Address—

Originally published in The Man in the Moon (David Bogue) vol.1 #1 (Jan 1847).

Custom requires that there should be a prologue to every new work. These are of various kinds—the high-purposed; the jocular; the deceptive; the incomprehensible, and the straight-forward. Custom formerly required, also, "an epilogue to every five-act play." This is no longer deemed necessary; nor may an opening address be, in a few years' time, which possibly will be all for the better; but, until then, we would rather coalesce with public opinion, than tilt against it; being assured that those who "lead the masses," sometimes get the masses to move at such a rate, that they (the leaders) are run over, trampled upon, disabled, and left behind to be forgotten. And so we offer this Address to our friends, and take the last-mentioned of the above classifications—the straightforward.
        "An author," says Fielding, "ought to consider himself not as a gentleman who gives a private or eleemosynary treat, but rather as one who keeps a public ordinary, at which all persons are welcome for their money. In the former case, it is well known that their entertainer provides what fare he pleases; and though this should be very indifferent, and utterly disagreeable to the taste of his company, they must not find any fault; nay, on the contrary, good breeding forces them outwardly to approve and to commend whatever is set before them. Now, the contrary of this happens to the master of an ordinary. Men who pay for what they eat, will insist upon gratifying their palates, however nice and whimsical these may prove; and if everything is not agreeable to their taste, will challenge a right to censure, and to abuse their dinner without control.
        "To prevent, therefore, giving offence to their customers by any such disappointment, it hath been usual with the honest and well-meaning host to provide a bill of fare, which all persons may peruse at their first entrance into the house: and having thence acquainted themselves with the entertainment which they may expect, may either stay and regale with what is provided for them, or may depart to some other ordinary accommodated to their taste."
        The great novelist, by his own confession, did not disdain to borrow wit or wisdom from any man who was capable of lending either; and we in turn have borrowed from him the notion of this Address. The test of a century has shown us that we cannot take a better example. And, therefore, we open our ordinary with the new year; and lay before our readers a brief entertainment of what it is our intention to furnish them with.
        In the first place, one glance through our pages will show our bill of fare. In these days of unparalleled low prices—when steamers go for a penny, omnibuses run for twopence, and newspapers and gallery admissions may be had for threepence; and when costly Broughams and Clarences are hinted at, at sixpence a mile, liveries included—we do not profess to give things wonderfully cheap—for at times another adjective accompanies this qualification—but we will take care that they are all good. You can dine at a cook-shop for one-twentieth part of the sum you would pay at Mivart's or the Clarendon. In quantity, by weight and bulk, you would get the same; but the difference would be in the appointments, the dressing, and, above all, in the seasoning, which should impart the best flavour to the different dishes. We have several careful and established Soyers at our command. Their instructions are to give you the essence rather than the mass of the viands that come under their hands—they will offer you a consommé rather than a watery tasteless soup.
        In the discussion of such light matters of the day, as may come as a kind of salad to our repast, we shall, in dressing them up, at all times use more of the oil than the vinegar, where such dressing is consistent. And for our dessert we shall offer various trifles that may suit all palates, and promote chit-chat and pleasant feelings, which we hold to be the great end of a dessert. And throughout the meal we shall, from time to time, hand round small glasses of liqueur, the flavour of which you may dwell upon; or sparkling draughts of champagne, whose effervescence may be needed only for the instant.
        And so we welcome you to our table; now, on this New Year's Day, coming in with the holly and mistletoe; and hoping, through our patronage, to turn out an evergreen also. We will not make any dazzling promises. We believe in the disposition of our readers towards us; we believe in our artists; and, what is more, we believe in ourselves. We only ask you to reciprocate our good intentions. Endeavour to do as much for us as we are anxious to do for you; and we are very certain that on neither side will there be cause for complaint.

New Year Verses

by Goodwyn Barmby.

Originally published in Howitt's Journal (William Lovett) vol.3 #55 (15 Jan 1848).

                        Oh Death, thou door of life, thou shadowy porch
                Of new existence! once again thy portals
                Open, and once again thy flickering torch
                                Guidest to the immortals.
                The insect hours beneath thy chilly breath
                Droop their gay wings, and close their tiny plumes;
                The days are hearsed up in thy nightsome glooms;
                The ghosts of years troop unto thee, O Death!
                Sad waves the mournful, melancholy willow
                Over the stream of Time's last sunken billow;
                But ripple follows ripple, wave on wave,
                And morn's young eyes from out the orient glow
                When night's cowl darkest glooms upon its brow;
                While spectral shades, sink into the deep grave,
                Shimmering and melting like thin flakes of snow,
                On the dark waters where the eddies rave—
                Though all the buds of earth rise up to blow.

                Dim porch of Time! amid God's shadowy wood,
                Pillared with moonstone, indistinct and thin,
                And branched around with a cloud-woven screen,
                Slim as a mist-bower morning's sky within,
                Impalpable as void, thou long hast stood;
                While through thee bards have rather felt than seen,
                As over thee a web-winged Instant hung
                Bat-like and weird thy filmy mists among—
                A fading shade! A spectre like a wind!
                Failing in ebbing gust, and like a lung
                Drawn inward, by a respiration blind
                As though a fainting breezy look was flung
                By that vague Ghost of the Old Year behind—
                While by it passed, as two thoughts in the mind
                Flit by each other; a bright spirit fair,
                Like a fresh breath of odorous sun-filled air,
                With hastening eyes, and front-blown tresses bright;
                And with a gush of music rising higher,
                And softly floating nigher and yet nigher,
                The soul of the New Year arose in light.

                        Through its fond eyes so sweet in its bright hair,
                I see the larches tassels waving fair,
                The old oak sprouts of green, the pines red births,
                The sycamores rich gummy growths so pale—
                Its pulse has quickened all things of the earth's,
                Made dew from snow and soft rain from the hail.
                Through its fond eyes I see the bell of the vale
                A bud and then a bloom, within that dell,
                Where in that nutty copse I hear the tale
                The blackbird yet shall pipe in mellow swell.
                The pink buds of the briar I smell them blow:
                I see the spotted cowslips gild the croft;
                I hear the lark singing from heaven aloft;
                The very bee-flower blooms, and bending low
                I strive to catch the insect form, and lo!
                A blossom lovely in my hand doth glow;
                I see the dark moss greened upon the eaves;
                I find the violet hid amid its leaves;
                I scent the grasses in the new-mown hay;
                                I bind the golden sheaves;
                                My fancy rushes weaves,
                Even as I sit and think on New Year's day.

                        I sit alone, far, far from thee O World!
                Thou tyrant and thou slave! thou base deceiver
                From nature and her ways, whose lip is curled
                Even at thy mother's bosom! thou bereaver!
                Both false and foul, of all pure sweets of life!
                I sit alone, even at thy midst, in strife
                With thee and thine. I would I were a bird
                To fly away far in some copse of nut,
                And there amid the dim still evening shut,
                Where naught but God, and some fond traveller heard,
                                To pipe a mournful ditty,
                                Such as might move to pity
                Of thee and thine, all whom thy woe had stirred.

                        Such song may sound, if not by me be sung—
                God never yet hath lacked the thrushes tongue;
                Yet while I sit alone on this New Year,
                Like Crusoe notching at my tree of woe,
                My thoughts like his, in this my isle so drear
                Must back into my own lone bosom flow—
                Reflect on time misspent, on time forgot,
                On moments lost and hours I yet must gain,
                And while I bless the white days of the lot,
                Reckon the long years I have spent in vain;
                So many sad hours I have lost in sleep—
                So many dark hours have been sunk in sin—
                How oft forgot my father's flock to keep—
                How oft allowed the wolf to enter in;
                So many acres have I left untilled
                Of that fair glebe my father to me gave;
                So many waggons have remained unfilled
                Though ripe brown corn in many a field doth wave:
                So many vain words have I falsely spoken;
                So many vows of goodness have been broken;
                So many prayers unsaid and hymns unsung;
                So many restless Sabbaths of my folly;
                So many falterings of the priestly tongue;
                So many thorns in my un-berried holly;
                So many thoughts to man, and earth's poor sod;
                                So few to heaven and God?
                Bad as the world is! Black as is its shame!
                                Yet am not I to blame?
                Judge not, O Man! but to thyself be true,
                And the world's judgment shall be read in you.

                Hail Hope! I love thy neighbourly abode,
                And aye will journey thy frequented road,
                For all glad thoughts are warbled from thy tongue,
                                Thou New Year's Ode!
                Thou art for ever, ever, ever sung,
                Even by the way-worn and the grey-beard young;
                If I inspired by thee this New Year's Day
                Have seen young white lambs in the pastures play—
                                Have seen the spring-tide flowers—
                The bramble bloom, the daisies golden eye,
                The silvery lady-smock and crow-foot gay,
                The purple cuckoo buds and hare-bells shy,
                The bright red pimpernel, and snowy may;
                                Have seen the spring-tide-bowers—
                The ripening briar-hip and the ashes' keys,
                The proud oak's acorns, and the fir's brown cones,
                The willow leaves blithe dancing in the breeze;—
                And heard the woodlands sweet with chirping tones
                From song-birds' throats in a rich concert given
                                As poet praise to heaven!
                If I inspired by thee have seen these bowers—
                                Have scented these fair flowers—
                Have heard these birds their mellow music raise,
                                Through windows frosted o'er—
                                Though snow has blocked the door—
                Say shall I sever Man from Nature's genial ways?
                Oh no! oh never! hard as is man's dust
                Of earthy being, he too has a spring
                Which like the slender snow-drop through the crust
                                Of frozen earth and chill,
                Shall gently rise a pure transparent thing,
                                And its spring life fulfil!

                Then grace to thee New Year, and many a blessing,
                                Old friend with a New face!
                Glorious may be the days of thy possessing
                                If we the moments grace.
                The hours gone bye we never can restore—
                Their golden sands are scattered on the floor;
                The days now lost we but lament in vain—
                Their ruddy suns will never flush again:
                The past is dead! the present only lives;
                                The future but may be;
                Never or Now! To-day alone God gives—
                                To-day requires of thee;
                To-morrow never comes! This day shall be,
                With a new life, the best New Year to thee.
                        1847.

The New Year's Feast

by Frances Brown.

Originally published in Hood's Magazine and Comic Miscellany (Andrew Spottiswoode) vol.1 #1 (Jan 1845).

                'Twas a joyous day; for the Nations hailed
                        The dawn of another year;
                Though the winds through the leafless woodlands wailed,
                        And the flowers lay cold and sere:
                Yet the flowers of a future Summer sprung
                In the trusting hearts whose hopes were young,
                And the wreaths of memory's verdure hung
                        Around the past, to cheer
                The darkened desart of lonely ago
                With the treasures of life's last heritage.

                There met, that eve, in a stately hall,
                        A fair and a joyous throng
                Where oft the voice of the festival
                        And the sound of bridal song
                Had gathered their country's brave and fair;
                And oft had the princely parent pair
                Rejoiced o'er their blooming branches there
                        That grew so fair and strong
                But never before such joy was known
                As now on that New Year's banquet shone.

                For one who had wandered long, and been
                        By the household miss'd and mourned,
                In the joyous light of that festive scene,
                        To his early home returned.
                For he went in early youth, but came
                With a warrior's strength, and a brighter fame
                Than ever shone on his father's name;
                        And a weary heart, that yearned
                To reach the home which had been to him
                A beacon whose light could ne'er grow dim.

                He came; and the smiles and tears were o'er,
                        For the joy was blent with tears
                That welcomed his wandering steps once more
                        To the home of his childhood's years.
                And the feast was spread, and the hall was gay,
                As well befitted that festal day;
                And the minstrels poured a pleasant lay
                        To the joyous dancers' ears;
                But the only spirit that seemed to grieve
                Was his who had reached his home that eve.

                "And why is it thus with thee, my son?"                         Said his gentle mother then;
                "For thy toils are past, and thy laurels won.
                        Thou hast found thy home again;
                And our hearth still burns with as bright a glow
                As it shed on the years of long ago,
                For it hath no shadow of death or woe.
                        And our halls have known no stain;
                Then why art thou sad and silent here.
                When we welcome thee with the new born-Year?"

                The wanderer gazed on his father's hall,
                        But bis gaze was sad and strange,
                As he said, "I have found nor stain nor pall.
                        But my heart hath found a change;
                For the dark pine woods that murmur round
                My early haunts, have the same deep sound.
                And the hills with a misty glory crowned.
                        Where my childhood loved to range,
                They are still the same,—no change hath past
                On them or theirs since I trod them last.

                "But oh! there's snow on my father's hair,
                        And age on my mother's brow.
                For I left its marble smooth and fair.
                        But I find it furrowed now:
                And my brothers, where are the bright-haired boys
                That shared in my early sports and joys.
                And why do these stately warriors rise
                        To greet my steps, and how
                Hath the joy that flashed in my sister's gaze
                Been dimmed by the shadows of darker days?

                "And yet while on these mine eyes can trace
                        The path of the passing years.
                There is one on whose early faded face
                        They can only look through tears:
                I have seen the glory of earth decay,
                And mine own bright visions pass away,
                Like a lingering planet's setting ray,
                        When the morning sun appears;
                And beauty perish, and love grow strange,
                But I knew not that that bright face could change.

                "Ah! is it thus that I come at last
                        With my dearly purchased fame,
                When the light of youth from my home hath past,
                        And the brightness from my dream!
                Oh, Time, thou hast made my roses old,
                And the Altar-Place of my memory cold
                But reclaim the glory and the gold,
                        And leave my home the same
                As last it was, when in gladness here
                We met to welcome the New-Born Year."

                And hast thou not grown a stranger, too,
                        For thy thoughts and words are strange,
                Ah, Time to his changeless course is true,
                        But our human footsteps range."
                So spake the Mother, but her eye
                Seemed seeking the light of a brighter sky;
                For she said, "In the land of eternity
                        There are years that bring no change;
                And a mingled lesson of hope and fear
                Was taught at the welcome of that New Year."

Stanolar,
        Dec. 16th, 1843.