Punch: Punch (96.1889)

iv_PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHAE1VARI._[Jose 29, 1889.

Jaques. Ay, and the chiding which they earned me from the good Duke. Dukes do not chide you, meseems.

Mr. Punch. They durst not; though sometimes I chide them, when, par exemple, they snub our young Volunteers,
block our City ways, or make mere impassable middens of our markets.

Jaques. Happy autocrat ! You have that for which I yearned when I said—-

‘ ‘ I must have liberty
Withal, as large a charter as the wind,

To blow on whom I please.”

Mr. Punch. Nay, not so happy either—always. I was thinking, when you appeared, of the myriads of misery-stricken
creatures, “ in populous city pent,” to whom one peep of this green, purple-pied glade would be as a glimpse of heaven, yet to
whom callous capitalists, harpy-landlords, jerry-builders, and sweaters, aided half-consciously by selfish swells and lax legis-
lators, would deny the breathing-room of a few “ open spaces.”

Jaques. Is’t so, indeed ? There is matter in that for much musing.

Mr. Punch. And more action. You, mine ancient Motley-wearer, mused too much, and too much moralised. The
fool in the forest, who sat and railed on Lady Fortune in good set terms, was perhaps hardly less wise, or less useful, than the
mock-melancholy Court-Gentleman who flouted him.

Jaques. Well chidden, in faith. I hope the Dukes, and other peccant personages, relish the style of your chastening !

Mr. Punch. Sir, I am but lately back from the huge Paris Show, the sky-soaring Tower, the square miles of marvels,
the ant-like myriads of swarming sight-seers. And now I am—save for your presence and my faithful Toby—alone in the
forest. And there as here, here as there, my thoughts are with the toil-tied millions for whose bleared eyes are no “ sights ”
whether of sweet Nature or wonder-working Art. The pent-up forces of grinding poverty are as the unseen lava underlying
all this glad world of greenery, and all that social world of grandeur. There, Jaques, is a theme after your own heart,—-
but which I must treat after mine own manner.

Jacques. Proceed ! proceed ! I do love melancholy better than laughing.

Mr. Punch. So do not I. Like Rosalind, “ I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me
sad ”-—moonily and purposelessly sad. ’Tis not melancholy mooniness or aimless mordancy that will make the World patiently
receive the medicine of the Motley Moralist, my Jaques.

Jaques. Plow then, 0 rarer fellow than Touchstone, commend you the chalice of your wisdom to the lips of folly ?

Mr. Punch. Not with infusion of rue or savour of sorrel. Like this “ Cup,” which you seem so to appreciate, the
tonic draught of the Motley teacher should be cool, not fiery, piquant indeed, but not all tarts and bitters.

Jaques. “I pr’ythee, pretty youth (for, in faith, despite years, you are both youthful and pretty), let me be better

acquainted with thee,” I would know more of the greatest of Motley Moralists and his mode.

Mr. Punch. Verily? Then ’twere churlish to refuse you. I must now be off to London instanter. But I’ll leave

you my quintessential self for society in these sweet forest ways. You ’ll find it better worth ruminating upon than the

dial-bearing fool, or even the poor wounded deer. It contains my wisdom and illustrates its modus. If ever you ’re tempted
again into town ways, and care to turn up at my Meet Street Sanctum, you shall be 'welcomed. Meanwhile, for cheering
and edifying companionship, I leave you my

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