Volume 107, November 10th, 1894

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

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THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH.

I.--FONS ET ORIGO MALI.

Snugly nestling in a cosy corner of Blankshire--that county which at different times and places has travelled all over England--our village pursues the even tenor of its way. To be accurate, I should say _did_ pursue, before the events that have recently happened--events in which it would be absurd modesty not to confess I have played a prominent part. Now we are as full of excitement as aforetime we were given over to monotony. _Nous avons_---- No! _J'ai changé tout çela._

It came about in this way. I have always till the 25th of September (a chronicler should always be up to dates) been entirely free from any ambition to excel in public. After a successful life I have settled down with my wife and family to the repose of a truly rural existence. "You should come down and live in the country," I am never tired of telling my friends. "Good air, beautiful milk, and, best of all, fresh eggs." I don't know why, but you are always expected to praise the country eggs. So I always make a point of doing it.

Up to September the 25th, accordingly, I extolled the eggs of the country and lived my simple, unpretending life. On that day I read an article in the paper on the Parish Councils Act. I read that now for the first time the people in the villages would taste the sweets of local self-government. The change from fresh eggs struck my fancy, up to that time singularly dormant. I read on, dashing all unknowing to my fate. "It is the duty," I saw, "of every man of education, experience, and leisure in the village who has the welfare of his country at heart to study the Act, and to make it his business that his fellow-parishioners shall know what the Act does, and how the greatest advantage can be obtained from its working." Then my evil genius prompted me to undertake the task myself. I was educated--did I not get a poll degree at Cambridge, approved even by Mr. CHARLES WHIBLEY as a test of culture? I had experience--had I not shone as a financial light in the City for full twenty years? I had leisure--for had I anything in the world to do? Obviously the occasion had come, and I--yes I--was the man to rise to it.

I bought twenty-nine works dealing with the Act. I studied them diligently section by section, clause by clause, line by line. I referred to all the Acts mentioned. I investigated all the Acts repealed. At the end of it all I felt like a collection of conundrums. But I was not to be denied. One evening, as I was walking through the village, I met ROBERT HEDGER, "Black BOB," as he is always called. He is a farm hand, and for some reason looked upon as a leader of men in the village. I saw my chance, and promptly took it.

"Good evening, BOB," I said. "I've been wanting to have a bit of a talk with you about this Parish Councils Act."

"Well, Sir, and what about that?" Of course he spoke in dialect, but the dialect dialogues are almost played out, so I translate into quite ordinary English. It's easier to understand, and quite as interesting.

"What about it?" said I, with well-simulated surprise. Then I launched into a glowing account of what it would effect. I waxed poetic. The agricultural labourer would come home at night from his work proud in the consciousness of being a citizen. He would breathe a different air; the very fire in his cottage would burn brighter because a Parish Council had been established in his midst. I finished (it was a distinct anticlimax) by saying that I had been carefully studying the Act.

Two days later Black BOB and two of his mates called at my house--a deputation to ask me to speak at a meeting, to explain the Act. I pleaded modesty, and, saying I would ne'er consent, consented. It was a vain thing to have done, and the effects have been startling. But that meeting must have a chapter to itself.

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ROBERT'S SOLLEM ADWISE.

I carnt on airth think what is the matter with me lately. I seems to have lost all my good sperrits, and am as quiet and as mopish as if I was out of a sitiation, which in course I am not, and am not at all likely to be. My wife bothers me by constent inquiries about the comin change on the 9th, but she ort to no, as I noes, that the cumming new LORD MARE is jest the same good, kind, afabel Gent as the noble Gent as is a going afore him, and who ewery body loved and respected, and who allers showed me ewery posserbel kindness. I aint not at all sure as them wunderful Gents as calls theirselves County Countsellers, and is allers a throwing their ill-natured jeers at the grand old Citty, hasn't sumthink to do with it. I'm told as they has acshally ordered one of our most poplar Theaters to be shut up, becoz the acters and actresses is so werry atracktive that they draws a wunderful contrast between them and the sollem Gents as is allers a interfeering in some way or other where they are least wanted.

One of their most wunderful and most conceeted fads is a longing desire to have charge of our nobel Citty Perlice, which, as ewery body knos, is the pride of the hole Metrolypus.

One of the new LORD MARE'S private gennelmen has told me, in the werry strictest confidens, that they have all agreed together, LORD MARE, Sherryfs, Halldermen, Liverymen, and setterer, to have the most brillientest Show as has bin seen in the old Citty since the time of DICK WITTINGTON of ewarlasting memory! if its ony for the purpose of driving the County Countsellers, as they calls theirselves, stark staring mad with enwy! And so estonished is the Queen's Guvernment themselves by what they hears on the subjec of the glorious approching Dinner, that they has acshally ordered the werry primest of all their Cabinet lot, inclooding the Prime Minister hisself, and the Lord Chanceseller, and my Lord SPINSTER, and setterer and setterer, not only to accept the LORD MARE'S perlite inwitation, but to take care to be in good time, and not to keep the nobel company waiting as old Mr. GLEDSTONE usued to do in days gorn by.

By-the-by, the present LORD MARE, jest to show his ermazin libberality, acshally arsked jest a few of the County Countsellers to his larst great bankwet larst week, and werry much they seemed to injoy theirselves, and I must say, behaived like reel gennelmen, tho' sum of the speeches, speshally them by Lord HAILSBERY and Mr. RICHER, must have been rayther staggerers for them to bear.

ROBERT.

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PROSIT.--Best wishes to Mr. BEERBOHM TREE for the success of the new piece at the Haymarket. Whatever may be the result, he, personally, is in for a "Wynn."

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"THE CHALLENGE."

["Of course, you may get the House of Lords to surrender as you get a fortress to surrender, by making it clear that it is encompassed and besieged beyond all hope of deliverance; but that in itself is not an easy task with the garrison that I have described as sure to defend it.... We fling down the gauntlet. It is for you to back us up."--_Lord Rosebery at Bradford._]

_Bob Acres_ Lord R-S-B-RY. _Sir Lucius O'Trigger_ Irish Party.

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_Sir Lucius._ Then sure you know what is to be done?

_Acres._ What! fight him?

_Sir Lucius._ Ay, to be sure: what can I mean else?... I think he has given you the greatest provocation in the world.

_Acres._ Gad, that's true--I grow full of anger, Sir LUCIUS!--I fire apace! Odds hilts and blades! I find a man may have a deal of valour in him and not know it!... Your words are a grenadier's match to my heart! I believe courage must be catching! I certainly do feel a kind of valour rising as it were--a kind of courage as I may say.--Odds flints, pans and triggers! _I'll challenge him directly!_--_The Rivals._

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_Fighting Bob's Afterthoughts._

Odds bombs and torpedoes! An oath, like a whistle, Will keep up the courage--Dutch courage at least! I feel like a hero of grandeur and gristle Who goes to the fight as men go to a feast. Sir LUCIUS has wrought me to't--fire-eater furious. Odds bullets and blades, how he'll bristle and whisk! Yes, courage _is_ catching. And yet--it is curious, He urges the task without weighing the risk.

That's just like O'TRIGGER, a swaggering swigger Of fiery potheen which gets into his head! At patience and caution he'll swear or he'll snigger, His only resources steel, powder and lead. He thinks he has managed the business most cleverly, Bull-making bully of Blunderbuss Hall; But zounds. That big burly and black-bearded--BEVERLEY, Is not a foe to pooh-pooh! Not at all!

Odds jigs and tabors! Such bellicose neighbours Are horridly awkward; they will force one's hand, A chap who unceasingly brags and belabours Is valued, no doubt, in a Donnybrook band; But swelling Drawcansir demeanour won't answer On this side the Channel so well as on that. O'TRIGGER'S a mixture of Scorpio and Cancer, And BULL is less sweet on that blend than is PAT.

It's just a tremendous, big, bothersome business,-- _That's_ what it is! But I'm in for it now. _I_ feel a dizziness. O'TRIGGER'S fizziness Leads all his friends into mischief and row. Still, I'm committed; and much to be pitied, As clearly they'd see if they had any _nous_. But odds popguns and peashooters! shall I be twitted With caution extreme, and the pluck of a mouse?

No, that will _not_ do. I my courage must muster. Whatever the odds, FIGHTING BOB must show fight! So here goes a buster, though bluster and fluster Are not in my line; yet "indite, Sirs, indite!" I'll begin with a--swear-word and end with defiance! Odds daggers and darts, how I'll hector and frown! My friends on my valour may now place reliance, The challenge is sent, Sirs, the gauntlet is down!!!

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THE SCHOOL-BOARD APPLE-PIE.

(_Adapted for the Board School Infant Classes._)

A (SCHOOL-BOARD) Apple-Pie; B (uilt it); C (ircular) cut it up; D (IGGLE) directed it; E (xpenses) eat it up; F (ORSTER) fought for it; G (LADSTONE) got it through; H (ostility) hampered it; I (ntolerance) injured it; J (ealousies) jangled about it; K (indness) kindled at it; L (OBB) lightened its costs; M (oney) met them; N (oodles) talked nonsense about it; O (pinion) oscillated concerning it; P (rogressives) prodded it; Q (uidnuncs) querulously questioned and quizzed it; R (ILEY) raised religious rumpus about it, while R (atepayers) ruefully regarded him; S (ecularism) sneered at it; T (eachers) toiled for it; V (ituperation) vexed it; W (isdom) wondered at it; and X, Y, Z--well, "Wise-heads" are few, and "X" is an unknown quantity.

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VAGABOND VERSES.

Within the Square we both abide, An artist I, an heiress you, My studio like my work is skied, 'Tis sitting-room and studio too. Your chimney-pots I can descry, I look across the leafy Square. I think of you, I wonder why Your uncle is a millionaire!

I've pictured you in chalks and oils, I like you best in misty grey, Your nameless charm my pencil spoils, Yet strives for ever to portray. By day I turn you to the wall Lest idle gazers should surprise; But when night gathers I recall, I look into your dreaming eyes.

So many things I cared about, And now they all have fallen flat, While I, Bohemian out and out, Have been to buy a better hat, In lieu of one of dusky green Upon my coat paint splashes shine. Endeavouring to get it clean I've rubbed it hard with turpentine

Till my head ached, my heart was faint, And I was utterly undone, I cannot rub away the paint, I can't afford another one. They have a murky yellow shade, My collars once so white; and frail, And at the wristbands sadly frayed My solitary swallow-tail!

That dinner-party where we met! We seemed to meet like friends of old, And both to utterly forget The bitter barrier of gold. Oh, by your eyes, your wistful mien, I know for wealth you do not care, I know you wish you had not been Related to a millionaire!

The starlit night is deepening, Hushed are the footsteps of the folk, My window open wide I fling, And one enchanted pipe I smoke, And on the misty vapour blue, Across the Square my fancies float; And oh, so near, so near to you, And oh, so bitterly remote!

I talk to you of many things, My pipe I unaware refill, I wonder if our thoughts have wings, I wonder, are you waking still? And should I, if your house took fire, Have time to hurry to your aid, To rescue you from peril dire, Before swooped down the Fire Brigade.

There has sprung up a pleasant breeze After the day's dustladen air, And it is blowing in the trees Within the garden in the Square. Oh, gentle wind--_I_ may not speak, Wind from the West, _I_ may not tell. Across the Square my lady seek, And bid her dream I love her well!

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POLITE POLICE IN EGYPT.--The Anglo-Egyptian Police are to be converted into a civil force. Will Police Professors of Politeness be sent over from England to give lectures on civility?

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MOTTO FOR ANY AUTHORS WRITING PLAYS FOR THE GARRICK THEATRE.--"Keep your HARE on!"

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LYRE AND LANCET.

(_A Story in Scenes._)