[Illustration: THE SCIENTIFIC VOLUNTEER.]
"If ever I have to choose.... I shall, without hesitation,
shoulder my rifle with the Orangeman."--_See Professor Tyndall's
Reply to Sir W. V. Harcourt._ "_Times_," Feb. 13, 1890.
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'ARRY ON EQUALITY.
DEAR CHARLIE,--Bin down as a dab with that dashed heppydemick, dear boy.
I 'ave bloomin' nigh sneezed my poor head orf. You know that there specie
of toy
Wot they call cup-and-ball! That's _me_, CHARLIE! My back seemed to open
and shut,
As the _grippe_-demon danced on my innards, and played pitch-and-toss
with my nut.
Hinfluenza be blowed! It licks hague and cholera rolled into one.
The Sawbones have give it that name, I'm aware, but of course that's
their fun.
I've 'ad colds in the head by the hunderd, but _this_ weren't no cold,
leastways _mine_.
Howsomever, I'm jest coming round a bit, thanks to warm slops and QyNine.
Took to reading, I did as I mended; that's mostly a practice with me.
When I'm down on my back that's the time for a turn at my dear old
_D. T._
A party named ROBERT BUCHANAN, as always appears on the job,
Was a slating a chappie called HUXLEY. Thinks I, I'll take stock of
friend BOB.
Well, _he_ ain't much account, that's a moral; a ramblinger Rad never
wos.
Old HUXLEY's wuth ten on him, CHARLIE, though _he's_ rather huppish and
poz.
Are men really born free and equal? Ah! that's wot they're harguing hout.
BOB B., he says "Yus;" HUXLEY, "No;" and BOB'S wrong, there's no manner
of doubt.
"Free and equal?" Oh, NEBUCHADNEZZAR! how _can_ they talk sech tommy-rot?
Might as well say as Fiz and Four-Arf should be equally fourpence a pot.
Nice hidea, but _taint so_, that's the wust on it. There's where these
dreamers go wrong.
Ought's nothink, and that as is, _is_; all the rest isn't wuth a old
Song.
Bad as BUGGINS, the Radical Cobbler, these mugs are. Sez BUGGINS, sez he,
Wos it Nature give Mudford his millions, and three bob a day to poor me?
Not a bit on it. Nature's a mother, and meant all her gifts _for_ us all.
It's a Law as gives Mudford his Castle, and leaves me a poor Cobbler's
Stall.
All I've got to say, CHARLIE, is this. If so be Nature meant all that
there,
She must be a fair "J." as a mater. _I've_ bin bested out of _my_ share.
So has BUGGINS, and nine out o' ten on us. _If_ the few nobble the quids
Spite of Nature, wy Nature's a noodle as cannot purtect her own kids.
Poor BUGGINS! He's nuts upon HENERY GEORGE, WILLIAM MORRIS, and such.
He's got a white face, and is humpy, and lives in a sort of a hutch
Smellin' strong of wax-end and stale dubbin. _Him_ born free and equal?
Great Scott!
'Bout as free as a trained flea in harness, or sueties piled in a pot.
Nature's nothink, dear boy, simply nothink, and natural right don't
exist,
Unless it means natural flyness, or natural power of fist.
It's brains and big biceps, wot wins. _Is_ men equal in muscle and pith?
Arsk BISMARCK and DERBY, dear boy, or arsk JACKSON the Black and JEM
SMITH.
There'd be precious few larks if they wos, CHARLIE--where'd be the chance
of a spree
If every pious old pump or young mug was the equal of Me?
It's the up-and-down bizness of life, mate, as makes it such fun--for the
ups.
Equal? Yus, as old BARNUM and BUGGINS, or tigers and tarrier pups.
He's a long-winded lot, is BUCHANAN, slops over tremenjous, he do;
Kinder poet, dear boy, I believe, and they always do flop round a few,
Make a rare lot o' splash and no progress, like ducks in a tub, dontcher
know,
But cackle and splutter ain't swimming; so ROBERT, my nabs, it's no go.
Men ain't equal a mite, that's a moral, and patter won't level 'em up.
Wy yer might as well talk of a popgun a holding its own with a Krupp.
'Ow the brains and the ochre got fust ladled hout is a bit beyond me,
But to fancy as them as _has_ got 'em will part is dashed fiddle-de-dee.
Normans nicked? Landlords copped? Lawyers fiddled? Quite likely; I dessay
they did.
Are they going to hand back the swag arter years? Not a hacre or quid!
Finding's keeping, and 'olding means 'aving. I wish _I_'d a spanking
estate
Wot my hancestors nailed on the ready. They wouldn't wipe me orf the
slate.
No fear, CHARLIE, my boy! I'd hang on by my eyelids; and so will the
nobs,
Despite Mounseer Roosso's palaver or rattletrap rubbish like BOB'S.
As HUXLEY sez, Robbery's whitewashed by centries of toffdom, dear boy.
Poor pilgarlicks whose forbears wos honest rich perks earn't expect to
enjoy.
Life's a great game of grab, fur's _I_ see, CHARLIE. Robbery? Well,
_call_ it that.
If you only lay hands on your own, mate, you won't git remarkable fat.
There isn't enough to go round and yet give a fair dollop to each,
It's a fight for front place, and he's lucky who gets the first bite at
the peach.
_High priori_ hideas about Justice, as HUXLEY declares, is all rot.
Fancy tigers dividing a carcase, and portioning each his fair lot!
"Aren't men better than tigers?" cries BUGGINS. Well, yus, there's
religion and law;
Pooty fakes! But when _sharing's_ the word they ain't in it with sheer
tooth and claw.
Orful nice to see Science confirming wot _I_ always held. Blow me tight,
If I don't rayther cotton to HUXLEY; he's racy, old pal, and he's right.
The skim-milk of life's for the many, the lardy few lap up the cream,
And all talk about trimming the balance is rubbish, a mere Roosso's
Dream!
Philanterpy's all very nice as a plaything for soft-'arted toffs,
Kep in bounds it don't do no great 'arm. Poor old BUGGINS, he flushes
and coughs;
Gets hangry, he do, at my talk. I sez, keep on your hair, my good bloke,
Hindignation ain't good for your chest; cut this Sosherlist cant, or
_you'll_ choke.
Philanterpy squared in a system would play up Old Nick with the Great,
As 'cute Bishop MAGEE sez Religion would do--_carried out_--with the
State.
Oh, when Science and Saintship shake hands, in a sperret of sound common
sense,
To chuck over the cant of the Pulpit, by Jingo, old pal, it's Himmense!
All cop and no blue ain't _my_ motter; I likes to stand treat to a chum;
And if I wos flush of the ochre, I tell yer I'd make the thing hum.
And there's lots o' the rich is good parters; bit here and bit there,
dontcher know;
But shake up the Bag and share round, like good pals a pot-lucking?
Oh no!
Wot these jokers call Justice means knocking all 'andicap out of life's
race;
"Equal chances all round," they declare, wouldn't give equal power and
pace!
Wy, no; but if things weren't made nice for the few with the power and
the tin,
The 'andicapped many would be in the 'unt, and some on 'em might _win_.
Pooty nice state o' things for the perkers! Luck, Law, and the Longheads,
dear boy,
Have arranged the world so that the many must work that the few may
enjoy.
These "Equality" jossers would spile it; if arf their reforms they can
carry,
The enjoyers will 'ave a rough time, and there won't be a look in for
'ARRY.
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