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, THE TOMAHAWK. A SATURDAY JOURNAL OF SA...
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No. 120] LONDON, AUGUST 21, 1869. [Price...
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A WORD OUT OF SEASON!
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So London is empty at last! " Not a soul...
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software. The text has not been manually corrected and should not be relied on to be an accurate representation of the item.
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Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software. The text has not been manually corrected and should not be relied on to be an accurate representation of the item.
Additionally, when viewing full transcripts, extracted text may not be in the same order as the original document.
, The Tomahawk. A Saturday Journal Of Sa...
, THE TOMAHAWK . A SATURDAY JOURNAL OF SATIRE . < £ fcitefc tip frxtfyux , Q I !¦ I II J I V & ttkttt * o " INVITAT CULPAM QUI PECCATUM PRETERIT . ' *
No. 120] London, August 21, 1869. [Price...
No . 120 ] LONDON , AUGUST 21 , 1869 . [ Price Twopence .
A Word Out Of Season!
A WORD OUT OF SEASON !
So London Is Empty At Last! " Not A Soul...
So London is empty at last ! " Not a soul in town , Sir , " observes Bucksby as he meets me in Pall Mall ; and from his point of view he is about right . Indeed , both I and Bucksby , when we do meet , express mutual surprise and astonishment at the fact that we both absolutely are still in town , for we each assume a devout and earnest belief in that social creed that , at the close of the Session , banishes metropolitan humanity to the moors , the sea , the continent , —anywhere , provided only it bury itself beyond the limits of the post-office districts . Such a thorough and abject bigot on the subject is Bucksby , that I know when he saw me on the steps of my Club he made a frantic but unsuccessful effort to turn up into Carlton terraceand , so avoid a fatal rencontre . He is perfectly conscious of the fact that the crime de la cr & me to which both he and I , of course , "belong , has no more right , at this time of the year , on the pavement in St . James ' s , than the Lord Chancellor has on the woolsack at St . Stephen ' s . Only some great catastrophe or striking eccentricity could account for either breach of decorum . So Bucksby and I humbug each other , though he knows well enough that I am waiting for my quarterly cheque before I can think of stirring , while he ( I heard it from an intimate friend ) has not the remotest idea of leaving 117 , Leamington Square , S . W ., this autumn . Not that he is not enjoying a change , but it is one rather of aspect than of air . Bucksby just now is living at the back of the house , with all the blinds drawn and shutters up in the front . As he cannot move it is the only little tribute of respect he can pay to the prevailing sentiment of his set . The dregs , the mere refuse of society , stagnates in town at this time of year , and the world , that is , that portion of it only in which existence is possible , is away bathing , climbing , sketching , shooting , lounging , gambling , fooling , growling everywhere and anywhere all over Europe . Yes , most of us get our holiday and our " outing , " even if it be merely a twenty-four hours' affair , of which a good nine are spent i in running all the way to somewhere and all the way back , for half-a-crown , in a cattle van ! That is the mechanic ' s and the small tradesman ' s idea of locomotive elysium , and I dare say , when nothing better is to he got , it is by no means bad at the price . For the middle class , et hoc genus o ? nne that isfrom the Government clerk with six hundred a year and a f amily , down to the well-to-do shopkeeper , there is an extensive and enticing choice . There is the perfect object in ton view of Margate there is , or the , if retiring fashion beauty be less of than Southcncl fresh air or the the , majestic sweep of the old Bay of Herne .
In a word , there are now-a-days so many channels of communication open in all directions , that there are really comparatively few of the humbler members of society who cannot manage to get away from the smoke and stir of London for a few short days , or , at least , for a few pleasant hours . We rich ones make for the Alps , or turn our aristocratic steps wherever invitation or inclination may lead us . The mass who ape our peculiarities , take , on the whole , pretty good care of themselves . _ Yet , with all this , there is a vast substratum of society that never gets any change at all . The very poor ! The inmates of dirty lanes and crowded alleys , the race of the semi-heathen , the neglected , degraded , forgotten London poor ! I do not mean to say that among them the minister of religion never comes . Onthe contrary , they know the sound of that very consoling voice , and can tell you the shape of those most comforting and satisfying tracts . But for all this they are miserably degraded . They are , in a sense , the legitimate answer to the luxury above . They are the price paid by society for its abandoned surfeit 1 If there were not quite so much needless and reckless squandering in high places , there would not be so much hopeless and hapless misery in low . And now I trust you see whence these reflections spring . It is the general rush of everyone who can quit the big city , the general cry for fresh air and holiday , the universal body and mind restorative process , that suggests those who never move , who never ask , and who fade and wither away prematurely in the unchanging squalor and poison of poverty and sickness . The death-rate rises , but there is no escaping the tide . It may sweep on with its fatal waters of destruction , but there is no flight here . Crowded and hustled into dark corners , stifled in suffocating garrets , housed more like the brutes , it may be with a malignant fever raging among them —there lie our poorest poor . Think for a moment , my dear Lord Flinterden , as you pass a really harsh judgment on the bouquet of that Cabinet wine , and quit that elegant continental repast to take an evening stroll up the delicious Rhine valleythink , I say , of the poor creatures dying in your great capital for the want of a little clean water , through lack of a little unpoisoned air t Sniff up the scent of a thousand flowers and refresh yourself . Ponder on the lot of those who , from year's end to year ' s end , are buried away in the filthy gloom of grimy streetsand to whom the sight of a green hedgerow would be as a foretaste , of Paradise itself . Think , I say , of how you have lived out the season , the very close of which has added fresh misery to the miserable homes of many , in taking away their one mainstay , work j—think , as you scatter your sovereigns about Europe , and grumble , in national pride , at the very luxu-
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Citation
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Tomahawk (1867-1870), Aug. 21, 1869, page unpag, in the Nineteenth-Century Serials Edition (2008; 2018) ncse.ac.uk/periodicals/t/issues/ttw_21081869/page/3/
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