Punch (99.1890)

August 30, 1890.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

JOURNAL OF A ROLLING STONE.
Fifth Entey.

Curious thing that to-day—after disappointment of failure for the
Bar—letter comes from President of my old College, asking me "if
I would accept a nice Tutorship for a time ? " If so, " I had better
come down and talk to him about it."

Decided a little time ago not to try "Scholastic Profession"—
thought it would try me too much. Feel tempted now. Query—am
I losmg my old pluck ? In consequence of my new " pluck,"—in the
Bar Exam. ?

Um!" remarks the President (I have run down and got a vacant
bed-room in College). " Glad to see you. Oh, yes, about that tutor-
ship. Um, um! The family live in Somerset." He mentions the
county apologetically, as if he expected me to reply—" Oh, Somerset!
Couldn't dream of going there. Not very particular, hut must have
a place within ten miles of Charing Cross." As I don't object to
Somerset, at least audibly, he goes on more cheerfully—

" Boy doesn't want to be taught much, so perhaps, it would suit
you."—{Query—is this insulting ?)—" He wants a companion more
—somebody to keep him steady, have a good influence and all that,
and give him a little classics and so on for about an hour a day."

It did not sound a3 bad as I expected.

"Rich people—um—merchants at Bristol, I think. Not very
cultivated, though." Here President pauses again, and looks as if
he would not be at all astonished if I rose from my chair, put on my
hat, and said, " Not very cultivated! That won't suit me ! Tou
see how tremendously cultivated I am." But I don't, and he
proceeds calmly to another head of his discourse.

"They haven't mentioned terms, but I'm sure they will be
satisfactory—give you what you ask, in fact." (Rather a nice trait in
their character, this.)—" Now, will you—um—take it ? They want
somebody at once."

"Yes," I reply; "I'll go and see how I fancy it. Have they
got a billiard-table, do you happen to know ? "

The President says, he doesn't know anything about that" and
looks a little surprised, as if I had proposed a game of skittles.

On way down (next day) I feel rather like a Governess going to
her first situation. Get to house late. Too dark to see what it's like.
Have to drive up in a village fly. Query—Oughtn't they to have
sent their carriage for me ?

My reception is peculiar. A stout, masculine-looking female with
a strident voice, is presumably Mrs. Beistol Mebchant.

Sends me up to my bed-room as if I were my own luggage.
Evidently very " uncultivated."

In my bed-room. Above are the sounds of a small pandemonium,
apparently. Stamping, falling, shouting, bumping, crying. What
a lot of them there must be!

There are! At supper—they appear to have early dinners, which
I detest—three boys and one girl present, as a sample. Eldest a
youth about ten, who puts out his tongue at me, when he thinks I'm
not looking, and kicks his brothers beneath the table to make them
cry, which they do. I begin to wonder when my real pupil will appear.

Governess talks to me as if I were a brother professional. Query
—infra dig, again ?

Children, being forbidden to talk in anything but French at meals,
say nothing at all; at the end I am astounded at Materfamilias
catching hold of the boy of ten, and bringing him round to me, with
the remark,—

" Perhaps you'd like to talk to Eenie about lessons."

Heavens! This nursery fledgling to be my pupil! And I am to
be his " companion " ! Fledgling, while standing in front of me
for inspection, has the audacity to stretch out his leg, and trip up a
little sister who is passing. Howls ensue.

A nicely-mannered youth!

"Tou will have to behave yourself with me.young man!" I warn
him, in a tone which ought to abash him, but doesn't in the least.

"Ah, but perhaps you won't stay here long," is his rather able
rejoinder. " Our Governesses never-"

"Eenie!" shrieks his mother, threateningly. Essie stops; and
I have time to regret my folly in not inquiring of the President the
precise age of my promising disciple. Very likely President didn't
know himself.

The other boys who were at supper are now presented to me. One
is about eight, the other not more than six.

" These are Heebie and Jack," says their mother, who ought to
know. Thank Heaven, they are not my pupils!

Mrs. Beistol Merchant horrifies me by saying—

"I thought it would be so nice, when you were teaching Ernie,
if Heebie and Jack could he taught too ! And after lessons you will
be able to take them such nice long walks in the neighbourhood!
It's really very pretty country, Mr.—I forget your name."

Oh, certainly, the President was quite right. She is very
uncultivated. That ever I was born to cultivate her—or her precious
offspring ! But was I ? Time must show.

99

SARTORIAL EUPHUISMS.

"Measurements about the same as they used to be, Snippe?"
"Yes, Sik. Chist a triple lower down, Sib,, that's ail 1"

AN ARGUMENTUM AD POCKETUM.

[The Eev. B. Meredyth-Kitson called the attention of the London
School Board to the action of Mr. Montagu Williams, who, being appealed
to by " a respectable-looking woman " for the remission of a fine of five shil-
lings imposed upon her husband for neglecting to send their children to
school, gave her five shillings out of the poor-box to pay it, on finding that
she had nine children, the eldest fifteen years, the youngest five months,
a husband out of work, and " no boots for her children to go to school in."
The Eev. Stewakt Headlam said that in East London they suffered a
good deal through the decisions of Mr. Montagu Williams, who constantly
paid the fines from the poor-box, or out of his own pocket!]

Oh, Montagu, this conduct is nefarious!

You are, indeed, a pretty Magistrate !
Better the judgments, generous, if precarious,

Of the old Cadi at an Eastern gate.
No wonder that you madden Meredyth-Kitson,

And stir the bitter bile of Stewart Headlam.
When Justice, School-Board ruling simply "sits on,"

School-Boards become a mere annexe of—Bedlam !
Nine children ! Husband out of work! No boots !

And do you really think that these are reasons
For fine-remission ? This strikes at the roots

Of Law, which ought to rule us at all seasons.
Oh, how shall Kitson educate the " kids,"

Or how shall Headlam: discipline the mothers,
If you, instead of doing what Law bids,

Pay the poor creatures' fines and raise up bothers ?
Law, Sir, is Law, even to Magistrates,

Not a mere chopping-block for maudlin charity.
Fining the impecunious doubtless grates

On feelings such as yours; there's some disparity
'Twixt School-Board Draconism, and regard

For parents penniless, and children bootless ;
But pedagogues—ask Headlam—must be hard,

Or pedagogy's purposes are fruitless.
Poor creatures ? Humph! Compassion's mighty fine ;

A gentle feeling, who would wish to shock it ?
But husbands out of work with children nine,

Should pay their fines themselves—not from your pocket.