PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

Volume 93

December 3, 1887.

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

Dear Toby,

The news from Ireland, not all of which finds its way into your daily papers, grows in excitement. The exploit of Mr. Douglas P-ne, M.P., of Lisfinny Castle, has taken root, and all the landed gentry among the Irish Members are fortifying themselves in their castles, and hanging themselves outside the front-door by ropes to deliver addresses to their constituents. The regular thing now is to hang out our M.P.'s on the outer wall. I do not see accounts of these proceedings in your London papers. I was, as you know, a Journalist before I was Lord Mayor; so, if you don't mind, I'll send you a few jottings. If there is anything due for lineage, please remit it anonymously to the Land League Fund "From A Sympathiser."

Foremost in this band of heroic patriots is the châtelain of Butlerstown, Joseph G-ll-s B-gg-r, M.P., Butlerstown Castle, as everyone acquainted with Ireland knows, stands on the summit of a Danish rath, and was once the seat of an O'Toole. Now it is the den of Joseph G-ll-s. For some time he has been practising a flying leap from the eastern to the western turret, a distance of fifty feet over a yawning abyss, amid the cavernous depths of which the petulant plummet has played in vain. It is thrilling, whether at early dawn, or what time the darkening wing of Night begins to flap, to hear a shrill cry of "Hear, hear!" to see a well-known figure cleaving the astonished air, and to behold Joseph G-ll-s, erewhile upright on the eastern turret, prone on that which lifts its head nearer the setting sun. To be present on one of the occasions when Joey B. reads a Blue Book for three hours to a deputation shivering in the moat, is enough to convince the dullest Saxon of the hopelessness of enthralling a nation which has given birth to such as he. As Joseph himself says, quoting, with slight variation, my own immortal verse,—

But the affairs at Butlerstown should not withdraw our gaze from a not less momentous event which recently happened in the neighbourhood of Cork city. Mr. P-rn-ll, as he has recently explained to you, has not found it expedient or even necessary to take part in our recent public proceedings in Ireland. But this abstention is to a certain extent illusory. It is no secret in our inner circles that our glorious Chief was but the other day in close communication with his constituents in the city of Cork. He arrived shortly after breakfast in a balloon which was skilfully brought to pause over the rising ground by Sunday's Well. At the approach of the balloon the trained intelligence of the Police fathomed the plot. The Privy Council was immediately communicated with. Sworn information was laid, and the meeting was solemnly proclaimed by telegraph. In the meanwhile, Mr. P-rn-ll had addressed the meeting at some length and met with an enthusiastic reception. The Police massing in considerable numbers and beginning to bâton the electors, the Hon. Member poured a bag of ballast over them, and the balloon, gracefully rising, disappeared in the direction of Limerick. The proceedings then terminated.

I expect that the success of this new departure, or perhaps I should say this unexpected arrival, will encourage our great Chief to pay a series of flying visits to Ireland. His adventure was certainly happier and more successful than one which befell our esteemed friend Tim H-ly, and nearly brought to an untimely conclusion a life dear to us and of inestimable value to Ireland. Tim was announced to take the chair at a mass meeting summoned under the auspices of the local branch of the Land League of Longford. A room was taken, the word passed round, and all preparations made for a successful meeting. The Police, however, got wind of it, and of course the meeting was proclaimed. But Tim, as you may happen to know, is not the man to have his purpose lightly set aside. It was made known that Tim would make his speech and the Police might catch him if they could. You know, may be, the big factory in the thriving town of Longford—the one with a tall chimbly? Well, the word was passed along again that the bhoys were to assemble about the factory. "Would they bring a chair or a table," they said, "for Tim to stand on?" "No," said Tim, wiping his spectacles, "you leave it to me."

Meeting announced to take place at eight o'clock. On the very strike of the hour, a stentorian voice, not unfamiliar in the House of Commons, floated over the assembled multitude. "Men of Longford," it said, "we are assembled here in the exercise of our privilege as free men." First of all they could not tell where the voice came from. Looking up, behold! there was Tim planted inside the top of the tall chimbley, using it like a Bishop's pulpit. It was a capital idea, and worked admirably for half an hour, with the Police all throbbing and raging round, and Tim eyeing them quite calmly, and all the crowd roaring and cheering, and throwing up their hats, and B-lf-r getting it hot. Somehow, whether from treachery or accident no one knows, and perhaps never will know, but in the middle of one of his best sentences, Tim suddenly vanished from sight, and was a clear three minutes later picked up from among the cinders in the furnace below. The proceedings then terminated.

There is a good deal more I could tell you, Toby, my bhoy, if time permitted. I should like above all to tell you of Major O'G-rm-n's magnificent oration delivered from the main shaft of the sewer in Waterford, with his former constituents hanging on his lips and the grate of the sewer. But I am just off myself to address a meeting of my fellow citizens. This too, is of course, proclaimed, and equally of course that makes no difference. I get on the top of the Lord Mayor's coach, leaning on the Mace, and supported by the Sword-bearer. The horses move at walking pace, and I address the crowd. It's wonderful what a lot one can take out of B-lf-r that way.

Yours faithfully, T. D. S-ll-v-n.

AMEN!

"In deepest reverence and sincere love, the Reichstag is mindful of His Imperial and Royal Highness the Crown Prince. May God protect the dear life of our beloved Crown Prince, and preserve it for the welfare of the Fatherland."—Telegram from the Reichstag to the Crown Prince.