Punch, Or The London Charivari, Volume 101, July 11, 1891

Excerpt

VOCES POPULI.

MORE POT-POURRI FROM THE PARK.

SCENE—The Park, near Cumberland Gate, on almost any fine afternoon. Behind the rails separating the turf from the paths, Orators, Preachers, and Reciters are holding forth, for the delectation of small groups, who are mostly engaged in discussing some totally different subject. A set debate, with a time-limit, and a purely ornamental Chairman, is in progress between a Parnellite and an Anti-Parnellite. The reader will kindly imagine himself to be passing slowly along the line.

A Youthful Socialist (haranguing the usual crowd of well-to-do loungers, and working himself up to the requisite white-heat of factitious fury). And what are these Capitalists? I'll tell yer. Jest a lot o' greedy gobblers and profit-mongering sharks, as eat up the smaller fry. And what are you? Why, you're the small fish as eat mud—and let yourselves be gobbled! (The crowd accept this definition of themselves with perfect gaiety and good-humour.) Some will tell yer that these lazy, idle loafers, work as hard as what we do ourselves. (Derisive laughter at this ridiculous idea.) Mind yer, I'm not saying they don't. Honly, the 'arder they work, the worse it is for us; because the more they work the more they rob! That's what they send their sons to Oxford and to Cambridge—as was built and endowed for the benefit of us, the labourin' classes—for. They send 'em there to learn 'ow to rob!

[Here a discussion breaks out between a Sceptic and a Spiritualist, who, with half-a-dozen interested auditors, have been putting their heads together in a corner.

The Sceptic. No,—but keep to the point,—you're shufflin' the question. I want to argue this out on logical grounds. I know as well as you do that, if only I 'ave 'armony and a round table in my family, I can make that table dance the poker—but what I'm puttin' to you is (triumphantly), 'ow does that prove to me as I'm in communication with the Bogie Man? That's what you've got to answer.

The Y.S.. We Soshalists 'ate the Tories as we 'ate sin. Why, young polertician as I ham, &c., &c.

The Spiritualist (an elderly and earnest person). All I can reply to you is, we Spiritualists do not think—we know that these phenomena appear—yes, as surely as I know I am 'olding this stick in my 'and.

The Sceptic (pityingly). There you go again, yer see—that stick ain't the point. I can see the stick. A stick ain't a phenomena—you're confusin' two different things. Now I'm goin' to offer you a fair challenge. You perdooce me a Spirit—not in a back room, with the lights out, but 'ere, in broad daylight, in this Park—you get that Spirit to naturalise itself, or whatever you call it, and I'll believe in 'im. Come, now!

A Bystander. Ah, that's the way to corner 'is sort. 'E knows 'e carn't do it!

The Spiritualist (with a smile of sad superiority). Ridicule ain't argyment.

[The discussion continues.

The Young Socialist. Don't tork to me of Patriotism!...