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    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 93, November 5, 1887
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 93, November 5, 1887
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 93, November 5, 1887
    Ebook89 pages45 minutes

    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 93, November 5, 1887

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 27, 2013
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 93, November 5, 1887

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      Book preview

      Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 93, November 5, 1887 - Archive Classics

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 93,

      November 5, 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.net

      Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 93, November 5, 1887

      Author: Various

      Release Date: September 17, 2011 [EBook #37465]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, CHARIVARI, NOV. 5, 1887 ***

      Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Malcolm Farmer,

      Nigel Blower and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

      at http://www.pgdp.net

      PUNCH,

      OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

      Vol. 93.

      November 5th 1887.

      THE LETTER-BAG OF TOBY, M.P.

      From an Intending Emigrant.

      Liverpool, Saturday Noon.

      Dear Toby,

      My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea, But before I go, To-bee, I will write a line to thee. I am here to join the bark aforesaid, which will presently convey Joseph and his fortunes to the United States. As far as one can judge from the Press news telegraphed here, the reception that awaits me is not very cordial. I have all my life been conscious of a tendency to rub people down the wrong way. Unhappily the consciousness is borne in upon me only after the evil is effected. No succession of experience has effect upon my conduct. Hartington and I are pretty good friends now, but I daresay you will remember the night, now a dozen years dead, when I rose from a seat below the Gangway in the House of Commons and, amid frantic cheers from the little Radical Party of which I was then a humble ornament, denounced him as "late the Leader of the Liberal Party." The Markiss is now my friend and ally, and I might almost say patron. The time is too short for me to recall a tithe of the nasty things I have said about him and others who toil not, neither do they spin. With Gladstone the process is reversed, but in the end is much the same. I began by adulating him, and now no one can say that that is my precise attitude towards him.

      It is more or less well as far as individuals are concerned. But I am afraid I put my foot in it when, in defiance of historic warning, I framed an indictment against a whole nation. Going out to the New World on a mission of peace, I began by aggravating Canada and setting up the back of the United States. When I reflect how easy it would have been for me to say nothing, I stand amazed at my own indiscretion. The only recompense I find in the situation is the chagrin of the Markiss and his friends. They thought they had done a nice stroke of policy in engaging me on this business. It is, of course, not a new procedure. If I were still on the other side, I should take delight in showing that herein, as in the matter of the Convention with France just completed, they have taken a leaf out of the book of their political opponents, and re-issued it with their own imprimatur. The last time a Commissioner was sent out from England to reason with the United States, Gladstone was in the Markiss's place, and he selected Stafford Northcote as the agent. It was an excellent device, tying in advance the hands of the enemy, who could scarcely denounce a policy for the initiation and direction of which one of their principal men was chiefly responsible. But what a difference between Stafford Northcote and me!—a difference which the Markiss is already beginning to realise.

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