Punch, Or the London Charivari
Volume. 107, December 8th, 1894
_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_
A TRIUMPH OF THE SCHOOL BOARD.
The collector of statistics was fairly posed by the attitude assumed by
his visitor. The elderly lad (or, rather, very young man) had claimed
admittance on the score that he was an "old boy" of the School Board.
He wished to give his evidence anent the fate of the State-educated
juvenile population.
"And you say you are not one of the 547 clerks?" queried the collector.
"No Sir, I am not. I would rather beg my bread from door to door than
occupy a lofty stool from dawn to sundown."
"And you are not one of the 413 milkboys?"
"Again, no. It has been a tradition in our family for centuries to
avoid water, so how could I dabble in the milk trade?"
"And you are neither an actor, a jockey, nor a hairdresser?"
"I am not," was again the reply, couched in a tone of hauteur.
"And you are not a soldier--one of the ten that left the School Board
for the more or less tented field?"
"I am not--nor a sailor."
Then the collector of statistics paused for a moment, and spoke with a
measure of hesitation.
"You have not gone to the bad?"
"Like my 333 schoolfellows?"
"Yes."
Then the red blood of the visitor mounted to the roots of his hair and
suffused his cheeks with crimson. He indignantly denied the imputation.
He might be poor, but at any rate he was honest. "No, he had never been
in prison."
"Then what are you?" asked the collector, in a tone not entirely free
from traces of annoyance. "Surely you must be something!"
"I am more than something!" returned the visitor, proudly. "I am
_unique_--I am a curiosity."
"What may you be?"
"I am a boy, educated by the School Board, who is satisfied to follow
in the footsteps of his father. My father was a bricklayer, and I am
satisfied to lay bricks myself."
"My dear Sir," said the collector, grasping him cordially by the hand,
"I congratulate you. This is the first time I have met a boy who has
been satisfied to adopt the trade followed by his parent. And now you
can do me a small favour." And then the collector engaged his guest to
renovate the walls of his house, which (on account of the scarcity of
trained labour) had for many years been sadly out of repair.
* * * * *
[Illustration: GOING TO EXTREMES.
_He of the Ruffled Temper._ "AS SURE'S MA NAME'S TAMMAS PATERSON,
I'LL HAE THE LAW O' YE, THOUGH IT SHOULD COST ME HAUF-A-CROON!"]
* * * * *
MORE MEMORIES BY DEAN HOLE.--We are gradually getting at the
Hole Truth. Not a deep Hole, but a good all-round Hole, and, as a
whole, eminently readable when you have a half Holeyday to spare.
* * * * *
SUGGESTION.--The Egyptian Hall is advertised as "The Home of
Mystery." Mightn't the Lyceum be entitled, for advertisement purposes,
as "The Home of Miss TERRY?"
* * * * *
THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH.
V.--THE PARISH MEETING.
_Mudford, December 4_, 11.30 P.M.
The Parish Meeting--long looked for, eagerly expected, anxiously
anticipated--has come and gone. It has been indeed an interesting and
eventful night.
The meeting was called for half-past seven, and, when I reached the
schoolroom, at two minutes before that time, the room was packed with
parochial electors. A subdued cheer broke out as I entered, and, bowing
my acknowledgments, I found my way to a seat in the front row, which
a thoughtful overseer had reserved for me, his fellow overseer being
stationed at the door to see that only those were admitted who had
got on the wedding garment; or, to put it in a different way, whose
names were on the Register. I soon saw that, practically, everyone was
present. There were the MARCHITES, the LETHAM HAVITTITES, and BLACK BOB
and his following, whilst the Vicar and the Squire were there, to lend
an air of real intelligence and respectability to the whole affair. It
never struck me before, though, how dull a man the Vicar is when you
see him without his daughters--who, of course, were not present.
Punctually at 7.30 the overseer asked the meeting to proceed to elect
a chairman. There was a hush of expectant silence, and then BLACK BOB
jumped up and proposed me. I had taken a great interest in the subject,
and the tremendous amount I knew about it made me the most suitable
person to take the chair that evening. A warm glow of satisfaction came
over me, which deepened into a sense of burning joy when Mrs. MARCH
seconded the motion, which was agreed to unanimously.
I took the chair, and after a hurried glance at my instructions,
invited nominations to be sent in to me. Seven were sent in in the
first two minutes--nominations of the seven who had previously issued
election addresses. Then came an awful and an awkward pause. I waited,
for I had to wait for a quarter of an hour--the instructions told me
to. It was _un mauvais quart d'heure_. Of course I was waiting for my
own nomination. It is a humiliating fact to have to record, but it
did not come. Then the whole thing became clear to me; my election to
the chair was a sop to console me for being shunted from the Parish
Council. But I was not to be fobbed off in this way. I put my hand in
my pocket, and a minute before the time was up produced a nomination
paper which I had got my gardener and coachman to sign. It is always
well to be prepared for accidents.
However, even bad quarters of an hour come to an end, and at the end of
the remaining minute I announced that as I had been nominated myself,
I could not stay in the chair. This was evidently an unexpected turn,
but Mrs. LETHAM HAVITT was equal to the occasion. She proposed the
assistant-overseer. He was elected, declared all the eight nomination
papers were in order, and then threw the meeting open to questions.
The heckling began at once. I was the first victim over that confounded
Free Trout-fishing. Was I in favour of it? I said that as all there was
belonged to me, it was obvious I could hardly be expected to answer
the question. Mrs. ARBLE MARCH and Mrs. LETHAM HAVITT said they were
prepared to use all the powers the Act conferred as to free fishing.
I noticed that a curious smile lurked round the mouths of both, and
I should have said, if I had not thought it to be too incredible to
be true, that Mrs. MARCH almost winked her eye. Anyhow, the meeting
cheered, and seemed satisfied. BLACK BOB made a long and impassioned
speech, in which he called the Act the Charter of the Peasants'
Liberty. This, too, evoked great enthusiasm. Finally the questioning
flickered out, no one withdrew their candidature, and the voting
commenced. I had previously noticed that there were 173 electors
present. My name--WINKINS--came last. Marvellous to relate, 173 hands
were held up for each of the first seven candidates--for I thought it
only a courteous thing to vote for my opponents. When my name was put,
only 59 hands went up. It will be noticed that the total number of
votes was more than seven times the number of votes, and no one ought
to have voted more than seven times! The show of hands was a fraud and
a farce, so it was only in common justice to the parish and myself that
I should demand a poll. A poll I did demand, and we are to have an
election on Monday week.
When I got home I found a letter from the Local Government Board,
referring me on the trout-fishing point to the words of the Act, to
which accordingly I at once turned. Then I saw that the clause was
"to utilize any ... stream within their parish ... but _so as not to
interfere with the rights of any corporation or person_...." I had
stopped short before at these last words. I understand at last why Mrs.
ARBLE MARCH winked--for wink I now know she did.
* * * * *
[Illustration: AND IF HE _DOES_----?
_Sportsman_ (_who has given a mount to a Nervous Friend_). "LET
HER HEAD GO! LET HER GO, MAN! SHE'LL BE A REGULAR WILD CAT IF YOU
_DON'T!_"]
* * * * *
"THE JUDGMENT OF 'PARISH.'"
(_A very long way after the late Laureate's Version._)
[On December 4, every rural parish will, for the first time,
"assemble for the purpose of managing, in some organised and
systematic way, its own affairs."--_Daily News._
"He invited them to choose men, and women too, who they
believed would manage their parish affairs best.... If the
leading landowner desired to have a large influence in parish
affairs, and if he were a fit man, by all means give him the
power; but if he was not a fit man, put in the agricultural
labourer." (Laughter and cheers.)--_Lord Ripon at Newbury._]
_Spirit of the Good Old Times lamenteth:_--
Picturesque Parish, thankless-hearted Parish,
Holding a pippin big as a pine-apple,
Came up upon the fourth to judge and vote.
Fronting the dawn he moved; his Sunday smock
Draping his shoulders, and his sun-burnt hair
Clustered about his forehead, freshly oiled;
And his cheek brighten'd as a cheek will brighten
After brisk towel friction; and my heart
Misgave me as to what might be his game.
He smiled, and opening out his horny palm,
Showed me the fruit of long, fierce party fight,
The Power-Pippin, and what time I look'd,
And listen'd, his full-flowing river of speech
Came heavy on my heart.
"Wha' cheer old 'Ooman!
Old frump o' the Old Times as fules ca'd good,
Just twig this fruit! It's gotten to be given
'To the most fit.' At present thof, 'tis _mine_,
And I'll consider ere I pairt wi' un!"
And added "This wur cast upon the board
By FOWLER when the full-faced M.P. lot
Ranged in the Halls of Stephen; wheerupon
Rose row, with question unto whom 'twere due;
But artful 'ENERY quickly settled _that_,
Delivering this to me by t' common voice
Selected oompire. Passon cooms to-day,
Varmer, an' Grocer-chap, demanding each
This fruit as 'fittest.' Ho! ho! ho!--to Me!!!
Ne'er thought to see sic spoort till Latter Lammas!
Squoire will look on as red as any fox,
An' as fur Passon's missus,--grutherem-grouts!
Wunt _she_ fume foinely?
Ye'd best stand asoide;
Hide your old-farrant face behind yon ellum,
Hear all, and see your Parish judge the nobs!"
'Twas as he said. To woo his voice they came,
Humble they came to that smooth rustic sward,
And at their feet the daisies seemed to droop
At the un-English, strange, new-fangledness
Of such a notion as for Church, and Land,
And Trade to "tuck their tuppennies in" to--what?
This rustic Parish, once their humble slave
Now their authoritative arbiter,
And chuckling critic.
Fools to Parish make
Proffer of plenteous power, ample rule
Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue
Wherewith to embellish village state and make
The rustic home a rural paradise.
_What_ tommy-rot it is!
So "Passon" says
(In sleeker language, be it understood),
But offers him fair creeds and catechisms.
And nice long sermons, and benevolent doles;
Tendance in sickness, help at marriage-time,
A "gentlemanly presence," crowning boon!--
At church a happy place--in the free seats,
Behind the pillar, with undying bliss
In knowledge of True-Blue Supremacy.
He ceased, and Parish held the costly fruit
More closely cuddled.
"Varmer" next spake out.
"You know _me_, HODGE: I woo you not with gifts.
Long generations have not altered me,
And Parish Meetings shall not. Trust your boss,
They're bosh, lad! Judge thou me by what I am,
And you will find me fittest. But allow
Those dashed Rad agitators to upset
Our old relations, fill your mind with fudge
Concerning healthier homes and higher wage.
And it's all up with England, Me--and _You!_
Tip me the Pippin!"
Parish cocked a snook,
And held the apple tighter.
As for him,
The sleek mild grocer, Parish shut him up
Almost 'ere he had spoken. "I promise thee
A good cheap article and lots of tick----"
But Parish said, "Talk not to me of tick!
I shall not need 'un wi my whacking wage,
And 'overflowing revenue'; new cottage,
Allotment patch, three acres and a coo,
And a' the rest o' 't. As for this here Pippin,
I've grupped at last, 'tis mine, an' I dunno
_As I won't have first bite at 'un mysel'!_"
He spoke and laughed. I shut my eyes in fear,
But when I look'd, Parish had raised his hand.
And I beheld the Parson's angry eyes,
The Farmer's furious glance, and, weazel-like,
The glittering of the Grocer-man's amaze.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "THE JUDGMENT OF 'PARISH.'"
_Hodge_ (_meditatively_). "GROCER-CHAP, PASSON, AND VARMER, EACH
ON 'EM WANTIN' TH' APPLE. WELL,--I DUNNO AS I WON'T HAVE A BITE AT IT
MYSELF!"]
* * * * *
LYRE AND LANCET.
(_A Story in Scenes._)
PART XXIII.--SHRINKAGE.