It was about the gloomy close of Eighteen Thirty Nine,
Melbourne and Peel began to melt, the P.O. "sticks" to pine,
For vainly the Official ranks and the Obstructive host
Had formed and squared 'gainst Rowland Hill's plan, of the Penny Post.
Still poor men paid their Ninepences for sending one thin sheet
From Bethnal Green to Birmingham by service far from fleet;
Still she who'd post a billet doux to Dublin from Thames shore,
For loving word and trope absurd must stump up One-and-four;
Still frequent "friendly lines" were barred to all save Wealth and Rank,
Or Parliamentary "pots" who held the privilege of "Frank;"
Still people stooped to dubious dodge and curious device
To send their letters yet evade the most preposterous price;
Still to despatch to London Town a business "line or two"
Would cost a Connemara peasant half his weekly "screw;"
Still mothers, longing much for news, must let their letter lie
Unread at country post-offices, the postage being too high
For their lean purses, unprepared. And Trade was hampered then,
And Love was checked, and barriers raised—by cost—'twixt men and men.
Then up and spake brave Rowland Hill in accents clear and warm,
"This misery can be mended! Read my Post Office Reform!"
St. Stephens heard, and "Red Tape" read, and both cried out "Pooh! Pooh!
The fellow is a lunatic; his plan will never do!"
All this was fifty years ago. And now,—well, are there any
Who do not bless brave Rowland Hill and his ubiquitous Penny?
One head, if 'tis a thinking one, is very often better
Than two, or twenty millions! That's just why we get our letter
From Aberdeen, or Melbourne, from Alaska or Japan,
So cheaply, quickly, certainly—thanks to one stout-soul'd Man.
Fifty years since! In Eighteen Forty, he, the lunatic,
Carried his point. Wiseacres winced; Obstruction "cut its stick."
He won the day, stout Rowland Hill, and then they made him Knight.
If universal benefit unmarred by bane gives right
To titles, which are often won by baseness or a fluke,
The founder of the Penny Post deserved to be a Duke.
But then he's something better—a fixed memory, a firm fame;
For long as the World "drops a line," it cannot drop his name.
'Tis something like a Jubilee, this tenth of Janua-ree!
Punch brims a bumper to its hero, cheers him three times three,
For if there was a pioneer in Civilisation's host,
It was the cheery-hearted chap who schemed the Penny Post.
And when the croaking cravens, who are down on all Reform,
And shout their ancient shibboleth, and raise their tea-pot storm,
Whene'er there's talk of Betterment in any branch of State,
And vent their venom on the Wise, their greed upon the Great,
Punch says to his true countrymen, "Peace, peace, good friends—be still!
Reform does not spell Ruin, lads. Remember Rowland Hill!!!"
A CURIOUS CURE.
Dear Mr. Punch, January13, 1890.
So much attention is now bestowed upon the prevailing epidemic that I will not apologise for troubling you with a letter detailing a case that has recently come under my own notice. My eldest son, Augustus, returned home from the educational establishment admirably conducted by my eminent and reverend friend, Dr. Swishtale, apparently in excellent health and spirits, shortly before Christmas Day. On the 4th (just a week before the date fixed for his return to the educational establishment to which I have referred) he showed symptoms of influenza. He complained of low spirits, seemed inclined to quarrel with (and thrash) his younger brothers, and flatly declined to accompany me to an inspection of the treasures contained in the Natural Historical Museum at South Kensington. I immediately prescribed for him a diet of bread and water, and an enforced retirement to bed. He spent the remainder of the day in loudly-expressed expostulation and lamentation. On the Sunday (after a consultation with his mother) I decided to adopt a home treatment of kindness, which I trusted would prevent the necessity of calling in our family doctor. I give the remainder of the case in diary form.
Monday.—Augustus very poorly. Complains of pains in his head, arms, legs, back, nose, and right little finger. Says he has no appetite, but, urged by his mother, manages to eat for breakfast two sausages and a couple of eggs. Quite unable to get up; but shortly before two o'clock, on learning that I proposed visiting the Morning Performance at Her Majesty's Theatre, expresses his desire to accompany me. He seemed to enjoy Cinderella thoroughly, in spite of his ailments; but, at the conclusion of the performance, became so very languid, that we found it desirable to take a Hansom home.
Tuesday.—Augustus prostrate. Pain in the right little finger unconsciously shifted to the left little finger. He says he had nightmare continuously, but "had not slept a wink." Breakfast, of course, in bed. No appetite for anything save muffins, herrings, and marmalade on buttered toast. Unable to move until one o'clock, when he thought (at the suggestion of his mother) that a visit to the Crystal Palace might probably do him good. The excursion was a happy thought, as certainly he seemed quite himself at Sydenham. After a hearty dinner from soup and the joint, he once more seemed languid, and had to be carried home by rail and cab.
Wednesday.—Augustus still very unwell. Seems much troubled at a dream he has had, in which he apparently died through going back to school. Still complains of insomnia. Says he did not close his eyes all night. Wished to "punch the head" (to adopt his own phraseology) of his younger brother for saying, that he had heard him snoring. However, recovered towards the evening sufficiently to accompany the rest of the family to the Circus at Covent Garden. In the theatre appeared more himself, but ill immediately afterwards.
Thursday.—Augustus (according to his own account) alarmingly ill. Found by his bedside a medical dictionary (taken from the shelves of my library) which he says, he had been reading. He thinks, that he has all the worst symptoms of delirium tremens. This is strange, as his habitual drink is ginger-beer. He complains of pains in his ears, eyes, knees, elbows, and big toes on both feet. Quite unable to get up before five o'clock, when he was fortunately, sufficiently recovered to accompany his younger brothers to a juvenile party and Christmas tree. According to Sammy (my second son) Augustus danced every dance, and served as an assistant to an amateur conjuror. But this last statement I give with some reserve, as it does not correspond with the report furnished by Augustus himself.