DOI Heft:
August 21, 1880
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17764#0084
76
[August 21, 1880.
PUNCH, OP THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
You’d pose as the Friend of the Farmer—that’s your little game ! ”
And—so on—boy-snagging repeated—and more of the same,
Till after eleven long hours of such hullaballoo,
The House, tii'ed and angry, adjourned at ten minutes to two.
Wednesday {Commons).—Eris again in the ascendant. Erin’s
champions entirely outdone by their English imitators, Lord E.
Cecil, Mr. It. Yorke, Earl Percy, the clamorously contentious
Chaplin, and the exuberantly egotistic Elcho—that querulous
quintett of lovers of the imperative mood (and of the first person
singular) playing such fantastic tricks before the Speaker as made
Mr. Punch heartily ashamed of them. In the brief intervals of
such intermittent shower of sputtering imbecilities, some small pro-
gress was made with the Hare3 and Rabbits Bill, the discussion
thereanent being for the most part as much like “debate,” in the
old worthy sense, as Donnybrook to Roncesvalles. Eris, did Mr.
Punch say ? Nay, the ruling spirit of this Parliamentary Tohu-
bohu must hail from the fish-market, not the three-forked hill.
“Popguns and boys, I sing, whom cynic fate
And Landlordism’s unrelenting hate,
Gave pigmy sport upon St. Stephen’s floor,
Where the clean steel of heroes clashed before,’’—
should he the exordium of the new Parliamentary Epos.
Mr Punch, like Sir W. Harcourt, is sorry that in their “ stand-
and-deliver” kind of interrogation, the Angry Boys of Westminster
have found “ a new instrument of Obstruction.” A pity that, like
contraband Catapults, and surreptitious Squirts, all the instruments
of these puerile plagues of Parliament cannot be incontinently con-
fiscated. Meanwhile Jovian jobations from John Bright, and
caustic repartees from Sir William Harcourt, seem to have little
more effect than grape-shot on gnat-swarms upon this Revolt of the
Midges.
Lord Hartington’s calm and resolute conduct of business under
such irritating difficulties Mr. Punch doth much commend.
Thursday {Lords).—Three hours’ discursive and dry-as-dust chat
on recalcitrant Reporters, Affairs in Afghanistan, and the British
Army. How distil essence from broad-blown chaff ?
{Commons.)—In reply to Mr. Otway, Sir C. Dilke intimated that
the question of giving an assurance to Turkey against further carving
in the future, provided she consents to the slicing recommended at
present, had been mooted. The promise had not been made; but
“ in principle” the Government did not object to it. Punch opines
that this “principle ” may bear fruit anon.
Then something notable at last. After much debate, not, of
course, novel in argument, but also not ignoble in tone, the Burials
Bill (down from the Lords with amendment, which will have to be
amended) was read a Second Time by a majority of 179 (258 against
79). Mr. Punch congratulates Mr. 0. Morgan, the House, the
Country, and the Church, on what looks like the beginning of the
end of an embittered contest of twenty years about—shadows.
Bereseokd Hope was comically ruefully pessimistic, John Bright
pleadingly pathetically optimist, the latter remarking that when
brought fairly face to face with the phantom Terror they had them-
selves conjured up, the opponents of Salutary Change generally
“went to perdition ” with a light heart and a cheerful countenance.
Mr. Punch confidently predicts that in this, as in hundreds of
previous “Rushes upon Ruin,” the hosts of spectral fears and
hobgoblin forebodings will be found to have been but the dimly
dreadful unrealities of funk-ridden fancy.
Friday {Lords).—Piteous plaint from poor Lord Redesdale :—
Late, late, so late ! so little work to do,
Yet bound to wait that wrangling Commons’ crew.
So late, so late! Why not employ us now!
Late, late ! so late the measures come to us,
Small time is there those measures to discuss.
So late, so late ! Oh, let us labour now!
Do we not know the grouse are on the moors ?
Waiting for Bills is beastliest of bores.
So late, so late ! Give us the straight tip now !
Lord Granville, whilst warmly commiserating, could administer
but cold comfort.
{Commons.)—The Employers’ Liability Bill at last got through
Committee. Imminent solace for plaintive personages “ in another
place ” who can take their turn at it next week.
Some serious talk on a serious subject—the present condition of
the fever-stricken districts in the west of Ireland, ended in a
Resolution to the effect that the matter demanded the serious and
immediate attention of Her Majesty’s Government, a Resolution
readily agreed to by Mr. Forster, and earnestly emphasised by
Mr. Punch.—
“ Then, some having toiled, like the typical Nigger, whilst others obstructed
and fooled, like tbe Turk ;
So ended one more week of purposeless worry, and puerile wrangling, and—
precious hard work!
HOPES OF THE HARVEST.
Hawfinch sings—
ow St. Switbnn
have sent tbe
land full
enough raain,
Andbaailstoans
terreeable a
pepper’n tbe
plaain,
Likewise thun-
der and light-
nun, starm
bard upon
starm,
Dooun moor or
less damidge
thereby to tbe
F arm.
Let nn sprinkle
the apples in
due time o’
year,
Sufficient to
plim tbe corn
well out in
ear ;
But not goo on a plynn us wi’ engine and hose,
Or a water’n-pot fixed wi’ a double-holed rose.
Tbe barley and wbate has in places ben laid,
And be spiled in zum potion, med be, beyond aid ;
Bat tbe clover done well droo a wet zummer time,
And tbe turmuts, coal-rabbi, and mangold be prime.
What wi’ loads o’ bay vit vor stock, this time, to ate,
There wun’t be no fail this next winter for mait;
And the ’taturs is charmun, good-sized, though a lot
Be attackted already, in parts, wi’ the rot.
For a while we ’ve at last sin tbe clouds away clear,
And beheld tbe Sun all in his glory appear,
Wi’ bis veace broad and bamish, so bright to behold,
As a shines on a signboord, all pictur’d in gold.
If he’s come out vor good, be ’ll fast ripen the crops.
There ha ben, this here saizon, a good yield o’ hops,
If the barley be saved, carried soon, safe and sound,
The relief o’ the Malt-tax repale ’ool be found.
St. Swithun, we’ll hope now thee’at empted thy pail,
And draa’d off the sky that there drippun-wet veil,
That the San med blaze out as ’tis time vor un to,
Like a big dandelion aloft in the blue.
Seasonable Suggestion.
In the Deed Chronicle’s account of the trial of the Sandwich
Election Petition the following .accidental misprint occurs :—
“ Messrs. Lush and Manisty, Mr. ex-Justice Mellor occupied a seat
upon the beach, as well as the Mayor, Dr. John Hillier, and T. L. Sur-
rage, Town-Clerk of Sandwich.”
“ A seat upon the beach,” of course at this time of year would be
far preferable to “ a seat on the bench; ” and the compositor’s idea
of an open-air Court is delightful, but, unfortunately, impracticable.
In the Lobby.
Fine Old M.P. {who never 'performs out of London). Grumbling
about not getting away from London ! Ugh ! It’s the same old
tune.
Sporting M.P. {with a moor). That’s what I complain of. It is
the old tune, and we aU want some fresh air.
Unfortunate for Authors.—Only men who can't write make
their mark.
[August 21, 1880.
PUNCH, OP THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
You’d pose as the Friend of the Farmer—that’s your little game ! ”
And—so on—boy-snagging repeated—and more of the same,
Till after eleven long hours of such hullaballoo,
The House, tii'ed and angry, adjourned at ten minutes to two.
Wednesday {Commons).—Eris again in the ascendant. Erin’s
champions entirely outdone by their English imitators, Lord E.
Cecil, Mr. It. Yorke, Earl Percy, the clamorously contentious
Chaplin, and the exuberantly egotistic Elcho—that querulous
quintett of lovers of the imperative mood (and of the first person
singular) playing such fantastic tricks before the Speaker as made
Mr. Punch heartily ashamed of them. In the brief intervals of
such intermittent shower of sputtering imbecilities, some small pro-
gress was made with the Hare3 and Rabbits Bill, the discussion
thereanent being for the most part as much like “debate,” in the
old worthy sense, as Donnybrook to Roncesvalles. Eris, did Mr.
Punch say ? Nay, the ruling spirit of this Parliamentary Tohu-
bohu must hail from the fish-market, not the three-forked hill.
“Popguns and boys, I sing, whom cynic fate
And Landlordism’s unrelenting hate,
Gave pigmy sport upon St. Stephen’s floor,
Where the clean steel of heroes clashed before,’’—
should he the exordium of the new Parliamentary Epos.
Mr Punch, like Sir W. Harcourt, is sorry that in their “ stand-
and-deliver” kind of interrogation, the Angry Boys of Westminster
have found “ a new instrument of Obstruction.” A pity that, like
contraband Catapults, and surreptitious Squirts, all the instruments
of these puerile plagues of Parliament cannot be incontinently con-
fiscated. Meanwhile Jovian jobations from John Bright, and
caustic repartees from Sir William Harcourt, seem to have little
more effect than grape-shot on gnat-swarms upon this Revolt of the
Midges.
Lord Hartington’s calm and resolute conduct of business under
such irritating difficulties Mr. Punch doth much commend.
Thursday {Lords).—Three hours’ discursive and dry-as-dust chat
on recalcitrant Reporters, Affairs in Afghanistan, and the British
Army. How distil essence from broad-blown chaff ?
{Commons.)—In reply to Mr. Otway, Sir C. Dilke intimated that
the question of giving an assurance to Turkey against further carving
in the future, provided she consents to the slicing recommended at
present, had been mooted. The promise had not been made; but
“ in principle” the Government did not object to it. Punch opines
that this “principle ” may bear fruit anon.
Then something notable at last. After much debate, not, of
course, novel in argument, but also not ignoble in tone, the Burials
Bill (down from the Lords with amendment, which will have to be
amended) was read a Second Time by a majority of 179 (258 against
79). Mr. Punch congratulates Mr. 0. Morgan, the House, the
Country, and the Church, on what looks like the beginning of the
end of an embittered contest of twenty years about—shadows.
Bereseokd Hope was comically ruefully pessimistic, John Bright
pleadingly pathetically optimist, the latter remarking that when
brought fairly face to face with the phantom Terror they had them-
selves conjured up, the opponents of Salutary Change generally
“went to perdition ” with a light heart and a cheerful countenance.
Mr. Punch confidently predicts that in this, as in hundreds of
previous “Rushes upon Ruin,” the hosts of spectral fears and
hobgoblin forebodings will be found to have been but the dimly
dreadful unrealities of funk-ridden fancy.
Friday {Lords).—Piteous plaint from poor Lord Redesdale :—
Late, late, so late ! so little work to do,
Yet bound to wait that wrangling Commons’ crew.
So late, so late! Why not employ us now!
Late, late ! so late the measures come to us,
Small time is there those measures to discuss.
So late, so late ! Oh, let us labour now!
Do we not know the grouse are on the moors ?
Waiting for Bills is beastliest of bores.
So late, so late ! Give us the straight tip now !
Lord Granville, whilst warmly commiserating, could administer
but cold comfort.
{Commons.)—The Employers’ Liability Bill at last got through
Committee. Imminent solace for plaintive personages “ in another
place ” who can take their turn at it next week.
Some serious talk on a serious subject—the present condition of
the fever-stricken districts in the west of Ireland, ended in a
Resolution to the effect that the matter demanded the serious and
immediate attention of Her Majesty’s Government, a Resolution
readily agreed to by Mr. Forster, and earnestly emphasised by
Mr. Punch.—
“ Then, some having toiled, like the typical Nigger, whilst others obstructed
and fooled, like tbe Turk ;
So ended one more week of purposeless worry, and puerile wrangling, and—
precious hard work!
HOPES OF THE HARVEST.
Hawfinch sings—
ow St. Switbnn
have sent tbe
land full
enough raain,
Andbaailstoans
terreeable a
pepper’n tbe
plaain,
Likewise thun-
der and light-
nun, starm
bard upon
starm,
Dooun moor or
less damidge
thereby to tbe
F arm.
Let nn sprinkle
the apples in
due time o’
year,
Sufficient to
plim tbe corn
well out in
ear ;
But not goo on a plynn us wi’ engine and hose,
Or a water’n-pot fixed wi’ a double-holed rose.
Tbe barley and wbate has in places ben laid,
And be spiled in zum potion, med be, beyond aid ;
Bat tbe clover done well droo a wet zummer time,
And tbe turmuts, coal-rabbi, and mangold be prime.
What wi’ loads o’ bay vit vor stock, this time, to ate,
There wun’t be no fail this next winter for mait;
And the ’taturs is charmun, good-sized, though a lot
Be attackted already, in parts, wi’ the rot.
For a while we ’ve at last sin tbe clouds away clear,
And beheld tbe Sun all in his glory appear,
Wi’ bis veace broad and bamish, so bright to behold,
As a shines on a signboord, all pictur’d in gold.
If he’s come out vor good, be ’ll fast ripen the crops.
There ha ben, this here saizon, a good yield o’ hops,
If the barley be saved, carried soon, safe and sound,
The relief o’ the Malt-tax repale ’ool be found.
St. Swithun, we’ll hope now thee’at empted thy pail,
And draa’d off the sky that there drippun-wet veil,
That the San med blaze out as ’tis time vor un to,
Like a big dandelion aloft in the blue.
Seasonable Suggestion.
In the Deed Chronicle’s account of the trial of the Sandwich
Election Petition the following .accidental misprint occurs :—
“ Messrs. Lush and Manisty, Mr. ex-Justice Mellor occupied a seat
upon the beach, as well as the Mayor, Dr. John Hillier, and T. L. Sur-
rage, Town-Clerk of Sandwich.”
“ A seat upon the beach,” of course at this time of year would be
far preferable to “ a seat on the bench; ” and the compositor’s idea
of an open-air Court is delightful, but, unfortunately, impracticable.
In the Lobby.
Fine Old M.P. {who never 'performs out of London). Grumbling
about not getting away from London ! Ugh ! It’s the same old
tune.
Sporting M.P. {with a moor). That’s what I complain of. It is
the old tune, and we aU want some fresh air.
Unfortunate for Authors.—Only men who can't write make
their mark.