Volume 99 — AN ARGUMENTUM AD POCKETUM.
Reading edition
[The Rev. 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 shillings 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 Rev. STEWART 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 MEREDTTH-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.
KEPT IN TOWN.—A Lament.
The Season's ended; in the Park the vehicles are far and few, And down the lately-crowded Row one horseman canters on a screw By stacks of unperceptive chairs; the turf is burnt, the leaves are brown, stagnant sultriness prevails—the very air's gone out of town! Belgravia's drawn her blinds, and let her window-boxes run to seed; Street-urchins play in porticoes—no powdered menial there to heed; Now fainter grows the lumbering roll of luggage-cumbered omnibus: Bayswater's children all are off upon their annual exodus. On every hoarding posters flaunt the charms of peak, and loch, and sea, To madden those unfortunates who have to stay in town—like me! Gone are the inconsiderate friends who tell one airily, "They're off!" And ask "what you propose to do—yacht, shoot, or fish, or walk, or golf?" On many a door which opened wide in welcome but the other day, The knocker basks in calm repose—conscious "the family's away." I scan the windows—half in hope I may some friendly face detect— To meet their blank brown-papered stare, depressing as the cut direct! I pass the house where She is not, to feel an unfamiliar chill; That door is disenchanted now, that number powerless to thrill! 'Twas there, in yonder balcony, that last July she used to stand; Upon some balcony, more blest, she's leaning now, in Switzerland, Her eyes upon rose-tinted peaks—but no, of sense I 'm quite bereft! The hour is full early yet, and table d hôte she'll scarce have left. Some happy neighbour's handing her the salad—But I'll move, I think; I see a grim caretaker's eye regard me through the shutter's chink. Yes, I'll away,—no longer be the sport of sentiment forlorn, But scale the heights of Primrose Hill, pretending it's the Matterhorn; Or hie me through the dusk to sit beside the shimmering Serpentine, And, with a little make-believe, imagine I am up the Rhine. Alas! the poor device, I know, my restlessness will ne'er assuage: Still Fanny beats, with pinions clipped, the wires of its Cockney cage! No inch of turf to prisoned larks can represent the boundless moor; And neither Hyde nor Regent's Park suggests a Continental Tour!