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.

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!!"