Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 93, Nov. 12, 1887

Name: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 93, Nov. 12, 1887
Author: Various

by Various

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English wit and humor -- Periodicals

In: Punch·Poetry·Humour

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 93. NOVEMBER 12, 1887.

THE LETTER-BAG OF TOBY, M.P.

FROM A HOME-SICK SECRETARY.

By Guildford, Saturday.

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.

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.

THE MOST LITIGIOUS PERSON ON RECORD.--The man who had all his 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.

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?

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