Punch (93.1887)

November 26, 1887.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

'''HAD HIM THERE!"

Free Kirk Elder. "EighI Meenister, ah no like t'see ye Talkin' wi' yon Epeescopalian Priest!"

Minister. "Oo—I jeest offered to swap Collections wi'm, an' he said, ' Na, na ! I ken your Flock ower weel !'"

ALMOST TOO GOOD TO BE TKUE.

Dear Mr. Punch, . ~ .

As an impecunious Peer, whose entire existence consists of
one long struggle to provide for the necessities of a large family, need
I say that my eye chanced upon the subjoined advertisement with a
sense of relief and hopefulness that words almost fail to express ? I
quote it for your perusal. Here it is :—

"\X7HAT TO DO WITH TOUR SONS. — Journalism. — Mr. DAVID
VV ANDERSON, 222, Strand, W.C., Author of Scenes in the Commons,
from 1879, a principal Leader Writer, Special Correspondent, and Critic
?f the Daily Telegraph, INSTRUCTS a limited number of YOUNG MEN
to the practical and literary branches of Journalism. Prospectus free.
An ordinary trained Journalist earns from £300 to £1000 a year.

That, Mr. Punch, is the question I have been asking myself for
ever so long—" What on earth am I to do with my sons ? " And this
^r- David Anderson, with a message that seems almost too good to be
"Tie, comes like the radiant genius on to the scene, and says, " Send
wera to me, your Grace, and I'll soon put 'em in the way of making
worn £300 to £1000 a year. What do you think of that ? " What do
1 think of it ? Well, all I can say is that it sounds to me like an
Anderson's Fairy Tale!

Why, there's my elder son, the Marquis, just opened a market
gardening business at Tooting in a small way, and though he drives
ais oart up to Covent Garden twice a week himself, I know he's not
Waking a good thing of it. Plantagenet, my second, I'm not
shamed to own it, shoulders a butoher's tray ; Bertram is a linen-
uraper's assistant in the Tottenham Court Road; and Algernon is,
mieux, loafing about railway stations, following cabs, in the
nope of piokinsr up a stray sixpence now and then for carrying the

"ope of picking up a stray sixpence now and then for carrying the
j £8age upstairs when they arrive at their destinations. Poor boy !
i nan always meant him to have a Commission in the Guards, but
♦T^r.tinios have rendered that project impossible—and he has come
w this!

j^J^ith one hundred and seventy farms on my hands, the whole of
property mortgaged, my house in Belgrave Square given up, and
y establishment oonfLned to a couple of floors in a back street in

Islington, the family has, I need hardly say, to acoept its altered
fortunes with equanimity. But, if Mr. David Anderson is to be
trusted, surely a brighter prospect opens before us! How he
manages his instructions "in the practical and literary branches of
journalism," is tome a mystery. How does he teach his "limited
number " of pupils to report—say, an inaudible speech ? Then there
is their practical training for a crowd. Does he lead them at the
present moment, to Trafalgar Square, and teach them, in the event
of a collision with the police, to continue their labours up a lamp-
post ? Again, how about initiating them into the work of a corre-
spondent mounted on the field of battle ? Would their experience on
a hired cab-horse let loose in the midst of a procession of the Unem-
ployed afford the many useful experiences in this direction ? Then, how
about the leader-writing P , I do not say that the journalist, like the
poet, need necessarily be born one, yet for all that, the art of literary
composition is not one that can be readily acquired by anybody.

Take my own case. I have written a lever du rideau in the shape
of a farce, a light thing that plays only an hour and three-quarters
and though I nave submitted it to seventeen managers in succession'
I have never been able to induce one of them to try it even at a
matinee. I have also written a pantomime and left it, endorsed with
my title at the stage-door of a leading Metropolitan Theatre from
which however, notwithstanding that I have made repeated applica-
tions for it in person, I have never yet been able to succeed in
getting it returned. But journalism is, I am aware, distinct from
dramatic literature, and this inspires me with confidence. Indeed I
shall lose no time in communicating with Mr. D vvid Anderson and
placing my four sons unreservedly in his hands. Even if thev did

ni>t/18,nntrame J0UmallS-t.l s?.C0,eei.il1 realising that brilliant level
of £1000 per annum, with which his advertisement so alluringly
concludes, they might possibly touch the figure half-way, and draw
•fh?lr m°4f * five,^ndre|i a-Piece. Need I say, my dear Mr. Punch,
if they did, how they would restore the fortunes of a falling house
and in so doing, gladden the heart of yours hopefully,

____A Duke in DirncuLTiES.

The Too- Complete Letter-Writer.— M. Wilson.