Punch: Punch (69.1875)

140

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. I October 9, 1875.

AWKWARD.

T/ie Aristocratic Jones {rather ashamed of his loud acquaintance, Brown). " Yotr must excuse me, but if there's one Thing in
the World 1 particularly object to, it's to having ansbody take my Arm!"
Brown. "All right, old Fallow!—you take mine/"

A GIANT'S JUBILEE.

{Fiftieth Anniversary of the opening of the first Passenger-Railway,
Darlington, Sept. 27, 1825.)

" Now, my lads, I will tell you that I think you will live to see the day,
though I may not live so long, when railways will come to supersede almost
all other modes of conveyance in this country—when mail coaches will go by
railway, and railroads will become the great highway for the King and all his
subjects. The time is coming when it will be cheaper for a working-man to
travel on a railway than to walk on foot. I know that there are great and
almost insurmountable difficulties that will have to be encountered, but what
I have said will come to pass as sure as we live."—Stephenson's post-
prandial prophecy.

0, a flourishing brood are our latter-day Titans,

The children colossal of Iron and Steam ;
Though as black as Old Nox, and as ugly as Sheitans,

These promising pets of Britannia may seem.
One strenuous babe, spite of croaking and snarling,

His Jubilee reaches, still crescent and stout.
And so they at Darlington drink to their darling,

Whom Stephenson dandled, and Hackworth brought out.

He seemed but a rickety bairn to bis gossips,

His shape was uncouth, and his action but slow.
Would he flourish or fade ? 'Twas the merest of toss-ups,

The quidnuncs opined, fifty autumns ago.
But bis sponsors had faith in their black-visaged bantling,

And now, though a youth, as these Titans countiyears,
He beats ancient Brontes in stature and scantling,

Briareus in grasp, and in speed has no peers.

Fifty- years! Men are grey who first saw bim at play;

His sponsors are dead, his detractors are dumb ;
And he, to the sprawling young gnome of that day,

Seems as huge Hurlothrumbo to Hop-o'-my-Thumb !
Fifty years! and " Owd Neddy," who took him in tow,

The swart " Puffing Billy" be fostered might fail

To detect in the irou-thewed Titan we know,
Our Hercules-Puck, with the thousand-leagued trail I

Our good-natured giant, he's patient and pliant,

Will fetch and will carry at anyone's hest,
A glutton at toil, of fatigue he's defiant,

A sleepless Colossus who never needs rest.
No henchman so stout for so humble a hire works,

What wonder men cheer at his Jubilee fete !
And toast him in wine with rhetorical fireworks.

Our sturdiest, steadiest Servant of State !

Yei giants we know have their weaknesses ever,

So soft in the caput, or weak at the knees,
And our young Colossus, though potent and clever,

Plays cantrips at times little likely to please.
Though our huge Iron-Horse is not vicious or idle,

Yet to make him run straight, and steer clear of a spill,
He needs a stout rein, a strong band on the bridle,

And brain .'—the Bonassus !—to guide bis good will.

Small blame to the juvenile Titan, but trainers

Who boast of their favourite's power and pace,
If they hope of the "National Stakes " to be gainers,

Must learn that good jockeysbip counts in the race.
This sturdiest servant of civilisation

May stay to the end if they handle him well;
But we want fewer " spills" ere a satisfied nation

Claps bands to this chorus of whistle and bell.

We may drink to the health of our Giant of Fifty—

Punch empties his bumper—yet gladly would find
His trainers of tall-talk a trifle more thrifty,

While yet in the race Matter handicaps Mind.
Brute force is not all, nor material progress ;

While soul's at a stand, stoutest sinews are vain,
And Civilisation an iron-toothed ogress

Our Titans may toil for, but cannot sustain.