Public Life of Mr. Tulrumble Page #2

"The Public Life of Mr. Tulrumble" is a satirical short work by Charles Dickens that follows the life and experiences of a fictional character, Mr. Tulrumble, who is an exaggerated representation of a 19th-century politician. Through witty prose and sharp social commentary, Dickens explores themes of public service, political ambition, and the absurdities of bureaucracy. The story critiques the complexities of public life and the often hypocritical nature of those in power, all while showcasing Dickens' signature humor and keen observations of society.

• Short story

								

informed her acquaintance in Mudfog, the very height of the fashionable
season.

Somehow or other, just about this time, despite the health-preserving air
of Mudfog, the Mayor died.  It was a most extraordinary circumstance; he
had lived in Mudfog for eighty-five years.  The corporation didn’t
understand it at all; indeed it was with great difficulty that one old
gentleman, who was a great stickler for forms, was dissuaded from
proposing a vote of censure on such unaccountable conduct.  Strange as it
was, however, die he did, without taking the slightest notice of the
corporation; and the corporation were imperatively called upon to elect
his successor.  So, they met for the purpose; and being very full of
Nicholas Tulrumble just then, and Nicholas Tulrumble being a very
important man, they elected him, and wrote off to London by the very next
post to acquaint Nicholas Tulrumble with his new elevation.

Now, it being November time, and Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble being in the
capital, it fell out that he was present at the Lord Mayor’s show and
dinner, at sight of the glory and splendour whereof, he, Mr. Tulrumble,
was greatly mortified, inasmuch as the reflection would force itself on
his mind, that, had he been born in London instead of in Mudfog, he might
have been a Lord Mayor too, and have patronized the judges, and been
affable to the Lord Chancellor, and friendly with the Premier, and coldly
condescending to the Secretary to the Treasury, and have dined with a
flag behind his back, and done a great many other acts and deeds which
unto Lord Mayors of London peculiarly appertain.  The more he thought of
the Lord Mayor, the more enviable a personage he seemed.  To be a King
was all very well; but what was the King to the Lord Mayor!  When the
King made a speech, everybody knew it was somebody else’s writing;
whereas here was the Lord Mayor, talking away for half an hour-all out of
his own head—amidst the enthusiastic applause of the whole company, while
it was notorious that the King might talk to his parliament till he was
black in the face without getting so much as a single cheer.  As all
these reflections passed through the mind of Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble, the
Lord Mayor of London appeared to him the greatest sovereign on the face
of the earth, beating the Emperor of Russia all to nothing, and leaving
the Great Mogul immeasurably behind.

Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble was pondering over these things, and inwardly
cursing the fate which had pitched his coal-shed in Mudfog, when the
letter of the corporation was put into his hand.  A crimson flush mantled
over his face as he read it, for visions of brightness were already
dancing before his imagination.

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Tulrumble to his wife, ‘they have elected me, Mayor
of Mudfog.’

‘Lor-a-mussy!’ said Mrs. Tulrumble: ‘why what’s become of old Sniggs?’

‘The late Mr. Sniggs, Mrs. Tulrumble,’ said Mr. Tulrumble sharply, for he
by no means approved of the notion of unceremoniously designating a
gentleman who filled the high office of Mayor, as ‘Old Sniggs,’—‘The late
Mr. Sniggs, Mrs. Tulrumble, is dead.’

The communication was very unexpected; but Mrs. Tulrumble only ejaculated
‘Lor-a-mussy!’ once again, as if a Mayor were a mere ordinary Christian,
at which Mr. Tulrumble frowned gloomily.

‘What a pity ’tan’t in London, ain’t it?’ said Mrs. Tulrumble, after a
short pause; ‘what a pity ’tan’t in London, where you might have had a
show.’

‘I might have a show in Mudfog, if I thought proper, I apprehend,’ said
Mr. Tulrumble mysteriously.

‘Lor! so you might, I declare,’ replied Mrs. Tulrumble.

‘And a good one too,’ said Mr. Tulrumble.

‘Delightful!’ exclaimed Mrs. Tulrumble.

‘One which would rather astonish the ignorant people down there,’ said
Mr. Tulrumble.

‘It would kill them with envy,’ said Mrs. Tulrumble.

So it was agreed that his Majesty’s lieges in Mudfog should be astonished
with splendour, and slaughtered with envy, and that such a show should
take place as had never been seen in that town, or in any other town
before,—no, not even in London itself.

On the very next day after the receipt of the letter, down came the tall
postilion in a post-chaise,—not upon one of the horses, but
inside—actually inside the chaise,—and, driving up to the very door of
the town-hall, where the corporation were assembled, delivered a letter,
written by the Lord knows who, and signed by Nicholas Tulrumble, in which
Nicholas said, all through four sides of closely-written, gilt-edged,
hot-pressed, Bath post letter paper, that he responded to the call of his
fellow-townsmen with feelings of heartfelt delight; that he accepted the
arduous office which their confidence had imposed upon him; that they
would never find him shrinking from the discharge of his duty; that he
would endeavour to execute his functions with all that dignity which
their magnitude and importance demanded; and a great deal more to the
same effect.  But even this was not all.  The tall postilion produced
from his right-hand top-boot, a damp copy of that afternoon’s number of
the county paper; and there, in large type, running the whole length of
the very first column, was a long address from Nicholas Tulrumble to the
inhabitants of Mudfog, in which he said that he cheerfully complied with
their requisition, and, in short, as if to prevent any mistake about the
matter, told them over again what a grand fellow he meant to be, in very
much the same terms as those in which he had already told them all about
the matter in his letter.

The corporation stared at one another very hard at all this, and then
looked as if for explanation to the tall postilion, but as the tall
postilion was intently contemplating the gold tassel on the top of his
yellow cap, and could have afforded no explanation whatever, even if his
thoughts had been entirely disengaged, they contented themselves with
coughing very dubiously, and looking very grave.  The tall postilion then
delivered another letter, in which Nicholas Tulrumble informed the
corporation, that he intended repairing to the town-hall, in grand state
and gorgeous procession, on the Monday afternoon next ensuing.  At this
the corporation looked still more solemn; but, as the epistle wound up
with a formal invitation to the whole body to dine with the Mayor on that
day, at Mudfog Hall, Mudfog Hill, Mudfog, they began to see the fun of
the thing directly, and sent back their compliments, and they’d be sure
to come.

Now there happened to be in Mudfog, as somehow or other there does happen
to be, in almost every town in the British dominions, and perhaps in
foreign dominions too—we think it very likely, but, being no great
traveller, cannot distinctly say—there happened to be, in Mudfog, a
merry-tempered, pleasant-faced, good-for-nothing sort of vagabond, with
an invincible dislike to manual labour, and an unconquerable attachment
to strong beer and spirits, whom everybody knew, and nobody, except his
wife, took the trouble to quarrel with, who inherited from his ancestors
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