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.
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.
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.
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:—
"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.
Scene XXXIII.—The Yew Walk.
Lady Maisie (to herself, as she watches Undershell approaching). How badly he walks, and what does he mean by smiling at me like that? (Aloud, coldly.) I am sorry, Mr. Blair, but I must leave you to finish your stroll alone; my maid has just told me——
Undershell (vehemently). Lady Maisie, I ask you, in common fairness, not to judge me until you have heard my version. You will not allow the fact that I travelled down here in the same compartment with your maid, Phillipson——
Lady Maisie (wide-eyed). The same! But we came by that train. I thought you missed it?
Und. I—I was not so fortunate. It is rather a long and complicated story, but——
Lady Maisie. I'm afraid I really can't listen to you now, Mr. Blair, after what I have heard from Phillipson——
Und. I implore you not to go without hearing both sides. Sit down again—if only for a minute. I feel confident that I can explain everything satisfactorily.
Lady Maisie (sitting down). I can't imagine what there is to explain—and really I ought, if Phillipson——
Und. You know what maids are, Lady Maisie. They embroider. Unintentionally, I daresay, but still, they do embroider.
Lady Maisie (puzzled). She is very clever at mending lace, I know, though what that has to do with it——
Und. Listen to me, Lady Maisie. I came to this house at your bidding. Yes, but for your written appeal, I should have treated the invitation I received from your Aunt with silent contempt. Had I obeyed my first impulse and ignored it, I should have been spared humiliations and indignities which ought rather to excite your pity than—than any other sensation. Think—try to realise what my feelings must have been when I found myself expected by the butler here to sit down to supper with him and the upper servants in the Housekeeper's Room!
Lady Maisie (shocked). Oh, Mr. Blair! Indeed, I had no——You weren't really! How could they? What did you say?
Und. (haughtily). I believe I let him know my opinion of the snobbery of his employers in treating a guest of theirs so cavalierly.
Lady Maisie (distressed). But surely—surely you couldn't suppose that my Uncle and Aunt were capable of——?
Und. What else could I suppose under the circumstances? It is true I have since learnt that I was mistaken in this particular instance; but I am not ignorant of the ingrained contempt you Aristocrats have for all who live by exercising their intellect—the bitter scorn of Birth for Brains!
Lady Maisie. I am afraid the—the contempt is all on the other side; but if that is how you feel about it, I don't wonder that you were indignant.
Und. Indignant! I was furious. In fact, nothing would have induced me to sit down to supper at all, if it hadn't been for——
Lady Maisie (in a small voice). Then, you did sit down? With the servants! Oh, Mr. Blair!
Und. I thought you were already aware of it. Yes, Lady Maisie, I endured even that. But (with magnanimity) you must not distress yourself about it now. If I can forget it, surely you can do so!
Lady Maisie. Can I? That you should have consented, for any consideration whatever; how could you—how could you?
Und. (to himself). She admires me all the more for it. But I knew she would take the right view! (Aloud, with pathos.) I was only compelled by absolute starvation. I had had an unusually light lunch, and I was so hungry!
Lady Maisie (after a pause). That explains it, of course.... I hope they gave you a good supper!
Und. Excellent, thank you. Indeed, I was astonished at the variety and even luxury of the table. There was a pyramid of quails——
Lady Maisie. I am pleased to hear it. But I thought there was something you were going to explain.
Und. I have been endeavouring to explain to the best of my ability that if I have undesignedly been the cause of—er—a temporary diversion in the state of Miss Phillipson's affections, no one could regret more deeply than I that the—er—ordinary amenities of the supper-table should have been mistaken for——
Lady Maisie (horrified). Oh, stop Mr. Blair, please stop! I don't want to hear any more. I see now. It was you who——
Und. Of course it was I. Surely the girl herself has been telling you so just now!
Lady Maisie. You really thought that possible, too? She simply came with a message from my mother.
Und. (slightly disconcerted). Oh! If I had known it was merely that. However, I am sure I need not ask you to treat my—my communication in the strictest confidence, Lady Maisie.
Lady Maisie. Indeed, that is perfectly unnecessary, Mr. Blair.
Und. Yes, I felt from the first that I could trust you—even with my life. And I cannot regret having told you, if it has enabled you to understand me more thoroughly. It is such a relief that you know all, and that there are no more secrets between us. You do feel that I only acted as was natural and inevitable under the circumstances?
Lady Maisie. Oh, yes, yes. I—I daresay you could not help it. I mean you did quite, quite right!
Und. Ah, how you comfort me with your fresh girlish——You are not going, Lady Maisie?
Lady Maisie (rising). I must. I ought to have gone before. My mother wants me. No, you are not to come too; you can go on and gather those snowdrops, you know.
[She walks slowly back to the house.
Und. (looking after her). She took it wonderfully well. I've made it all right, or she wouldn't have said that about the snowdrops. Yes, she shall not be disappointed; she shall have her posy!
Scene XXXIV.—The Morning Room. Half an hour later.
Lady Maisie (alone—to herself). Thank Goodness, that's over! It was awful. I don't think I ever saw Mamma a deeper shade of plum colour! How I have been mistaken in Mr. Blair! That he could write those lines:—
and yet philander with my poor foolish Phillipson the moment he met her! And then to tell Mamma about my letter like that! Why, even Mr.
Captain Thicknesse. Yes, I went, but I've come back again. I—I couldn't help it; 'pon my word I couldn't.
Lady Maisie (with a sudden flush). You—you weren't sent for—by—by anyone?
Capt. Thick. So likely anyone would send for me, isn't it?
Lady Maisie. I don't know why I said that; it was silly, of course. But how——?
Capt. Thick. Ran it a bit too fine; got to Shuntin'bridge just in time to see the tail end of the train disappearin'; wasn't another for hours—not much to do there, don't you know.
Lady Maisie. You might have taken a walk—or gone to Church.
Capt. Thick. So I might, didn't occur to me; and besides, I—I remembered I never said good-bye to you.
Lady Maisie. Didn't you? And whose fault was that?
Capt. Thick. Not mine, anyhow. You were somewhere about the grounds with Mr. Blair.
Lady Maisie. Now you mention it, I believe I was. We had—rather an interesting conversation. Still, you might have come to look for me!
Capt. Thick. Perhaps you wouldn't have been over and above glad to see me.
Lady Maisie. Oh, yes, I should!—When it was to say good-bye, you know!
Capt. Thick. Ah! Well, I suppose I shall only be in the way if I stop here any longer now.
Lady Maisie. Do you? What makes you say that?
Capt. Thick. Nothin'! Saw your friend, the Bard, hurryin' along the terrace with a bunch of snowdrops; he'll be here in another——
Lady Maisie (in unmistakable horror). Gerald, why didn't you tell me before? There's only just time!
[She flies to a door and opens it.
Capt. Thick. But I say, you know! Maisie, may I come too?
Lady Maisie. Don't be a goose, Gerald. Of course you can, if you like.
[She disappears in the Conservatory.
Capt. Thick. (to himself). Can't quite make this out, but I'm no end glad I came back!
[He follows quickly.
Undershell (entering). I hoped I should find her here. (He looks round.) Her mother's gone—that's something! I daresay Lady Maisie will come in presently. (He sits down, and re-arranges his snowdrops.) It will be sweet to see her face light up when I offer her these as a symbol of the new and closer sympathy between us! (He hears the sound of drapery behind him.) Ah, already! (Rising, and presenting his flowers with downcast eyes.) I—I have ventured to gather these—for you. (He raises his eyes.) Miss Spelwane!
Miss Spelwane (taking them graciously). How very sweet of you, Mr. Blair. Are they really for me?
Und. (concealing his disappointment). Oh—er—yes. If you will give me the pleasure of accepting them.
Miss Spelw. I feel immensely proud. I was so afraid you must have thought I was rather cross to you last night. I didn't mean to be. I was feeling a little overdone, that was all. But you have chosen a charming way of letting me see that I am forgiven. (To herself.) It's really too touching. He certainly is a great improvement on the other wretch!
Und. (dolefully). I—I had no such intention, I assure you. (To himself.) I hope to goodness Lady Maisie won't come in before I can get rid of this girl. I seem fated to be misunderstood here!
(To be concluded.)
"How very sweet of you, Mr. Blair. Are they really for me?"
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
A Strange Career is the title of a book recently issued by Blackwood, and it sets forth the life and adventures of John Gladwyn Jebb. Mr. Rider Haggard supplies an introduction, in which he testifies touching Mr. Jebb that of "all friends he was the gentlest and truest, of all men the most trustful." At first reading this testimony is almost necessary, for so wild were Mr. Jebb's adventures in Mexico, so imminent his frequent peril, and so miraculous his inevitable escape, that one seems to be reading a work by Mr. Louis Stevenson, or the author of She. In merit of graphic power and style the work need not shrink from comparison even with these masters of the art. It purports to be written by Mr. Jebb's widow, but as the lady did not become his wife till his strange career had several times been nearly brought to an abrupt close, Mr. Jebb must have been as effective with his pen as he was with his gun. The picture of the eclipse of the sun seen from one of the highest peaks of the Rocky Mountains; the discovery of the pipe-stem when digging round the snow-submerged site of a hut in the mountains, a discovery which, carefully followed up, brought to light "the whiteish-grey fingers of the dead man closely clutching the bowl of the pipe"; the account of the revolt in the streets of the city of Mexico; and the story of the coach party robbed by bandits four times in a single day on a journey from Puebla to Vera Cruz—these are among the frequent flashes in one of the most stirring narratives that has for a long time come in my Baronite's way.
Evidently "Mars," in return for our late curiosity, has been keeping his eye on this gay little planet of ours. His experiences, published by the Parisian firm of Plon, Nourrit et Cie, are pictorially related in La Vie de Londres. Needless to remark it was our Côtés riants which struck him.
The Baron cannot finish his notes of admiration without giving one of them, and that a big one, to Phil May's Annual. That May should appear to brighten up December fogs is nice in itself; and it is phill'd with the best of May produce. "Another thing," quoth the Baron, "about this annual by Phil May is, that all mes filles can read it and see it with pleasure."
At this time of year the Baron examines the "Hardy Annuals" that are heaped upon his table. At the first examination he gives the apple to the "Pip," i.e., to the The Penny Illustrated Paper, that is, as represented by its Christmas number called Christmas
The Baron de Book-Worms.
IMPROVED AND IMPROVING DIALOGUES.
(Arranged on the strictest Lines of Truth.)
At Mrs. Somebody's on "At Home" Day.
Mrs. Somebody. Well, I am pleased you have come at last, as I wanted you to notice that, although you have a slightly better address, my drawing-room is far larger than your own.
Mrs. Caller. You are most kind to say so; and I may add that we should not have dreamed to come to this out-of-the-way part of the world had we not wished to purchase some cheap carpets in the neighbourhood.
Miss Caller. I suppose your extremely plain daughter Araminta is away from home; she seldom contrives to hit it off with her mother.
Mrs. Somebody. You have guessed rightly; but I may say that she is staying at Lady Dashaway's place in the country. I mention the fact casually, although I am glad to get in a title somehow in the course of my conversation.
Mrs. Caller. If you are obliging enough to give me the opportunity, I will get in a dozen persons with handles to their names. You will pardon the vulgarity?
Mrs. Somebody. Most certainly, as knowing that your father was a bootmaker in a large way, and your mother the daughter of a milliner, nothing else could be reasonably expected.
Mrs. Caller. Aware that you may know something of my immediate ancestry, I will leave no stone unturned to find an opening for some reference to my uncle the curate.
Miss Caller. Being glad to add on every conceivable occasion to the list of my partners at any promiscuous charity ball that I may patronise with my presence, I will ask after your eldest unmarried son?
Mrs. Somebody. I thank you, my dear child, but as I intend him to look rather higher than yourself for a matrimonial alliance, I will meet your politic inquiry with a pailful of polite cold water.
Mrs. Caller. Having now consumed the regulation cup of cold weak tea and section of luke-warm muffin, I will say good-bye, and take my departure. But before leaving I will make special reference to my brougham.
Miss Caller. And I will add my adieux, after giving a good long look at your hair, which seems to require attention at the roots.
Mrs. Somebody. I will warmly speed your parting, reflecting the while, as a sop to my wounded feelings, that you are both looking dreadfully old, and that your conveyance is merely a hired brougham. No doubt your stay would have been longer if the charge per hour had been what your vulgarian of a husband and father (who, thank goodness, has not called) would term "easier."
ASSOCIATION V. RUGBY.
She (plaintively—to famous Rugby half-back). "Would it get you very much out of practice if we were to Dance 'Socker' a little?"
"SHAKY!"
The McRosebery loquitur:—
"SHAKY!"
The McRosebery. "EH—BUT I'D LIKE FINE TO BE WELL OVER THIS 'BRIGG'!"
[Brigg polling day, Friday, December 7.]
Waif and Stray.—A very touching incident was recently recorded in the Times. It appears that news was received from the astronomical station at Kiel to the effect
THE HOUSE-AGENT'S DREAM.