Diminutive dramas

It having been settled that a Member for “Literature” should be elected to the House of Commons, a plebiscite was taken among the members of all the literary clubs and societies in London.

The result was that Mr. M—x B—b—m, Mr. H—ll C—e, Mr. R—d—d K—p—g, and Mr. J—e K. J—e all received exactly the same number of votes. In order to settle which of them should be chosen, it was decided that these four authors should each in turn address the same public meeting, after which the election should be by ballot, and the author chosen by the audience at the meeting should be the Member for Literature.

Scene.—A hall at Battersea. On the platform are a Chairman, a small Committee, and the four Authors in question.

Mr. M—x B—b—m (rises to address the meeting). No politician I.

A Voice from the Back of the Hall. Then why the —— —— do you come here to talk politics?

Mr. M—x B—b—m. That, gentle public, is what I wish carefully to avoid doing. You can lead me to the hustings, but you cannot make me think—politically. Therefore bear with me a little. Examine yourselves and you will see that, were you in my position, you would do exactly what I am going to do now. Candidature has been thrust upon me. I am forced to speak to you, I am indeed anxious to speak to you so that you may be able to choose one of the three distinguished literary men, whom you see before you on this platform, to be your Literary Member, and I wish to prevent your choice falling upon me.

I will put before you in chosen sentences, which I have carefully arranged beforehand, the reasons why I think you should not elect me. I do not want to be elected. To elect me would indeed be an unfriendly act. Such a choice would not only cause me inconvenience, but it would bring to yourselves neither profit nor pleasure. Be sure I should never think of your interests, be surer still I should never attend the tedious sittings at St. Stephen’s. I have listened to eloquence at the Oxford Union and to the gentle rhetoric of Cambridge. Not for me are the efforts of the half-witted and the wholly inarticulate at Westminster, who stammer where old Gladstone used to sing. If you have views I am not privy to them, and from your sympathies I am aloof. I know well enough that you—no more than I—care a red farthing whether the label of your Member be Liberal or Conservative. What you do care for, and what leaves me frigid, is the figure whom you can encourage by chaff or vex by sarcasm.

You want to hear that Lloyd-George ought to be thrown into a den of Suffragettes—(Hear, Hear)—or that Winston Churchill is good and old. (Hear, Hear.) You want to hear it not adumbrated, but said emphatically and without the introduction of a nuance, either that Mr. Balfour is infallible or that he is invincibly ignorant. (Cheers and groans.)

Now, I care not whether Mr. Balfour be right or wrong. I murmur to myself the jest of Pilate, and I do not wait for the answer. And as to the province of affairs which concerns you here, the province of the Budget, the Fiscal Question, Home Rule, the House of Lords, the Disestablishment of the Welsh Church, and other falbalas, it is for me a vague land into which Leonardo da Vinci never looked forward, and about which I have not experienced the first curiosity; nor do I care whether Mr. Balfour be inspired by an angel or an ape. (Liberal cheers.)

As to Mr. Asquith’s claims, I am just as undecided and just as indifferent. (Conservative cheers.) I know nothing about the Education Bill or the Children’s Bill; I have heard that one of these measures will make “Hunt the Slipper” compulsory for children under five years old, and that there is somewhere a clause being moulded which will prevent boys over sixteen years of age from playing marbles in the public thoroughfares. But since before long children will have votes for themselves and be represented in Parliament—(cries of “Votes for Children”)—we can surely for the present leave these perplexing questions gently suspended until they shall be dealt with by those whom they more nearly concern. (A little boy is carried out struggling and waving a megaphone.)

But you will say—our Imperial Policy? Well, I will be frank, I am in favour of the restoration of the Heptarchy. Had I my way even Rutland should have, not only Home Rule—(Liberal cheers)—but a King, by Divine Right absolute. Of course, I wish our present King to remain a super-King of all the little Englands, of the 52 (or is it 365?) counties of England. (Loud cheers.) As for the Colonies, blood may be thicker than water, but water, happily for us, is broader than blood—(loud cheers)—and I have always been thankful that we are separated from America, and from our other high-spirited offsprings, by so broad an ocean as the Atlantic. Our Colonies are our children. Their place is in the nursery or at school. There let us leave them to their ninepins, their whipping-tops, their rocking-horses, and their marbles. Their exploits can only weary us who are their grown-up parents, we who are obliged to read their tri-monthly reports, and to pay wages which we can ill afford for their nurses and their ushers.

I hear a lady murmuring the words “Budget” and “Fiscal Question”—magical words it is true. But we need hardly discuss them, because whatever we say or do there will always be a Budget; there will always be a Fiscal Question, and a vague alternative to it preached by an indignant and sanguine Opposition.

Whatever our taxes may be, and however we have to pay them, they will always have to be paid, and I for one shall never pay them with ecstasy. (Cheers.) Formerly the poor had the exclusive right of paying taxes; now it is rumoured that the rich have usurped that privilege, and so grossly abused it that, the rich having become poorer than the poor, the poor must needs pay a super-tax. (Groans and cries of “Shame.”) Well, I only desire that there may always be people so much richer than myself that they will pay me cheerfully and generously for taking pains to write what few will trouble to read. When the day comes that there will be no more rich—(Oh, dreadful day!)—Max’s occupation will be gone, because even were I then to draw flaming seascapes in coloured chalk on the paving-stones of Piccadilly, there will be no one richer than myself to drop a bad halfpenny into the saucer which shall hang under the card, so needlessly telling the passer-by what the pictures themselves proclaim: that the artist is blind.

I think I have now lightly shaken by the hand those questions which, as the phrase goes, are at issue, and although I have not given you my reasons in clauses, headings, and sections, I hope I have made it perspicuous to you that I do not wish to be a member of Parliament, and that were I to be chosen, I should not lift my eye-glass to justify your choice; I would not sacrifice the whiff of a cigarette for all the perfumes of St. Stephen’s. But as a postscript, I am in favour of full-dress debates; and by that I mean debates in the House of Lords where the Peers are dressed in robe and coronet; and these debates, were I King of England, should be compulsory and frequent. And as one postscript leads to another, I will tell you that were a more competent Guy Fawkes to blow up the House of Commons, and were it never to arise from its ashes, I should say “Ouf!”

[He sits down. Discreet cheers.

Mr. H—ll C—e (rises). Mr. Chairman, ladies and gentlemen, loath as I have always been to obtrude upon the public gaze——

A Voice. Why, it’s Shakespeare!

Another Voice. No, it tain’t. It’s the Wax Bust.

Mr. H—ll C—e. Loath as I have always been——

A Voice. As a Manxman, are you, or are you not, in favour of Votes for Women?

Mr. H—ll C—e. Loath as I am——

The same Voice. He’s not in favour of Votes for Women and he’s a Manxman! (A terrific blast is blown on toy trumpets and megaphones.)

Another Voice. Tails for Manx Cats.

Mr. H—ll C—e. Loath as I am——

Voices. Votes for Women. (Loud uproar—some women are ejected.)

[After a hurried confabulation it is settled that Mr. R—d—d K—p—g shall address the audience, and that Mr. H—ll C—e shall speak later.

Mr. R—d—d K—p—g (rises). There was once an Aunt-Hill. It was a small Aunt-Hill, and from the summit to the base of it the distance was about as long as the slip of an E.P. Tent.

The Aunts were busy. They worked all day and sometimes all night. Now when Aunts work all night it’s worth going to see. The hill grew bigger and bigger, and tunnels were burrowed, and after some months the Aunts had annexed a whole forest. They were pleased with themselves.

“The sun doesn’t set on our Aunt-Hill,” said one Aunt.

“Our Aunt-Hill is the key of the Eastern forest,” said another. The Kingdom of the Aunts grew so large that they sent some of their younger workers to make Aunt-Hills beyond the forest. This they did, and their Aunt-Hills grew big, too. Then the Aunts were pleased and said: “We are the greatest Aunts in the World.” But one of the Aunts—he wrote things for the other Aunts to read—said: “Take care, you were small once; and if you don’t go on working you’ll be small again.” But the Aunts said he was a fool. Then the Aunts began to get slack and look on at their little Aunts playing at rolling the acorn.

Now in a neighbouring forest a rival Aunt set up a hill and began training an army.

Then the Aunt who wrote things said: “Take care, these new Aunts will grow strong and take away your Aunt-Hill.” But the Aunts didn’t listen, they went on looking at the Aunts playing at rolling the acorn. And one of the leading Aunts said: “He’s a scaremonger, don’t listen. He’s a ‘Jingaunt.’ It’s Unauntish to say such things.” So nobody cared, and the new Aunts came and took the old Aunts’ Aunt-Hill and made them all into slaves.

[Mr. R—d—d K—p—g sits down. (Cheers.)

Mr. J—e K. J—e (rises). Mr. Chairman, ladies and gentlemen——

A Voice. Does your mother know you’re out?

Mr. J—e K. J—e. Yes, but my mother-in-law doesn’t. (Terrific cheers.) Gentlemen, I don’t think I need say any more. I’m the only man so far who has said to you a single word you’ve understood. (Cheers.) So I think I’ll let well alone. My politics are Home Rule at Home, and down with Mothers-in-Law. (Renewed cheering.)

[Mr. J—e K. J—e sits down.

[After brief consultation on the platform, Mr. H—ll C—e rises again.

Mr. H—ll C—e. Loath as I am——

Many Women. What about Votes for Women?

[There is an uproar; a scuffle and a fight. It is impossible to continue the business, so the question as to who shall be elected is put to the Meeting. The people proceed to vote by ballot. The votes are then counted by the Committee in a room adjoining the platform. After an interval the Chairman comes on to the platform.

The Chairman. Ladies and gentlemen, I will now have the pleasure of reading out the result of the Election. The figures are as follows:—

[The Meeting breaks up amidst terrific cheers.

Curtain.