Perhaps a version "up to date" (as the slang goes) of Our Village, may interest the supporters of the Statesman Mr. ACLAND, without annoying the admirers of the poet WAL PINK.
For centuries the Village was maintained, without cessation,
As "a Squire and Parson's paddock," just to keep poor yokels down,
But all that is to be altered, at the Radical's instigation,
We're settling on a village which shall have the charms of town.
It's shaped on Democratic lines, it is in nubibus yet,
But when Reform's set going, it's a horse that does not stop.
The House o' Commons has pronounced, and though old Tories fuss, yet
All understand the tyrant has the tip to shut up shop.
In the Village, new Village, a healthy little spot,
The home of rural Hygiene, where nasty smells are not,
Where HODGE shan't be the thrall
Of the Vicarage and the Hall,
In the Village shaped on Democratic lines!
There bobbing to their "betters" shall not be an institution
With the Jemmies and the Jessamies, as in the good old day;
There "Washhouses" shall civilise chawbacons—by ablution,
And Drink-shops shall not freely tithe the ploughman's paltry pay.
There shall be a Parish Council by the householders elected,
Who will snub "the Village tyrant" and will cut the Parson's comb;
And when once 'tis constituted such reform may be expected
That poor HODGE in all sincerity may sing his "Home, Sweet Home!"
Chorus.—In the Village, new Village, the sanitary spot,
A small self-governed commune with full powers to "allot,"
A Free Library for all,
And a handsome Meeting Hall,
In the Village shaped on Democratic lines!
There the Labourer shall not half-starve on "swankey." and thin pottage,
With a prospect of the Workhouse when no longer he can work;
But shall have a fragrant pigstye, and a sanitary cottage,
And a voice in local business which the big-wigs cannot burke.
The rural working-man shall superintend his children's schooling,
And control long ill-used "charities," and champion "common rights,"
And, in fact, there'll be an end to Squire's sole sway and Parson's fooling,
And the rustic's sole hope-beacon shall no more be "London's Lights."
Chorus.—In the Village, new Village, &c., &c.
There the peasant politician with the Guardian shall grapple,
And keep up the rural standard, and keep down the local rates;
The haughty Church no longer there shall lord it o'er the Chapel,
And the Voluntary School shall find the level it so hates.
In short, with Local Government invested, the whole Village
Shall grow vigorous, and virtuous, and prosperous, and proud,
And free from Landlord pressure, and the Parson's petty pillage,
The peasants shall no longer to the slums of London crowd.
Chorus.—From the Village, new Village, a happy little spot,
A home of peace and plenty, where oppression may not plot;
Where there's room enough for all.
And the "hind" is not a "thrall,"
In the Village shaped on Democratic lines!
The sun was setting behind the towers of the church of Greenborough-on-the-Driblet.
[It must be clearly and distinctly understood that this village is not intended to refer to any parish with the word "green" introduced in the title—all incumbents of such livings being the most honourable and distinguished of men.]
Two persons were bidding one another adieu. The first was a man in the prime of life wearing a suit of tweeds.
[Please note that the name of the tailor is not given, and it is not to be assumed for a single moment that this refers to any individual in particular.]
The girl, for she was only a girl, wore a costume of almost puritanical simplicity.
[Again no dressmaker is singled out for discussion. It is a purely fancy portrait.]
They were both in tears. For the hour had come for their parting.
[It is necessary to state that by "parting" no reference is made to any existing firm of hair-dressers.]
For a moment they were silent, watching Phoebus as he descended in his glory of purple and gold.
[This refers to the mythical God of Day, and is not to be confounded with a member of a well-known firm of manufacturers of blacking.]
Then they spoke to one another.
"ZOZIMUS," she murmured, softly, "and is this our last meeting?"
[The name of ZOZIMUS was selected for the hero because it is an uncommon one, and consequently unlikely to be confounded with any more frequently-used designation. If by an unlucky chance there is a ZOZIMUS, he is assured that the coincidence is purely accidental.]
"I am afraid it must be so, my ZULUWOLFA," was the heartbroken response.
[Again the name has been chosen on the same lines as the selection of ZOZIMUS, and the explanation above given may be taken as having reference to both.]
"And so you are going across the sea in a boat?" she queried, trying to smile, in spite of her blinding tears.
[No boat in particular is intended, and we have the author's authority for saying that he has the greatest respect for every official connected with the shipping interest.]
"Yes," he returned, sadly, "it is my father's wish, and I trust that in a new world I shall find greater prosperity than I have been able to achieve in dear old England."
[No reference is made in the above to any weekly publications, although, perhaps the World and England may have been taken as titles for Saturday journals. Before passing this passage, we received the assurance of the author that he felt the deepest esteem for the Editors of the periodicals thus inadvertently mentioned.]
"Well, my beloved, you will soon see me; and, dead or alive, I shall be by your side in the spirit."
[This passage is not intended to single out any particular firm of distillers]
"We shall meet again," he cried, pressing her frail form to his breast. "Indeed we shall meet again."
[It must not be assumed that there has been a misprint in the above passage, and that reference is made to any particular firm of butchers.]
And so they parted!
WITHOUT THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON.—A few days since the Justices of South Shields sentenced a vagrant verging upon seventy years of age, to fourteen days imprisonment with hard labour—a matter to which attention was called when the Coroner held an inquest in the gaol on the poor old fellow's body. It would be interesting to know the names of these "un-worthies," so that they might be gibbeted as a contrast to the sentiments that will prevail when Christmas ushers in a time of peace and good-will!
A STORY OF THE SEA (told on the Beach at Brighton).—"Fine day for a sail, Sir!"
We have recently been favoured by a communication from a firm of Publishers, which informs us that, in a story sent for review, "by an oversight of the binder," the Epilogue was omitted, and inclosing that interesting document. We have perused the four pages with so much pleasure, that we suggest that, instead of writing the whole story, novelists, in future, should only publish the final chapter, which might be beneficially compressed into a few lines. As a lead, we print a few conclusions, to serve as models:—
Specimen of a Happy Ending.—And so there was nothing more to do but to get married, and consequently EDWIN led no happier bride to the altar than his much persecuted and greatly tried ANGELINA. So the bells of Tinkleton rang out their merriest chimes as the sun went down on the stately towers of Castle Sympleton.
Specimen of an Unhappy Ending.—So, at peace with all the world, still holding the hand she loved so well, and smiling a smile that brought tears into the eyes of the good old Colonial Bishop, FLORA faded away into the Golden Dream she knew so well!
Specimen of a Mysterious Ending.—And so HUGH, carrying a lamp in his right hand, and grasping the blade of his sword in his left, entered the cave of which he had heard so much. Will he ever return? Who can tell?
Specimen of a Comic Ending.—"So it was you, after all!" cried the Cheesemonger, with a shout of laughter.
EGERTON SWELLINGTON smiled an assent.
"Then all I can say," continued the worthy trader, "is, that a miss is as good as a mile."
And, for once in his life, Mr. DOUBLECHIN was absolutely right!
Specimen of the Poetical Ending.—So with the blue-bells sighing soft music, and the stars chanting their soothing lullaby, the sweet soul of MARIA realised the truth that—
'Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all.
Specimen of the Shocker's Ending.—And with a gasp and a reel, Sir RALPH fell back, back, back, down the precipice, and an hour later was found by the patrolling coast-guardsman a quivering mass of senseless humanity!
Specimen of the Christmas Ending.—And so, linked hand in hand, father and mother, son and daughter, husband and wife, nephew and niece, bowed their heads beneath the holly and mistletoe, and wished one another, with a heartiness that told volumes, "A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!"
1. If the Vice-Chancellor's authority to punish immorality within the bounds of the University town of Cambridge is to be done away with, will he still retain the then quite superfluous title of Vice-Chancellor?
2. On the abolition of "The Spinning-House," as plucked candidates are often spoken of as men who were "spun" for such-and-such an examination, might not the Senate-House be known as "The Spinning-House"?
[In a recent libel action, brought against an author by an African merchant, Mr. GEORGE MEREDITH was called as a witness. He said:—
"The story in dispute passed through his hands as reader for the publishers. Asked in cross-examination if he thought that the opening of the story relating to the hero's mother did not offend against the canons of good taste, the witness answered that it was the attempt of a writer of serious mind to be humorous. It might be almost called a stereotype of that form of the element of humour. It was a failure but still passed with the public.—The Judge: A kind of elephantine humour?—The Witness: Quite so. I did not like it, but one would have to object to so much."
There the report of Mr. MEREDITH'S evidence ends. Exigencies of space apparently caused the omission of a great deal of it. Fortunately it is in our power to supply this deficiency.—ED.]
The Judge. Quite so, Mr. MEREDITH. I may say for myself that I fully understand you. But perhaps it would be well to explain yourself a leetle more clearly for the benefit of the jury.
Mr. George Meredith. My Lord, I will put it with a convincing brevity, not indeed a dust-scattering brevity fit only for the mumbling recluse, who perchance in this grey London marching Eastward at break of naked morn, daintily protruding a pinkest foot out of compassing clouds, copiously takes inside of him doses of what is denied to his external bat-resembling vision, but with the sharp brevity of a rotifer astir in that curative compartment of a homoeopathic globule—so I, humorously purposeful in the midst, of sallow—
The Judge. One moment, Mr. MEREDITH. Have you considered—
Mr. G.M. Consideration, my Lord, is of them that sit revolving within themselves the mountainously mouse-productive problems of the overtoppingly catastrophic backward ages of empurpled brain-distorting puzzledom: for puzzles, as I have elsewhere said, come in rattle-boxes, they are actually children's toys, for what they contain, but not the less do they buzz at our understandings and insist that they break or we, and, in either case, to show a mere foolish idle rattle in hollowness. Nor have the antic bobbings—
Sir Charles Russell (cross-examining). Really, Mr. MEREDITH, I fail to follow you. Would it not be possible—
Mr. G.M. Ay, there you have it. In truth, the question looks like a paragraph in a newspaper, upon which a Leading Article sits, dutifully arousing the fat worm of sarcastic humour under the ribs of cradled citizens, with an exposure of its excellent folly. For the word. That is it. The word is Archon, with extended hand summoning the collaboratorically ordained, misbegotten brood of shock-shilling pamphlets to his regal presence—
The Judge (testily). No doubt that would be so, but it brings us no nearer to a decision upon the question of humour in the particular passage of the book which contains the alleged libel.
Sir Charles Russell. Perhaps I can shorten matters, my Lord. Now, Mr. MEREDITH, will you be kind enough to explain the following passage from a book with which you may perhaps be acquainted. (Reads.) "This he can promise to his points. As for otherwhere than at the festive, Commerce invoked is a Goddess that will have the reek of those boards to fill her nostrils, and poet and alderman alike may be dedicate to the sublime, she leads them, after two sniffs of an idea concerning her, for the dive into the turtle-tureen. Heels up they go, poet first—a plummet he!" Is that humorous, or, if not, what is it?
Mr. G.M. Elephantine, I think; yet not elephantine altogether, since of them that crash amid jungle of atrophied semi-consciousness, strivingly set upon an overtopping mastery—
Sir Charles Russell (interrupting). Thank you. The passage is from One of our Conquerors. Here is another:—"Reverting to the father and mother, his idea of a positive injury, that was not without its congratulations, sank him down among his disordered deeper sentiments, which were a diver's wreck, where an armoured livid subtermarine, a monstrous puff-ball of man, wandered seriously light in heaviness; trebling his hundredweights to keep him from dancing like a bladder-block of elastic lumber." And while you are about it, pray inform the Court what you mean by "the vulgarest of our gobble-gobbets," or by "a trebly cataphractic Invisible."
Mr. G.M. Truly, the louder members of the grey public are fraternally instant to spurn at the whip of that which they do not immediately comprehend. But to me, plunged chokingly in translucent profundities of aquamarine splendour, not of a truth that in the heights above splendour resides not, chidingly offering a fat whiskerless cheek to the blows of circumstance, this was ever the problem of problems. How to write. How not to write. This way and that the raging fates tug the hapless reader, pillowed he upon the vast brown bosom of his maternal earth, or lurefully beckoning the dim shadow-shapes of dodecahedronic cataplasmatic centipede fatally conditioned to the everlasting pyramid of a star-pointing necessity. So—
The Judge (with determination). Mr. MEREDITH, the Court is sincerely obliged to you for your extremely valuable evidence. We are unwilling to detain you any longer. Besides, after what you have said, the point is as clear as daylight. Good morning, Mr. MEREDITH, good morning. You may become a trebly cataphractic Invisible.
Oh, the Autumn leaves are falling, and the days are closing in,
And the breeze is growing chilly, and my hair is getting thin!
I've a comfortable income—and my age is thirty-three;
But my Thatch is thinning quickly—yes, as quickly as can be!
I was once a merry urchin—curly-headed I was called,
And I laughed at good old people when I saw them going bald;
But it's not a proper subject to be lightly joked about,
For it's dreadful to discover that your roof is wearing out!
I remember asking Uncle—in my innocent surprise—
How he liked his head made use of as a Skating Rink by flies;
But although their dread intrusion I shall manfully resist,
I'm afraid they'll soon have got another Rink upon their list.
When invited to a party I'm invariably late,
For I waste the time in efforts to conceal my peeping pate—
Though I coax my hair across it—though I brush away for weeks,
Yet I can't prevent it parting and dividing into streaks!
I have tried a Hair Restorer, and I've rubbed my head with rum,
But the thatch keeps getting thinner, and the new hair doesn't come—
So I gaze into the mirror with a gloomy, vacant stare,
For the circle's getting wider of that Open Space up there!
People tell me that my spirits I must not allow to fall.
And that coming generations won't have any hair at all—
Well—they'll never know an anguish that can adequately match
With the pangs of watching day by day the thinning of your Thatch!
NOTICE.—Rejected communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.