DOI issue:
September 11, 1880
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17764#0128
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHAEIVARI. [September 11, 1880.
THE CRY OF THE CLERK!
it do they talk of the Border-Land, the
rippling streams and miles of heather,
To one who, scribbling, pen in hand, can
scarce keep body and soul together F
My border-land’s twixt life and death, and
I long for the hum of the Underground
To take me away from the roar of the street,
the City’s crash, and eternal sound
That rings in my ears from morn to night,
from the dawn to the dews, from the
light to the dark.
Why do they open their ears to sorrow, and
close them fast to the Cry of the Clerk ?
Envious ? No! Let them visit the sea,
neither pain nor pleasure are far to seek,
But seas and summers are not for me with
a salary under a pound a week.
My only change is from desk to home, my
only trip on the tramway cars ;
My baby’s face is my only moon ; and the
eyes of my wife are my only stars.
The rocks I climb are the paving-stones,
and the Milkman’s voice is the morning
lark
That wakes me out of my land of dreams,
—where I journey at times, though a
penniless Clerk!
Twenty odd years I have sat at the desk, in the same little den in the same old court,
Profit and loss I Jiave balanced them up, the firm seemed richer when bread was short.
Drones and bees in the same glass-hive ; but they looked on as I made the honey,
But it did seem hard they should waste so much, when I could have cringed for a loan of
money
To save my sick, to bury my dead, to bring to haven the buffetted bark
That threatened to split on the sands of Time with the life and love of the threadbare Clerk!
I don’t growl at the working-man, be his virtue strict or morality lax ;
He’d strike if they gave him my weekly wage, and they never ask him for the Income-tax!
They take his little ones out to tea in a curtained van when the fields are green,
But never a flower, or field or fern in their leafy homes have my children seen.
The ease is different, so they say, for I’m respectable,-—save the mark !
He works with the sweat of his manly brow, and I with my body and brain—poor Clerk !
Respectability ! That’s the word that makes such fellows as I grow lean,
That sends my neighbours to Margate Pier, and sets me longing for Kensal Green!
What in the world is a slave to do, whose ink-stained pen is his only crutch,
Who counts the gain that staggers his brain, and fingers the till that he dare not touch !
Where’s the ambition, the hope, the pride of a man like me who has wrecked the Ark
That holds his holiest gifts, and why F Because he is honest and called a Clerk !
Why did I marry P In mercy’s name, in the form of my brother was I not born F
Are wife and child to be given to him, and love to be taken from me with scorn F
It is not for them that I plead, for theirs are the only voices that break my sorrow,
That lighten my pathway, make me pause ’twixt the sad to-day and the grim to-morrow.
The Sun and the Sea are not given to me, nor joys like yours as you flit together
Away to the woods and the downs, and over the endless acres of purple heather.
But I ’ve love, thank Heaven! and mercy, too; ’tis for justice only I bid you hark
To the tale of a penniless man like me—to the wounded cry of a London Clerk !
CRICKET EXTRAORDINARY.
We don’t know much about Cricket—off the hearth ; but we fancy that this report, from
the Daily Telegraph, of the Yorkshire and M.C.C. match is a startler :—
“ The M.C.C. had 131 to get to win, but on going in they made a disastrous start against the bowling
of Pfute and Bates. Before a run had been scored, Mr. Walker was bowled for 8. Barnes was
sent back, and at 14 Mr. Steel was caught behind the bowler. Mr. Stxjdd was caught at short leg,
Midwinter was caught at slip, and Flowers run out.”
Before a run had been scored Mr. Walker was bowled for eight. Where was the scorer F
Asleep F Or didn’t Walker run F Or is it all a beautiful dream P. As we began by
remarking, we do not know much about Cricket; but we cannot refrain from remarking
on the evidently cowardly conduct of Mr. Steel, who “was caught behind the bowler.”
Why did he hide behind the bowler F Why didn’t he stay and face the ball like a manP
We shouldn’t have done so, we admit; but then we shouldn’t have put ourselves forward in
so conspicuous a manner. But to get behind the bowler, and be caught there!—Bah!
It’s un-English.
M.C.C. v. Hampshire.—The M.C.C., in their match last week against a Rural District,
produced a rural Eleven, which included a Wood, a Hill, a Park, a Green, a Bird, a Wild, a
Long, and a West.
Wax is a Prize Mastiff like two London Cabs F Because he’s a Hansom one and a
Growler.
GAME.
Shotover Park, September 1.
Dear Sir,
In reply to your request that I should
give you an account of “my day with the
Partridges,” I send these few lines, in haste
to catch the
post — (we ’re
always catch-
ing something
here. Such
a sporting
country!)—
and to tell
you that I
had my day
-—without the
Partridges.
That’s all.
Sport at
Cartridge Castle. (Report from House-
keeper's Room.) —Ma’s cupboard open.
Splendid sport among the Preserves. Real
jam.
Sport. — We have received good reports
of the sport at High Beech, Epping Forest,
Chingford, Margate and Ramsgate and
Scarborough Sands, where the Cocoa-nut
shooting is first-rate. Aunt Sallies rather
shy. Nuts rather wild.
RECONSTRUCTION.
The City Press is right in saying—
41 The reconstruction of the Central Criminal
Court is just one of those matters which should
by no means be delayed a moment longer than
can possibly be helped. . . . The visit which we
ventured to recommend the members of the Com-
mittee to pay, when the business of the Old Bailey
is in full swing, would enlighten them upon the
many points it is desirable should be taken into
consideration in the work they are about to un-
dertake with the sanction of the Corporation.”
The “business of the Old Bailey in full
swing ” is unpleasantly suggestive. But
the subject, like the Court, should be tho-
roughly ventilated. And, a propos, as we
have New Law Courts, why not furnish
them with a few new Laws F For the pre-
sent, as suggested, let the Committee visit
the Old Bailey while the business is “in
full swing,” and in order not to decide hur-
riedly, let them suspend their judgment.
Hero to Hero.
Horse Guards, Flysian Fields,
Sept. 3, 1880.
F. M. the Duke of Wellington pre-
sents his compliments to Major-General Sir
Frederick S. Roberts, K.C.B., Y.C., and
begs to say that by reference to the Wel-
lington Despatches, vol. ii., p. 361, Sir
Frederick will see that the Duke marched
to Poonah from Seringapatam at the rate,
upon an average, of thirteen and a half
miles a day. Sir Frederick S. Roberts
has marched from Cabul to Candahar at
the rate, upon an average, of sixteen
miles and three-quarters daily. F.M. the
Duke heartily congratulates the General,
who has been walking so rapidly and so
triumphantly in his footsteps.
BOUND TO BE SO.
Judging from the cartloads of trashy
books on the leading Libraries’ Lists and
at the bookstalls, there must be a large
number of ready but unreadable writers
whose incapacity is only equalled by their
pen-and-ink capacity, which must be pro-
digious.
THE CRY OF THE CLERK!
it do they talk of the Border-Land, the
rippling streams and miles of heather,
To one who, scribbling, pen in hand, can
scarce keep body and soul together F
My border-land’s twixt life and death, and
I long for the hum of the Underground
To take me away from the roar of the street,
the City’s crash, and eternal sound
That rings in my ears from morn to night,
from the dawn to the dews, from the
light to the dark.
Why do they open their ears to sorrow, and
close them fast to the Cry of the Clerk ?
Envious ? No! Let them visit the sea,
neither pain nor pleasure are far to seek,
But seas and summers are not for me with
a salary under a pound a week.
My only change is from desk to home, my
only trip on the tramway cars ;
My baby’s face is my only moon ; and the
eyes of my wife are my only stars.
The rocks I climb are the paving-stones,
and the Milkman’s voice is the morning
lark
That wakes me out of my land of dreams,
—where I journey at times, though a
penniless Clerk!
Twenty odd years I have sat at the desk, in the same little den in the same old court,
Profit and loss I Jiave balanced them up, the firm seemed richer when bread was short.
Drones and bees in the same glass-hive ; but they looked on as I made the honey,
But it did seem hard they should waste so much, when I could have cringed for a loan of
money
To save my sick, to bury my dead, to bring to haven the buffetted bark
That threatened to split on the sands of Time with the life and love of the threadbare Clerk!
I don’t growl at the working-man, be his virtue strict or morality lax ;
He’d strike if they gave him my weekly wage, and they never ask him for the Income-tax!
They take his little ones out to tea in a curtained van when the fields are green,
But never a flower, or field or fern in their leafy homes have my children seen.
The ease is different, so they say, for I’m respectable,-—save the mark !
He works with the sweat of his manly brow, and I with my body and brain—poor Clerk !
Respectability ! That’s the word that makes such fellows as I grow lean,
That sends my neighbours to Margate Pier, and sets me longing for Kensal Green!
What in the world is a slave to do, whose ink-stained pen is his only crutch,
Who counts the gain that staggers his brain, and fingers the till that he dare not touch !
Where’s the ambition, the hope, the pride of a man like me who has wrecked the Ark
That holds his holiest gifts, and why F Because he is honest and called a Clerk !
Why did I marry P In mercy’s name, in the form of my brother was I not born F
Are wife and child to be given to him, and love to be taken from me with scorn F
It is not for them that I plead, for theirs are the only voices that break my sorrow,
That lighten my pathway, make me pause ’twixt the sad to-day and the grim to-morrow.
The Sun and the Sea are not given to me, nor joys like yours as you flit together
Away to the woods and the downs, and over the endless acres of purple heather.
But I ’ve love, thank Heaven! and mercy, too; ’tis for justice only I bid you hark
To the tale of a penniless man like me—to the wounded cry of a London Clerk !
CRICKET EXTRAORDINARY.
We don’t know much about Cricket—off the hearth ; but we fancy that this report, from
the Daily Telegraph, of the Yorkshire and M.C.C. match is a startler :—
“ The M.C.C. had 131 to get to win, but on going in they made a disastrous start against the bowling
of Pfute and Bates. Before a run had been scored, Mr. Walker was bowled for 8. Barnes was
sent back, and at 14 Mr. Steel was caught behind the bowler. Mr. Stxjdd was caught at short leg,
Midwinter was caught at slip, and Flowers run out.”
Before a run had been scored Mr. Walker was bowled for eight. Where was the scorer F
Asleep F Or didn’t Walker run F Or is it all a beautiful dream P. As we began by
remarking, we do not know much about Cricket; but we cannot refrain from remarking
on the evidently cowardly conduct of Mr. Steel, who “was caught behind the bowler.”
Why did he hide behind the bowler F Why didn’t he stay and face the ball like a manP
We shouldn’t have done so, we admit; but then we shouldn’t have put ourselves forward in
so conspicuous a manner. But to get behind the bowler, and be caught there!—Bah!
It’s un-English.
M.C.C. v. Hampshire.—The M.C.C., in their match last week against a Rural District,
produced a rural Eleven, which included a Wood, a Hill, a Park, a Green, a Bird, a Wild, a
Long, and a West.
Wax is a Prize Mastiff like two London Cabs F Because he’s a Hansom one and a
Growler.
GAME.
Shotover Park, September 1.
Dear Sir,
In reply to your request that I should
give you an account of “my day with the
Partridges,” I send these few lines, in haste
to catch the
post — (we ’re
always catch-
ing something
here. Such
a sporting
country!)—
and to tell
you that I
had my day
-—without the
Partridges.
That’s all.
Sport at
Cartridge Castle. (Report from House-
keeper's Room.) —Ma’s cupboard open.
Splendid sport among the Preserves. Real
jam.
Sport. — We have received good reports
of the sport at High Beech, Epping Forest,
Chingford, Margate and Ramsgate and
Scarborough Sands, where the Cocoa-nut
shooting is first-rate. Aunt Sallies rather
shy. Nuts rather wild.
RECONSTRUCTION.
The City Press is right in saying—
41 The reconstruction of the Central Criminal
Court is just one of those matters which should
by no means be delayed a moment longer than
can possibly be helped. . . . The visit which we
ventured to recommend the members of the Com-
mittee to pay, when the business of the Old Bailey
is in full swing, would enlighten them upon the
many points it is desirable should be taken into
consideration in the work they are about to un-
dertake with the sanction of the Corporation.”
The “business of the Old Bailey in full
swing ” is unpleasantly suggestive. But
the subject, like the Court, should be tho-
roughly ventilated. And, a propos, as we
have New Law Courts, why not furnish
them with a few new Laws F For the pre-
sent, as suggested, let the Committee visit
the Old Bailey while the business is “in
full swing,” and in order not to decide hur-
riedly, let them suspend their judgment.
Hero to Hero.
Horse Guards, Flysian Fields,
Sept. 3, 1880.
F. M. the Duke of Wellington pre-
sents his compliments to Major-General Sir
Frederick S. Roberts, K.C.B., Y.C., and
begs to say that by reference to the Wel-
lington Despatches, vol. ii., p. 361, Sir
Frederick will see that the Duke marched
to Poonah from Seringapatam at the rate,
upon an average, of thirteen and a half
miles a day. Sir Frederick S. Roberts
has marched from Cabul to Candahar at
the rate, upon an average, of sixteen
miles and three-quarters daily. F.M. the
Duke heartily congratulates the General,
who has been walking so rapidly and so
triumphantly in his footsteps.
BOUND TO BE SO.
Judging from the cartloads of trashy
books on the leading Libraries’ Lists and
at the bookstalls, there must be a large
number of ready but unreadable writers
whose incapacity is only equalled by their
pen-and-ink capacity, which must be pro-
digious.