Punch, Or The London Charivari
Volume 107, November 10th, 1894
_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_
[Illustration: THE PARLIAMENTARY FLYING MACHINE.
_Maxim_--"KEEP IT UP!"]
* * * * *
THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH.
I.--FONS ET ORIGO MALI.
Snugly nestling in a cosy corner of Blankshire--that county which at
different times and places has travelled all over England--our village
pursues the even tenor of its way. To be accurate, I should say _did_
pursue, before the events that have recently happened--events in which
it would be absurd modesty not to confess I have played a prominent
part. Now we are as full of excitement as aforetime we were given over
to monotony. _Nous avons_---- No! _J'ai changé tout çela._
It came about in this way. I have always till the 25th of September (a
chronicler should always be up to dates) been entirely free from any
ambition to excel in public. After a successful life I have settled down
with my wife and family to the repose of a truly rural existence. "You
should come down and live in the country," I am never tired of telling
my friends. "Good air, beautiful milk, and, best of all, fresh eggs." I
don't know why, but you are always expected to praise the country eggs.
So I always make a point of doing it.
Up to September the 25th, accordingly, I extolled the eggs of the
country and lived my simple, unpretending life. On that day I read an
article in the paper on the Parish Councils Act. I read that now for the
first time the people in the villages would taste the sweets of local
self-government. The change from fresh eggs struck my fancy, up to that
time singularly dormant. I read on, dashing all unknowing to my fate.
"It is the duty," I saw, "of every man of education, experience, and
leisure in the village who has the welfare of his country at heart to
study the Act, and to make it his business that his fellow-parishioners
shall know what the Act does, and how the greatest advantage can be
obtained from its working." Then my evil genius prompted me to undertake
the task myself. I was educated--did I not get a poll degree at
Cambridge, approved even by Mr. CHARLES WHIBLEY as a test of culture?
I had experience--had I not shone as a financial light in the City for
full twenty years? I had leisure--for had I anything in the world to do?
Obviously the occasion had come, and I--yes I--was the man to rise to
it.
I bought twenty-nine works dealing with the Act. I studied them
diligently section by section, clause by clause, line by line. I
referred to all the Acts mentioned. I investigated all the Acts
repealed. At the end of it all I felt like a collection of conundrums.
But I was not to be denied. One evening, as I was walking through the
village, I met ROBERT HEDGER, "Black BOB," as he is always called. He is
a farm hand, and for some reason looked upon as a leader of men in the
village. I saw my chance, and promptly took it.
"Good evening, BOB," I said. "I've been wanting to have a bit of a talk
with you about this Parish Councils Act."
"Well, Sir, and what about that?" Of course he spoke in dialect, but the
dialect dialogues are almost played out, so I translate into quite
ordinary English. It's easier to understand, and quite as interesting.
"What about it?" said I, with well-simulated surprise. Then I launched
into a glowing account of what it would effect. I waxed poetic. The
agricultural labourer would come home at night from his work proud in
the consciousness of being a citizen. He would breathe a different air;
the very fire in his cottage would burn brighter because a Parish
Council had been established in his midst. I finished (it was a distinct
anticlimax) by saying that I had been carefully studying the Act.
Two days later Black BOB and two of his mates called at my house--a
deputation to ask me to speak at a meeting, to explain the Act. I
pleaded modesty, and, saying I would ne'er consent, consented. It was a
vain thing to have done, and the effects have been startling. But that
meeting must have a chapter to itself.
* * * * *
ROBERT'S SOLLEM ADWISE.
I carnt on airth think what is the matter with me lately. I seems to
have lost all my good sperrits, and am as quiet and as mopish as if I
was out of a sitiation, which in course I am not, and am not at all
likely to be. My wife bothers me by constent inquiries about the comin
change on the 9th, but she ort to no, as I noes, that the cumming new
LORD MARE is jest the same good, kind, afabel Gent as the noble Gent as
is a going afore him, and who ewery body loved and respected, and who
allers showed me ewery posserbel kindness. I aint not at all sure as
them wunderful Gents as calls theirselves County Countsellers, and is
allers a throwing their ill-natured jeers at the grand old Citty, hasn't
sumthink to do with it. I'm told as they has acshally ordered one of our
most poplar Theaters to be shut up, becoz the acters and actresses is so
werry atracktive that they draws a wunderful contrast between them and
the sollem Gents as is allers a interfeering in some way or other where
they are least wanted.
One of their most wunderful and most conceeted fads is a longing desire
to have charge of our nobel Citty Perlice, which, as ewery body knos, is
the pride of the hole Metrolypus.
[Illustration]
One of the new LORD MARE'S private gennelmen has told me, in the werry
strictest confidens, that they have all agreed together, LORD MARE,
Sherryfs, Halldermen, Liverymen, and setterer, to have the most
brillientest Show as has bin seen in the old Citty since the time of
DICK WITTINGTON of ewarlasting memory! if its ony for the purpose of
driving the County Countsellers, as they calls theirselves, stark
staring mad with enwy! And so estonished is the Queen's Guvernment
themselves by what they hears on the subjec of the glorious approching
Dinner, that they has acshally ordered the werry primest of all their
Cabinet lot, inclooding the Prime Minister hisself, and the Lord
Chanceseller, and my Lord SPINSTER, and setterer and setterer, not only
to accept the LORD MARE'S perlite inwitation, but to take care to be in
good time, and not to keep the nobel company waiting as old Mr.
GLEDSTONE usued to do in days gorn by.
By-the-by, the present LORD MARE, jest to show his ermazin libberality,
acshally arsked jest a few of the County Countsellers to his larst great
bankwet larst week, and werry much they seemed to injoy theirselves, and
I must say, behaived like reel gennelmen, tho' sum of the speeches,
speshally them by Lord HAILSBERY and Mr. RICHER, must have been rayther
staggerers for them to bear.
ROBERT.
* * * * *
PROSIT.--Best wishes to Mr. BEERBOHM TREE for the success of the new
piece at the Haymarket. Whatever may be the result, he, personally, is
in for a "Wynn."
* * * * *
"THE CHALLENGE."
["Of course, you may get the House of Lords to surrender as you get a
fortress to surrender, by making it clear that it is encompassed and
besieged beyond all hope of deliverance; but that in itself is not an
easy task with the garrison that I have described as sure to defend
it.... We fling down the gauntlet. It is for you to back us up."--_Lord
Rosebery at Bradford._]
_Bob Acres_ Lord R-S-B-RY.
_Sir Lucius O'Trigger_ Irish Party.
* * * * *
_Sir Lucius._ Then sure you know what is to be done?
_Acres._ What! fight him?
_Sir Lucius._ Ay, to be sure: what can I mean else?... I think he has
given you the greatest provocation in the world.
_Acres._ Gad, that's true--I grow full of anger, Sir LUCIUS!--I fire
apace! Odds hilts and blades! I find a man may have a deal of valour in
him and not know it!... Your words are a grenadier's match to my heart!
I believe courage must be catching! I certainly do feel a kind of valour
rising as it were--a kind of courage as I may say.--Odds flints, pans
and triggers! _I'll challenge him directly!_--_The Rivals._
* * * * *
_Fighting Bob's Afterthoughts._
Odds bombs and torpedoes! An oath, like a whistle,
Will keep up the courage--Dutch courage at least!
I feel like a hero of grandeur and gristle
Who goes to the fight as men go to a feast.
Sir LUCIUS has wrought me to't--fire-eater furious.
Odds bullets and blades, how he'll bristle and whisk!
Yes, courage _is_ catching. And yet--it is curious,
He urges the task without weighing the risk.
That's just like O'TRIGGER, a swaggering swigger
Of fiery potheen which gets into his head!
At patience and caution he'll swear or he'll snigger,
His only resources steel, powder and lead.
He thinks he has managed the business most cleverly,
Bull-making bully of Blunderbuss Hall;
But zounds. That big burly and black-bearded--BEVERLEY,
Is not a foe to pooh-pooh! Not at all!
Odds jigs and tabors! Such bellicose neighbours
Are horridly awkward; they will force one's hand,
A chap who unceasingly brags and belabours
Is valued, no doubt, in a Donnybrook band;
But swelling Drawcansir demeanour won't answer
On this side the Channel so well as on that.
O'TRIGGER'S a mixture of Scorpio and Cancer,
And BULL is less sweet on that blend than is PAT.
It's just a tremendous, big, bothersome business,--
_That's_ what it is! But I'm in for it now.
_I_ feel a dizziness. O'TRIGGER'S fizziness
Leads all his friends into mischief and row.
Still, I'm committed; and much to be pitied,
As clearly they'd see if they had any _nous_.
But odds popguns and peashooters! shall I be twitted
With caution extreme, and the pluck of a mouse?
No, that will _not_ do. I my courage must muster.
Whatever the odds, FIGHTING BOB must show fight!
So here goes a buster, though bluster and fluster
Are not in my line; yet "indite, Sirs, indite!"
I'll begin with a--swear-word and end with defiance!
Odds daggers and darts, how I'll hector and frown!
My friends on my valour may now place reliance,
The challenge is sent, Sirs, the gauntlet is down!!!
* * * * *
[Illustration: "THE CHALLENGE."
_Sir Lucius O'Trigger (the Irish Party)._ "THEN SURE YOU KNOW WHAT IS TO
BE DONE?"
_Bob Acres (L-rd R-s-b-ry)._ "WHAT! FIGHT HIM?... ODDS FLINTS, PANS AND
TRIGGERS! _I'LL CHALLENGE HIM DIRECTLY!_"]
* * * * *
THE SCHOOL-BOARD APPLE-PIE.
(_Adapted for the Board School Infant Classes._)
A (SCHOOL-BOARD) Apple-Pie; B (uilt it); C (ircular) cut it up; D
(IGGLE) directed it; E (xpenses) eat it up; F (ORSTER) fought for it; G
(LADSTONE) got it through; H (ostility) hampered it; I (ntolerance)
injured it; J (ealousies) jangled about it; K (indness) kindled at it; L
(OBB) lightened its costs; M (oney) met them; N (oodles) talked nonsense
about it; O (pinion) oscillated concerning it; P (rogressives) prodded
it; Q (uidnuncs) querulously questioned and quizzed it; R (ILEY) raised
religious rumpus about it, while R (atepayers) ruefully regarded him; S
(ecularism) sneered at it; T (eachers) toiled for it; V (ituperation)
vexed it; W (isdom) wondered at it; and X, Y, Z--well, "Wise-heads" are
few, and "X" is an unknown quantity.
* * * * *
[Illustration: POSITIVELY OSTENTATIOUS.
_Mr. Phunkstick (quite put out)._ "TALK ABOUT AGRICULTURAL DEPRESSION,
INDEED! DON'T BELIEVE IN IT! NEVER SAW FENCES KEPT IN SUCH DISGUSTINGLY
GOOD ORDER IN MY LIFE!"]
* * * * *
VAGABOND VERSES.
Within the Square we both abide,
An artist I, an heiress you,
My studio like my work is skied,
'Tis sitting-room and studio too.
Your chimney-pots I can descry,
I look across the leafy Square.
I think of you, I wonder why
Your uncle is a millionaire!
I've pictured you in chalks and oils,
I like you best in misty grey,
Your nameless charm my pencil spoils,
Yet strives for ever to portray.
By day I turn you to the wall
Lest idle gazers should surprise;
But when night gathers I recall,
I look into your dreaming eyes.
So many things I cared about,
And now they all have fallen flat,
While I, Bohemian out and out,
Have been to buy a better hat,
In lieu of one of dusky green
Upon my coat paint splashes shine.
Endeavouring to get it clean
I've rubbed it hard with turpentine
Till my head ached, my heart was faint,
And I was utterly undone,
I cannot rub away the paint,
I can't afford another one.
They have a murky yellow shade,
My collars once so white; and frail,
And at the wristbands sadly frayed
My solitary swallow-tail!
That dinner-party where we met!
We seemed to meet like friends of old,
And both to utterly forget
The bitter barrier of gold.
Oh, by your eyes, your wistful mien,
I know for wealth you do not care,
I know you wish you had not been
Related to a millionaire!
The starlit night is deepening,
Hushed are the footsteps of the folk,
My window open wide I fling,
And one enchanted pipe I smoke,
And on the misty vapour blue,
Across the Square my fancies float;
And oh, so near, so near to you,
And oh, so bitterly remote!
I talk to you of many things,
My pipe I unaware refill,
I wonder if our thoughts have wings,
I wonder, are you waking still?
And should I, if your house took fire,
Have time to hurry to your aid,
To rescue you from peril dire,
Before swooped down the Fire Brigade.
There has sprung up a pleasant breeze
After the day's dustladen air,
And it is blowing in the trees
Within the garden in the Square.
Oh, gentle wind--_I_ may not speak,
Wind from the West, _I_ may not tell.
Across the Square my lady seek,
And bid her dream I love her well!
* * * * *
POLITE POLICE IN EGYPT.--The Anglo-Egyptian Police are to be converted
into a civil force. Will Police Professors of Politeness be sent over
from England to give lectures on civility?
* * * * *
MOTTO FOR ANY AUTHORS WRITING PLAYS FOR THE GARRICK THEATRE.--"Keep your
HARE on!"
* * * * *
LYRE AND LANCET.
(_A Story in Scenes._)
PART XIX.--UNEARNED INCREMENT.