Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, July 23, 1892

Name: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, July 23, 1892
Author: Various

by Various

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English wit and humor -- Periodicals

In: Punch·Humour·Plays/Films/Dramas

Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #14965.

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To-day, the first pollings of the General Election take place, and the electors will be called upon to decide one of the most momentous issues that have ever been submitted to the judgment of the country. For ourselves, we cannot doubt for a moment as to what the verdict will be. It is impossible that a policy of empty promises, backed by mere misrepresentation, should prevail against a glorious record of administrative, legislative, and financial success. Careful calculations have convinced us that those who now hold the reins of office will return to power with a largely increased majority, to continue their beneficent work. The country recognises by this time that anything short of that would mean disaster to the commonwealth. Even with a small majority, the forces of disorder would be able to work untold mischief. Such a result, however, is not within the bounds of possibility, seeing that the Election will be fought purely and simply on the Irish question, which has been placed fully before the electorate in all its bearings. Our organisation is perfect, and our triumph assured.

NO. II. (THREE DAYS LATER.)

We are constrained to admit that, so far, the result of the Elections has not come up to the confident anticipations of our Party. Seats have been lost that ought to have been retained. On the other hand, we have failed to win seats that we had a right to count upon as certainties. It is not easy to apportion the responsibility for failure. Over-confidence and a consequent want of energy may have had something to do with it; but the chief reason is to be found in the disgracefully defective organisation of the Party. The story is an old one. We have ourselves deemed it our duty to lay this aspect of the case before the Leaders of the Party, but our repeated warnings have been unheeded, and the necessary consequences have followed. Our opponents, however, have not much to congratulate themselves upon. The Irish question has been kept studiously in the back-ground, and the results, so far as they have gone, only prove conclusively that there is no diminution whatever in the dislike with which the majority of the electorate regard the proposals of the party of disorder. We are far from saying that even now we shall lose the Election. Everything may yet be retrieved. But, even should the result be numerically favourable to the Opposition, they will be powerless for mischief with the small majority which is all they are likely to get.

NO. III. (A WEEK LATER.)

The Elections are now nearing an end, and it is possible to summarise the results. It is not surprising that our opponents should be reduced to the lowest depths of despair. They counted with the utmost certainty on a majority of two hundred. But, as matters stand, it is out of the question that their preponderance should exceed fifty. Where are now the confident boastings with which they inaugurated the campaign? They have confused the judgment of the electors with every kind of side-issue. Misrepresentations have been sown broadcast, and have, in too many instances, succeeded. But the great heart of the country is still sound. Votes must be weighed as well as counted, and it is safe to assume that, with a paltry and heterogeneous majority of merely fifty, the advocates of revolution will be reduced to impotence, even if they can succeed in forming a Government at all. The result is one on which our Party may well congratulate themselves. They have worked hard, and the solid fruit of their efforts is now within their reach. We may safely say that the Irish policy of our opponents has received its death-blow.

"There he blows! There he goes!" Like a Titan in throes, With his wallopping tail, and his wave-churning nose, The spouting Cetacean Colossus! Eh? Harpoon that Monster! The thought makes one pale, With one thundering thwack of that thumping big tail, To the skies in small splinters he'd toss us!

Rolling in foaming wild billows, ice-laden He goes, like the "boisterous sea" (vide HADYN!) "Upheaved from the deep," swift, tremendous, Leviathan sports on the far-foaming wave. If he runs athwart us, what power shall save, From the doom to which promptly he'd send us?

His "soundings," or "diggings," are many and deep; But would that his "three-hundred fathoms" he'd keep, Below in the ocean's cold quiet. But no, not at all; he's not that sort of whale! He must breathe, he must blow, he must roar, till the gale Is charged with the sound of his riot.

Leviathan loves the wild turmoil of strife, And lashing the billows to him is true life; Behold how he buffets and scourges them! Chase him? The Captain (though also a Kaiser), Might think that his course to avoid him were wiser, Until sheer necessity urges them.

And yet whales are beaten--by narwhals and men, And other mere pigmies. 'Tis said, now and then, E'en sword-fish can compass their ruin, By stabbing together--in Cassius's way With Caesar. Leviathan, dead, is a prey To dog-fish, and sea-birds, or Bruin.

There he blows! There he goes! Would an amateur Whaler, Like WILHELM, that fine blend of Statesman and Sailor, Incline to the chase and the capture Of such a huge, wandering, wallopping whale, To whom "Troubling the waters" with blow-holes and tail Seems a source of such riotous rapture?

SIR,--When I first took my present house, I was advised to get a Sanitary Dust-bin, instead of the old brick one which existed in my back-yard. One of the blessings predicted for my Sanitary Dust-bin, was, that it was "easily removable." I find this to be the case. It has already been removed by some area-sneak, and as I have got rid of the old brick dust-bin, the Vestry threaten to prosecute me for creating a nuisance, because my dust is now placed in a corner under my front steps. What am I to do?

AGGRIEVED HOUSEHOLDER.

SIR,--I find that the law recently passed against tips to Dustmen is quite unknown--at all events, to the Dustmen themselves. My servants, I find, go on freely bribing these functionaries, to remove bones and vegetable refuse. Their rate of tipping, as far as I can make out, is about a halfpenny per bone. If I were now to enforce the law and forbid tips, I foresee that the Dustcarts would have pressing business elsewhere, and would visit me about once a month. Then would follow a regime of "big, big, D.s"--in the window--which would be intolerable. I prefer tipping to typhoid.

Yours long sufferingly, VICTIM OF THE VESTRIES.

SIR,--The Vestry is quite right to insist on every house burning up its own odds and ends. The true domestic motto is--"Every kitchen its own crematorium." I do this habitually, out of public spirit. It is true that a sickening odour permeates the house for an hour or two of every day, created by the combustion of dinner remnants; also that most of my family suffer from bad sore throats, which they attribute to this cause. What of that? The truly good Citizen will prefer to poison himself rather than his neighbours.

A CLERKENWELL CATO.

SIR,--I recently purchased Dodger's Digest of Dustbin Law, and recommend it to the perusal of every householder. In the case of The Vestry of Shoreditch v. Grimes, Lord Justice SLUSH remarks--"The Vestry complains that the Defendant's bin was improperly covered; that, in fact, it was not under coverture. To this the Defendant replies that his bin was void ab initio, as there was nothing in it. Then the question arises whether the Defendant's Cook was justified in tipping the Dustman into the empty bin, considering that the Legislature has distinctly forbidden tips of all kinds to Dustmen. I am of opinion that the Cook was the Defendant's agent, and that the rule of qui facit per alium facit per se applies here. The Cook's proceeding was undoubtedly tortious; it was not a criminal action, though it certainly cannot be called a civil one. I agree with my brother CHIPPY that the ratio decidendi must be, whether the Dustman, in coming to clean out an empty dust-bin, had a malus animus or no. On all these points I hold that judgment must be for the Vestry." Your readers will see the importance of such clear obiter dicta.

Yours, AMATEUR LAWYER.

Soon on Piccadilly's pavement solitude once more will reign; Soon the Park will be a desert, for the Season's on the wane; In Belgravia's lordly mansions nearly all the blinds are down, For "the Family is gone, Sir,"--not a soul is left in Town.

South to Switzerland they hurry, to explore each snowy fell; North to Scotland's moors and forests, where the grouse and red-deer dwell; Carlsbad, Homburg, Trouville, Norway, soon their jaded eyes will view; For Society is speeding "to fresh woods and pastures new."

Everyone is gone or going,--everyone, that is, one knows,-- And the "Great Elections'" Season fast is drawing to its close. Never surely was a poorer; such dull dinners, so few balls, Such an Epsom, such an Ascot, or so many empty stalls.

Gone the Season, with its dances, with its concerts and its fetes, With its weddings and divorces, with its dinners and debates; Gone are all its vapid pleasures, all its easy charities, Gone its causes celebres and scandals, gone its tears and tragedies.

Weary legislators envy still more weary chaperons;-- Much they know the truth who deem them of Society the drones;-- All the maidens are ennuyees, vow they "can't do anymore," All the gilded youth are yawning--everything's a horrid bore.

Hearken then, ye youths and maidens, favoured Children of the West, East and South and North are children, who are hungering for rest. They have never seen the country, never heard the streamlet flow: London pavements, London darkness, London squalor,--these they know.

Not for them to range the moorland, or to climb the mountain-side; They must linger on in London, till the grave their sorrows hide. From year's end to dreary year's end they must pace the noisy street. Do you hear the ceaseless echo of their weary, weary feet?

Just one day without your wine, Sir! Madam, just one ribbon less, And one wearied child in London from afar your name will bless. Think, ere now you seek your boredom in fresh pleasure-draughts to drown, Three or four benighted Millions still are left behind in Town!

Mr. C.-J. (to himself, as he regards his surroundings with dismay, and tries to arrange his canvassing-cards). I suppose this is Little Anna Maria Street? I didn't understand at the Committee Rooms that it was quite such a--however, I must do my best for dear old TILNEY. Who's the first man I must see and "use my best endeavours to persuade him into promising his vote?" Ah, Mr. J. SPLURGE, No. 1. (He picks his way delicately along, attempting to make out the numbers on the doors, which are all thrown back; female residents watch him from doorsteps and windows with amused interest.) No. 5; No. 3; the next is No. 1. (It is; but the entrance is blocked by a small infant with a very dirty face, who is slung in a baby-chair between the door-posts.) Very embarrassing, really! Can't ask such a child as this if Mr. SPLURGE is at home! I'll knock. (Stretches for the knocker across the child, who, misinterpreting his intentions, sets up a howl.) My good child, I assure you ... for Heaven's sake, don't!... I--I wonder whether I ought to kiss it--some fellows would!

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