled to explore its interior. The earth is round; so is your plum-pudding: the earth has a crust; so has your mince-pie. Happily, conditions like those needful for the exploration of the earth do not delay analogous researches.
TheKnights ofKing Arthur'sRound Table of course formed a Circle when they sat round it. Tournaments in general used to come off in lists; but can the Author ofThe Last Tournamentinform a Spiritualist whether, in asÈanceofArthur'sKnights at Table, there was ever any table-tilting?
Ah, drat them nasty telegrams that keeps folks all in sitch a flurry,Whenever there's the least to-do, with constant worry, worry, worry!I recollect in my young days when there was no sitch expectation,And news to travel took its time, suspense was bore with resignation.What was to be, we used to say, would be, and couldn't be prewented,Which 'twas consolin' for to think, and made one happy and contented.What would be we should live to see, if we lived long enough, 'twas certain,And p'raps it might a mercy be the future was behind the curtain.Misfortunes came, as come they must, in this here wale of trile and sorrow.But then, if bad news come to-day, no news was like to come to-morrow.No news was good news people said, and hoped meanwhile they might be better,Leastways until the next day's post brought 'em a paper or a letter.'Tis true, relief as soon may come, sometimes, by artificial light'nin'.When days and weeks of dark and storm you've undergone afore the bright'nin':All's well as ends well, thanks be praised, the croakers found theirselves mistaken—But by them plaguy telegrams how my poor old narves have bin shaken!
Ah, drat them nasty telegrams that keeps folks all in sitch a flurry,Whenever there's the least to-do, with constant worry, worry, worry!I recollect in my young days when there was no sitch expectation,And news to travel took its time, suspense was bore with resignation.
Ah, drat them nasty telegrams that keeps folks all in sitch a flurry,
Whenever there's the least to-do, with constant worry, worry, worry!
I recollect in my young days when there was no sitch expectation,
And news to travel took its time, suspense was bore with resignation.
What was to be, we used to say, would be, and couldn't be prewented,Which 'twas consolin' for to think, and made one happy and contented.What would be we should live to see, if we lived long enough, 'twas certain,And p'raps it might a mercy be the future was behind the curtain.
What was to be, we used to say, would be, and couldn't be prewented,
Which 'twas consolin' for to think, and made one happy and contented.
What would be we should live to see, if we lived long enough, 'twas certain,
And p'raps it might a mercy be the future was behind the curtain.
Misfortunes came, as come they must, in this here wale of trile and sorrow.But then, if bad news come to-day, no news was like to come to-morrow.No news was good news people said, and hoped meanwhile they might be better,Leastways until the next day's post brought 'em a paper or a letter.
Misfortunes came, as come they must, in this here wale of trile and sorrow.
But then, if bad news come to-day, no news was like to come to-morrow.
No news was good news people said, and hoped meanwhile they might be better,
Leastways until the next day's post brought 'em a paper or a letter.
'Tis true, relief as soon may come, sometimes, by artificial light'nin'.When days and weeks of dark and storm you've undergone afore the bright'nin':All's well as ends well, thanks be praised, the croakers found theirselves mistaken—But by them plaguy telegrams how my poor old narves have bin shaken!
'Tis true, relief as soon may come, sometimes, by artificial light'nin'.
When days and weeks of dark and storm you've undergone afore the bright'nin':
All's well as ends well, thanks be praised, the croakers found theirselves mistaken—
But by them plaguy telegrams how my poor old narves have bin shaken!
Christmas Present for the Claimant.—Coleridge's Works.
Theclosing night of the Christmas season is observed by every nation in Europe, except Switzerland, in which country the Republican form of government introduced byW. Tell(the first President), prevents the recognition of Kings and Queens.
Throughout England, particularly in those rural districts where the study of physics is yet in its infancy, great importance is attached to the weather on Twelfth Day. The occurrence of rain, or wind, or sleet, or snow, or hail, or the appearance of the Aurora Borealis over the roofs of the Bank of England is considered a most favourable augury, and in some counties determines the day on which the sowing of the Spring wheat commences. But the slightest indication of the Zodiacal light is dreaded as a sure forerunner of the turnip-fly, and the connection of a parhelion with protracted drought is established by a long series of observations, reaching as far back as the Reformation.
Most lawyers are of opinion that under the provisions of an old Act of Parliament, still unrepealed, it is illegal to solicit a Christmas box after twelve o'clock on the 6th of January.
If Twelfth Night falls on a Sunday, the harvest will be late; if on a Monday, the back door should be carefully looked to on the long evenings; if on a Tuesday, pilchards will be caught in enormous quantities; if on a Wednesday, the silkworms will suffer; if on a Thursday, there will be no skating on the Serpentine during the rest of the year; if on a Friday, the apple crop will be a failure; and if on a Saturday (as this year), you should on no account have your hair cut by a red-haired man who squints and has relations in the colonies. The sceptic and the latitudinarian may smile superciliously at these predictions, but they have been verified by inquiries conducted at centres as wide apart as Bury St. Edmunds, Rotherham, Dawlish, Rickmansworth, Kirkcudbright, and Cape Clear.
Christmas Present for Sir Charles Dilke.—Packet of Court Plaster and some Household Bread.
Mr. Punch, in spite of his emphatic and repeated Notices and Explanations, being still copiously afflicted with Communications from Persons whom he has not invited to take the liberty of addressing him, issues the followingNote, and advises such persons to study it closely.
He calls them "Correspondents," but does so only for convenience. A Correspondent means a person who not only writes, but to whom the recipient of the letter also writes. Ninety-nine out of a hundred of those who addressMr. Punchare, and will be, unanswered, except by this Note.
Let all understand that he is answerable for the real or supposed value of No literary or artistic matter which may be sent him, unasked. This is law. Let all understand that at the earliest possible moment after his discovery that such matter is useless to him, it is Destroyed. This is fact.
Notice also that stamped and directed envelopes, for the return of such matters, will not operate to the fracture of his rule.
After this notice, "Correspondents" will have no one but themselves to thank for the SnubMr. Punch'ssilence implies.
But is he unwise enough to believe that the plague of foolish Correspondence will thus be stayed? Verily, no.
He expects to continue to receive—
1. Jests that have appeared in his own pages, but which are warranted to have been invented, or heard, "the other day."2. The jest of the day, one that has been heard a million times.3. Profane, and even lower jests, sent by creatures who pretend to be readers ofPunch.4. Idiotic jests, usually laid upon the shoulders of "my little boy," or "my youngest girl."Punchwould pity the children of such parents, but that he generally disbelieves in the existence of the innocents.5. Sketches, to be used in his next without fail, or, if rejected, to be instantly returned. These burn well, and he prefers those on cardboard, as they crackle prettily.6. Things, literary or artistic, that have been "dashed off." The mere word "dash" is the cue for instant fire.7. Compositions, poor in themselves, whose insertion is prayed because the authors are poor also. IsMr. Punchto perform his charities at the expense of society?8. Aged jokes, possibly recently heard for the first time by the Stupid Sender, but more probably copied from print.9. Post-Cards, or communications with the Halfpenny Stamp. These are all selected by his Deputy-Assistant-Under-Secretary, and destroyed unread.10. Absolute Stupidities.
1. Jests that have appeared in his own pages, but which are warranted to have been invented, or heard, "the other day."
2. The jest of the day, one that has been heard a million times.
3. Profane, and even lower jests, sent by creatures who pretend to be readers ofPunch.
4. Idiotic jests, usually laid upon the shoulders of "my little boy," or "my youngest girl."Punchwould pity the children of such parents, but that he generally disbelieves in the existence of the innocents.
5. Sketches, to be used in his next without fail, or, if rejected, to be instantly returned. These burn well, and he prefers those on cardboard, as they crackle prettily.
6. Things, literary or artistic, that have been "dashed off." The mere word "dash" is the cue for instant fire.
7. Compositions, poor in themselves, whose insertion is prayed because the authors are poor also. IsMr. Punchto perform his charities at the expense of society?
8. Aged jokes, possibly recently heard for the first time by the Stupid Sender, but more probably copied from print.
9. Post-Cards, or communications with the Halfpenny Stamp. These are all selected by his Deputy-Assistant-Under-Secretary, and destroyed unread.
10. Absolute Stupidities.
Let them come. And when a Sender getteth no answer, let him take counsel with himself, and consider to which of the above Ten Categories his work belongs. One will certainly fit it. To this TableMr. Punchwill make reference when he may please to do so. Let intending Contributors learn it by heart.
Now, laying down the Chopper ofLycurgus, and putting on the Smile ofPlato,Mr. Punch, raising the festal goblet, wisheth to all his faithful and true Disciples, those whose handwritings ever give him joy and gladness,—
A HAPPY NEW YEAR!
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTESAt the top of page 2, there was an illustration (Utile Cum Dulce), a poem (Old Ghosts and New), and a short clip (Memorandum for Lords of the Manor). They have all been moved to after the poem (The Nation's New-Year's Day) that continued from page 1.At the top of page 10, there was an illustration (Compliments of the Season), a poem (Monody on McGrath), and a short clip (Happy Dispatch). They have all been moved to after the article (My Health) that continued from page 9.
At the top of page 2, there was an illustration (Utile Cum Dulce), a poem (Old Ghosts and New), and a short clip (Memorandum for Lords of the Manor). They have all been moved to after the poem (The Nation's New-Year's Day) that continued from page 1.
At the top of page 10, there was an illustration (Compliments of the Season), a poem (Monody on McGrath), and a short clip (Happy Dispatch). They have all been moved to after the article (My Health) that continued from page 9.