Chapter 1

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 100.

April 18, 1891.

LEAVES FROM A CANDIDATE'S DIARY.

[CONTINUED.]

_March 13_.--Left Billsbury this morning by nine o'clock train, and came back to London. Brought with me the _Billsbury Standard_, and the _Billsbury Meteor_ (the Radical paper.) Both have accounts of last night's meeting. Rather different, though.

_BILLSBURY STANDARD_.

The era of indecision is past. In another column we give a full account of the important meeting of the Council of the Conservative Association, which was held last night for the purpose of selecting a Conservative Candidate for Billsbury. The proceedings were enthusiastic and unanimous ... Mr. RICHARD B. PATTLE, the selected Conservative Candidate, is a young man of the highest promise. He had a distinguished career at Oxford, where he obtained honours in History, and represented his College in the Torpid races for eight-oared crews. Since then he has been called to the Bar, where he has already secured a lucrative practice.... His speech last night had the right ring about it. It was eloquent, practical, convincing, modest and decided, thoroughly in harmony with the best traditions of the Conservative party, and remarkable for the proof it afforded of the devotion of Conservatives at all times to the highest interests of the working classes. We have no hesitation in declaring, as Colonel CHORKLE did last night, that with such a Candidate to oppose him, the fate of Sir THOMAS CHUBSON may be considered as already decided. If only all Conservatives will put their shoulders to the wheel and work hard, the stigma under which Billsbury now labours will be swept away. A Mass Meeting of Conservative electors will be held on an early date to ratify the decision of the Council, and inaugurate the period of hard work throughout the constituency.

_BILLSBURY METEOR_.

Last night the Conservatives gave their annual performance of the good old farce entitled, _Choosing a Candidate; or, Who's got the Money-bags?_ We are glad to be able to congratulate this distinguished body of amateurs on the modest success which attended their efforts. Most of the performers are well-known to the Billsbury public. Alderman TOLLAND, as the heavy father, provoked screams of laughter by the studied pomposity of his manner. His unctuous rendering of the catch-phrase, "Constitutional Progress," has lost none of its old force. Mr. CHORKLE was, perhaps, not so successful as we have sometimes seen him in his representation of a real Colonel, but the scene in which he attacked and routed LINDLEY MURRAY, went extremely well. Mr. JERRAM as a singing journalist, was admirable. We cannot help wondering why so remarkable an actor should confine himself to the provincial stage. We had almost forgotten to mention that the part of _The Candidate_ was, on this occasion, assigned to a Mr. RICHARD PATTLE, a complete novice, whose evident nervousness seriously imperilled the success of the piece. He had omitted to learn his part adequately, and the famous soliloquy, "The country has need of me," was painfully bungled. Mr. PATTLE has few qualifications for the ambitious _rôle_ he essayed, and his friends would be doing an act of true kindness if they insisted on his withdrawal from a profession for which he is in no way fitted. The performance will be repeated as usual next year.

I suppose the _Meteor_ people think that witty. When I got home, an awful thing happened. Mother, of course, wanted to see the papers, so I gave her the _Standard_, with which she was much pleased. She said it was evident I had made a wonderful impression, and that the Billsbury Conservatives were particularly sensible people! But, by some mistake, I left the _Meteor_ lying on the drawing-room table. It seems that, in the afternoon, that sharp-tongued old hag, Mrs. SPIGOT, called. She saw the _Meteor_, took it up, and said, "Dear me, is this something about your son?" Mother, thinking it was the _Standard_, said, "Oh yes--do read it, Mrs. SPIGOT; it's a wonderfully accurate account, RICHARD says;" and that old cat read it all through. She then smiled, and said, "Yes, very flattering indeed." After she had gone, mother took it up, and, to her horror, found what it was. She was furious. When I got home in the afternoon, I found her in a state of what Dr. BAKER calls "extreme nervous excitement," with the _Meteor_ lying in little scraps all over the drawing-room, just as if a paper-chase had been through there. She said, "Don't let me ever see that infamous paper again, DICK. The man who wrote it owes you some grudge, of course. Such a scoundrel ought to be denounced." I said I quite agreed with her. Later on, met VULLIAMY at the Club. We spoke about Billsbury. He asked me, with a sort of chuckle, if I'd seen the _Star_, and advised me to have a look at it, as there was something about me in it. This is what I found in the column headed "Mainly About People":--

"Mr. RICHARD PATTLE, who is to be the Conservative Candidate for Billsbury at the next election, is a young man of twenty-six. At Oxford he was generally called 'PODGE PATTLE' by his friends He took a fourth class in History. His oratorical efforts at the Union were not very striking, but he rowed in his College Torpid, which was bumped four times.

"Mr. PATTLE, as maybe inferred from his nickname, is neither tall nor thin. He is a member of the Middle Temple, but his eloquence has not yet astonished the Courts of Law. His father died five years ago, leaving him a considerable fortune, part of which he proposes to waste in the hopeless attempt to turn out Sir THOMAS CHUBSON."

Confound the people, I wish they'd mind their own business and leave me alone!

_March_ 17.--Haven't been down to Billsbury again yet, but go the day after to-morrow to speak at a Mass Meeting of Conservative electors. However, I've had shoals of letters from the place--nearly all of them asking for subscriptions. The Five Bars Cricket Club, the Lilies Cricket Club, the Buffaloes Cricket Club, and the Blue Horse Cricket Club have all elected me a vice-president, and solicit the honour of my support. The Billsbury Free Dispensary is much in want of funds, and the Secretary points out that Sir THOMAS CHUBSON has subscribed £5 regularly every year. The United Ironmongers' Friendly Society wishes me to be an Honorary Member. CHUBSON subscribes £2 2s. to them. The Billsbury Brass Band, and three Quoit Clubs (the game is much played there) have elected me a member. The Secretary of the former sent me a printed form, which I was to fill up, stating what instrument I meant to play, and binding myself to attend at least one Band practice every week. Three "cases of heartrending distress" have appealed to me, "knowing the goodness of my heart." I shall have to consult TOLLAND, or some one, about all this. I get the _Meteor_ and the _Standard_ every day. The former goes on chaffing. Don't think JERRAM, in the _Standard_, writes as smartly as the other chaps. Must try to get him stirred up a bit. Just received letter from TOLLAND, saying he wants to talk to me before meeting about "matters connected with the Registration." More money, I suppose. Romeike, and all kinds of Press-Cutting Associations, keep on sending me that extract from the _Star_, till I'm fairly sick of it. They all want me to subscribe for Press-Cuttings. See them blowed first.

* * * * *

WHAT IT MAY COME TO!

SCENE--_The Central Criminal Court. The usual Company assembled, and the place wearing its customary aspect. "Standing room only" everywhere, except in the Jury Box, which is empty. Prisoner at the Bar_.

_Judge_. This is most annoying! Owing to the refusal of the Jury to serve, the time of the Bar, the Bench, and, I may even add, the prisoner, is wasted! I really don't know what to do! Mr. TWENTYBOB, I think you appear for the accused?

_Counsel for the Defence_. Yes, my Lord.

_Judge_ (_with some hesitation_). Well, I do not for a moment presume to dictate to you, but it certainly would get us out of a serious difficulty if your client pleaded guilty. I suppose you have carefully considered his case, and think it advisable that he should not withdraw his plea?

_Counsel for the Defence_. No, my Lord, I certainly cannot advise him to throw up his defence. It is a serious--a deeply serious--matter for him. I do not anticipate any difficulty in establishing his innocence before an intelligent jury.

_Judge_. But we can't get a jury--intelligent or otherwise.

_Counsel for the Defence_. If no evidence is offered, my client should be discharged.

_Counsel for the Prosecution_. I beg pardon, but I must set my friend right. Evidence _is_ offered in support of the charge, my Lord.

_Judge_. Yes; but there is no properly constituted body to receive and decide upon its credibility. I am glad that the Grand Jury (to whom I had the privilege of addressing a few observations upon our unfortunate position) have ignored a larger number of bills than usual; still the present case is before the Court, and I must dispose of it. Can you assist us in any way, Mr. PERPLEBAGGE?

_Counsel for the Prosecution_ (_smiling_). I am afraid not, my Lord.

_Judge_. Well, I suppose I have no alternative but to order the Prisoner to be taken back to--

_Prisoner_. To the place I was in last night? No, thankee!--not me! Look here, gemmen all, we knows one another, don't we? Well, just to oblige you--as Darmoor ain't 'alf bad in the summer, and as in course I _did_ do it--I plead guilty!

_Judge_ (_with a sigh of relief_). Prisoner at the Bar, we are infinitely beholden to you! [_Passes regulation sentence with grateful courtesy._

* * * * *

THE INVECTIVE OF H-RC-RT.

(_A FRAGMENT IN HEXAMETERS, NOT BY GEORGE MEREDITH._)

Heigh me! brazen of front, thou glutton for Ground Game, how can one, Servant here to thy mandates heed thee among the Tories? Surely thy mission is fudge, oh, DAWNAY, Conservative Colonel! I, Sir, hither I fared on account of the cant-armed Sportsmen, Pledged to the combat; they unto me have in no wise a harm done, Never have they, of a truth, come putting my Hares and my Rabbits, Never in deep-soiled Hampshire, the nurser of heroes and H-RC-RTS, Ravaged; but if I found them among my trampled Carnations, Hares or Rabbits, or gun-bearing Tories, by Jingo, I'd pot 'em! O hugely shameless! Thee shall we follow to do an injustice Unto the farmers, seeing the Hares a-munching their crops up? I do not sit at the feet of the blatant Bordesley Gamaliel, Or of the unregenerate Agricultural Minister. Close time? Fudge! The Hares were _intended_ at last to perish Either by sounding gun or the gaping jaws of the greyhound. Food for the people? Cant! The promotion of Sport is the purpose Plain of this pestilent Bill, which neutralises the victory Won, with much labour, by Me, my gift to the sons of the furrow. DAWNAY talks as though the Hare were a "domiciled animal." Shows what a deal _he_ knows of Hares--save the pleasure of killing 'em. Shall I give the nourishing farmers up to this pillage? Nay, sure mine were the hands did most in the storm of the combat, Ay, and when peradventure we share the booty amongst us, After the General Election, the Tories may find--but no matter-r-r! Surely a time will come,--not a "close time" that for the Tories,-- I being outraged, _then_ will give them particular pepper!

* * * * *

HEARTHILY WELCOME.

1900 (_Somewhere about_).--Introduction into London of new Patent Smokeless Fuel, as experimentally exhibited in 1891 before the Prince of WALES and Empress FREDERICK in York Road, King's Cross. A few public-spirited householders insist on their cooks using it in the kitchen. Cooks of public-spirited householders unanimously give warning. No quotation of Fuel Company's shares on Stock Exchange.

1900 (_Later_).--Very reforming Parliament just returned. Use of new Fuel made compulsory. Fuel shares go up from a nominal 2s. 6d. a share to £437 6s. 8d. at a bound.

1901.--London already much cleaner. Only two fogs (white) in whole of last winter. Consequent intense surprise of old residents, cabmen, link-boys, porters, and pickpockets.

1902.--Retirement of several individuals, who declare they "liked the good old London fogs," to Black Country. Statue in Parian marble of inventor of new Fuel blocks erected on Thames Embankment.

1904.--Government buys up patent rights of Company, at ruinous sacrifice. A Minister of Chimneyculture appointed, with Cabinet rank. Blocks reduced in price, and sold at all Post Offices across the counter. Postal messengers, on receipt of telephonic orders, bring truckfuls to any address within ten minutes.

1905.--Green veils come into general use this summer, to keep off glare from white stone houses and other buildings in West-End of London. Several cases of partial loss of sight from extreme whiteness of dome of St. Paul's. Dean ordered (by County Council) to have dome lamp-blacked. Dean declines. Vote of thanks to him from resident staff of Ophthalmic Hospital.

1906.--Owing to surprising and overpowering health of inhabitants (caused by total absence of smoke and fogs), County Council establishes Gymnasia, Rowing Matches, and free public Pugilistic Contests, in order to work off surplus muscular energies of population.

1907.--Emigration of 2000 Doctors (who have no work to do) to one of General BOOTH's Colonies at South Pole. Show (in Temple Gardens) of delicate ferns and roses grown in atmosphere of Strand.

1908.--Strike of Whitewashers, Laundresses, and House Painters, against lack of employment. Go about singing, "Oh, call the Fog-Fiend back to us!" with refrain, "Oh, when the Fogs were here with us, Would we had used them more!"

1909.--Last surviving Chimney-sweeper, provided with a well-ventilated chamber at Madame Tussaud's. Special charge of sixpence for adults, threepence for children, made for privilege of seeing him.

1910.--Rest of inhabitants of England, as well as foreign invalids, flock to London because of noted purity and salubrity of its climate. Riviera deserted. London a little over-crowded, but very clean.

* * * * *

THREE ACRES AND AN EGG.

The following pleasing announcement appears in the advertisement columns of the _East of Fife Record_.--

WANTED, COTTAGERS and others to HATCH EGGS. Liberal Terms. Apply, &c.

We are glad to see the men of Fife thus taking the lead in creating new openings for the agricultural labourer. Of course the weather will have much influence upon the success of the new avocation. To sit out hatching eggs in one of such blizzards as we have had since Christmas would be exceedingly inconvenient, upon whatever "Liberal terms." But, given a fair summer day or a quiet autumn evening, there seems something quite idyllic in the picture of the agricultural labourer sitting out in his own Three Acres hatching eggs,--probably laid by the Cow.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE FRIEND OF LABOUR.

How doth the provident M.P. Improve each shining hour, And in the "Labour Question" see Hopes of return to power!

How skilfully he shapes his "sell," How neatly spreads his "fakes"! On Labour's ear they sound right well, The promises he makes.

Skilled Labour, Labour without skill, He would have busy, too; Nay, he would find some Labour still For idle "hands" to do.

Yet, Labour, whatsoe'er he say, To trust him be not fast; Or you'll discover, some fine day, He'll diddle you at last!

* * * * *

QUEER QUERIES.--COMBUSTIBLES.--I have five hundred barrels of Kerosene Oil, and three hundred of Paraffin, stored in a large room in the basement of my premises. Upstairs, on the top floor, there are about two hundred assistants at work. I now want to use part of the same room for the manufacture of fireworks. The place I don't think is too dark, as I have it constantly lighted by naked gas-jets. Would there be any need to take out a licence? The surrounding property, although very crowded, is only of a poor description.--INSURED.

* * * * *

MR. PUNCH'S POCKET IBSEN.

(_CONDENSED AND REVISED VERSION BY MR. P.'S OWN HARMLESS IBSENITE._)

NO. II.--NORA; OR, THE BIRD-CAGE (ET DIKKISVÖIT).

ACT III.

_The same Room--except that the sofa has been slightly moved, and one of the Japanese cotton-wool frogs has fallen into the fireplace. Mrs. LINDEN sits and reads a book--but without understanding a single line._

_Mrs. Linden_ (_laying down book, as a light tread is heard outside_). Here he is at last! (_KROGSTAD comes in, and stands in the doorway._) Mr. KROGSTAD, I have given you a secret _rendezvous_ in this room, because it belongs to my employer, Mr. HELMER, who has lately discharged you. The etiquette of Norway permits these slight freedoms on the part of a female Cashier.

_Krogs._ It does. Are we alone? (_NORA is heard overhead dancing the Tarantella._) Yes, I hear Mrs. HELMER's fairy footfall above. She dances the Tarantella now--by-and-by she will dance to another tune! (_Changing his tone._) I don't exactly know why you should wish to have this interview--after jilting me as you did, long ago, though?

_Mrs. L._ Don't you? _I_ do. I am a widow--a Norwegian widow. And it has occurred to me that there may be a nobler side to your nature somewhere--though you have not precisely the best of reputations.

_Krogs._ Right. I am a forger, and a money-lender; I am on the staff of the Norwegian _Punch_--a most scurrilous paper. More, I have been blackmailing Mrs. HELMER by trading on her fears like a low cowardly cur. But, in spite of all that--(_clasping his hands_)--there are the makings of a fine man about me _yet_, CHRISTINA!

_Mrs. L._ I believe you--at least, I'll chance it. I want some one to care for, and I'll marry you.

_Krogs._ (_suspiciously_). On condition, I suppose, that I suppress the letter denouncing Mrs. HELMER?

_Mrs. L._ How can you think so? I am her dearest friend: but I can still see her faults, and it is my firm opinion that a sharp lesson will do her all the good in the world. She is _much_ too comfortable. So leave the letter in the box, and come home with me.

_Krogs._ I am wildly happy! Engaged to the female Cashier of the Manager who has discharged me, our future is bright and secure!

[_He goes out; and Mrs. LINDEN sets the furniture straight; presently a noise is heard outside, and HELMER enters, dragging_ NORA in. She is in fancy dress, and he in an open black domino._

_Nora_. I shan't! It's too early to come away from such a nice party. I _won't_ go to bed! [_She whimpers._

_Helmer_ (_tenderly_). There'sh a naughty lil' larkie for you, Mrs. LINEN! Poshtively had to drag her 'way! She'sh a capricious lil' girl--from Capri. 'Scuse me!--'fraid I've been and made a pun. Shan' 'cur again! Shplendid champagne the Consul gave us--'counts for it! (_Sits down, smiling._) Do you _knit_, Mrs. COTTON?... You shouldn't. Never knit. 'Broider. (_Nodding to her, solemnly._) 'Member that. Alwaysh _'broider_. More--(_hiccoughing_)--Oriental! Gobblesh you!--goo'ni!

_Mrs. Linden_. I only came in to--to see NORA's costume. Now I've seen it, I'll go. [_Goes out._

_Helmer_. Awful bore that woman--hate boresh! (_Looks at NORA, then comes nearer._) Oh, you prillil squillikins, I _do_ love you so! Shomehow, I feel sho lively thishevenin'!

_Nora_ (_goes to other side of table_). I won't _have_ all that, TORVALD!

_Helmer_. Why? ain't you my lil' lark--ain't thish our lil' cage? Ver-_well_, then. (_A ring._) RANK! confound it all! (_Enter Dr. RANK._) RANK, dear old boy, you've been (_hiccoughs_) going it upstairs. Cap'tal champagne, eh? _'Shamed_ of you, RANK! [_He sits down on sofa, and closes his eyes gently._

_Rank_. Did you notice it? (_with pride_). It was almost incredible the amount I contrived to put away. But I shall suffer for it to-morrow (_gloomily_). Heredity again! I wish I was dead! I do.

_Nora_. Don't apologise. TORVALD was just as bad; but he is always so good-tempered after champagne.

_Rank_. Ah, well, I just looked in to say that I haven't long to live. Don't weep for me, Mrs. HELMER, it's chronic--and hereditary too. Here are my P.P.C. cards. I'm a fading flower. Can you oblige me with a cigar?

_Nora_ (_with a suppressed smile_). Certainly. Let me give you a light?

[_RANK lights his cigar, after several ineffectual attempts, and goes out._

_Helmer_ (_compassionately_). Poo' old RANK--he'sh very bad to-ni'! (_Pulls himself together._) But I forgot--Bishness--I mean, bu-si-ness--mush be 'tended to. I'll go and see if there are any letters. (_Goes to box._) Hallo! someone's been at the lock with a hairpin--it's one of _your_ hairpins! [_Holding it out to her._

_Nora_ (_quickly_). Not mine--one of BOB's, or IVAR's--they both wear hairpins!

_Helmer_ (_turning over letters absently_). You must break them of it--bad habit! What a lot o' lettersh! _double_ usual quantity. (_Opens KROGSTAD's._) By Jove! (_Reads it and falls back completely sobered._) What have you got to say to _this_?

_Nora_ (_crying aloud._) You shan't save me--let me go! I _won't_ be saved!

_Helmer_. Save _you_, indeed! Who's going to save _Me_? You miserable little criminal. (_Annoyed._) Ugh--ugh!

_Nora_ (_with hardening expression_). Indeed, TORVALD, your singing-bird acted for the best!

_Helmer_. Singing-bird! Your father was a rook--and you take _after_ him. Heredity again! You have utterly destroyed my happiness. (_Walks round several times._) Just as I was beginning to get on, too!

_Nora_. I have--but I will go away and jump into the water.

_Helmer_. What good will _that_ do me? People will say _I_ had a hand in this business (_bitterly_). If you _must_ forge, you might at least put your dates in correctly! But you never _had_ any principle! (_A ring._) The front-door bell! (_A fat letter is seen to fall into the box; HELMER takes it, opens it, sees enclosure, and embraces NORA._) KROGSTAD won't split. See, he returns the forged I.O.U.! Oh, my poor little lark, _what_ you must have gone through! Come under my wing, my little scared song-bird.... Eh? you _won't!_ Why, what's the matter _now_?

_Nora_ (_with cold calm_). I have wings of my own, thank you, TORVALD, and I mean to use them!

_Helmer_. What--leave your pretty cage, and (_pathetically_) the old cock bird, and the poor little innocent eggs!

_Nora_. Exactly. Sit down, and we will talk it over first. (_Slowly._) Has it ever struck you that this is the first time you and I have ever talked seriously together about serious things?

_Helmer_. Come, I do like that! How on earth could we talk about serious things when your mouth was always full of macaroons?