Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, March 25, 1893

Name: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, March 25, 1893
Author: Various

by Various

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Language: en317 downloads on Project Gutenberg

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English wit and humor -- Periodicals

In: Punch·Humour·British Literature

Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #22724.

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SMALL BY DEGREES.

A Story of Defiance not Defence.

There was once a Battalion of Volunteers with its full complement of field, company, and non-commissioned officers, and rank and file. And according to experts the Regiment was a most valuable addition to the national defence. One day a General, covered over with gold lace and wearing a cocked hat, rode up to the Colonel and called him out.

"Colonel," said the General, "we are thinking of giving over your command to a C.O. of a Depot Centre. It won't interfere with you much and give you less to do. You may still call yourself Colonel--not that I call you so myself. I mean off parade."

But the Colonel did not seem to see it, and so he sent in his papers and rode away.

Then the General from the War Office called up the two remaining Field Officers.

"Majors" said he, "it seems to us we can help you a good deal by appointing a Major from a service battalion as Adjutant. Then you can rank beneath him, and he can look after you and the two half battalions you each of you are supposed to command. You may still call yourselves Majors--not that I call you so myself. I mean off parade."

But the Majors did not seem to see it, so they sent in their papers too.

Then the General from the War Office called up the Company Officers.

"Gentlemen," said he, "we shall continue the snubbing, of which you have had so much experience. You will do all sorts of new work, and go to all sorts of fresh expense in the near future. Not that it will increase your dignity--not a bit of it. However, you may still call yourselves Captains and Lieutenants--not that I call you so myself. I mean off parade."

But the Company Officers did not seem to see it, so they sent in their papers and marched away. Then the General from the War Office called up the rest of the Regiment.

"Now, Non-commissioned Officers and Men," said he, "you have no one to command you, and no one to pay for your marches out, prizes, and the rest of it. But don't let that bother you. You may still call yourselves Soldiers--not that I call you so myself. I mean off parade."

But the remainder of the Regiment did not seem to see it, so they sent in their resignations, and vanished.

Then the Officer from the War Office rode towards Pall Mall.

"It won't interfere with me much," said he, "and give the Department less to do. And I can still call myself General--though I scarcely deserve the title, either on or off parade!"

Despotic Dons' dominion Still subjugates us all, They scoff at our opinion, Our purposes miscall; Will no deliverer appear, And is it vainly, as we fear, We hold our meetings every year Within St. James's Hall?

Our wrongs, if brought to knowledge, Would surely move your hearts, Degreeless from her College The Wrangler-ess departs; And shall not too the maids, who can Give all the usages of [Greek: an], As well as any living man Be Bachelors of Arts?

Persuasive or abusive We fail our point to gain, Disgracefully exclusive These ancient seats remain: But yet a future we foresee When Women will the rulers be, And Men will beg a Pass-degree, Will beg, and beg in vain!

P.S.--The pith of our petition Is seldom understood, It is not all ambition, Though this, no doubt, is good; But, speaking frankly, we declare The point for which we really care Is just to gain the right to wear That most becoming hood!

Mr. WITLER, the elder, gave vent to an extraordinary sound, which, being neither a groan, nor a grunt, nor a gasp, nor a howl, nor a hoot, nor a hiss, nor a shout, nor a shriek, yet seemed to partake in some degree of the character of all these inarticulate laryngeal exercises. It was a big vocal blend, and a stentorian; it made him pant and turn apoplectically purple in the face, it shook the house, and very nearly "brought it down."

Mr. WITLER'S "wocal wagaries" (as his son called them) when he was roused, were something tremendous, earthquaky, appalling!

Mr. SWIGSLOP STIGGINS, a leading Shepherd of the Nonconformist Rechabite Flock, unwarned by this nondescript sound, which he understood to betoken remorse or repentance, in fact, an awakening of the "Nonconformist Conscience," in a somewhat unlikely quarter, looked about him, rubbed his hands, wept, smiled, wept again, and then mechanically uttering a guttural "Hear! Hear!" (as though he were listening, in the House of Commons, to the jocund HARCOURT, or the jocular LAWSON, or the robustious T. W. RUSSELL, or the astute CAINE) and then, walking across the room to a well-remembered pigeon-hole, took thence an official-looking scroll, sat down, formally unfolded it, cleared his throat, and began with pompous complacency to read aloud its title, preamble, clauses, and provisions, compulsory regulations, and peremptory prohibitions to the apparently semi-asphyxiated Mr. WITLER.

The elder Mr. WITLER, who still continued to make various strange and uncouth attempts to appear indifferent, offered not a single word during these proceedings; but when STIGGINS stopped for breath, previous to a second reading, he darted upon him, and, snatching the scroll from his hand, first buffeted him briskly about the head therewith, and then threw it into the fire. Then, seizing the astonished gentleman firmly by the collar, he suddenly fell to kicking him most furiously, accompanying every application of his boots to Mr. STIGGINS'S person with sundry violent and incoherent anathemas, such as--"Blatant Barabbas!"--"Bumptious busybody!"--"Unblushing bandit!"--"Barefaced spoliator!"--"Hypocritical humbug!"--"Iniquitous inquisitor!"--"Fanatical faddist!"--"Self-righteous sneak!"--"Sham saint!"--"Jerrymandering JEREMY DIDDLER!"--"Pragmatical pump!"--"Little Bethelite Boanerges!" and "Nonconformist Tartuffe!!!"

"SAMMY," said Mr. WITLER, "put my cap on tight for me!" SAM dutifully adjusted the cap more firmly on his father's head, and the old gentleman, resuming his kicking with greater agility than before, tumbled Mr. STIGGINS through the bar, and through the passage, out at the front door, and so into the street, the kicking continuing the whole way, and increasing in vehemence rather than diminishing every time the boot was lifted.

It was a beautiful and exhilarating sight (to "the Trade") to see the water-drinker writhing in Mr. WITLER'S grasp, and his whole frame quivering with anguish as kick followed kick in rapid succession; it was a still more exciting spectacle (to Bungdom all round, from boisterous Lord BURTON to the humblest rural Boniface) to behold Mr. WITLER, after a powerful struggle, immersing Mr. STIGGINS'S head in a horse-trough full of water, and holding it there until he was half suffocated.

"There!" said Mr. WITLER, throwing all his energy into one most complicated kick, as he at length permitted Mr. STIGGINS to withdraw his head from the trough, "send any vun o' them villainous Vetoists, from burly Sir VILLIAM BARABBAS hisself down to the pettifoggingest Local Hoptioniser in Little Peddlington, here, or to St. James's 'All, or the Alhambra, or elseveres in public meeting or privit pub, and I'll pound him to a argymentative jelly fust, and drownd him in public-speritted opinion arterwards!"

"SAMMY" (added Mr. WITLER, puffing and perspiring freely), "help me in, and fill me a stiff glass o' Speshal Scotch; for I'm out of breath, my boy!"

Mistress (to Housekeeper, after "the Young Person" has left the room). "REALLY, WILKINS, I COULD NOT ENGAGE THAT YOUNG PERSON. SHE IS TOO UGLY BY FAR!"

Housekeeper. "VERY SORRY, MUM. BUT YOU SAID SO PARTICULARLY THAT I WAS TO LOOK OUT FOR A GOOD PLAIN COOK,--'QUITE A PLAIN COOK,' YOU SAID, MUM,--THAT I THOUGHT YOU HAD SOME PARTICULAR REASON----"]

VERY NATURAL.--Mrs. R. pays great attention to the Parliamentary debates, and listens attentively while her Nephew reads the speeches as reported in The Times. Last Thursday he was in the midst of the discussion on the Welsh Liquor-Traffic Bill, and came to this: "Mr. LLOYD-GEORGE, whose opening remarks were interrupted by a Count----" Whereupon his Aunt exclaimed, "How very rude! What was the Count's name? And how does a Count come to be in the House of Commons?"

On the right, a smart verandah, attached to Dr. HERDAL'S dwelling-house, and communicating with the Drawing-room and Dispensary by glass-doors. On the left a tumble-down rockery, with a headless plaster Mercury. In front, a lawn, with a large silvered glass globe on a stand. Chairs and tables. All the furniture is of galvanised iron. A sunset is seen going on among the trees.

Dr. Herdal (comes out of Dispensary-door cautiously, and whispers). HILDA, are you in there?

[_Taps with fingers on Drawing-room door._

Hilda (comes out with a half-teasing smile). Well--and how is the Rainbow-powder getting on, Dr. HERDAL?

Dr. Herd. (with enthusiasm). It is getting on simply splendidly. I sent the new Assistant out to take a little walk, so that he should not be in the way. There is Arsenic in the powder, HILDA, and Digitalis too, and Strychnine, and the best Beetle-killer!

Hilda (with happy, wondering eyes). Lots of Beetle-killer? And you will give some of it to her, to make her free and buoyant. I think one really has the right--when people happen to stand in the way----!

Dr. Herd. Yes, you may well say so, HILDA. Still--(dubiously)--it does occur to me that such doings may perhaps be misunderstood--by the narrow-minded and conventional.

Hilda (with an outburst). Oh, that all seems to me so foolish--so irrelevant! As if the whole thing wasn't intended as an Allegory!

Dr. Herd. (relieved). Ah, so long as it is merely allegorical of course---- But what is it an allegory of, HILDA?

Hilda (reflects in vain). How can you sit there and ask such questions? I suppose I am a symbol, of some sort.

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