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    Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 93, December 10, 1887
    Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 93, December 10, 1887
    Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 93, December 10, 1887
    Ebook66 pages46 minutes

    Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 93, December 10, 1887

    By Various Various

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 15, 2013
    Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 93, December 10, 1887

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      Book preview

      Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 93, December 10, 1887 - Various Various

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 93, December 10, 1887, by Various

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 93, December 10, 1887

      Author: Various

      Release Date: April 12, 2012 [EBook #39437]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, LONDON CHARIVARI, DEC 10, 1887 ***

      Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Wayne Hammond, Malcolm Farmer and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

      PUNCH,

      OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

      VOL. 93.

      DECEMBER 10, 1887

      THE LETTER-BAG OF TOBY, M.P.

      FROM THE ROCHDALE RASPER (LATE THE BIRMINGHAM PET).

      One Ash, Rochdale, Saturday.

      DEAR TOBY,

      The address from which I write to you is familiar in the public ear in connection with a long series which, such is the ignorance of mankind, I have heard described as petulant, querulous, self-adulatory notes. I have often wondered that it has not occurred to any one to notice the singular appropriateness of the name of my humble home. It is not for me, at my time of life, to claim anything like prescience of affairs. I may have been right in my views of the succeeding events of the past half-century, or I may have been wrong. I will just mention that my friend, T-NN-S-N, who has a pretty faculty for poetry, once summed me up in a couplet which I venture to think is not without its charm. J-HN BR-GHT, he wrote—

       J-HN BR-GHT

       Is always right.

      He told me in confidence that he had at one time contemplated a eulogistic poem of some seventy or eighty lines, price to the Nineteenth Century a guinea each. But, having thrown off this couplet, it appeared in itself so sufficient, so comprehensive yet so precise, that amplification would have rather reduced than increased its value. Therefore it remains a brilliant fragment.

      But I am wandering from the theme, which, in the present instance, is not myself but my country address. What I thought might be interesting to point out is the curious felicity of the nomenclature, and the remarkable foresight of which it is proof. More than a generation ago it received this singular appellation. At that time nothing seemed more remote from ordinary apprehension than that in this year I should be what we call a Unionist, an ally and supporter of Lord S-L-B-RY, pulling in the same boat as the H-M-LT-NS, and marching shoulder to shoulder with ASHM-D B-RTL-TT. In those days I was wont to pour forth torrents of angry contempt upon the Conservative party. D-SR-LI was my wash-pot, over the Markiss I cast out my shoe; but even then my address was One Ash, Rochdale. Do you begin to see what I mean? One Empire, One Parliament, One Ash! Some of my old colleagues and disciples among the Radicals scoff at me because of my new companions. But, as usual, I have been right from the first. I have always been what the Marchioness called a wonner. What has happened is that the Liberal Party and my old companions have moved away from me, whilst the Conservatives have moved towards me. I am the same to-day as yesterday, or as these fifty years past. J-HN BR-GHT, always right, and any change of relationship or appearance is due to the ineradicable error and fatal foolishness of others.

      What I feel, dear TOBY, in reviewing a long and honourable life, is the terrible feeling of monotony. I sometimes find myself envying ordinary men like GL-DST-NE, who, looking back over their past life, can put their hand down and say, There I blundered, there I was misled by circumstances. For a long

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