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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
VOL. 104.
FEBRUARY 25, 1893.
MIXED NOTIONS.
No. V.--AGRICULTURAL DEPRESSION.
(_Scene and Persons as usual._)
_First Well-informed Man._ There hasn't been much in this debate on the
Addresses.
_Second W. I. M._ Oh. I don't know. They've promised a pretty big list of
measures. How they're going to find time for the lot I can't make out.
_First W. I. M._ (_contemptuously_). Yes, that's always the way with these
Governments. They all talk mighty big at the beginning of the Session, and
then, at the end, they've done nothing, absolutely nothing; at least,
nothing that's any good to anybody. Parliament's getting to be nothing but
a bear-garden. The House won't be a fit place for a gentleman to be seen in
soon.
_Second W. I. M._ (_spitefully_). You didn't seem to think it would be such
a bad place for one gentleman, about eight months ago. You were after a
constituency yourself, weren't you?
_First W. I. M._ Well, and what if I was? I told you at the time why I
thought of standing. I thought I could do some good, but I precious soon
found they were a miserable lot, so I made 'em my bow. "Gentlemen," I said,
"you can worry it out among yourselves, and, when you've agreed, you can
let me know."
_Second W. I. M._ And they never did let you know, did they? Went and
elected another Johnny. Deuced bad taste I call it.
_Inquirer_ (_creating a diversion_). Look here, I say, what's all this talk
about Agricultural Depression? What does it mean?
_First W. I. M._ What does it mean! Why, my dear chap, I should have
thought that any schoolboy knew that our agriculture is being simply
ruined. If things go on like this, we shan't have a farmer left. They're
all on the verge of bankruptcy.
_Inquirer_ (_doggedly_). I daresay you're right; but, anyhow, I know, when
I was at Chilborough, the other day, I saw a lot of farmers about, and they
looked pretty fat and comfortable. That's why I can't make out what it all
means.
_First W. I. M._ (_resignedly_). Well, I suppose I must explain it all,
from the very beginning. The first point is, we've got Free Trade, and the
farmers want Protection; and old GLADSTONE and all the rest of them say
they're not to have it. Well, that isn't likely to put the farmers in a
good temper, is it? Then, of course, the Americans, and the Russians, and
the Indians see their chance, and they send ship-loads of food into this
country, and the taxes have to be paid all the same by our farmers.
_Second W. I. M._ (_interrupting_). What taxes?
_First W. I. M._ (_flustered_). I wish you wouldn't break in just as I'm
trying to make things clear. Why, the taxes on food, of course.
_Second W. I. M._ There aren't any taxes on food.
_First W. I. M._ Oh, indeed! Well, then, how do you explain Free Trade, and
rent, and all that?
_Second W. I. M._ Now you're getting a bit nearer. It's all a question of
rent. Free Trade's got absolutely nothing to do with it. What we want in
this country is a Sliding-scale.
_Inquirer._ What's a Sliding-scale?
_Second W. I. M._ (_taken between wind and water_). A Sliding-scale? Let me
see--it's very difficult to put these things shortly. A Sliding-scale is
a----well, it's a sort of patent mechanical contrivance for weighing out
things, so as to make it fairer than ordinary scales do. (_Plunges
recklessly._) You can make it slide up or down, you know, and fix it at any
point you like.
_Inquirer._ Really! What a rum-looking thing it must be. Have you ever seen
one?
_Second W. I. M._ Oh yes. They've got two or three in every big town.
_Average Man._ When did you last see it?
_Second W. I. M._ (_suspiciously_). Oh, I haven't seen one for some time.
It _may_ perhaps be a _little_ different now.
_Average Man._ Ah! [_A pause._
_Inquirer._ I see the Government's going to have an inquiry about
Agricultural Distress. How are they going to work it?
_First W. I. M._ Royal Commission, of course.
_Second W. I. M._ No, no. It's going to be a Select Committee.
_First W. I. M._ Well, what is the difference?
_Second W. I. M._ Surely _you_ know that. They only have Royal Commissions
for labour and that sort of thing. Committees don't get any pay, you know.
_Inquirer._ Of course. I ought to have remembered that. But who's this Lord
WINCHILSEA AND NOTTINGHAM, who's cutting about the country, talking about
agriculture! What does he know about it? I don't seem to recollect his
name.
_First W. I. M._ He's a Peer.
_Inquirer._ Yes, I know that; but why do they call him Lord WINCHILSEA
_and_ NOTTINGHAM?
_Average Man._ Because that's his name. [_A pause._
_Inquirer_ (_resuming_). But what is he driving at?
_First W. I. M._ He's got hold of the right end of the stick. It's just
this way. (_To_ Inquirer, _who winces under the imputation_.) You're a
foreign country, and I'm a British farmer. Well, you grow your corn for
nothing, and then you chuck it into my markets. Well, what I want to know
is, where do I come in? You may call that Free Trade, if you like--I call
it ruin. The result is, I'm smashed up, and the whole country goes to the
devil!
_Second W. I. M._ But you ought to consider the consumer.
_First W. I. M._ What do you mean by the consumer?
_Second W. I. M._ Why, myself, for instance. I get the benefit of it.
_First W. I. M._ Ah, you may _think_ you do, but you don't really. In the
end you've all to pay more for everything.
_Average Man._ Well, I'm pretty happy as things are.
_First W. I. M._ Oh, of course--and you'd let the land go out of
cultivation. That's mere selfishness.
_Inquirer._ How's that? Can't they work the land now?
_First W. I. M._ What a question! Of course they can't.
_Inquirer_ (_anxiously_). But I've seen 'em ploughing a bit lately.
_First W. I. M._ My dear Sir, they do it just to occupy time--they must do
something.
_Inquirer._ Of course--of course. [_Terminus._
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE RESOURCES OF CIVILISATION.
_M.P._ (_apostrophising ruined hat_). "VERY WELL, THEN, NEXT TIME THERE'S
GOING TO BE A RUSH, I'LL BRING A JAPANNED TIN HAT CHARGED WITH
ELECTRICITY--THEN LET HIM SIT ON IT!!"]
* * * * *
Our amiable old friend, Mrs. R., came across a book entitled _Playthings
and Parodies_, by BARRY PAIN. "Oh, I _must_ buy _that_!" she exclaimed.
"I've seen him so often in the Pantomime at Drury Lane! And fancy his being
an Author, too! But I don't so much wonder at it, because I remember that,
when I was a little girl, there was a celebrated Shakspearian Clown at
Astley's called BARRY, and he sailed in a tub drawn by geese down the
Thames, and there was a wonderful Pantomime actor of the name of PAIN. And
now this talented gentleman turns out to be an Author as well!!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: RETURN OF "GRANDOLPH" THE WANDERER! "BE IT EVER SO HUMBLE,
THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE EVIDENCE OF WEALTH.
"AND WHO LIVES IN THE BIG HOUSE OPPOSITE?"
"MR. FLINDERS, SIR,--AND MRS. FLINDERS,--THE OLD VETERINARY SURGEON AND HIS
WIFE."
"THEY MUST BE PRETTY WELL OFF, I SHOULD THINK, TO LIVE IN A HOUSE LIKE
THAT?"
"OH YES, SIR, VERY RICH INDEED. WHY, THEY 'AD A GOLDEN WEDDING THERE, THE
WEEK BEFORE LAST!"]
* * * * *
FINALITY.
["He was one of those who believed that, even in the ordinary
legislation of the House, and still more in a measure of such
complexity, it was the utmost folly to talk of finality!"--_Mr. J.
Redmond the Home-Rule Bill._]
Are our sage legislators, then, set upon finding
A measure that's "final, conclusive, and binding,"
As lawyer-phrase puts it? They might as well try
To fix dawn in the East, or nail clouds to the sky!
There's nothing that's "final" in infinite time,
That great, goalless, measureless race-course sublime?
In which relays of runners must keep up the race?
There's nothing "conclusive" in limitless space;
And "binding" man's soul to his best of to-day
For the future of growth, in an absolute way,
Were folly as futile as binding an oak
To the seedling's first prop, or the sapling's first yoke;
For provisional law, not for secular life,
Such phrases are fit. Yet to heal age-long strife
By the very best "betterment" now in our ken,
Till--a better shines forth's the first duty of men.
Do right to the height of our sight's actuality!--
Yes, that is our best--and our only--Finality!
* * * * *
An odd Advertisement frequently catches our eye. It is "_Dr. Gordon
Stables's Health Series_." Have the Gordon Stables anything to do with "the
Gordon Hotels"? If not, why not? as evidently they could work together to
their mutual benefit.
* * * * *
_A History of Medicine_, by Dr. EDWARD BERDOE, is announced as shortly to
appear. It will be illustrated by a Black (-and-White) draughtsman.
* * * * *
DESIGNS FOR MI-CARÊME.
(_To be worn as Costumes at the next International Fancy-Dress Ball._)
_The Emperor W-ll-m._--PAUL PRY on Tour.
_The Czar of R-ss-a._--Protection.
_The Sultan of T-rk-y._--Wrecked in Port.
_The Khedive of Eg-y-t._--Young Hopeful.
_The President C-rn-t._--A Dissolving View.
_Prince von B-sm-rck._--The Shadow of the Past.
_Count C-pr-vi._--The Substance of the Future.
_Vicomte de L-ss-ps._--A Lock on the Suez Canal.
_The Pr-m-r._--A Scotch Mixture of HOMER and Home Rule.
_Sir W-ll-m H-rc-t._--The latest of the Plantagenets.
_Mr. J-hn M-rl-y._--"To Dublin from _Pall Mall_."
_Lord R-nd-lph Ch-rch-ll._--The Prodigal Returned.
_Mr. Speaker P-l._--The chucker in.
_Mr. L-b-ch-re._--The Spirit of Te--ruth.
_The Marquis of S-l-sb-ry._--The Irish Emigrant.
_Mr. Arth-r B-lf-r._--Golf surviving Government.
_Mr. H-nry Irv-ng._--A Canterbury Pilgrim.
_Miss Ell-n T-rry._--A NUN, with none like her.
_Mr. J. L. T-le._--A Walker, Running, London and the Provinces.
* * * * *
"I'M MANXIOUS TO KNOW."--The Isle of Man, it appears from Mr. SPENCER
WALPOLE'S book, has thriven on Home Rule. We all know that Club Land gets
on very well, Club-law being administered by men only, seeing that men only
are the governing and governed. But "Home" is the antithesis of the Club,
and Home Rule, domestically, means Female sovereignty. In the Isle of
Man-_sans_-Woman there can be no Home Rule properly so called. It must be
"_Homo Rule_."
* * * * *
"HOME, SWEET HOME!"
(_Latest Parliamentary Version._)
_Returned Wanderer sings_:--
'Mid gold-fields and lion-haunts though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home;
A charm from the past seems to hallow us there,
Which, trot round the globe, you will not meet elsewhere.
Home! Home!
Sweet, sweet home!
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!
An exile from home freedom dazzles in vain;
Ah! give me my lowly front-bench seat again.
The cheers, sounding sweetly, that come at my call,
Give me these, and old pals of mine, dearer than all.
Home! Ho-ome!
Sweet, sweet home!
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!
(_Extra or encore verses on his own account._)
The first seat was mine, but I forfeited _that_;
Will they welcome the waif, kill the calf that is fat?
Will dear ARTHUR rejoice to receive his lost chief?
Will the Wanderer's return bring regret, or relief?
Home! Ho-ome!
Sweet, sweet home!
Be it ever so humble (_winks_) there's no place like home!
So _humble_! Oh yes! So seemed David, no doubt,
Till he struck at GOLIATH and put him to rout.
My giant--his name, too, begins with a G--
Braves the whole of our hosts. I--no matter--_we_'ll see.
Home! Ho-ome!
Sweet, sweet home!
Be it ever so humble (_grins_), there's no place like home!
* * * * *
TREATS FOR TOMMY.--"What shall I do to amuse our little boy, aged fourteen,
when he returns home for Easter Vacation?" Why, certainly improve his mind.
Procure for him a free admission to the Geological Society, and let him
hear a paper on "Anthracite and Bituminous Coal-beds," likewise on
"Inclusions of Tertiary Granite." Take him to the Linnean Society, and
treat him to a lecture "On the Differentiation of the Protozoan Body
Microscopically Sectionised." Another evening may be given to "Mosses and
Sphagnums," not to be confounded with "Moses and Magnums." After this
little course, he may write to say that during the next vacation he would
prefer remaining at school.
* * * * *
"I can't drink Champagne," quoth General BOOZER; "it gives me a red nose."
"No, it won't," replied his medical adviser; "that is, not if you drink
Pommery and _Grey-nose_."
* * * * *
THE MAN FROM BLANKLEY'S.
A STORY IN SCENES.
SCENE VIII.--_In the Drawing-room--Time, about 10._ Mrs. BODFISH _and_
Mrs. DITCHWATER _are talking in confidential undertones on a settee_.
Miss BUGLE'S _anxiety concerning her invalid Cockatoo has already
obliged her to depart_. Mrs. GILWATTLE _is lecturing her Niece on a
couch by the fire, while little_ GWENDOLEN _is in a corner with a
Picture-book_.
_Mrs. Bodfish_ (_in a wheezy whisper_). If he had condescended to make
himself agreeable all round, I shouldn't say a _word_; but to sit there
talking to that little forward governess, and never an audible word from
first to last--well, I quite felt for poor dear Mrs. TIDMARSH being so
neglected at her own table.
_Mrs. Ditch._ Ah, my dear, if she _will_ have the aristocracy to dine with
her, she must put up with such treatment. I wouldn't stoop to such
presumption myself. And, if I _did_, I _would_ have a couple of _entrées_,
and everything carved _off_ the table! He'll go away with such a poor
opinion of us all!
_Mrs. Bod._ He must have noticed how the vegetable dishes were chipped! And
I'm sure I was ashamed to see she had put out those old-fashioned doyleys
with the finger-glasses. I wonder she never thought of getting some new
ones. I saw some the other day in the Grove, hand-worked, at only
five-pence three-farthings!
_Mrs. Ditch._ I could see _something_ was weighing on her mind, or she'd
have talked more to him. What is his title? It sounded like "STRATSPODDLE."
I must look it out in my Peerage. Would he be an Earl now, or what?
_Mrs. Bod._ I don't expect he's more than a Viscount, if so much. I do
think she might have _presented_ us to him, though!
_Mrs. Ditch._ It isn't the fashion to introduce, nowadays. But I consider
we are quite entitled to speak to him, if we get an opportunity--in fact,
he would think it very odd if we didn't! (_&c., &c._)
_Mrs. Gilwattle._ Well, MARIA, I say, as I said before, don't let it _turn
your head_, that's all! Depend upon it, this young nobleman isn't so
affable for nothing. He wouldn't dine with you like this unless he expected
to get _something_ out of it. What that something may be, you best know!
_Mrs. Tid._ (_to herself_). A guinea, at the very least! (_Aloud._) I'm
sorry you think my head's so easily turned, Aunt JOANNA! If you'd noticed
how I behaved to him, you wouldn't say so. Why, I scarcely _spoke_ to the
man!
_Mrs. Gilw._ I was _watching_ you, MARIA. And sorry I was to see that being
next to a member of the nobility overawed you to that extent you could
hardly open your mouth. So unlike your Uncle GABRIEL!
_Mrs. Tid._ (_hurt at this injustice_). Overawed, indeed! I'm sure it was
no satisfaction to _me_ to see him here! No, Aunt the only people I welcome
at _my_ table are those in my own rank of life--relations and old friends
like you and the others. And how you can think I was dazzled by a trumpery
title when I sent him in with the Governess----!
_Mrs. Gil._ Ah, you make too much of that girl, MARIA. I've noticed it, and
_others_ have noticed it. She takes too much upon herself! The _idea_ of
letting her forbid GWENDOLEN to recite--no wonder your authority over the
child is weakened! I should have _insisted_ on obedience.
[Illustration: Mrs. Gilwattle rises slowly, bristling with indignation.]
_Mrs. Tid._ (_roused_). I hope I know how to make my own child obey me.
GWENDOLEN, come out of that corner. Put down your book. (GWEN. _obeys_.) I
wish you to repeat something to your Auntie--what you refused to say
downstairs--_you_ know what I mean!
_Gwen._ Do you mean the thing Miss SEATON said I wasn't to, because you'd
be angry?
_Mrs. Tid._ (_majestically_). Miss SEATON had no business to know whether I
should be angry or not. She is only your Governess--_I_ am your Mother. And
I shall be extremely angry if you don't repeat it at once--in fact, I shall
send you off to bed. So you can choose for yourself.
_Gwen._ I don't want to go to bed ... I'll tell, if I may whisper it.
_Mrs. Tid._ Well, if you are too shy to speak out loud, you _may_ whisper.
You see, Aunt, I am not _quite_ such a cipher as you fancied!
[GWEN. _puts her mouth to_ Mrs. GILWATTLE'S _ear, and proceeds to
whisper_.