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Punch — 95.1888

DOI issue:
September 1, 1888
DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17660#0107
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September i, 1888.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 101

THE PLEASANT WAYS OF GLORY.

Lord Wolseley, when recently giving Ms evidence before the
Army Estimates Committee, admitting that while an English.Major-

Greneral of Bri-
ga'de received
£1279 per annum,
an officer of corre-
sponding rank in
the German Army
drew only £700,
seemed inclined
to defend the ano-
maly on the plea
that what was
expected socially
of the former in
this country
would not enable
him to do it for a
lower figure. In-
deed the distin-
guished witness
went further than
this. Alleging
that .the rates of
pay for regimental
officers were fixed
at a time when
men purchased
their commissions,
he proceeded to
admit that this
same time was one

" List, List, oh List! "

when the Army was looked on as a profession into^which men went
very much for their amusement, for which they paid partly them-
selves. Quite so.

But with all respect for the opinion of '' Our Only General," it may
surely be pointed out, that whereas now the -Army is decidedly not a
profession into which men go " only for their amusement," it need
not follow that the traditions of expensive living formerly regarded
as its inevitable social concomitant must be accepted as an official
necessity from which there is no means of escape or evasion. Yet
that some sort of idea of the kind prevails, and is generally accepted
as a palpable though unpalatable fact, there cannot be any doubt.
No subaltern can live on his pay, nor is he expected to. Indeed,
every obstacle is put in his way to prevent him.

Plain Dick and Harry, as soon, as they are out of Woolwich or
Sandhurst, and who in many cases have sat down at home in perfect
contentment to the family dinner on cold mutton, find themselves
suddenly waited upon by flunkeys in plush breeches, and living en
prince, surrounded by all the luxury and comfort of a well-appointed
London Club. There is no getting out of the expenditure, and the
subaltern's pay is, as a matter of course, immediately swamped. And
the evil seems to permeate the whole system, for the officers of
higher rank appear to be no better off, Lord Wolseley alleging that
he had known men who had refused commands because they were
expected to entertain the whole neighbourhood, and could not in
consequence cover their expenses out of the pay they received.

In fact, the life of the British officer, as thus revealed, seems to
resolve itself into a prolonged struggle to keep up a false position on
insufficient means. And at present there seems but little hope of
any remedy. For when we have only about two hundred of the
new_ guns ready, and two thousand are required, and when our foreign
stations, wanting an equal number, are supplied as yet only with
twenty, and whilst the non-commissioned officers and men in the
British cavalry number 18,500, and the horses to mount them only
reach the figure of 11,800, to say nothing of departmental short-
comings and blunders cropping up daily on all sides, it seems almost
futile to raise a fresh pry about such comparative trifles as heavy
mess bills and excessive regimental expenditure.

Still, when the lively difficulties and dangers that at the present
moment threaten the Army have been in some measure lightened and
alleviated, it might be worth the while of Our Only General to try
to set on foot some reform that would teach the British Officer that,
to place before himself a simpler standard of living, and one more
compatible with his means, would in no way derogate from his claim
to be considered an English Gentleman.

The Bee and ihe Honeymoon.—The wedding-dress of the
Princess Letiiia, who is shortly to be married to her uncle, the Duke
of Aosta, is to be embroidered with Bees, the emblem of the House
of Bonaparte. No doubt the "going away" costume of this young
lady, who has made so singular a choice in the selection of a husband,
will also include a bee—in her bonnet!

THE TRIUMPH OF CAPITAL.
|AN ODE.

(Picked up at the Crystal Palace, after the National Co-operative Festival,
August 18, 1888 ; and presumed to be intended as a sort of poetic
counterblast, from, another point of view, to Mr. Lewis Mcrris's
optimistic Ode, " Tlie Triumph of Labour," sung by 4000 Voices on
that occasion.)

Come, let us sing together an old song,

The triumph of the truly strong.

The victories of Gold we celebrate.

Our Mammon still is great.

Let us our chuckling voices tune to praise,

Come, let us sing together the old and joyous song !

Who threatens to emancipate the clown ?

Free workmen from their master's frown ?

We wish them joy of their preposterous task.

Mammon may wear a mask,

Of too bold flaunting of his gains afraid,

But still the Sons of Toil are Slaves of Trade.

Interests, in union strong, the workers' claim disown.

There is a strife not fought with sword or gun,
Where, 'midst smug Peace, War's wrong is done ;
Still, face to face, in hostile camp they stand,—
Capital, Labour's band,—
The rich man holds his own with smiling ease,
And if sham pagans do the poor man please,
Let the fools tootle ; it is rare good fun.

"Time's curse is almost done" ? Nay, friend, not yet,
Whilst grabbers grab, and sweaters sweat.
Optimist bards may pipe the pastoral reed ;
Pan-pipes won't soften Greed.

Were workers really " strong through brotherhood,"
Panic would swiftly spread through Mammon's brood ;
But, spite of poet's song, there's little danger yet.

Pooh! Let them pipe, and for one day rejoice ;

Let maudlin Morris give them voice ;

We know that what has been, is, and shall be.

Lewis, your fiddle-de-dee _

Of optimistic Odes won't give Man power.

Eh ? "Peaceful union bloom a perfect flower " ?

Nay; much more like a "plant," for all their noise.

Co-operant donkeys bray forth solemn mirth;
Ours is the fulness of the Earth,
Culled, by strong hands, whose labour magnifies
The harvest that we prize.

Look round! and see how rich that harvest grows!
Whilst ice've Wealth's golden fruit and Pleasure's rose,
Labour's last "triumph," bard, though loud, is little worth.

See how around the slums the cellars fill

With triumphs of the Sweater's skill;

" The man's strong work,,the woman's deft and fine,"

To swell our hoards combine.

See them sit pinched and pallid, dull and dumb ;

In that strange den, that's dubbed an English home

E'en children work ; play their poor mouths won't fill.

Therefore let Toil make merry and seem glad ;

The vision need not make us sad;

We, in Wealth's wider, stronger brotherhood,

Cling close, for our own good.

We sing the only bond that really binds,

God Mammon's golden link. Wealth little minds

The thing poor fools call " Union "—they are mad.

And we—we sing together our old and joyous song!

Quite Bradlattghable —An evening paper observes, " that while
Christians orthodox and heterodox are ready with their millions to
endow churches, there does not seem to be a single wealthy unbeliever
who is willing to endow Mr. Bradlattgh, or even to rescue him from
the debts by which he is_ embarrassed." Of course, as the Junior
Member for Northampton is a person of ability, this is very very sad;
but as the Agnostic by his name announces that he "knows
nothing," it is not altogether strange that he should avowedly
remain in ignorance of the requirements of his distinguished, but
alas, unfortunate co-anti-religionist. Mr. Bradlaugh mav be a
big gun in his own circle, but, when the hat goes round, he" is not
likely to provoke quite as much enthusiasm as an eminent eccle-
siastic—say, as a Canon of a cathedral.
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