DOI issue:
July 8, 1882
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17753#0012
4
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [July 8, isaa.
ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.
EXTRACTED PROM
THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.
“ THE NOES-ES HAYE IT.”
[The writer of From, the Cross Benches, in the Observer, has drawn attention to the eye-glasses of the House of Commons, through which individual
Members take their peculiar views of public affairs. The “Ayes” having had it “with glasses round,” our Artist has let the “Noes ” have it. The
public will find little difficulty in apportioning each nose to its rightful owner, *as in every instance the correct tip has been given.]
House of Commons, Monday Night, June 26.—Great rush on
Chaplin to-night. Always the case now when there comes up geo-
graphical question. Everybody turns to Chaplin. The thing to
know is, where’s Birkenhead, and how to get there ? Overmastering
desire to see the place that has returned Mr. MacIver as its repre-
sentative. Some difficulty in finding Chaplin. Mind distracted by
the affairs of Europe. Still, always accessible to humble querists.
Ever ready to impart useful information.
“Birkenhead,” he says, “is a one-horse place situate on the
Mersey, a river which runs from land to sea, through Runcorn and
other salubrious rural districts.”
Lot of men going down. Spend Saturday to Monday, thoroughly
examine the place, and make acquaintance of the singular people
who live there. Meanwhile, have MacIver with us, more than ever
like Jack-in-the-Box, popping up every two minutes at question
time with intent to move Adjournment. The Speaker, who takes
a fatherly interest in young men, did his best to save the youth, but
no use. Egged on by Members near him, who are always ready for
a lark.
“It’s that young rascal, Hicks, that’s at the bottom of this,”
Harcourt says, with trained faculty for getting at the root of
conspiracies.
MacIver on his legs, gets in a word occasionally edgewise amid
the uproar. Howled at impartially from both sides. Cheered on by
the humorous Hicks.
It was when he sat down that there was a rush for Chaplin, to
get to know all about Birkenhead. Business done — Obstruction.
Tuesday Morning.—We are a great business assembly, and a
pattern to the world. Wasted our time till Midnight, then set to
work. Then Westminster saw another sight. Speaker ill, and
no wonder. But nothing can tame the restless spirit of Lyon
Playfair, nor sap his monumental energy.
“Could you manage without me in the morning, Playfair?”j
Speaker asked; “got a bad cold. Dr. Lyons (whose address still
the same), ordered me to put my feet in hot water, and head out
of the window for half-an-hour. It’s a little hard on you; but,
if you don’t mind-
“ Why, cert’nly,” said the Leonine Playfair. “ Gosset not very
well, either, and lie may as well go. I can manage to be Speaker,
Chairman of Committees, and Sergeant-at-Arms all at same time.”
But Captain Gosset would not go. “Bradlaugh might come,”
said the indomitable man-at-arms, “and I would not be absent from
my post.”
So Lyon Playfair’s ambition was limited to the accomplishment
of the dual office of Speaker and Chairman of Committees. A
beautiful sight to see him hopping from Speaker’s chair to his own,
according as the House was in Committee, or sitting in full estate.
“ Corsican Brothers nothing to it,” said Sir Erskine May, look-
ing on, full of admiration. “ The man who rides two horses at the
same moment of no account.”
“ Reminds me,” said Harcourt, as Lyon Playfair skipped back-
wards and forwards, whilst the young day looked in and blinked
with astonishment, “ of the early bird trying to catch the worm.”
Business done.- Votes in Supply.
Wednesday Afternoon. — Distinguished visitor turned up this
afternoon. Had on a robe of deer skin trimmed with fur, eminently
suitable for Midsummer day ; a belt beautifully beaded ; a head-
dress of the feathers of the eagle; whilst his legs were decently covered
with trousers, conveniently ornamented with rows of deer-hoofs.
Every step he took tremendous jingling. Thought first it was the
coppers in his pocket. Found it was the deer-hoofs rattling.
Evelyn Ashley introduced me to him. Gentleman’s name Wah-
bun-ha-kee ; and he’s “ chief of the Muncey or Wolf tribe of the
Red Indians ” {vide Daily News). Seems the Read Indians, having red
up all Fenimore Cooper’s novels, have gone in for Captain Mar-
ryatt. Wah-bun-ha-kee been reading Japhet in Search of a
Father. Thought he’d be “Wah-bun-ah-kee in Search of a
Son ’’—not actual son, but one of the tribe of which old Wah is
Chief. Drummond, however, not here to-day: absent on State
business.
Conversation of old Gentleman with the trousers rather peculiar.
He says, when Ashley introduced me :—
“ Ha-Ha, Toby, Punchy-Wunchee,
Have you seen my Drum-Mond-
Wolff-Ee ?
On the shores of Gitche Gumee
Of the shining Big-Sea-Water
Stands North-Cote-Ee, Grand Old
Woman,
Pointing with her finger westward,
O'er the water pointing westward
To the purple clouds of sunset.
If I find my Erum-Mond-Wolff-Ee,
Son of Eeneu, great war-eagle,
I would say unto him Thus-Ly :
‘ Bring your bow, 0 Drum-Mond-
Wolff-Ee,
Bring your arrows jasper-headed,
Bring your war-club, Puggawangun,
And your mittens, Minjekahum,
And your birch canoe for sailing,
And the oil of Mishe-Hahma.
Leave your Gorst and Come-Along-O-
Quit your Randolph-Church-a-Lily.
Never mind terse Dilky-Wilk-y
And the Gib-Er-Al-Ter Quest-yon,
Or your Bug-A-Boo Glads-Stoney.
Come back to your own good people,
Wah-bun-ha-kee, chief of Wolff-
Ees,
With his deer hoofs Jing-Ly-Ing-Ly.
Long I ’ve sought you, Mishe-Hahma,
Come back to your home, your people,
Live among them, toil among them,
Clear the fishing-grounds and rivers,
Slay all monsters and magicians,
Dilky-Wilk-y, Glad-Stee-Onyes.’
‘ Minne-wawa,’ said the pine-trees,
‘ Mudwy-arhke,’ said the water.
Now, then, Toby, Punchy-Wunchee,
Tell me where is Drum - Mond -
Wolff-Ee?”
“ Don’t know,” I said, perhaps a little shortly. Distinguished
Foreigner’s conversational style, like his name and his deer-hoofs,
a trifle too polysyllabic for me.
“ Oh, very well,” said the dark gentleman in trimmed trousers,
evidently a little hurt. “ I ’ll call to-morrow.”
And he stalked off, jingling, “ God Bless the Prince of Wales ”
with his deer-hoofs. Business done.—Obstruction.
Thursday Night.—All sorts of rumours current about the Con-
ference. Baron de Worms full of information. After all, Dilke
the only safe man. Go and ask him. Found him in his room behind
Mr. Speaker’s chair, where he smokes long cigars, and concocts
short answers. Busy with the Times.
“ Anything fresh about Conference to-day ? ”
“Just looking,” said Dilke. “Always read the Paris Corre-
spondent of the Times when I want to know anything about Foreign
Affairs. Learn more there than is to be found at the Foreign Office.
Sometimes Blowitz is a little hampered with his responsibilities.
Can’t tell all he knows, for fear of European complications. But,
on the whole, does pretty well. Ashmead-Bartlett a mere chicken
compared with him, and Worms an ignoramus. Fact is, Blowitz
is the Grand Old Man of English journalism. Have a cigar? Not
just now? Well, ‘ oh reevor,’ as Biggar said to the maiden lady
when he quitted Paris, not meaning to return.”
All very well this. But Dilke hasn’t answered my question
about the Conference. Begin to think there’s more in complaints
against his answers than I thought.
Business done— Obstruction.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [July 8, isaa.
ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.
EXTRACTED PROM
THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.
“ THE NOES-ES HAYE IT.”
[The writer of From, the Cross Benches, in the Observer, has drawn attention to the eye-glasses of the House of Commons, through which individual
Members take their peculiar views of public affairs. The “Ayes” having had it “with glasses round,” our Artist has let the “Noes ” have it. The
public will find little difficulty in apportioning each nose to its rightful owner, *as in every instance the correct tip has been given.]
House of Commons, Monday Night, June 26.—Great rush on
Chaplin to-night. Always the case now when there comes up geo-
graphical question. Everybody turns to Chaplin. The thing to
know is, where’s Birkenhead, and how to get there ? Overmastering
desire to see the place that has returned Mr. MacIver as its repre-
sentative. Some difficulty in finding Chaplin. Mind distracted by
the affairs of Europe. Still, always accessible to humble querists.
Ever ready to impart useful information.
“Birkenhead,” he says, “is a one-horse place situate on the
Mersey, a river which runs from land to sea, through Runcorn and
other salubrious rural districts.”
Lot of men going down. Spend Saturday to Monday, thoroughly
examine the place, and make acquaintance of the singular people
who live there. Meanwhile, have MacIver with us, more than ever
like Jack-in-the-Box, popping up every two minutes at question
time with intent to move Adjournment. The Speaker, who takes
a fatherly interest in young men, did his best to save the youth, but
no use. Egged on by Members near him, who are always ready for
a lark.
“It’s that young rascal, Hicks, that’s at the bottom of this,”
Harcourt says, with trained faculty for getting at the root of
conspiracies.
MacIver on his legs, gets in a word occasionally edgewise amid
the uproar. Howled at impartially from both sides. Cheered on by
the humorous Hicks.
It was when he sat down that there was a rush for Chaplin, to
get to know all about Birkenhead. Business done — Obstruction.
Tuesday Morning.—We are a great business assembly, and a
pattern to the world. Wasted our time till Midnight, then set to
work. Then Westminster saw another sight. Speaker ill, and
no wonder. But nothing can tame the restless spirit of Lyon
Playfair, nor sap his monumental energy.
“Could you manage without me in the morning, Playfair?”j
Speaker asked; “got a bad cold. Dr. Lyons (whose address still
the same), ordered me to put my feet in hot water, and head out
of the window for half-an-hour. It’s a little hard on you; but,
if you don’t mind-
“ Why, cert’nly,” said the Leonine Playfair. “ Gosset not very
well, either, and lie may as well go. I can manage to be Speaker,
Chairman of Committees, and Sergeant-at-Arms all at same time.”
But Captain Gosset would not go. “Bradlaugh might come,”
said the indomitable man-at-arms, “and I would not be absent from
my post.”
So Lyon Playfair’s ambition was limited to the accomplishment
of the dual office of Speaker and Chairman of Committees. A
beautiful sight to see him hopping from Speaker’s chair to his own,
according as the House was in Committee, or sitting in full estate.
“ Corsican Brothers nothing to it,” said Sir Erskine May, look-
ing on, full of admiration. “ The man who rides two horses at the
same moment of no account.”
“ Reminds me,” said Harcourt, as Lyon Playfair skipped back-
wards and forwards, whilst the young day looked in and blinked
with astonishment, “ of the early bird trying to catch the worm.”
Business done.- Votes in Supply.
Wednesday Afternoon. — Distinguished visitor turned up this
afternoon. Had on a robe of deer skin trimmed with fur, eminently
suitable for Midsummer day ; a belt beautifully beaded ; a head-
dress of the feathers of the eagle; whilst his legs were decently covered
with trousers, conveniently ornamented with rows of deer-hoofs.
Every step he took tremendous jingling. Thought first it was the
coppers in his pocket. Found it was the deer-hoofs rattling.
Evelyn Ashley introduced me to him. Gentleman’s name Wah-
bun-ha-kee ; and he’s “ chief of the Muncey or Wolf tribe of the
Red Indians ” {vide Daily News). Seems the Read Indians, having red
up all Fenimore Cooper’s novels, have gone in for Captain Mar-
ryatt. Wah-bun-ha-kee been reading Japhet in Search of a
Father. Thought he’d be “Wah-bun-ah-kee in Search of a
Son ’’—not actual son, but one of the tribe of which old Wah is
Chief. Drummond, however, not here to-day: absent on State
business.
Conversation of old Gentleman with the trousers rather peculiar.
He says, when Ashley introduced me :—
“ Ha-Ha, Toby, Punchy-Wunchee,
Have you seen my Drum-Mond-
Wolff-Ee ?
On the shores of Gitche Gumee
Of the shining Big-Sea-Water
Stands North-Cote-Ee, Grand Old
Woman,
Pointing with her finger westward,
O'er the water pointing westward
To the purple clouds of sunset.
If I find my Erum-Mond-Wolff-Ee,
Son of Eeneu, great war-eagle,
I would say unto him Thus-Ly :
‘ Bring your bow, 0 Drum-Mond-
Wolff-Ee,
Bring your arrows jasper-headed,
Bring your war-club, Puggawangun,
And your mittens, Minjekahum,
And your birch canoe for sailing,
And the oil of Mishe-Hahma.
Leave your Gorst and Come-Along-O-
Quit your Randolph-Church-a-Lily.
Never mind terse Dilky-Wilk-y
And the Gib-Er-Al-Ter Quest-yon,
Or your Bug-A-Boo Glads-Stoney.
Come back to your own good people,
Wah-bun-ha-kee, chief of Wolff-
Ees,
With his deer hoofs Jing-Ly-Ing-Ly.
Long I ’ve sought you, Mishe-Hahma,
Come back to your home, your people,
Live among them, toil among them,
Clear the fishing-grounds and rivers,
Slay all monsters and magicians,
Dilky-Wilk-y, Glad-Stee-Onyes.’
‘ Minne-wawa,’ said the pine-trees,
‘ Mudwy-arhke,’ said the water.
Now, then, Toby, Punchy-Wunchee,
Tell me where is Drum - Mond -
Wolff-Ee?”
“ Don’t know,” I said, perhaps a little shortly. Distinguished
Foreigner’s conversational style, like his name and his deer-hoofs,
a trifle too polysyllabic for me.
“ Oh, very well,” said the dark gentleman in trimmed trousers,
evidently a little hurt. “ I ’ll call to-morrow.”
And he stalked off, jingling, “ God Bless the Prince of Wales ”
with his deer-hoofs. Business done.—Obstruction.
Thursday Night.—All sorts of rumours current about the Con-
ference. Baron de Worms full of information. After all, Dilke
the only safe man. Go and ask him. Found him in his room behind
Mr. Speaker’s chair, where he smokes long cigars, and concocts
short answers. Busy with the Times.
“ Anything fresh about Conference to-day ? ”
“Just looking,” said Dilke. “Always read the Paris Corre-
spondent of the Times when I want to know anything about Foreign
Affairs. Learn more there than is to be found at the Foreign Office.
Sometimes Blowitz is a little hampered with his responsibilities.
Can’t tell all he knows, for fear of European complications. But,
on the whole, does pretty well. Ashmead-Bartlett a mere chicken
compared with him, and Worms an ignoramus. Fact is, Blowitz
is the Grand Old Man of English journalism. Have a cigar? Not
just now? Well, ‘ oh reevor,’ as Biggar said to the maiden lady
when he quitted Paris, not meaning to return.”
All very well this. But Dilke hasn’t answered my question
about the Conference. Begin to think there’s more in complaints
against his answers than I thought.
Business done— Obstruction.