PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 101. October 24, 1891. LAISSEZ FAIRE. (_INSCRIPTION FOR A FREE PUBLIC LIBRARY._) [Illustration] Here is an Institution doomed to scare The furious devotees of _Laissez Faire_. What mental shock, indeed, could prove immenser To Mumbo Jumbo--or to HERBERT SPENCER? Free Books? Reading provided from the Rates? Oh, that means Freedom's ruin, and the State's! Self-help's all right,--e'en if you rob a brother-- But human creatures must _not_ help each other! The "Self-made Man," whom SAMUEL SMILES so praises, Who on his fellows' necks his footing raises, The systematic "Sweater," who sucks wealth From toiling crowds by cunning and by stealth,-- _He_ is all right, _he_ has no maudlin twist, _He_ does not shock the Individualist! But rate yourselves to give the poor free reading? The Pelican to warm her nestlings bleeding, Was no such monument of feeble folly. _Let folks alone_, and all will then be jolly. Let the poor perish, let the ignorant sink, The tempted tumble, and the drunkard drink! Let--no, _don't_ let the low-born robber rob, Because,--well, that would rather spoil the job. If footpad-freedom brooked no interference, Of Capital there might be a great clearance; But, Wealth well-guarded, let all else alone. 'Tis thus our race hath to true manhood grown: To make the general good the common care, Breaks through the sacred law of _Laissez Faire_! * * * * * A REMONSTRANCE. _TO LUKE'S LITTLE SUMMER._ [Illustration] Ah, Summer! now thy wayward race is run, With soft, appeasing smiles thou com'st, like one Who keeps a pageant waiting all the day, Till half the guests and all the joy is gone, And hearts are heavy that awoke so gay. What though the faithful trees, still gladly green, Show fretted depths of blue their boughs between, Though placid sunlight sleeps upon the lawn, It only tells us of what might have been Of fickle favours wantonly withdrawn. Blown with rude winds, and beaten down with rain, How can the roses dare to trust again The tricksy mistress whom they once adored? Even the glad heaven, chilled with stormy stain, Grudges its skylark pilgrims of its hoard. Poor is the vintage that the wild bee quiffs, When the tall simple lilies--the giraffes That browse on loftier air than other flowers-- When all the blooms, wherewith late Summer laughs, Like chidden children droop among the bowers. Oft like a moorhen scuttling to the reeds, The cricket-ball sped o'er the plashy meads, And rainbow-blended blazers shrank and ran When showers, in mockery of his moist needs, Half-drown'd the water-loving river man.