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."