Public Life of Mr. Tulrumble Page #4

"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

								

work with the worst possible grace.  The thick damp mist hung over the
town like a huge gauze curtain.  All was dim and dismal.  The church
steeples had bidden a temporary adieu to the world below; and every
object of lesser importance—houses, barns, hedges, trees, and barges—had
all taken the veil.

The church-clock struck one.  A cracked trumpet from the front garden of
Mudfog Hall produced a feeble flourish, as if some asthmatic person had
coughed into it accidentally; the gate flew open, and out came a
gentleman, on a moist-sugar coloured charger, intended to represent a
herald, but bearing a much stronger resemblance to a court-card on
horseback.  This was one of the Circus people, who always came down to
Mudfog at that time of the year, and who had been engaged by Nicholas
Tulrumble expressly for the occasion.  There was the horse, whisking his
tail about, balancing himself on his hind-legs, and flourishing away with
his fore-feet, in a manner which would have gone to the hearts and souls
of any reasonable crowd.  But a Mudfog crowd never was a reasonable one,
and in all probability never will be.  Instead of scattering the very fog
with their shouts, as they ought most indubitably to have done, and were
fully intended to do, by Nicholas Tulrumble, they no sooner recognized
the herald, than they began to growl forth the most unqualified
disapprobation at the bare notion of his riding like any other man.  If
he had come out on his head indeed, or jumping through a hoop, or flying
through a red-hot drum, or even standing on one leg with his other foot
in his mouth, they might have had something to say to him; but for a
professional gentleman to sit astride in the saddle, with his feet in the
stirrups, was rather too good a joke.  So, the herald was a decided
failure, and the crowd hooted with great energy, as he pranced
ingloriously away.

On the procession came.  We are afraid to say how many supernumeraries
there were, in striped shirts and black velvet caps, to imitate the
London watermen, or how many base imitations of running-footmen, or how
many banners, which, owing to the heaviness of the atmosphere, could by
no means be prevailed on to display their inscriptions: still less do we
feel disposed to relate how the men who played the wind instruments,
looking up into the sky (we mean the fog) with musical fervour, walked
through pools of water and hillocks of mud, till they covered the
powdered heads of the running-footmen aforesaid with splashes, that
looked curious, but not ornamental; or how the barrel-organ performer put
on the wrong stop, and played one tune while the band played another; or
how the horses, being used to the arena, and not to the streets, would
stand still and dance, instead of going on and prancing;—all of which are
matters which might be dilated upon to great advantage, but which we have
not the least intention of dilating upon, notwithstanding.

Oh! it was a grand and beautiful sight to behold a corporation in glass
coaches, provided at the sole cost and charge of Nicholas Tulrumble,
coming rolling along, like a funeral out of mourning, and to watch the
attempts the corporation made to look great and solemn, when Nicholas
Tulrumble himself, in the four-wheel chaise, with the tall postilion,
rolled out after them, with Mr. Jennings on one side to look like a
chaplain, and a supernumerary on the other, with an old life-guardsman’s
sabre, to imitate the sword-bearer; and to see the tears rolling down the
faces of the mob as they screamed with merriment.  This was beautiful!
and so was the appearance of Mrs. Tulrumble and son, as they bowed with
grave dignity out of their coach-window to all the dirty faces that were
laughing around them: but it is not even with this that we have to do,
but with the sudden stopping of the procession at another blast of the
trumpet, whereat, and whereupon, a profound silence ensued, and all eyes
were turned towards Mudfog Hall, in the confident anticipation of some
new wonder.

‘They won’t laugh now, Mr. Jennings,’ said Nicholas Tulrumble.

‘I think not, sir,’ said Mr. Jennings.

‘See how eager they look,’ said Nicholas Tulrumble.  ‘Aha! the laugh will
be on our side now; eh, Mr. Jennings?’

‘No doubt of that, sir,’ replied Mr. Jennings; and Nicholas Tulrumble, in
a state of pleasurable excitement, stood up in the four-wheel chaise, and
telegraphed gratification to the Mayoress behind.

While all this was going forward, Ned Twigger had descended into the
kitchen of Mudfog Hall for the purpose of indulging the servants with a
private view of the curiosity that was to burst upon the town; and,
somehow or other, the footman was so companionable, and the housemaid so
kind, and the cook so friendly, that he could not resist the offer of the
first-mentioned to sit down and take something—just to drink success to
master in.

So, down Ned Twigger sat himself in his brass livery on the top of the
kitchen-table; and in a mug of something strong, paid for by the
unconscious Nicholas Tulrumble, and provided by the companionable
footman, drank success to the Mayor and his procession; and, as Ned laid
by his helmet to imbibe the something strong, the companionable footman
put it on his own head, to the immeasurable and unrecordable delight of
the cook and housemaid.  The companionable footman was very facetious to
Ned, and Ned was very gallant to the cook and housemaid by turns.  They
were all very cosy and comfortable; and the something strong went briskly
round.

At last Ned Twigger was loudly called for, by the procession people: and,
having had his helmet fixed on, in a very complicated manner, by the
companionable footman, and the kind housemaid, and the friendly cook, he
walked gravely forth, and appeared before the multitude.

The crowd roared—it was not with wonder, it was not with surprise; it was
most decidedly and unquestionably with laughter.

‘What!’ said Mr. Tulrumble, starting up in the four-wheel chaise.
‘Laughing?  If they laugh at a man in real brass armour, they’d laugh
when their own fathers were dying.  Why doesn’t he go into his place, Mr.
Jennings?  What’s he rolling down towards us for? he has no business
here!’

‘I am afraid, sir—’ faltered Mr. Jennings.

‘Afraid of what, sir?’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, looking up into the
secretary’s face.

‘I am afraid he’s drunk, sir,’ replied Mr. Jennings.

Nicholas Tulrumble took one look at the extraordinary figure that was
bearing down upon them; and then, clasping his secretary by the arm,
uttered an audible groan in anguish of spirit.

It is a melancholy fact that Mr. Twigger having full licence to demand a
single glass of rum on the putting on of every piece of the armour, got,
by some means or other, rather out of his calculation in the hurry and
confusion of preparation, and drank about four glasses to a piece instead
of one, not to mention the something strong which went on the top of it.
Whether the brass armour checked the natural flow of perspiration, and
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