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    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 93, December 3, 1887
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 93, December 3, 1887
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 93, December 3, 1887
    Ebook72 pages49 minutes

    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 93, December 3, 1887

    By F. C. (Francis Cowley) Burnand

    ()

    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 27, 2013
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 93, December 3, 1887

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      Book preview

      Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 93, December 3, 1887 - F. C. (Francis Cowley) Burnand

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 93, December 3, 1887, by Various

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 93, December 3, 1887

      Author: Various

      Editor: Francis Burnand

      Release Date: March 8, 2012 [EBook #39077]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, CHARIVARI, DEC 3, 1887 ***

      Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Wayne Hammond, Malcolm Farmer and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

      PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

      VOL 93

      December 3rd 1887

      THE LETTER-BAG OF TOBY, M.P.

      +From the Lord Mayor of Dublin.+

      Mansion House, Dublin, Saturday.

      +Dear Toby+,

      The news from Ireland, not all of which finds its way into your daily papers, grows in excitement. The exploit of Mr. +Douglas P-ne+, M.P., of Lisfinny Castle, has taken root, and all the landed gentry among the Irish Members are fortifying themselves in their castles, and hanging themselves outside the front-door by ropes to deliver addresses to their constituents. The regular thing now is to hang out our M.P.'s on the outer wall. I do not see accounts of these proceedings in your London papers. I was, as you know, a Journalist before I was Lord Mayor; so, if you don't mind, I'll send you a few jottings. If there is anything due for lineage, please remit it anonymously to the Land League Fund From A Sympathiser.

      Foremost in this band of heroic patriots is the châtelain of Butlerstown, +Joseph G-ll-s B-gg-r+, M.P., Butlerstown Castle, as everyone acquainted with Ireland knows, stands on the summit of a Danish rath, and was once the seat of an +O'Toole+. Now it is the den of +Joseph G-ll-s+. For some time he has been practising a flying leap from the eastern to the western turret, a distance of fifty feet over a yawning abyss, amid the cavernous depths of which the petulant plummet has played in vain. It is thrilling, whether at early dawn, or what time the darkening wing of Night begins to flap, to hear a shrill cry of Hear, hear! to see a well-known figure cleaving the astonished air, and to behold +Joseph G-ll-s+, erewhile upright on the eastern turret, prone on that which lifts its head nearer the setting sun. To be present on one of the occasions when +Joey B+. reads a Blue Book for three hours to a deputation shivering in the moat, is enough to convince the dullest Saxon of the hopelessness of enthralling a nation which has given birth to such as he. As +Joseph+ himself says, quoting, with slight variation, my own immortal verse,—

        "Whether on the turret high,

        Or in the moat not dry,

        What matter if for Ireland dear we talk!"

      But the affairs at Butlerstown should not withdraw our gaze from a not less momentous event which recently happened in the neighbourhood of Cork city. Mr. +P-rn-ll+, as he has recently explained to you, has not found it expedient or even necessary to take part in our recent public proceedings in Ireland. But this abstention is to a certain extent illusory. It is no secret in our inner circles that our glorious Chief was but the other day in close communication with his constituents in the city of Cork. He arrived shortly after breakfast in a balloon which was skilfully brought to pause over the rising ground by Sunday's Well. At the approach of the balloon the trained intelligence of the Police fathomed the plot. The Privy Council was immediately communicated with. Sworn information was laid, and the meeting was solemnly proclaimed by telegraph. In the meanwhile, Mr. +P-rn-ll+ had addressed the meeting at some length and met with an enthusiastic reception. The Police massing in considerable numbers and beginning to bâton the electors, the Hon. Member poured a bag of ballast over them, and the balloon, gracefully rising, disappeared in the

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