Public Life of Mr. Tulrumble Page #6

"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

								

draughts of good strong beer, and cheered by the sounds of a fiddle and
tambourine: the Jolly Boatmen having been duly licensed by the Mayor and
corporation, to scrape the fiddle and thumb the tambourine from time,
whereof the memory of the oldest inhabitants goeth not to the contrary.
Now Nicholas Tulrumble had been reading pamphlets on crime, and
parliamentary reports,—or had made the secretary read them to him, which
is the same thing in effect,—and he at once perceived that this fiddle
and tambourine must have done more to demoralize Mudfog, than any other
operating causes that ingenuity could imagine.  So he read up for the
subject, and determined to come out on the corporation with a burst, the
very next time the licence was applied for.

The licensing day came, and the red-faced landlord of the Jolly Boatmen
walked into the town-hall, looking as jolly as need be, having actually
put on an extra fiddle for that night, to commemorate the anniversary of
the Jolly Boatmen’s music licence.  It was applied for in due form, and
was just about to be granted as a matter of course, when up rose Nicholas
Tulrumble, and drowned the astonished corporation in a torrent of
eloquence.  He descanted in glowing terms upon the increasing depravity
of his native town of Mudfog, and the excesses committed by its
population.  Then, he related how shocked he had been, to see barrels of
beer sliding down into the cellar of the Jolly Boatmen week after week;
and how he had sat at a window opposite the Jolly Boatmen for two days
together, to count the people who went in for beer between the hours of
twelve and one o’clock alone—which, by-the-bye, was the time at which the
great majority of the Mudfog people dined.  Then, he went on to state,
how the number of people who came out with beer-jugs, averaged twenty-one
in five minutes, which, being multiplied by twelve, gave two hundred and
fifty-two people with beer-jugs in an hour, and multiplied again by
fifteen (the number of hours during which the house was open daily)
yielded three thousand seven hundred and eighty people with beer-jugs per
day, or twenty-six thousand four hundred and sixty people with beer-jugs,
per week.  Then he proceeded to show that a tambourine and moral
degradation were synonymous terms, and a fiddle and vicious propensities
wholly inseparable.  All these arguments he strengthened and demonstrated
by frequent references to a large book with a blue cover, and sundry
quotations from the Middlesex magistrates; and in the end, the
corporation, who were posed with the figures, and sleepy with the speech,
and sadly in want of dinner into the bargain, yielded the palm to
Nicholas Tulrumble, and refused the music licence to the Jolly Boatmen.

But although Nicholas triumphed, his triumph was short.  He carried on
the war against beer-jugs and fiddles, forgetting the time when he was
glad to drink out of the one, and to dance to the other, till the people
hated, and his old friends shunned him.  He grew tired of the lonely
magnificence of Mudfog Hall, and his heart yearned towards the
Lighterman’s Arms.  He wished he had never set up as a public man, and
sighed for the good old times of the coal-shop, and the chimney corner.

At length old Nicholas, being thoroughly miserable, took heart of grace,
paid the secretary a quarter’s wages in advance, and packed him off to
London by the next coach.  Having taken this step, he put his hat on his
head, and his pride in his pocket, and walked down to the old room at the
Lighterman’s Arms.  There were only two of the old fellows there, and
they looked coldly on Nicholas as he proffered his hand.

‘Are you going to put down pipes, Mr. Tulrumble?’ said one.

‘Or trace the progress of crime to ’bacca?’ growled another.

‘Neither,’ replied Nicholas Tulrumble, shaking hands with them both,
whether they would or not.  ‘I’ve come down to say that I’m very sorry
for having made a fool of myself, and that I hope you’ll give me up the
old chair, again.’

The old fellows opened their eyes, and three or four more old fellows
opened the door, to whom Nicholas, with tears in his eyes, thrust out his
hand too, and told the same story.  They raised a shout of joy, that made
the bells in the ancient church-tower vibrate again, and wheeling the old
chair into the warm corner, thrust old Nicholas down into it, and ordered
in the very largest-sized bowl of hot punch, with an unlimited number of
pipes, directly.

The next day, the Jolly Boatmen got the licence, and the next night, old
Nicholas and Ned Twigger’s wife led off a dance to the music of the
fiddle and tambourine, the tone of which seemed mightily improved by a
little rest, for they never had played so merrily before.  Ned Twigger
was in the very height of his glory, and he danced hornpipes, and
balanced chairs on his chin, and straws on his nose, till the whole
company, including the corporation, were in raptures of admiration at the
brilliancy of his acquirements.

Mr. Tulrumble, junior, couldn’t make up his mind to be anything but
magnificent, so he went up to London and drew bills on his father; and
when he had overdrawn, and got into debt, he grew penitent, and came home
again.

As to old Nicholas, he kept his word, and having had six weeks of public
life, never tried it any more.  He went to sleep in the town-hall at the
very next meeting; and, in full proof of his sincerity, has requested us
to write this faithful narrative.  We wish it could have the effect of
reminding the Tulrumbles of another sphere, that puffed-up conceit is not
dignity, and that snarling at the little pleasures they were once glad to
enjoy, because they would rather forget the times when they were of lower
station, renders them objects of contempt and ridicule.

This is the first time we have published any of our gleanings from this
particular source.  Perhaps, at some future period, we may venture to
open the chronicles of Mudfog.
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