Punch (73.1877)

76

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[August 25, 1877.

A NORTHAMPTONSHIRE ELECTION ADDRESS.

Though he has "had no ticne to coach himself up for argument on ' obtuse'
circumstances.' "—jS^Mr. Johx Eaton's Advertisement, Wellingborough
News.

ounty Electors! British
Farmers! Yeomen
And Publicans! and other

such like low men
Who may have votes! For

you I mean to sit,
Although I don't know

politics a hit.
But, as the Tories say that

they 're in danger
Of having for M.P. some

Whiggish stranger,
I, from your very midst,

have been selected
To be your Member. You

are all expected
To vote for one who is so

well connected.
Lord Bubleigh's nod of old

could shake a state :
We've not had weight

enough for that of late ;
But still, I feel that I can
justly claim

Your votes, on his account, who bear his name. [Applause.
Since you respect so great a local gun

As my Lord Exeter, return his son. [Great cheering.

I—hem!- (Cries of '' Go on ! ")

Yes, but—a fellah can't, you know,
When he has gone as far as he can go.
Besides, if I had anything to say,
It's doosed hard to speechify all day.
Talking 's dry work, and listening but poor sport,
And so I think I'd better cut it short.

[Candidate retires amid universal applause. Vote
of confidence by an immense majority.

A FEW DAYS IN A COUNTRY-HOUSE.

More about the Trimmer—Hypothesis—Legendary—Signs of a How
—Discussion—Fresh Arrival.

_We have been gradually getting into late hours. Our sittings at
night have been imperceptibly prolonged like those of Parliament.
The amendments have been generally in the form of, " Oh, just one
more pipe,'' or, " Just half a pipe before we all go," and then some
fresh subject of conversation has turned up, though this less rarely
happens than the revivification, at midnight, of a topic supposed to
to have been exhausted three hours ago. The time of rising has
become uncertain, and the Butler is bothered. We had commenced
life in the country meaning to go in for health—"Early to bed and
early to rise." We had set the Trimmer overnight, and had been
down to the Pond betimes to see what the Trimmer had been up to
during the silent hours. The Trimmer—it was set three days ago—
has not as yet distinguished itself. It has not turned up ; and. we, the
Poet, the Composer, Milburd, and myself, are still in the character
of the four Micawbers—but we are now the four languid Micawbers,
awaiting the turning of the Trimmer. {Happy Thought.—The
Turning of the Trimmer, a political novel.)

Boodels strolls down and looks at us indolently. He has seen his
visitors doing exactly the same thing before ; his visitors, indeed,
having never had.much else to do. The history of his visitors repeats
itself. t He knows exactly what chance there is of our fishing agent,
the Trimmer, doing anything either for us, its employers, or on its
own account.

Speaking of the Trimmer as our " fishing agent" leads me to con-
sider what was the origin of the Trimmer, and, indeed, what was
the origin of fishing.

It strikes me that the inventor of the Trimmer must have been
some Gentleman in post-diluvian times—when the fish had got
settled again, and business was being carried on as before the altera-
tions—who was fond of bathing in his own Pond. This Post-diluvian
Person was of a rude, uncultivated, savage nature, and of revengeful
instincts. He was bathing, and the Eel, then less crafty and
wriggling than he has since come to be by experience, seeing
something that looked eatable, seized hold of his great toe. With
a sudden yell the bather gave a tremendous leap,.turned head over
heels in the water, and the Eel, after clinging on as long as it
could, was kicked off on to the bank. The Gentleman, having

righted himself, discovered his enemy, went at it viciously, but
finding that he was unable to grasp the creature securely, he seized
it with his teeth, and, being hungry, ate part of it, liked it,
wondered bow it tasted boiled, tried the rest boiled, liked it still
better, and finally wanted more. But how to obtain it ? Clearly,
he must bathe again, and incur the pain of the toe-bite. (Had
it been possible for this Person to have been subsequently con-
verted to Christianity, he might have written a discourse on the
Book of Toe-bite, and been made Bishop of Eely.) But though the
Eel was to his taste, the pain wasn't; so he hired a boy; or, if
in easy circumstances, compelled a Slave. The Slave remained in
the Pond, and caught Eels, or rather the Eels caught him.

After a time the Eels would be exhausted, and so would the
Slaves. Then one Slave, cleverer than the rest, made a sham foot and
toe to save his own, and the Eels were caught as before. From this to
tying the sham toe on to something, and putting it in from the bank,
was a small jump, and thence to the Trimmer, the hook, and worm,
nothing but a step. Of course the apparatus was not called Trim-
mer at first. Being a neat invention, it was called Trim; but the
Person who improved on it called his the Trimmer. [Happy
Thought. Another contribution to The Boodels Ballads, " The Toe
and Eel.")

Midday.—Fourth day at Boodels'. All by the Pond. Milburd
says this sounds like a parallel Cockneyism to " 'All by the Sea."
His joke is received in silence ; but he roars, and then explains it to
us.

"Oh! yes," replies the Poet, testily, " we saw it. We're not
idiots ! " (Mjlburd and Hamlin Mumley the Poet don't hit it off
exactly.)

"Talking of idiots," says Milbubd, "were you ever in Han-
well ?" Mumley frowns. Milburd continues, after laughing
boisterously, "I don't mean as a patient; but did you ever go over
the Asylum ? "

No, the Poet growls, he never did.

" I did," says Milburd, " the other day."

" Wonder they let you out," growls Mumley.

"Ha! ha! ha! that's your experience, eh?" retorts Milburd.
We all feel that unless something turns up—either the Trimmer or
a new topic—we are on the brink of a row. Mllburd winks at us
and laughs. We do not encourage him. We all silently watch the
Trimmer, as if it were an experiment in torpedoes. But Milburd
doesn't know when to stop. He resumes seriously, "I say, Mumley,
though—joking ^part," this conciliates Mumley, who thinks he is
now appealed to as some one of above the average intellect, " you
would be interested in the literature the patients are allowed to
read/'

" No doubt," says Hamlin, gravely. " It must be, indeed, dif-
ficult to select works which shall suit these poor half-brained
beings."

" Yes," returns Milburd, in the same serious tone, " the
Librarian told me that the selection has been most troublesome—
in fact, almost impossible until last year."

"Ah," says Hamlin Mumley, interesting himself, as we all do,
being glad to fiad that Milburd can talk rationally when he likes,
" then last year were the patients of a different mental calibre ? "

"Yes, they were very much below the usual standard."

"Indeed! poor creatures!" sighs Hamlin Mumley, compas-
sionately. " And did they ask for any particular books ? "

"Yes," replies Milbubd, quickly, "they all insisted on having
Hamlin Mumley's New Book of Poems ! Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! "

" You idiot! " says Pogmore the Composer, smiling however. He
owes Mumley one for having said that "good poetry was thrown
away on music." The Composer feels that, to put it musically,
through the instrumentality of Milburd, he has " scored."

I laugh, because Hamlin Mumley is confoundedly conceited about
his one book of poems. _

Boodels, as host, takes it all seriously, and does not smile. He
expresses his opinion that " he really does not see anything very
funny in it; and for his part he (Boodels), were he Hamlin Mumley,
would feel most gratified at having been able to relieve the mono-
tony of the Lunatics' life." " I think," he adds, as if his opinion
were a judicial summing-up for the defendant,. " J should think, if
I were Mumley, that a greater compliment couldn't be paid to my
work."

"Hum!" growls Mumley, more hurt by this well-intentioned
remark of Boodels' than even by Milburd's chaff. " Upon my life
I don't see that."

" I do," returns Boodels, shortly.

"Do you mean to say I ought to be highly gratified if only Luna-
tics read my books ? " asks the Poet, warmly.

"If it alleviates their sufferings," replies Boodels, "of course
you should be." .

" But," remonstrates the Poet, " I don't write merely to alleviate
sufferings. My object is to elevate the mind."

"Well," retorts Boodels, "then you can't begin with a better
set of readers than Idiots."