قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 109, October 5th 1895
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 109, October 5th 1895
But though men knew that work and woe
Were all too closely neighbour;
One curse of Labour they did not know;
The black blight coming late and slow,
Of the fools who play at Labour!
Labour! Faith,'tis no passing play
But the pack-horse burden day after day
To be grimly gravely lifted.
A leaden weight, and a mill-wheel round,
By the player at labour but seldom found,
Or the amateur—though gifted.
Who has not seen a street-child run
To turn an organ-handle—for fun—
With gay, erratic vigour?
But the grinder who turns at it day by day
Finds Ah che la morte no pleasant play,—
He works at it—-"like a nigger."
So "well-to-do women who crowd the ranks"
Of Labour are playing but childish pranks;
They are butterfly despoilers
Of the honeyed hives of the working bees;
They lower the wage and lessen the ease
Of the true fate-destined toilers. [A]
"Work for mere love!" So the butterflies say,
(Though they commonly stoop to the casual pay),
Well, love is blind—this sort of it.
To teach for pin-money possibly's fun
To those who're but dabblers when all is done,
But the workers, when wages go down with a run,
Can hardly see the sport of it.
To play at philanthropy's mischievous, much,
For sciolists mar whatsoever they touch;
What if some Flower Girl Mission
Destroy a trade, which seeks other lands,
Or throw out of work some thousands of hands?
Philanthropy hath no vision
Save of its pretty and picturesque fad;
And the destitute drudges, angry and sad,
Whom deft flower-mounting once fed and clad
Shall find redress a rarity.
Don't play at Reform, it you love your neighbour!
But well-to-do women, your "playing at Labour"
Works worse than playing at Charity!
Work? Well doubtless 'tis pleasant and "funny"
For well,—"just a little pocket-money,"
To ape the bees who must make the honey
Day in, day out, for a living.
But workers who labour for "bread and cheese,"
And not as a change from mere lady-like ease,
Regard all such amateur, sham, busy-bees
As needing, not praise, but forgiving.
What if your work-dabbling, now quite the rage,
Cut down the genuine workwoman's wage,
Or pinch the poor ill-paid school teacher?
"Every woman should work all she's able"?
Maybe you need a new species of fable,
A sager than copy-book preacher.
"The Ant and the Grasshopper"? There lurketh Cant!
If Grasshopper labour-spurts starve the poor Ant.
If well-to-do woman work helps to spread want,
This new-born blind zeal sense should bridle.
There's fit work for all, some with spade, some with tabor;
But Madam, if feminine "playing at Labour,"
Whilst needless to you, wrecks one workwoman neighbour,
By Jove, you had better be idle!
[A] "In every branch of work we see well-to-do women crowding into the ranks of competition, in consequence of which wages are lowered, and women who really want work are left to starve." Same Letter.
"Alas, poor Yorick!"—Harry Payne, the last of the good old Joey-Grimaldi school of Pantomime Clowns, "joined the majority," Friday. Sept. 27. For many years past the Clown's Christmas welcome, "Here we are again!" has been omitted, and, in the future, we are not likely to hear the exclamation revived. Farewell, Harry Payne, "a fellow of infinite jest, and of excellent fancy!"
England and America.—Successful Marlborough Match, following upon unsatisfactory Dunraven race. Miss Vanderbilt decidedly winning. Entente cordiale restored.
A MOOT POINT.
Mrs. Brown (on her honeymoon). "Oh, aren't you glad, Darling, we have come this delightful Tour, instead of going to one of those stupid Foreign Places?"
[Darling is not quite sure about it, as the hills are of terrible frequency, and, naturally, he tows his bride up every one.
LETTERS FROM A FIANCEE.
Dear Marjorie,—Thanks for your kind letter. I was hoping you would be pleased about my engagement.
It is most curious you should have guessed, without my telling you, and without even seeing his photograph, that his name is Arthur. I must tell you more about him. He is tall and handsome, also, not at all commonplace. He looks a little like the old prints one sees in seaside lodging-houses, called "With the Stream," or "Against the Stream," or "Good-bye," or "The Return of the Black Brunswicker." He looks, in fact, far more romantic than the young men one generally sees: and the key-note (if you will forgive the expression) of his character is his great dislike to modern ideas, especially to anything he calls "cynical." I met him first at Lady Lyon Taymer's, but he has often explained to me that that was entirely accidental; he was "taken" there; he dislikes her set, and has an especial aversion to the clever young men of the day. He has an excessive—and I must say I think unnecessary—terror of being mistaken for one: and says that if he had not heard it was the very latest thing he would never read anything but Scott. To the bicycle and cigarette, for women, he has an equally strong objection, and I think he often pretends not to see a joke because he has a nervous suspicion of its being what he would call the New Humour. In the evening, on the balcony, he quotes Byron, and in the morning, in the garden, he reads Wilkie Collins or Mrs. Henry Wood. He says he hopes I shall spend a great deal of time in the still-room, to which I heartily assent, though neither of us know exactly what a still-room is, but it sounds quiet. Women, Arthur thinks, should preserve fruits, and a lady-like demeanour, and do plain needle-work, or perhaps "tatting." Art embroidery he looks on with doubt, and I believe he considers it fast. When I told him he seemed anxious I should not reap without having learnt to sew, he seemed hurt and we hastily changed the subject. I was playing croquet with him—(croquet he approves)—when he was lecturing on fruit-preserving. "Shall you really expect me to make jam?" I said. "Would you be cross if I did?" he
