Punch (90.1886)

March 6, 1886.]

Black coat like a parson, broad beam like a boss, and he'll tip me his

gab till I'm tired—and that's all.
Never knew him stand Sam to a pal out of work, and though first at

the tub, he is last at the brawl.

Can't follow his logic, nor him, nor don't want. 'Tain't my wish for
to rob nor to beg, but just work.

But to watch the kids starve, with my muscles still strong, when there's
nothing that muscles can do I would shirk,

That's hard on a chap, and the choice between that and the poor-
house or charity doles is a choice

Which, put to a square-minded man, makes him feel that there's
something wrong somewhere, could sense give it voice.

The Shops are all full—or else empty; the docks have about fifty

hands stretching after each job.
Turn which way I will I see no one as wants me, not even the off-chance

of earning a bob.

Go back to the Missus once more empty-handed P How can I? It makes

a man feel like a scamp.
And yet what's the good r It is four-forty now, and I feel I shall

drop if I keep on the tramp.

It was just such a fix drove poor Featheeby mad; decent fellow he

was, but no nerve at a pinch.
He had been out o' work for ten months at a stretch; his pet daughter

was dying of cold, inch by inch,
His wife,—well she roughed on him—women have tongues—and I

fancy a something went wrong in his head.
" Death s better than this! " shrieks the poor harried fool. And the

light o' next morning saw four of 'em dead.

Yes, that's how it works, on the weak ones at least, when it's kept

up a little too long for their brains,
Or their hearts, or whatever it is that goes first, which I don't think

as science exactly explains.
I know Polly's eyes sometimes make me see red when they look at

me out of her pale peaky face,
And a wild sort of passion boils up in my Hood, and I have to rush

out from the sight o' the place.

Tramp ! tramp ! tramp ! I am footsore and faint, and the night's

coming down, and I'm bound to turn home,
But I shrink from the looks that will meet mine with hope, and then

fall when they see there ain't nothing to come.
An old old story that thousands could tell. Do you happen to know

that dry sort of a sob
That shakes a man's chest as he turns, empty-handed, from one more

long journey in search of a job ?

ROMANCE IN SEPTEMBER.

(A Sketch taken in London after the establishment of the Extra Session.)

" The autumn tints on the leaves are charming," said the Lady
Blanche de Paddlngton, as she sat on a chair in the Row, watching
the horses of the riders, and the carriages of her friends, as they
passed and repassed in scores and hundreds.

" Quite so, returned Lord Snobbeeley. " I consider London per-
fection in September—quite perfection. Much better fun here than
knocking about in a yacht."

"Or snooting partridges in your place in the country?" queried
the fair girl, with a smile.

" .Well, I certainly miss them a little. But it will be all right next
month," returned the Viscount, more cheerfully, "we have had some
of the Gamekeepers up, and are preserving Eaton Square. I hope
to give your father, the Earl, some capital pheasant-shooting there
in a fortnight."

" Thanks on his behalf," said Blanche, with a little bow charming
in its coquettish mockery. " No doubt, however, he will be able to
return the compliment by affording some really good fox-hunting, at
Christmas, in the Kensington Gardens."

" So I am told. By the way, your brother Algeenon says that he
and two other fellows have managed to stock the Serpentine with
salmon. Is it really so ? " The Lady Blanche nodded, and rising
from her chair, strolled away with her companion.

They had seen a great deal of one another in years gone by in
country houses, but it was only now that they actually met in a
perfectly friendly fashion. The restraint of the provinces was
thrown off in favour of that freedom so eminently characteristic of
the Metropolis of the world.

" Where are you going this evening ? " asked the Viscount (he was
an Irish Peer with a seat in the House of Commons), as again they
paused to rest themselves. " I saw you at Cael Rosa's Opera, last
night, but could not get near you."

Mamma is taking me to the Albert Hall to hear Gounod's last
Oratorio. The Queen, the Prince, and the Princess will be there;
and then we go on to the Ball at the German Embassy."

" Quite a novelty to see Buckingham Palace tenanted," com-
mented Lord Snobbeeley, " especially in September."

And so they chatted on,until they came to a more secluded part of
the Park. It was then that he opened his heart to her, telling her
his prospects, and explaining his plans.

" It is coming at last! " she murmured as she turned her blushing
face away from him. Suddenly Two struck from a neighbouring
belfry. She listened eagerly for his impassioned accents. But they
had ceased. She turned round—he had gone !

Biting her proud under-lip, she picked up a piece of paper which
he had dropped at her feet, and which was inscribed with her name.
She opened it. It ran as follows :—

" I am obliged to be off. If I am not in the House before the
quarter past, I shall be suspe7ided.'n

"So so," murmured the fair girl, with an expression of resent-
ment seated upon her beautiful features, " and thus you prefer the
House to me! When we are married, my Lord, you shall retire
from Parliament." Then she sighed deeply, and repeated, with
painful emphasis, " When ? "

Already the House was struggling with the Home!

AN ASYLUM FOR THE SANE.

It might injure my position—for perhaps I should explain
That I keep an Institution for the Treatment of the Sane.
If my estimable patients should discover who I am,
And find out that all my claims to be demented are a sham,
They might deem me an impostor, and adopt the silly fad
Of believing me incompetent to drive them raving mad.',

Those who dwell in my asylum have been men of shining parts,
At some former time connected with the sciences or arts,
Versed in statesmanship, diplomacy, theology or law.
One and all possessed of intellects that once were void of flaw.
Men who managed to endure the dull constraint of social gyves
Till they found out that 'twas futile to lead reasonable lives ;
That the source of human sorrow is a nicely balanced brain,
And that only those are happy who are more or less insane.

I've an aged Mathematical Professor, by the way,

Whose intelligence I'm slowly undermining, day by day ;

When he came to me, in algebra he'd ceased to take delight,

And was bored to death—or nearly so—by alwavs being right.

Not the differential calculus itself could make him smile,

Nor could fine old crusted cubic roots his saddened soul beguile.—

Now he merrily avers that he's the happiest man alive,

Eor he entertains no doubt at all that two and two make five.

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