GENERALS.--TWO WANTED to do the work of a small house; £14-£18;
for two in family; easy place, early dinners; very little company.
How sad! At how low an ebb has our Army arrived under recent
mal-administration! In time we may have even "Our Only General"
himself advertising for a place, or answering an advertisement like
the above. Not much "company drill"; so, if easy, it will be dull.
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[Illustration: A SALE OF YEARLINGS.--THE VERY LAST OF THE SEASON.]
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[Illustration: A PERILOUS TUG OF WAR.]
"The labouring men, as a class, are rapidly approaching to a
footing of full equality with the capitalist, and it is even
possible they may become the stronger of the two.... They
must be content to have their class interests, whatever they
are, judged in the light of the public interests.... Labour
and capital may have separate interests, yet their separate
interests are little, in the long run, as compared with those
in which they are united."--_Mr. Gladstone at West Calder_.
"_Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furled,_
_In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world_":
So the youthful Poet Laureate pictured it in limpid verse;
Now the Federations fight each other! Better is't, or worse?
See, the battle-flags are flying freely as on War's red field.
And the rival hosts are lugging, straining--neither means to yield.
For the war-drums, are they silent? Nay--they're not of parchment now,
But, with printers' ink and paper, you can raise a loud tow-row;
Be it at a Labour Congress, Masters' Meeting, Club, or Pub,
Public _tympana_ are deafened with their ceaseless rub-a-dub!
Tug of War! It _is_ a Tug, and not, alas! mere friendly war,
As when rival muscles tussle, Highland lad or British tar,
'Tis a furious fight _à outrance_, knitted, knotted each to each,
Heels firm-planted, hands tense-clenching, till the knobby knuckles bleach.
Federated Masters straggle, Federated Toilers strain,
Each intent on selfish interest, each on individual gain,
And a chasm yawns between them, and a gulf is close behind!
What is the most likely issue of such conflict fierce and blind?
Unionism 'gainst Free Labour, Capital against mere Toil!
Is it better than two tigers fighting for some desert spoil?
"Federate" the Libyan lions as against the elephant herds,
Will the battle be less savage? Let us not be fooled by words!
Say the tense-strained rope-strands sunder, say that either band prevail!
Shall not "conquer" in the issue prove a Synonym for "fail"?
"Banded Unions persecute," and Federated Money Bags
Will not prove a jot or tittle juster. Fools! Haul down those flags!
Competition is not conflict. So the Grand Old Casuist says,
Speaking with the sager caution of his earlier calmer days.
True! Athletic rivals straining at the tense tough-stranded rope,
Strain in friendly competition, ruin not their aim or hope;
But a lethal Tug of War 'twixt "federated" foemen blind.
With a chasm at their feet, and each a yawning gulf behind,
On a precipice precarious! Truly, too, a foolish fight!
Rival Federated Wrongs will never further Common Right!
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"GIVE IT TO THE BARD!"
Mr. ROBERT INGERSOLL speaking of, and at, Poet WALT WHITMAN on the
occasion of presenting the aged and eccentric poet with the "long
contemplated testimonial," to quote _The Times_, said, that "W.W.
is intellectually hospitable"--this sounds like 'ready to take in
anybody'--"but he refuses to accept a creed merely because it is
wrinkled, old, and white-bearded. Hypocrisy wears a venerable look;
and relies on its mask to hide its stupidity and fear." Now this was
rather rough on the Bard, who is described as "an interesting figure,
with his long white hair falling over his shoulders." It seemed as if
ROBERT INGERSOLL wished to imply, Don't be taken in and accept W.W.
at his own poetic valuation as a poet, simply because he is wrinkled,
old, white-haired, and wears a venerable look, which, after all, may
be only a hypocritical mask? Mr. INGERSOLL couldn't have been more
infelicitous if he had "come to bury 'WHITMAN,' not to praise him."
Then he went on, "Neither does WHITMAN accept everything new." This
clearly excepted the testimonial, which, we may suppose, was brand
new, or at all events, had been so at some time or other, though
having been "long contemplated" it might have got a trifle dusty or
mouldy. Then finished the orator, magnificently, epigrammatically, and
emphatically, thus "He" (i.e., WALT WHITMAN) "wants truth." And with
all our heart and soul we reply, "We wish he may get it."
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MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS.--No. V., "_Mignon's Mess-Room_," will appear
in our next Number.
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