_Mr. N-rm-n L-cky-r._ Write _Magnum Opus_, on the action of Snowballs in Space.
_Sir M-r-ll M-ck-nz-e._ Make careful study of the peculiar diseases incident to "Rumour's lying throat"--especially in Germany.
_Ch-rm-n of M-ddl-s-x M-g-str-t-s._ Attend some Metropolitan Music Hall every night of my life.
_Ed-t-r of P. M. G._ Get Stead-ier every day.
_Mr. Punch._ To wish a Happy New Year to everybody generally.
_Distinguished Amateur Vocalist (both Serious and Comic)._ "I CAN'T SAY YOU HAVE A VERY APPRECIATIVE PUBLIC UP HERE! I NEVER SANG '_VILIKINS AND HIS DINAH_' BETTER--BUT NOBODY LAUGHED A BIT!"
_Horrid Boy._ "OH, BUT THEY DID WHEN YOU SANG '_THE DEATH OF NELSON_.' I SAW THEM!"]
What will he play? Oh! young New Year, Precocious power and baby skill To Music's zealots are strangely dear; The tiny fingers that thump and trill, That sweep the keyboard with splendid speed, Like rattling rain-drops, or fairy-feet, Are sure of flattery's fullest meed, And praise is sweet.
An early _début_, my little man! The dimpled digits you swiftly spread The sounding octaves can scarcely span, The pedals hardly your toes can tread. Yet here you are, and the public ear Is all agog for the opening chords, With breathless mingling of hope and fear, Too deep for words.
The Future's Music before you stands, Time at your elbow is prompt to turn. 'Twill tax the force of your infant hands, Prodigies even have much to learn. MOZART, or HOFFMANN, or LISZT, of course, You may turn out in your own new line; May give us freshly the fire and force Of RUBINSTEIN.
The hour, young Hopeful, seems something scant In present promise of Harmony; Our leading music is militant. Touch us a stave in a cheerful key! We have abundance of crash and blare, Drums and trumpets make angry noise; Most of us long for a Lydian air, O, best of boys!
Something Arcadian, manly-sweet, Blending notes of the lyre and flute; Pastoral Symphony gaily fleet, Moaning chords in the minor mute. Something stirring to lift the heart, Something merry to move the toes; Melody pure with a mirthful start And a moving close.
Charges, marches, bugle-blasts, Clarion-calls to the onset, tire; Martial music a sadness casts, Too long blown, e'en on hearts of fire. Still the trumpet, and drop the drum! Bid the fife for a moment cease! Boy, we'll bless you if you'll but strum The notes of Peace.