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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 93, Nov. 11, 1887
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 93, Nov. 11, 1887" ***

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VOL. 93.
NOVEMBER 12, 1887.

                      THE LETTER-BAG OF TOBY, M.P.

                      FROM A HOME-SICK SECRETARY.

                                           _By Guildford, Saturday._

[Illustration: D]EAR TOBY,

I HOPE you will forgive my not being more precise as to my whereabouts.
The fact is if I can get away from London for a day or two without
leaving my address, I am only too glad to do so. I was at the Cabinet
Council on Thursday, afterwards ran down here, _et j'y reste_, at any
rate over Sunday. I am getting more and more tired of London, and the
office sardonically called "Home." It has never been a sweet
resting-place, and of late has grown absolutely intolerable. I used once
to have Sunday to myself; but now, owing to the new-born church-going
fervour of the Unemployed, Sunday is the worst day of the week. So when
opportunity offers, as just now, I cut the whole business and get me
into the sweet seclusion of Surrey.

I see by the papers that I am about to resign office, and retire into
that private life, upon which during the past twelve months I have
looked back with increasing affection. Perhaps the statement is true,
and perhaps the Markiss would say it is "not authentic." We shall see.
In the mean time, at this distance from Parliament Street, I get the
advantage of perspective in regarding the office of Home Secretary. Down
here it seems odd enough that it should be so much hankered after by men
of various temperaments. H-NRY J-M-S wanted it at the time H-RC-RT
secured it. It had a strange fascination for L-WE, and I am disclosing
no secret when I mention that my old friend and patron, GR-ND-LPH,
fancies it would suit him down to the ground. I only wish he would try
it. If I were certain that he would come in, it might have some effect
in hastening my decision on the question of resignation. Of course
GR-ND-LPH and I remain on terms of friendliest regard. I am indebted to
him for a sudden promotion exceeding the hopes of the most sanguine
politician. Still, I would like to see him at the Home Office, if only
for a short six months. He is serenely confident he could grapple with
the situation. JOHNNY RUSSELL was quite a nervous, modest person,
compared with GR-ND-LPH. I should really like to see my old friend in my
old chair.

The post, of course, has its attractions. It is no small thing to be
principal Secretary of State, with a seat in the Cabinet, and an
adequate salary. But, to tell the truth, dear TOBY, the Home Secretary
lives too near the People to have an uninterruptedly pleasant time. He
is too close to, and too frequently under, the public eye. It is like
working in a glass hive. A Foreign Secretary labours in secret in the
Samoan Islands, or some equally remote quarter, and months elapse before
the publication of the Blue Book places his labour under the criticism
of the public. The Secretary for the Colonies works under similar
conditions, whilst the First Lord of the Admiralty and the War
Secretary, except upon rare occasions, have only their respective
Services to deal with.

But the Home Secretary is, necessarily, always at home to impertinent
lookers-in, or idle callers who have not sufficient business of their
own to attend to. If anything goes wrong with the water or the gas, if a
country Magistrate makes a more than usually particular ass of himself,
if a policeman arrests the wrong woman in Regent Street, if there is a
procession through the parks or a meeting in Trafalgar Square, it's ever
the Home Secretary that is wrathfully turned to for explanation. When
things go well with London or the Provinces, you never hear the Home
Secretary's name mentioned. The condition of affairs may be due to his
admirable administration, but there is no recognition of his agency. On
the other hand, if the least thing connected with his department goes
wrong, he is held personally responsible, and the fiendish newspapers
fall upon him.

That is my experience after a little more than twelve months in office,
and if I am a little wearied of it who shall blame me? Why should I
remain the butt of all the captious critics throughout the country? I
have no hour, except these stolen ones, that I can call my own. All the
pleasures and recreations of private life are swallowed up in official
cares. Why should I longer submit to be engulfed in this state of
slavery? I am not in the absolute prime of youth; but still, as we
Statesmen go, I am not old. For example, I have seen but two summers
more than that elderly young beau, H-NRY J-M-S. Someone once said of me,
that for my recorded age, I had the youngest-looking body in the House
of Commons. That is a subtle distinction, the value of which I cannot
grasp. I know that I have been a buck in my time, and if I only get my
time to myself once more, I may again become as ornamental as I am now
useful. I will think it over, and probably in the course of the next few
weeks you may hear what resolution I have taken.

                           Yours faithfully,         H-NRY M-TTH-WS.

                               * * * * *

                        A BLACK AFFAIR AT HAYTI.

The Foreign Office, whether represented by Lord SALISBURY or Lord
ROSEBERY,--two "berries," so that we are to judge of the worth of our
Foreign Office by its berries, not by its fruits,--ought to be hauled
over the coals--the victim's name being suggestive of this process--by
the British Public. Mr. COLES was innocent of the charge brought against
him, was convicted in the face of evidence; and as there was no one to
screen COLES, poor COLES--COLES down again!--was shovelled into a black
hole, which was, _pro. tem._, a COLES cellar. After sixteen months of
Haytian bonds, and being kept in durance by Haytian Black Guards, the
energy of the British F. O. obtained for the unfortunate prisoner a free
pardon! But no further redress, except the offer of £500, which COLES
couldn't be "cokes'd" into accepting. Now this matter of Hayti and COLES
is a very black affair. What is going to be done? Do we leave COLES and
scuttle? Surely so gross a wrong perpetrated in Hayti ought to have been
put right in Hayti-seven.

                               * * * * *

invitations properly stamped at Somerset House, and then brought an
action against his hosts for breach of agreement if a dinner happened to
be put off.

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: "MUMPSIMUS!"]

Reminiscence of a celebrated and highly popular picture, adapted to the
painful circumstance announced last week by _Truth_; namely, that the
Chorister Boys at a certain Cathedral have all got the Mumps.

                               * * * * *



_Lord L-tt-n sings_:--]

  _Love's Metamorphoses_ I sang of late,
    "My Unglenaverilled Glenaveril"
  Puzzled the Public's unpoetic pate.
    Wit, like my sire's imaginary _Vril_,
  Is thaumaturgic. I have served the State
    In various ways with elegance and skill;
  But _my_ "last Metamorphosis," I opine,
  Out of Glenaveril's wholly takes the shine.

  From "OWEN MEREDITH," of Servian song,
    Translator (who said through the French?) to this!
  The course, like my Serb falcon's flight, is long.
    The proletariat possibly may hiss.
  I scorn the anserine Gladstonian throng,
    Whose mouthpiece is the _Gaily Dews_. I wis
  That nickname shows a polish and a fire
  Of wit well worthy my prodigious Sire.

  When I wrote _Aux Italiens_ long ago
    (And _Trovatore_ rhymed with purgatory)
  I little thought Paris one day should know
    The bard in an Ambassador's full glory.
  Ah! I shall miss the Oriental show
    Of Ind--but that is scarce a pleasant story,
  And, after all, I fancy that my _Charis_
  Had always, more or less, a touch of Paris.

  "_Lucile_," for instance! Well, I've wandered far
    From my old _Wanderer_ days; _tout mieux_, perchance.
  Better to be a diplomatic star
    Than a poetic shade. Beloved France,
  To ape thy _jeunesse dorée_ will not jar
    Upon my spirit, which is all romance:
  I love the blend of the sublime and finical,
  Of chivalry, choice cookery, and the cynical.

  CHAMBERLAIN--_did_ I dub him once a scold,
    A leaner, later _Casca_? I was wrong--
  Is off to Canada, and BALBO bold
    (I called him bilious once, but 'twas in song)
  Is with us now, I hope the league may hold.
    Who now dubs JOSEPH--though of course he's strong--
  "The secret despot of a Cabinet,
  That dare not disregard his faintest threat?"

  Forgive the thought, _Cæcilius_! Whether JOE
  _Has_ put his foot in it, and bowed still more
  Your "large Olympian forehead," I don't know;
    But I can see that it must be a bore
  To have your diplomats run wild. I go
    With other purpose to a nearer shore;
  And soon I hope your confidence to win,
  And prove no ass, though in the LYONS' skin!

                               * * * * *

The "Wild West" finished up rather tamely. Lord LORNE and others, with,
we presume, the Honourable BUFFALO BILL CODY, palavered about an
International Arbitration Court. If the Hon. and Rev. BILL--"Reverend"
because, as he tells us, he once performed the part of a clergyman and
married a couple, pronouncing a formula which, being a close parody on
the words of the solemn rite, need not be repeated here, though they
evidently struck him as a bright idea,--has anything to do with it, we
shall hear of the rules of this new Court (not Earl's Court) being at
once codi-fied.

                               * * * * *

RESTITUTION WITH RESIGNATION.--M. WILSON gave up 40,000 francs' worth of
postage. Will M. GRÉVY give up the post altogether?

                                 * * *

Honour," but "Piece with MERRITT."

                                 * * *

"THE ROUGH ELEMENT"--last week, was--the Sea.

                               * * * * *

                              Jenny Lind.

_Born at Stockholm, October 6, 1821. Married Herr Otto Goldschmidt,
February 5, 1852. Died, November 2, 1887._

    "She never lost her interest in the two chief objects of her
    life, music and charity."--_Times._

  Music and Charity! Of all things mortal,
    What sweeteners of our lives may match these twain?
  What draweth hearts nearer the heavenly portal
    Than mercy's impulse, melody's moving strain?
              Well chosen, singer sweet!
  Great gifts, and the large love of giving meet,
    Well harmonised in JENNY LIND'S career;
  These made her life delight, these make her memory dear.

  _Punch_, of well-fitting phrases ready minter,
    Christened his favourite forty years ago;
  Hailed as "The Nightingale that Sings in Winter,"[A]
    The Swedish songstress whom the voice of woe
               Moved ever, as her own
    Moved the applauding multitude; alone,
  Amidst the stars of Opera's tuneful quire,
  To succour ever prompt as potent to inspire!

  "Dear JENNY LIND!" So then his song addressed her
    Who still is "JENNY LIND," and still is dear.
  Though Genius praised, and Fashion's crowd caressed her,
    She sank not, like some stars, below her sphere
              Into those darkening mists
    Whose taint the true and tender heart resists.
  Her nature fame was powerless to soil,
  Whom splendour hardened not, and puffery could not spoil.

  How the crowd rushed and crushed, and cheered and clamoured,
    Forty years syne, to hang upon her song!
  Of _La Sonnambula's_ heroine enamoured,
    Thrilled by the flute-like trillings sweet as strong
              Of their dear Nightingale.
    _Amina_, _Lucia_, _Alice_, each they'd hail
  With fervent plaudits, in whose flush and stir
  Love of her silvery song was blent with love of her.

  And each well earned! The crowd would press and jostle
    To hear their favourite warbler, from whose throat,
  Clear as the lark, and mellow as the throstle,
    The limpid melody would soar and float.
              Now like a shattered lute,
    The Nightingale who sang in winter's mute;
  But long remembered that pure life shall be,
  To Music dedicate and vowed to Charity.

    [A] See _Punch_, Vol. XVI., p. 15.

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: "THE LABOUR MARKET."


_Second Ditto (firmly)._ "No; thar I 'on't, Bo'! Work's scass enow as

                               * * * * *


"Spare no efforts to maintain the magnificent inheritance which has
descended from your forefathers," said Mr. CHAMBERLAIN, when bidding a
temporary good-bye to Birmingham.

Well, it is a magnificent inheritance, and most certainly it is our
duty, as well as our interest, to maintain it. But how? Magnificent as
it is, it has certain incumbrances; memories of wrongs unredressed,
actualities of mismanagement unremoved. To maintain _these_ is not to
improve the inheritance, and enable us to hand it down better worth
maintaining by those who will inherit it from us. As stewards of the
splendid patrimony of empire, we must not only keep it together, but
properly--that is, justly and sagaciously--administer it, which, indeed,
is the only sure and safe way of maintaining it. The accumulated
mortgage of our ancestors' errors and misdeeds is, unfortunately, but
inevitably, a part of our "inheritance." To pay it off may seem a
burdensome duty, but a duty it is, in the resolute doing, not the
haughty ignoring or cowardly shirking, of which we shall be at least as
truly "maintaining our inheritance," as by stroke of sword, or statute
of coercion. _Verb. sap_.

                               * * * * *

We see a book advertised by Messrs. KEGAN, PAUL & CO., called _Tertium
Quid_. Ask an Eton Boy, about Christmas time, or when he is going back
to school, what is the translation of _Tertium Quid_, and he will
probably hold out his hand and reply, "The third sovereign--but I'll
take one to go on with, or to go off with." Well, you can "owe him one"
for that.

                                 * * *

WHAT'S IN A NAME?--The person who ought to write a weird Christmas story
is, evidently, the Author of _Bootles' Baby, That Imp!_ &c., JOHN

                                 * * *

MOTTO FOR THE NEW LORD MAYOR.--"_Aut Keyser aut nullus._"

                               * * * * *

                              THE FISHERS.
                      (_Some way after Kingsley._)

  The Fishers went sailing North, South, East, and West,
    And they raised lots of rows ere the sun went down.
  Each fancied the foreigners' waters the best,
    And wished in those waters to let his nets down.
  And Commissions must work and Statesmen must weep,
  And weary with trying the peace for to keep,
    Whilst the Public heart is groaning.

  The Smack-owners rush to Lord SALISBURY'S side,
    And genial JOSEPH'S to Canada gone;
  And the end of this selfishness, temper, and pride,
    Will be a great big all-round fight ere all's done,
  Unless men will try their hot tempers to keep,
  And establish some rule of fair-play on the deep,
    For which honest hearts are all moaning.

                               * * * * *

POLITICAL SEPULTURE.--The Senior Member for Northampton lately told his
constituents that:--

    "The Conservatives were digging their own graves, and it was
    about the only good and sensible thing they possibly could do."

But if they wanted an interment, the Home-Rulers could supply them with
a SEXTON ready and willing to save them that trouble.

                                 * * *

"THE SCARCITY OF HARES."--It is so stated. But it's only a bald

                                 * * *

LETTS' DIARIES.--There are two sorts of Letts: The Out-Letts for 1887,
and the In-Letts for 1888. Letts get 'em.

                               * * * * *

                              SHOWS VIEWS.

                    _By Victor Who-goes-Everywhere._


Last week was remarkable for a number of _Matinées_. There were two,
each with a new Play, at the Vaudeville, in preparation apparently for
the disappearance of _Sophia_. The Author of one of the pieces was, I
fancy, Mr. JONES (the name fixed itself on my memory), but I am not
quite so sure about the others. I rather think the first play was
written in collaboration possibly by Messrs. BROWN and ROBINSON to
complete the immortal _trio_. However, the morning performance _par
excellence_, was the production of a new and original poetical drama in
five Acts, called _Nitrocris_, by GEO. GRAVES, at Drury Lane. This was
really a very interesting occasion, as we were taken back to B.C. 1420,
and I must admit that I too was rather taken aback when I found the
Early Egyptians talking of the "Pharmacopoeia," and many other matters
of a yet more recent date. I supposed this was local colouring, and when
I saw the "Banquetting Hall in the Palace," I felt sure that the
Egyptian Court represented belonged to the Nineteenth Century, and could
be easily discovered (either by season ticket or on payment of a
shilling) in Sydenham. The Author supplies a note in the official
programme, in which she informs the World that AMUN-MYKERA NITOCRIS was
"handsome among women, and brave among men, and governed for her husband
with great splendour and much justice, though she is rebuked by several
of the ancient historians for her cruelty and sensuality," and no doubt
these facts have suggested the five long Acts of the more or less
poetical play. What story there is shows how the adopted son of and
apprentice to an Embalmer, after being left to die in the Palace of
_Nitocris_ for refusing to join in an unpatriotic toast, escapes, and
twelve weeks later is lured back once more to the Royal realms to reject
the suddenly-kindled love of the Egyptian Queen in favour of the
affection of a Grecian orphan called _Soris_, who happens to be staying
on a visit with her swarthy Majesty. Then _Soris_ gets half-poisoned and
entirely stabbed, and _Nitocris_ and the Embalmer's Apprentice repair to
a "stretch of desert in the neighbourhood of the Pyramids," to be
drowned in an inundation which is much talked about but never seen. As
the Embalmer's Apprentice, Mr. J. H. BARNES fostered the impression that
he was either a very slow and dull pupil, or that the art of embalming
had taken him a middle-aged lifetime to thoroughly acquire. In the last
act he looked like a portly Friar of Orders Grey sadly in need of the
fast rising Nile. Mr. ROBERT PATEMAN was good as a nigger _Quasimodo_,
who apparently had nothing in particular to do save to murder Miss ALMA
MURRAY when that popular young _tragédienne's_ sorrows became monotonous
and required curtailment in the interests of the audience. Mr. FERNANDEZ
too was useful as Chief of the Magi, and Mr. BERNARD GOULD'S performance
would have been more pleasing had he really died at the end of the
Second Act, instead of living to see the final fall of the curtain. But
this last was rather the Author's than the actor's fault. Personally I
should have been better satisfied had every one died at the end of the
First Act, but I confess I am a little exacting. On Wednesday, after the
"principals" had been called and received more or less applause, there
was a cry for the Authoress, when to my surprise a lady in a
semi-masculine costume and seemingly in her "teens," made her way before
the curtain. This was young "CLO,"--a most charming person to judge from
her personal appearance. There was a further "call" when a gentleman of
much maturer years was seen bowing. I do not know if he was also a
"CLO,"--if so, he was unquestionably a much older "CLO"--in fact, quite
an elderly "CLO." Ages ago a wonderful piece called _Nitocris_ was
played at Drury Lane for a few nights with moderate success. In it was
represented an inundation, that, if it did not precisely resemble the
waters of the rising Nile, at any rate was a capital realisation of
green-coloured muslin sprinkled with spangles. I am afraid that young
"CLO'S" poetical play will not keep the stage much longer than its

[Illustration: Full in Front.]

It was my good fortune to be present at the opening of the Manchester
Exhibition (which _Mr. Punch_ very appropriately christened the "Gem of
the Jubilee,") and on Thursday last I again paid it a visit with about
sixty-five thousand other persons. In spite of the hurricane of the
preceding Monday, the building was in an excellent condition, and the
reproduction of the old part of the ancient city had weathered the storm
as if it had been intended to remain for a thousand years instead of
half-a-dozen months. I was much struck with the extreme good-nature of a
Lancashire crowd. In the afternoon a severe shower of rain, which I
fancy must have come down from Town by the 10.10 Express from Euston (a
train which maintained the tradition of the L. & N. W. R. by arriving to
the minute) drove all the pleasure-seekers from the grounds into the
building, and for a moment there was an "ugly block." Immediately the
police and the other officials organised a stream right and left, and
when it was found that there were many schools amongst the sight-seers,
a cry of "Make way for the children!" secured the safety of the little
ones. The picture galleries were as popular as ever, and I observed that
the crowd generally gathered in dense masses near the paintings with
historical events as their subjects. The arrival of the Princess of
WALES at Gravesend was particularly favoured, and some regret was
expressed that the Benchers of the Middle Temple had required the return
of the portrait by HOLL of their Royal Treasurer. The splendid display
of the works of Mr. WATTS did not attract much attention, one lady
observing that it was "a pity that they had not been finished," and
their opposite neighbours by Mr. BURNE-JONES, were also a little above
the heads (in more senses than one) of the average shilling public. But
LANDSEER, MILLAIS, POYNTER and HOLMAN HUNT had thousands of earnest
admirers, and there were always enthusiastic groups in front of "_The
Derby Day_" and "_Ramsgate Sands_." It was delightful to walk through
the galleries devoted to this unique, this magnificent collection of
purely native Art, only saddened by the reflection that such an
opportunity would never offer itself again. The machinery, from another
point of view, was nearly as interesting. I have been present at many
Exhibitions, but have never seen anything to equal the display of "works
in operation." Both visitors and "hands" seemed to be equally in
earnest; the first to watch, and the second to work. Then the music was
excellent, as, indeed, it was obliged to be to satisfy the requirements
of Manchester connoisseurs, who are not to be put off with second-rate
bands. Lastly, the illuminated fountains were absolutely fairy-like with
their colours reflected from below the water-line. And this reminds me
there was also something else fairy-like--the _table d'hôte_ dinner
served in the Conservatory, which seemed (with its many courses, of the
daintiest proportions) to be exactly suited to the wants of _Titania_
and (if he took the hint printed on the menu, and "requiring extra
quantities of any of the dishes," asked for more) of the robuster
_Oberon_. The captious might certainly have objected that the dessert
would have been more satisfactory had nut-crackers been supplied with
the walnuts. I asked for a pair, but was told by my waiter that he could
get me none. No doubt this little defect will be remedied when the
contractor fulfils his intention of catering next year at the Brussels
Exhibition. But this is a detail. For the rest, the Manchester
celebration of the Fiftieth Year of Her Majesty's reign has been worthy
of the occasion; and my second visit has fully confirmed the opinion
(that was expressed in May last) that the leading town of Lancashire has
produced the Gem of the Jubilee.

                               * * * * *


[Illustration: Hold your Jaw!]

At the dinner of the Nottingham Mechanics' Institution, the other night,
Mr. PHELPS, the American Minister, advocated the establishment of a
Professorship of Silence in schools and colleges. Good! There is too
much latitude given to jabberers and chatterers in the present day.
Politicians do nothing but prate, and the talking man nowadays has taken
the place of the working man. We might begin our reform in the House of
Commons. The Sergeant-at-Arms might appoint a beadle to bridle the
tongues of the everlasting talkers, and an official with a large
extinguisher should make them harmless after they had bored the House
for five minutes.

                               * * * * *

TO SEVERAL CORRESPONDENTS.--"Fox the Quaker." It is not true that the
birthday of this excellent man is celebrated in his native place by an
annual "meet." Fox was occasionally hunted, but though a Quaker, it is
not on record that he ever quaked. Our Correspondents' mistake arises
probably from Fox having been a man of _pax_. But in this case his
memory would be honoured by all card-players.

                               * * * * *

                          OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

There is no better form of book, providing always the print be clear and
distinct, than the volume which is adapted practically in price and size
to the pocket. One man's pocket is more capacious than another's, as one
man's purse is longer than another's, and the latter can purchase a
volume more expensively got up than the small, useful, charming
travelling companions that _Mr. Punch_ has at this moment actually in
view while others are in his mind's eye, Horatio. _The Handy-Volume
Shakspeare_ (BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO.), which in every way is the model of
a pocket-volume, the model _par excellence_, is a member of a family all
in one case, a perfect Christmas present. But if one volume is lost, the
set is spoilt, and the missing book cannot, in the ordinary course of
bookselling nature, be replaced. Consequently only a very careful and
methodical person can venture upon travelling about with one of these
volumes as his pocket-companion. A little Shakespeare is a dangerous
thing. And this is why the small books belonging to _Cassell's National
Library,_ price threepence apiece, ought to find favour in the eyes of
those who can read in a cab, in a coach, in a train, or even walking. As
to a man running and reading the thing's almost impossible, and whoever
saw a man on horseback reading a book, except in an old print of _Doctor
Syntax_? As the snail carries his shell about with him, so every
Englishman can carry his own _Cassell_, and get rid of it too--which is
more than the snail can--and can lose it--and can replace it for the
small sum of threepence, or if secondhand (for being in limp covers they
soon become "secondhand" in appearance) for considerably less. With a
volume from this library carried always in the tail-pocket of his
coat--the very place to carry a short tale--no one need ever be idle,
and every spare moment, as long as he is wearing the coat, can be well
occupied. These bits of books are our modern _Curiosities of

[Illustration: Handy Vols.]

Nor must we forget the DICKENS series of Messrs. ROUTLEDGE, who have
just brought out a dainty little edition of the _Cricket on the Hearth_.
This is a lasting work got up in a lasting manner. And so whether the
tale be long, or short, pointed or not, every man for a small sum, in
some instances a very small sum, can be his own talebearer: only the
tale isn't his, it is somebody else's, but his by purchase.

Among the handiest of handy books must be included the Pocket Diaries
for 1888, numbered, respectively, one, two, three,--of which No. 3 is
"A1,"--brought out by JOHN WALKER & CO. of Farringdon House, and
admirably adapted to all walkers, who can now bring them out for
themselves every day in the new year. One novelty there is in WALKER &
CO.'S division of pages, and this is that two are set apart for
"Addresses"--not political ones, of course--and two others for
"Visits"--(such an idea could only have struck a Walker who wanted an
object for his walk)--these being subdivided into columns headed
"_Name_," "_Reception Day_," "_Visit Received_," "_Visit Returned_,"
which in itself is quite a little manual, or _Walker's Dictionary_, of
politeness. To "Cash" is devoted a great deal too much space; but, of
course, if there is sufficient cash to fill it, so much the better. If
we might suggest a "rider" to WALKER, it would be that, as many persons,
who pay nothing else, are often most assiduous in "paying their
addresses" and in "paying visits," an equal space might be given to
business as represented by "Cash," and to pleasure as represented by the
two other items. The pencil is a triumph of ingenuity, and the binding
of No. 3 proves the truth of the old adage, that there is nothing like
leather, specially when the leather is Russian.

                               * * * * *

HUMILITY.--The _Pall Mall Gazette_, in its account of the consecration
of Truro Cathedral, stated how--

    "The Archbishop of CANTERBURY and the Bishop of TRURO received
    the Prince of WALES at the Phillpotts porch, and conducted His
    Royal Highness to a footstool placed for him in the choir. Every
    available inch of space was crowded."

Poor Royal Highness! only a "footstool" to sit upon. He was His Royal
Lowness on this occasion. If, however, for "footstool" we read
"faldstool," His Royal Highness's apparently uncomfortable position
becomes intelligible.

                               * * * * *

                             MORE REALISM.



Will you not help us to make a stand even now against the encroachments
of realism in the pronunciation of Latin? My evening paper has been full
of it lately. Why, Sir, it is well known that the Britons understood the
Romans, and the Romans the Britons, and if the Romans had said their
repetition in the absurd foreign fashion that a few modern-side pedants
advocate, is it likely that the Britons would have understood them, much
less that they would have had so much respect for them as to admit their
garrisons, and their Mayors, and their Corporations, and what not for
four or five hundred years? And if our early ancestors had spoken Latin
in this eminently unmanly un-English fashion, why should we naturally
and instinctively pronounce it in our own way now, as if there were no
natural piety linking the chapters of our rough island story together?

The Cambridge Augustan Johnnies (Dr. SANDYS at least, being a Johnian,
may excuse the term) set great store upon the fact that all over the
Continent the language is pronounced in the foreign manner. Why, Sir, it
is well known that the Norse tongue in Iceland, being icerlated, has
remained nearly unchanged since its introduction in the ninth century.
And England is an island; therefore the Latin tongue, introduced by the
Roman colonists, must have remained unchanged also. For my own part, I
own I have no patience with this degradation of the hallowed traditions
of our school-days to the level of languages which can be got up in
_Ollendorff_ and fluently pattered by couriers and waiters. "Wenny,
weedy, weaky." Good gracious! Is that the language of a conquering,
masterful race? The matter does not admit of serious argument.

             Yours, wondering what next,      ONE OF THE OLD SCHOOL.

                               * * * * *

THE LAST OF THE GO-HE-CANS.--The _Times_ for November 1, in giving a
list of the Masters of Foxhounds, mentioned the Rev. E. M. REYNOLDS as
"the only clergyman who can append M.F.H. to his name." Of course this
does not mean that no other clergyman "can" do so, or the Clergy would
indeed be an uneducated set, but that the Rev. E. M. REYNOLDS is the
only successor of the Rev. JACK RUSSELL who has the right to append
M.F.H. to his name. How often does his pack meet? Is it _Reynolds's
Weekly_? If the hounds are a trifle mixed, it may be known as
_Reynolds's Miscellany_.

                                 * * *

Captain STOKES, who peremptorily ordered Mr. O'BRIEN off to prison,
seems to be the sort of a man that CHARLES DICKENS described as a
"Harbitrary Gent." Quite a despotic Turk. As the Nationalists call the
Castle Officials "Bashi-Bazouks," let them allude to the gallant Captain
and Magistrate as "STOKES BEY."

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: International Punch.]

INTERNATIONAL ARBITRATION.--Should difficulties ever arrive at this
peaceable solution--(so likely!--ahem!--but always a Bright Dream)--then
there could not be a name of better omen for a representative of British
Interests than "LYON PLAYFAIR."

                                 * * *

Trafalgar Square may be "the finest site in the world," but the Mob in
it isn't.

                               * * * * *

                         A ROW IN THE GALLERY.

What does it all mean? "Pitch 'em over!" cries Sir COUTTS-LINDSAY of his
"salaried assistants," and perhaps Sir COUTTS would like to pitch
Messrs. COMYNS CARR and C. E. HALLÉ all over, and make them come out
uncommonly black after the process. But apparently the "salaried
assistants" have thrown over their munificent patron of the Arts, and
turned themselves out. But this is "no new thing," for whenever we have
had the pleasure of meeting Mr. CARR or Mr. HALLÉ, they have always been
uncommonly well turned out, and not a speck on either of them. Evidently
the CARR has been upset, and HALLÉ has walked off, showing himself a
"Hallé Sloper." The two "salaried assistants" will not go to swell the
ranks of the "Unemployed," and, in order to prevent the re-entrance of
the "salaried assistants," Sir COUTTS now keeps guard at the Gallery
door, armed with a Pike.

                               * * * * *


                               * * * * *

[Illustration: HAVING A GOOD TIME.


_Fair Débutante (who has a fine healthy appetite)._ "OH YES,

                               * * * * *

                          ALL THE DIFFERENCE.

  No, no! A natural alarm, but needless!
    'Tis true subversive dolts in these sad times
  Do call on you to flourish and to feed less,
    And hint that pomp and turtle soup are crimes.
            The sour fanatics!
  Scribblers who'd set the world straight from their attics.
  But they will never dare--the dastards, No!--
          To stop the Lord Mayor's Show.

  Your fright, my Lord, 's a pardonable error.
    The Proclamation can't apply to you.
  No one, I'm sure, can take you for a Terror,
    Red, white, or any other tint or hue.
            Are you "disorderly"?
  No; you within legality's trim-kept border lie;
  From touching you even almighty Law
          Would shrink with utter awe.

  True you "perambulate the streets." What noddy
    Objects? You do not "break into a run,"
  And as to "terrorising" anybody,
    No one could hint at that, except in fun.
            "Hooting and yelling"
  Are not your vocal habits. WARREN'S belling
  The Cat of Anarchy; he'll tell you that.
          You are not quite that Cat.

  It's claws are showing, and they may want clipping,
    And shindy in the streets is just a pest;
  But Law, though lately once or twice found tripping,
    Won't interfere with the calm Civic nest.
            MATTHEWS seems heedless,
  And "shoves his oar in" in a style most needless;
  But even he would hardly raise his clutch
          The sacred Ninth to touch.

  No, a good rule may have a good exception.
    You're popular, pass on! Rowdies and raff
  Need raps. Let him in civism adept, shun
    The spouter's bawling, and the Bobby's staff.
             Mad mobs in Town
  Are a vile nuisance that must be put down;
  But you're not a "Procession," don't you know,--
          _You_ are--a "Show"!

                               * * * * *

                         "CHARLES OUR FRIEND."

Bravo, Sir CHARLES WARREN! The roughs may consider you a Rabid Warren,
but what does that matter to you, or to us, or to any lover of order,
peace, and quietness in this vast Metropolis? You're not a weasel to be
caught napping, and your recent Proclamation is admirable, if its
provisions be only justly and exactly carried out. Your arrangements
too--talking of provisions--for housing the houseless, seem to be
remarkably judicious. _Mr. Punch_ trusts that the Processions which you
mention, and "the wandering bands perambulating the streets," which you
are going to consider as disorderly, will be taken to include those
disturbers of our Sunday Quiet, calling themselves Members of the
Salvation Army, who, it is to be hoped, in every district wherever their
presence is not welcome to a majority of the respectable residents, will
be summarily dispersed and their noise stopped. On working days let
perambulating bands come out for air and exercise, only let them take
care that their "air" be always in tune. That schools and clubs should
have their bands is an excellent thing. But there are six days in the
week for noise, and the Salvationists can let us have our Sunday in
peace. _Mr. Punch_ is all for freedom of speech, and so he speaks out
freely. He is all for the liberty of the subject, but the subject must
remember that he is a subject, and _Mr. Punch_ takes the liberty to
remind him of it. At the meeting of real working men of business to
protest against these meetings in Trafalgar Square, Mr. FREDERICK GORDON
spoke up for his Metropole-itan interests in Grand style. The HOME
SECRETARY, it is to be hoped, carefully pondered the speeches of these
practical gentlemen. Mr. ATTENBOROUGH, too,--"O, my prophetic soul, my
uncle!"--gave distinct evidence of the injury done to trade in and about
Trafalgar Square. The Rev. Mr. KITTO moved a resolution, and Mr.
BIDDULPH seconded it,

  Saying ditto
  To Mr. KITTO.

And _Mr. Punch_ once more expresses his hope that the first Act of next
Session will be one to regulate meetings and processions in and about
London, whereby orderly citizens may enjoy their rights undisturbed.
Trafalgar Square and all our great thoroughfares should be "proclaimed
districts," as regards the loafers, roughs, and rowdies whose object is
plunder, and whose end is--or, at least, should be--punishment.


                               * * * * *

[Illustration: ALL THE DIFFERENCE.



                               * * * * *

[Illustration: "NOBLESSE OBLIGE."


_Noble Earl (who has just come into his Title)._ "LORD BE BLOWED! LEND

                               * * * * *

                          SCARLETINA AT TRURO.

The æsthetic Archbishop BENSON has an eye for colour. At Truro, the
_Times_ report says, "he wore his scarlet robe and train, which, as he
moved from place to place in the Cathedral"--very restless of him, by
the way--"was upborne by two little acolytes clad in scarlet cassocks
and dainty surplices of lawn, and wearing tiny scarlet caps upon their
heads." The Archbishop is the big scarlet, and the tiny acolytes might
be called the scarletini. And to think that years ago this sudden
outbreak of archiepiscopal brilliancy would have been inveighed against
as trifling with the "Scarlet Lady." H.R.H. made an excellent speech on
the occasion, and, with the effect of colour still in his memory, he
could not resist reminding the æsthetic Dr. BENSON that "seven years and
a half ago"--nothing like being exact--"he (H.R.H.) was enabled to lay
the foundation stone of this Cathedral with Masonic honours."
"Archbishop in scarlet, forsooth! scarlet tiny acolytes!" (such was
evidently the rebuke conveyed in H.R.H.'s speech)--"you should just see
Me as Most Worshipful Grand Master, with my Wardens, Deacons, Chaplains,
and Tylers! Why, in comparison with that blaze of splendour, you and
your scarlet are nowhere. However, Ladies and Gentlemen, I came here on
this occasion, not 'to oblige BENSON,' but to visit this ancient Duchy
in my popular character of Duke of CORNWALL. _Au revoir._"

                               * * * * *

Monsignor PERSICO, _Truth_ says, stayed with Archbishop CROKE, and dined
with the witty and popular Father JAMES HEALY, P.P. of Little Bray.
Well, Monsignor PERSICO must have heard a great deal of croke-ing, but
let us hope he has got some remedies for healy-ing the wounds of the
distressful country from _Mr. Punch's_ good friend, Father JAMES, of
Little Bray, and precious little bray about him.

                               * * * * *

                          A MYSTERIOUS PAPER.

The near approach of Christmas, with its fireside stories, has suggested
the following list of questions for examination that may be put to
himself by any intending _raconteur_. As he may be sure that if he can
tackle them satisfactorily he will be able effectually to enchain any
family circle he may come across during the coming festive season, he
may be safely recommended to go at them in all confidence:--

1. What is a "spook"? Have you ever met one in society? Define
"telepathy." Can you send a "telepathigram"? If so, do you think it
would cost more than a halfpenny a word?

2. Write a short biographical notice of Messrs. MYERS AND GURNEY. State
which of the two you would rather be, and give, if you can, your reasons
for your answer.

3. Furnish a brief abstract, that must not exceed 300 pages, of their
joint work, _Phantasms of the Living_. What would be the present price
of the two volumes on MUDIE'S Second-hand List?

4. A certain Mr. BROWN knew a Captain JONES, who knew a Major ROBINSON,
who one night sitting at Mess at a hill-station in the Central Provinces
of India, thought he saw a figure on the verandah and felt a sudden dig
in the side as if somebody had pushed him with his elbow. He had been
mixing his wines rather freely, but turning to his neighbour, he said,
"I am almost sure something has happened to my Uncle JAMES." He
subsequently wrote a dozen letters to England on the subject, but could
never get any answer; and to this day, though his Uncle JAMES is known
to be alive and quite well, the matter remains a mystery. To what class
of "inconsequent warnings" could you refer this experience?

5. At Bansbury House, Buckinghamshire, a phantom omnibus full inside and
out of headless passengers, drives three times round the central
grass-plot on the eve of the day on which the heir orders a new
dress-coat. Account for this, if you can, and compare it with the
reported apparition of the famous luminous elephant said to be visible
to the Lairds of Glenhuish whenever the amount of their butcher's-book
reaches the sum of £20.

6. Detail the circumstances that are said to explain the curious conduct
of the celebrated little old man in the bagwig and faded blue velvet
coat, that haunts the principal guest bedchamber at Tokenhouse Manor. To
what is he supposed to refer when after mournfully shaking his head
three times he says, "It's the mustard that did it!" Examine this, and
give some reasons to account for the fact that he invariably disappears
in the linen cupboard.

7. Give the various popular versions of the secret which imparted at
Rheums Castle to (1) the heir, on his attaining his majority, (2) the
family butler, and (3) a select circle of intimate friends who may have
chanced to attend on the occasion regarding the matter as an excellent
joke, instantly turns their hair white, causes them to look thirty years
older, and makes them talk in whispers, and wear an expression of
melancholy terror for the rest of their lives.

8. The hall of a well-known modern villa at Brixton is haunted by the
spectre of a coal-heaver, who carries his head under his arm; and,
whenever it is opened, he is visible on the mat, just inside the front
door. Tradesmen, therefore, calling with their accounts, rush away,
terror-stricken, without waiting for payment, and visitors coming to
five o'clock tea are carried off in violent hysterics to the nearest
chemist's. As the landlord cannot induce any bailiffs to cross the
threshold, the tenant who is, notwithstanding their ghastly condition,
quite cheerful on the premises, is several quarters in arrear with his
rent. State, under the circumstances, what proceedings, if any, you
would take to "lay" the ghost.

9. It is well known that the celebrated gallery at Bingham Place,
Somersetshire, is haunted, after midnight, by the apparition of a knight
in full armour, who heralds his approach by the clanking of chains and
cannon-balls, and who, after flinging about the boots and hot-water cans
standing at the doors of the various guest-chambers, tumbles
head-over-heels down-stairs, shrieking the refrain of a thirteenth
century hunting-chorus, and having thoroughly awakened everybody
sleeping on the premises, finally disappears with a loud unearthly wail,
in the butler's pantry. State what you think would be the probable
result of waiting for the appearance of this spectre, and then suddenly
hitting it hard over the knees with a cricket-bat.

10. Give the story of the well-known "haunted house" in Belgrave Square.
How would the unconscious tenant who had taken it furnished be likely to
account for the punctual appearance, at half-past nine every evening,
among his guests in the back drawing-room, of the eyeless baronet, in a
dressing-gown, dragging the two elderly females by the hair of their
heads about in a deadly struggle, and, after continuing it for
three-quarters of an hour, ultimately vanishing, as if exhausted,
apparently into the grand piano? Would you advise him to take his guests
into his confidence, and apologise for the intrusion, or pretend to
notice nothing unusual in the phenomenon, and simply ignore it? Examine
the situation, and conclude your paper by dealing with it in the shape
of a short essay on "the position of the Ghost considered in relation to

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: "LUXURY."

(_According to the latest Edition of "Knight Thoughts."_)

_Alderman (to his Guest, after a good dinner)._ "'ELP Y'SHELF! RECOLLEC'

                               * * * * *

                              AT HAWARDEN.

    "Mr. GLADSTONE gave Earl SPENCER and Earl GRANVILLE a specimen
    of his skill with the axe yesterday. With Mr. HERBERT GLADSTONE
    to assist him, the Right Honourable gentleman, stripped to his
    waist, attacked a tree in most vigorous fashion!"--_Times_,
    Nov. 4.

  "Like strokes on an anvil."
  "He'll catch influenza."
  Young HERBERT, brow mopping,
  Cried, "Letter from Dopping!"
  Growled GLADSTONE, not stopping
  In chopping, "Blow Dopping!"
  And so went on lopping.

                               * * * * *

"REFUSAL TO PAY A LEVY IN IRELAND."--This was what Mrs. RAM saw as the
heading of a paragraph in an evening paper. "Well," said the good lady,
"if they won't pay a LEVY, why not send a MOSES, and see if _he_ will
get it."

                                 * * *

                           The Plentiful Lac.

    [The Rajah of Kupurthala, emulating the Nizam, has offered five
    lacs towards the defence of the frontiers of India.]

  The Laureate, patriot of sense,
    Writes with a pungent pen
  Of "That eternal lack of pence
    Which vexeth public men."
  But India's public men, with pride,
    In Princes such as these,
  Will find their "lack of pence" supplied
    By--a lac of rupees!

                               * * * * *

                             VOCES POPULI.

      SCENE--_The Thames Embankment. Crowd discovered, waiting for
                           Lord Mayor's Show._

_Female Pleasure-seeker (whose temper is apt to be a little uncertain on
these occasions, to her husband)._ We ought to have started at _least_
an hour earlier--just look at the number of people here already! You
_would_ dawdle--and it wasn't for want of speaking to, _I'm_ sure!

_Her Husband (mildly)._ It certainly was _not_. Only, as the Show can't
possibly pass for two hours, at least----

_She._ _Two hours!_ Am I to stand about in this crowd all _that_ time?

_He (with a feeble jocularity)._ Unless you prefer to climb a tree.

_She._ Then, John, all I can say is, I wish I had stayed at home! (_John
murmurs a silent, but fervent assent._)

_A Practical Pleasure-seeker._ Now I tell you what we'll _do_,
MARIA--you take WEETIE, and keep close to me, and I'll look after
DUGGIE, and we'll just stroll comfortably up and down till the very last
minute, and drop comfortably into front places, and there we are!

_Patriotic P._ What I like about occasions like this, is the spectacle
of a thoroughly good-humoured, well-behaved British crowd--you don't see
that on the _Continent_, y'know!

_More Patriotic P. (thoughtfully)._ No, that's perfectly true; and what
I say is--we don't want all these police about. Trust more to the
general spirit of decency and order--let the people feel they _are_

_A Socialist._ Ah, you're right. Did you year what one of the Orators
said in the Square the other afternoon? He told 'em Sir CHARLES would
'ave to be as wide awake as what he was 'imself, to prevent a Unemployed
Demonstration to-day. "Let him remember," says he, "it's in our power to
do that within arf a mile of the Mansion House, which would make the
'ole civilised world ring with 'orror," he says. And it's men like that
as they're trying to silence and intimerdate!

_The P. P.'s (edging away a little nervously, to one another)._ Well, I
hope the Police are keeping a sharp look-out. I--I don't seem to see so
many about as usual, eh?

_A Speculator_ (with two tubs and a board) to Female P._ 'Ere you are,
lydy, hony two shellin' fur a fust-rate stand--you won't see no better
if you was to pay a suvring!

_Female P._ You may say what you _like_, but I'm not going to tramp
about any longer, and if you're so mean as to grudge two shillings--why,
I can pay for myself!

_Husb._ Oh, hang it--get up if you want to!

_The Practical P._ Well, MARIA, it's no use worrying _now_--we must go
and ask at the Police-Stations afterwards--it was a mistake to bring

_The Patriotic P._ Of course one is _told_ there's a good deal of rough
horse-play on these occasions, but anything more entirely----

    [_A "larrikin" comes up behind and "bashes" his hat in; a
    string of playful youths seize each other by the waist and rush
    in single file through crowd, upsetting everybody in their way;
    both the_ Patriotic Pleasure-seekers _go home by the
    Underground, without waiting for the Procession_.

_The Female P. (on the stand)._ JOHN, I'm sure this board isn't safe. We
should see ever so much better on one of those carts--they're only
asking sixpence, JOHN. You _are_ the worst person to come out with--you
never give yourself the smallest trouble--I have to do it all! _You_ can
stop here if you choose, _I'm_ going to get into one of those carts!
[_She and_ JOHN _descend, and mount upon a coal-cart which is being
driven slowly along the route_.

_Later; Procession approaching, distant music._

_Crowd (jumping up and down like "skip-jacks" to see better)._ 'Ere they
are, they're coming!

               [_The way is cleared by trotting mounted Constables._

_Stout Lady._ Well, if I wanted to faint ever so, I couldn't now--where
are you, my dear?

_Another Stout Lady (cheerfully)._ I'm all right, Mrs. PORTER, Mum. I've
got tight 'old of this nice young Perliceman's belt--don't you fret
yourself about me!

_Experienced Sightseer (catching hold of little_ DUGGIE _and placing him
in front, then pushing forward_). Make room for this little boy, will
you, please, I want him to see.

_Crowd good-naturedly make way, affording unimpeded view of procession
to_ DUGGIE--_and the_ Experienced Sightseer, _who troubles himself no

_A Superior Sightseer._ To think of the traffic of the first city in the
world being stopped for this contemptible tomfoolery!

                                   [_Fights hard for a front place._

                           _Procession passing._

_Impertinent Female (to gorgeous Coachman)._ 'Ow you _'ave_ altered!

_Well-informed Person (pointing out City Marshal)._ That's Sir CHARLES,
that is!

_Unemployed (smarting with sense of recent wrongs)._ Yah, toirant!

                              [_The C. M. beams with gratification._

_Open carriages pass, containing Aldermen in tall hats and fur-coats._

_Critical Crowd._ Brush yer 'ats! There's a nose! Oh, ain't he bin
'avin' a go at the sherry afore he started, neither! 'Ere comes old "Sir
BEN"--that's 'im in the white pot 'at!

    [_They cheer_ Sir BEN--_without, however, any clear notion why_.

                        _Allegorical Cars pass._

_Crowd._ Don't they look chilly up there! 'Old on to your globe, Sir!
Don't ketch cold in them tights, Miss! They've run up agin somethink,
that lot 'ave. See where it's all bent in--eh?

                      _Lord Mayor's Coach passes._

_Crowd._ 'Ooray! That's 'im with the muff on. No, it ain't, yer soft
'ed! It's 'im in the feathered 'at a-layin' back. Whoy don't yer let 'im
set on yer lap, Guv'nor? &c., &c.

               _A block. Lady Mayoress's Coach stopping._

_Crowd._ There's dresses! They must ha' cost a tidy penny!

_Agitator._ Wrung out of the pockets of the poor working-man! _I'd_
dress 'em, I would! Why should sech as you and me keep the likes
o' them in laziness? If we 'ad our rights, it's _us_ as 'ud be riding in
their places!

_Artisan (after a glance at him)._ Dunno as the Show'd be much the
prettier to look at for _that_, mate.

                        _After the Procession._

_Practical Pleasure-seeker (who has been pushed into a back row, and
seen nothing but the banners, to_ DUGGIE _and_ WEETIE, _miraculously
recovered_). Thank Heaven, they're found! Children, let this be a
lesson to you in future never to----What? Seen the Show beautifully,
have you? (_Boiling over._) Oh, very well--wait till I get you

_The Female P._ Now, don't say another word, JOHN,--anyone but
an _idiot_ would have _known_ that that cart would be turned down a
back-street! If I hadn't _insisted_ on getting out when I did, we
should have missed the Show altogether. Policeman, is the Show
ever coming? Shall we get a good view from here?

_Policeman._ Capital view, Mum--if you don't mind waiting till
next November!                                  [_Tableau. Curtain._

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: INTERIORS AND EXTERIORS. No. 53.

                               * * * * *

                   The Ingratitude of Grandolph.

  Many terrible things have our patriots seen;
    They have seen their dear DIZZY extending the suffrage,
  And versatile GLADSTONE a-wearing the Green,
    And HARCOURT defending Home Rule and the rough-rage;
  And Disintegration approaching our realm,
    And Rads--so they fancy--inviting invaders;
  But that which their souls must with woe most o'erwhelm
    Is--Lord RANDOLPH CHURCHILL a-chaffing Fair Traders!

                                 * * *

"'_Jam' satis,_" as our Schoolmaster had just breath enough to
murmur when he escaped from out of the midst of a Socialist Meeting
in Trafalgar Square.

                                 * * *

Unfortunately, the great enemy of the Teetotal Temperance Societies
is--the British "Public."

                               * * * * *


(_A Contribution towards a Future History, by Macaulay Stiggins, C. C._)


The LORD MAYOR was the first Privy Councillor created, and has remained
so ever since that auspicious event. On the death of the Monarch, he
presides at the meeting that is immediately summoned, and appoints the
new Cabinet, generally from the members of the late Government, but on
one memorable occasion he appointed all the members of the Court of
Aldermen who had passed the Chair, and although they were afterwards
induced to resign, it was noticed that during their short administration
matters went on much as usual. This was called the Cabinet of Absolute
Wisdom, after Alderman WOOD, the Prime Minister, who was the First Lord
of the Treasury who ever left more in it than he found there. His
beautiful daughter, MARIA, was the reigning Toast of those hard-drinking
days, and gave her well-known name to the magnificent City Barge that
periodically conveys the City Fathers, together with the City Mothers,
on their several important inspections of the Silver Thames, in the
neighbourhood of Richmond and Twickenham. The matters they have to
discuss on these occasions are of so weighty a nature that they are
compelled to have five or six horses to draw them. On one occasion, and
one only, they managed to get as far as Oxford, an account of which
celebrated voyage was written by the Lord Mayor's Chaplain of the time,
under the title of "Alderman WENABLES' Woyage to Hoxford," a copy of
which is still preserved in the Bodleian, among their most cherished
treasures, and can only be seen on special application, as fabulous sums
have been offered by the Court of Aldermen for its destruction, it being
the only copy that escaped when the whole edition was ordered to be
bought up and destroyed. This unique volume is said to contain such
astounding revelations as must be seen to be believed, and would
possibly not be believed even then.

Before the newly-elected Lord Mayor is sworn in, he has to produce a
Certificate from a Wine Merchant, "residinge in ye Cittye," and a
Freeman of the Vintners' Company, that he has placed in the capacious
Cellar at the Mansion House, provided for that purpose, ten Tuns, or one
thousand dozen of good wine, for the year's consumption, and whatever is
left, _if any_, is distributed among the Royal Hospitals, the quantity
being carefully recorded by the learned Recorder, which record is placed
under the control of the equally learned Comptroller, and remains for
all time, as a witness to the liberality or stinginess of the Right
Honourable the Lord Mayor of that particular year.

The Sheriffs are the most ancient officers of the Corporation, having
been first elected in the reign of King NEBUCHADNEZZAR. A singular
custom still prevails, originating, it is said, in their association
with the grass-eating monarch. They are entitled, by virtue of their
office, to the first six bundles of sparrow-grass--as it was originally
spelt, and is still called by Members of the Corporation--that are
brought into Covent Garden Market: and his Grace the Duke of BEDFORD is
always courteously invited to partake of it, at a sumptuous banquet
called "the Grass Festival." (_Vide Stow_, cap. 23 of BELL'S ed.)

The City Marshal was formerly a personage of great importance, being in
fact of the same rank as a Field Marshal, the only difference being that
one acted in the City and the other in the Field, whence their names.
The City Marshal was the City Champion, and always rode into Guildhall,
fully armed, on Lord Mayor's Day, at the commencement of the Banquet,
and, throwing down a glove, dared anyone to mortal combat who disputed
the rights of the Lord Mayor. If no one accepted his challenge, he
quaffed a flagon of sack to his Lordship's health, and then cleverly and
gracefully backed out of the Hall. It is recorded that on one occasion
his challenge was accepted by a gallant Common Councilman who had been
fulfilling the important duties of Wine-taster, and who, when called
upon to name time and place for the deadly encounter, said, in the
memorable words of the great ALFRED, "Here and now!" which so astonished
the Champion that he pleaded sudden indisposition, and withdrew. The
custom has since been discontinued. The gallant Common Councilman was
made Deputy of the Ward of Port-soaken.

In ancient times the LORD MAYOR, as every one knows, had a Fool all to
himself, and he was the only Fool permitted in the City. The appointment
was open to all by competitive examination. On the occasion of a LORD
MAYOR making a Fool of himself the office was abolished by the Common
Council from motives of economy. In memory of this ancient privilege the
LORD MAYOR once in the season has a fool--a gooseberry fool--all to

                               * * * * *

                            A NAPPY HOLIDAY.

[Illustration: Going Nap.]

_Any Time in August._--Just been reading capital article in _Nineteenth
Century_, by Dr. JAMES MUIR HOWIE, on the "Nerve Rest-Cure," which
says--"For those who cannot get a sufficient holiday, the best
substitute is an occasional day in bed." Why not several days in bed? In
fact one's whole summer holiday? "Better than climbing toilsome
mountains," he remarks. Quite so--and much better than toilsome trip to
Ramsgate with one's whole family in tow. (Think of the Old Woman who
lived in a Shoe. _She_ had all her family in _toe_. Laugh feebly at my
own joke. Really my nerves must be _very_ bad.) Best feature of new
holiday plan, however, is its _cheapness_. Was quite at a loss how to
afford our annual trip till HOWIE came to rescue with his "(y)early to
bed" cure. Announce to family that I intend following Dr. HOWIE'S
advice. Family seems too stupefied to say anything.

_Evening._--Family has found its voice. Protests unanimously and quite
fiercely against new holiday plan. Wife "sure I can afford trip to
sea-side." If not, _where_ does my money go to? Argument forcible, but

_First Day._--Holiday begins. Sleep till 11 A.M. Scrumpshous! Should
have slept longer, but two hurdy-gurdies stop outside, playing different
airs. Not only murder the tunes, but "murder sleep" as well. Listen for
ten minutes--nerves terribly shaky. Oughtn't to get out of bed, HOWIE
says, but must. See my eldest boy, HENRY, giving Italian fiends money!
What does this unwonted generosity mean?

_Afternoon._--Dinner in bed not a success. Everything underdone. Tell
wife. She says, "Cook and servants in bad tempers; thought we were all
going to Ramsgate, and they would have rest." Rest means clandestine
kitchen parties. Feel angry--bad for nerves, but can't help it. Sleep
impossible, as bed full of crumbs. Wonder HOWIE didn't think of this.
Send HENRY for evening paper--perhaps it will soothe me.

It doesn't. He brings back one three days old. Says shopman gave it him!
Send him again, and shop closed for night. Nerves actually _worse than

_Second Day._--Had disturbed night, owing to lack of my usual exercise
yesterday. Still must stick to HOWIE'S prescription. Terrific row in
house. Wife comes up after breakfast (in tears) to say children,
deprived of sea-side trip, are ungovernable; pretend to be buffaloes and
Cowboys _in drawing-room_! Already two valuable vases wrecked. Hang the
children! Hang Colonel CODY too! Still even paying for new vases cheaper
than Ramsgate lodgings. Read morning paper. Just dropping off to sleep
over somebody's important speech on Ireland, when----

_Three_ hurdy-gurdies outside! Rush to window, open it, and bid men
avaunt. They won't avaunt. Say "they've been ordered to come every
morning for a month by the young gent." This must be HENRY'S "Plan of
Campaign." Send for him, and find he has prudently gone out. Nothing for
it but to stuff cotton-wool into ears till men go. Cotton-wool in ears
for a whole hour _shatters_ nerves.

_Third Day._--Much worse. Though I've given strict orders that no
letters or bills are to be sent up to my bed-room, find Tax-Collector's
little "Demand-Note" wrapped in fold of morning paper! Annoyed. Perhaps,
after all, HOWIE wrong. Hullo! what's that? Somebody on my window-sill!
Burglars? No, can't be. How bad all this is for my nerves. Spring up in
time to see HENRY disappearing down rope-ladder, which he and his
brothers have let down from roof. How horribly dangerous! Ring
violently. Hear heavy thud in garden. Talk of "Nerve Rest-Cure"--rest of
my nerves gone long ago, none left to be cured.

Wife (in tears again--awfully bad for nerves this) says the thud was not
HENRY falling; boys have pulled down part of chimney, which has smashed
the front steps--that's all. She suggests that perhaps, after all, this
holiday plan in bed is not so good as----

_Five hurdy-gurdies_ to-day! Maddening! Hired by HENRY, wife says. Send
_him_ to bed for whole day; we'll see how he likes "Rest-Cure" for _his_
nerves. Get up gloomily, dress, and go downstairs. Pitch _Nineteenth
Century_ into waste-paper basket. Feel nerves better after it. Decide on
Ramsgate, as usual, and so ends my holiday in bed--my "Sleepy Hollow"

                               * * * * *

    [Illustration] NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or
    Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or
    Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not
    even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope,
    Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.

Transcriber Notes:

Passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_.

Passages in bold were indicated by =equal signs=.

Small caps were replaced with ALL CAPS.

Throughout the document, the oe ligature was replaced with "oe".

Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of
the speakers. Those words were retained as-is.

The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up
paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate.

Errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected
unless otherwise noted.

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 93, Nov. 11, 1887" ***

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