Punch (74.1878)

184

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[April 27, 1878.

lion's hide, and hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs," the world
seems to have been very much of Faulconbridge1 s way of thinking.
All the pluck and chivalry of Austrian arms has not redeemed the
political discredit of Metternich's country for shifty policy and
Machiavellian, rather ithan magnanimous, dealing with friends or
foes. May England never have to lean on Austria for an ally !

{Commons.)—The Cape bush-fire does not look like being put out,
or going out. It rather spreads. But there is no truth in reports
of serious disaster to our arms.

As this was the breaking-up night of Miss Britannia's seaside
establishment, there was a natural anxiety to know whether the row
in Dame Europa's school was not likely to come to a flare-up before
the boys at Britannia's school met again. Sir Stafford North-
cote assured Mr. W. E. Forster that, speaking] generally, nothing
had occurred to give occasion for increased anxiety, or to diminish
the hope of the arrangement of difficulties, which undoubtedly
exist. Punch wishes he could share Sir Stafford's comfortable
assurance.

Sir Wilfrid Lawson objects to so long a holiday as three weeks
in the present emergency, though why there should be an emergency,
except for the obstructive obstinacy of England—"the Parnell of
Europe "—he could not see.

Mr. Courtney could not sufficiently wonder at "the smallness of
the point" on which England and Russia were standing out. One
of the Schoolmen's idle questions used to be, "How many angels could
dance on the point of a needle P" Mr. Courtney's wonder is how
two such big beasts as a Lion and a Bear can execute a diplomatic
dance, soon to be changed, perhaps, for a war-dance, on the same
narrow and uncomfortable footing.

Lord R. Montagu rebuked Sir Wilfrid Lawson and his friends.
The Government would be all the better without the hamper of
Parliament. The Government were in the right. The Government
had Europe at their back.

(What a comfort to feel that such cool, sagacious, experienced
and long-headed politicians as Lord Robert, Sir H. D. Wolff, and
Sir Robert Peel, are so entirely at one with the Government, to
say nothing of the great Jingo out of doors.)

Mr. Fawcett thought the House had better reassemble on
April 29.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer thought it better, as the
House had met so early, that it should not shorten its holidays, lest
the world should say the masters or the boys were frightened.
Affairs were not blacker than they had been ; there was no reason
to despair of a peaceful settlement.

(All very well, Sir Stafford, if you were the man in the cellar.
But there is Beaconsfield in the background—and the war-drift
goes on, on,—and Punch does not feel comfortable, and cannot, let
him try never so hard—lean with comfortable assurance on the
policy of Lord Beaconsfield, the strength of Lord Salisbury, the
wisdom of Sir H. D. Wolff,, the coolness of Sir Robert Peel,
the long-sightedness of Lord Robert Montagu, and the great
sustaining force of Jingo at their backs.)

In the end, the House voted the long holiday till May 6. But
before it separated, it had the rare pleasure—for any lovers of irony
that might have been there—of hearing Mr. O'Donnell arraign an
article of the Globe for " breach of privilege." Ob, Mr. O'Donnell
—they say you are a clever man—how could you ! You who have
strained privilege so hard! No wonder if there should be a breach
made in it now and then. But is it for you to complain—

" Clodius accuset mocchos ? Catilina Cethegum ?
Quis tulerit Graechos de seditione querentes ? "

Even the Home-Rulerest of the Home-Rulers were ashamed of
him. His motion was silently negatived, and the House passed to
the Previous Question.

In the evening, after an attempt at a Count-Out, the House did a
little desultory dabbling, with no result, over the Budget Bill, and
then broke up for its Easter holidays—" with what appetite it may."

Lord Beaconsfield's Diapason.

(Described with all Reserve.)

The tumult of sacked town and burning village,
The rush and roar that prayer for mercy drowns,

The soldiers revel rout, 'mid blood and pillage,
The wail of starving folk in leaguered towns—

The bursting shell, the houses rent asunder,
The galling rifle-fire, the clashing blade—

And, ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The Diapason of the cannonade!

A Black Country Stnontm. — Ruling with a rod of iron.
Beating your wife with a poker.

TO CERTAIN ANGRY OLD PARTIES.

O be taken in good
part as an Plaster
Homily.

"Pray, Goody,
please to moderate
the rancour of your
tongue,
Eemember when the
judgment's weak
the prejudice is
strong."

Sweet Friends !
Mr. Punch,
most politely,
would ask
Permission to set
you a holiday
task.

To you 'twould
bring profit, to
him 'twould
yield plea-
sure,
Would you only
employ the Va-
cation's calm
leisure,

Whilst Silence sole brooding at Westminster sits,

In smoothing your tempers and sharpening your wits.

Imprimis, your tempers ! You really must own

That your tantrums have lately too ludicrous grown.

There's yourself, Betsy Prig, cheap retailer of Stingo

So sweet to the taste of the lower-class Jingo ;

Your friend, Mrs. Game (she a trifle more fair is),

That superfine dame, Mrs. P. G. M. Harris,

And Madame M. Post, that pugnacious Dame Durden,

Whose tongue-waggings ever have War for their burden:—

Believe me most noisy of noisy quartettes,

That your shindy inspires all sane souls with regrets.

Calm patience, dear vixens, is policy's anchor,

Among England's defences you '11 hardly rank rancour.

O'er private opinion Punch claims no dominion ;

Pray soar, if it please you, on spread-eagle pinion ;

But aquiline power of claw or of beak

Is not in proportion to scream and to shriek.

Besides, wrath breeds wrath ; all your sneering and nagging,

Your bouncing, and flouncing, and wild bully-ragging,

Produce at the best, if you would but believe, a

Mere echo in kind from the banks of the Neva.

E'en now we must pay in dispute and in doubt

For your needless indulgence in swagger and shout!

Be sure if the Russian's inclined to be irate "

You won't smooth his feathers by dubbing him pirate.

The wise who would compass the highest of aims

Will ne'er waste their vigour in calling bad names.

Dear Dames, do take thought, for this shrewish polemic

Is taking the shape of a bad epidemic.

It's not to our credit that Britons are found

Like virulent vixens slang-whanging all round.

There's Wolff, and there's Chaplin, tempestuous souls,

Acidulous Austin and bellicose Bowles,

Those two rabid Roberts, the Lord and the Bart.,

Lord Stratheden and Campbell, on treaties so tart,

With numerous others, have caught your complaint,

And shriek in a way that might ruffle a saint:

True,—angry old women or hot-headed boys—

They don't count for much, but they make a great noise.

And you, and such apes of your rowdedow style,

Though helpless to aid, may just manage to rile,

Engendering rows, and establishing raws,

And flinging discredit on e'en the best cause.

Now, do, my dear souls, in this Easter recess,

Take counsel with sense, and with patient address :

Don't howl yourselves hot as Parnell or O'Donnell;

Call names, like the fish-fag shut up by O'Connell,

Or pander to Jingo's gregarious geese,

By shaking your fists in the face of poor Peace.

You '11 find the old rule still holds good—Idem Semper,

He's best at a bout who can best keep his temper;

And England would very soon go to—well, Hades,

If ruled by a Caucus of angry old Ladies!