THE DIARY OF A LORD MAYOR.
All the world is familiar with the “Diary of a Physician,” the “Diary of an Ennuyée,” the “Diary of a Lady of Rank,” and Heaven knows how many other diaries besides! but who has ever heard of, or saw, the “Diary of a Lord Mayor,—that day-book, or blotter, as it may be commercially termed, of a gigantic mind? Who has ever perused the autobiography of the Lama of Guildhall, Cham of Cripplegate, Admiral of Fleet Ditch, Great Turtle-hunter and Herod of Michaelmas geese? We will take upon ourselves to answer—not one! It was reserved for PUNCH to give to his dear friends, the public, the first and only extract which has ever been made from the genuine diary of a late Lord Mayor of London, or, as that august individual was wont, when in Paris, to designate himself on his visiting tickets—
“Mr. ——
“FEU LORD MAYOR DE LONDRES.”
How the precious MS. came into our possession matters little to the reader; suffice it to say, it is a secret which must ever remain confined to the bosoms of PUNCH and his cheesemonger.
DIARY.
Nov. 10, eight o’clock.—Dreamed a horrid dream—thought that I was stretched in Guildhall with the two giants sitting on my chest, and drinking rum toddy out of firemen’s buckets—fancied the Board of Aldermen were transformed into skittle-pins, and the police force into bottles of Harvey’s sauce. Tried to squeak, but couldn’t. Then I imagined that I was changed into the devil, and that Alderman Harmer was St. Dunstan, tweaking my nose with a pair of red-hot tongs. This time, I think, I did shout lustily. Awoke with the fright, and found my wife pulling my nose vigorously, and calling me “My Lord!” Pulled off my nightcap, and began to have an idea I was somebody, but could not tell exactly who. Suddenly my eye rested upon the civic gown and chain, which lay upon a chair by my bed-side:—the truth flashed upon my mind—I felt I was a real Lord Mayor. I remembered clearly that yesterday I had been sworn into office. I had a perfect recollection of the glass-coach, and the sheriffs, and the men in armour, and the band playing “Jim along Josey,” as we passed the Fleet Prison, and the glories of the city barge at Blackfriars-bridge, and the enthusiastic delight with which the assembled multitude witnessed—
THE LORD MAYOR TAKING WATER.
I could also call to mind the dinner—the turtle, venison, and turbot—and the popping of the corks from the throats of the champagne bottles. I was conscious, too, that I had made a speech; but, beyond this point, all the events of the night were lost in chaotic confusion. One thing, however, was certain—I was a bonâ fide Lord Mayor—and being aware of the arduous duties I had to perform, I resolved to enter upon them at once. Accordingly I arose, and as some poet says—
“Commenced sacrificing to the Graces,
By putting on my breeches.”
Sent for a barber, and authorised him to remove the superfluous hair from my chin—at the same time made him aware of the high honour I had conferred upon him by placing the head of the city under his razor—thought I detected the fellow’s tongue in his cheek, but couldn’t be certain. Mem. Never employ the rascal again.
9 o’clock.—Dressed in full fig—sword very troublesome—getting continually between my legs. Sat down to breakfast—her ladyship complimented me on my appearance—said I looked the beau ideal of a mayor—took a side glance at myself in the mirror—her ladyship was perfectly right. Trotter the shoemaker announced—walked in with as much freedom as he used to do into my shop in Coleman-street—smelt awfully of “best calf” and “heavy sole”—shook me familiarly by the hand, and actually called me “Bob.” The indignation of the Mayor was roused, and I hinted to him that I did not understand such liberties, upon which the fellow had the insolence to laugh in my face—couldn’t stand his audacity, so quitted the room with strong marks of disgust.
10 o’clock.—Heard that a vagabond was singing “Jim Crow” on Tower-hill—proceeded with a large body of the civic authorities to arrest him, but after an arduous chase of half-an-hour we unfortunately lost him in Houndsditch. Suppressed two illegal apple-stalls in the Minories, and took up a couple of young black-legs, whom I detected playing at chuck-farthing on Saffron-hill. Issued a proclamation against mad dogs, cautioning all well-disposed persons to avoid their society.
12 o’clock.—Waited upon by the secretary of the New River Company with a sample of the water they supply to the City—found that it was much improved by compounding it with an equal portion of cognac—gave a certificate accordingly. Lunched, and took a short nap in my cocked hat.
1 o’clock.—Police-court. Disposed of several cases summarily—everybody in court amazed at the extraordinary acuteness I displayed, and the rapidity with which I gave my decisions—they did not know that I always privately tossed up—heads, complainant wins, and tails, defendant—this is the fairest way after all—no being humbugged by hard swearing or innocent looks—no sifting of witnesses—no weighing of evidence—no deliberating—no hesitating—the thing is done in an instant—and, if the guilty should escape, why the fault lies with fortune, and not with justice.
3 o’clock.—Visited the Thames Tunnel—found Brunel a devilish deep fellow—he explained to me the means by which he worked, and said he had got nearly over all his difficulties—I suppose he meant to say he had nearly got under them—at all events the tunnel, when completed, will be a vast convenience to the metropolis, particularly to the lower classes. From the Tunnel went to Billingsgate-market—confiscated a basket of suspicious shrimps, and ordered them to be conveyed to the Mansion-house. Mem. Have them for breakfast to-morrow. Return to dress for dinner, having promised to take the chair at the Grand Annual Metropolitan Anti-Hydro-without-gin-drinking Association.
Here a hiatus occurs in the MS.; but from cotemporary authorities we are enabled to state that his lordship was conveyed home at two o’clock on the following morning, by some jolly companions.
“Slowly and sadly they smoothed his bed, And they told his wife and daughter To give him, next day, a couple of red- Herrings and soda-water.”
THE LOVES OF THE PLANTS.
The gay Daffodilly, an amorous blade,
Stole out of his bed in the dark,
And calling his brother, Jon-Quil, forth he stray’d
To breathe his love vows to a Violet maid
Who dwelt in a neighbouring park.
A spiteful old Nettle-aunt frown’d on their love;
But Daffy, who laugh’d at her power,
A Shepherd’s-purse slipp’d in the nurse’s Fox-glove,
Then up Jacob’s-ladder he crept to his love,
And stole to the young Virgin’s-bower.
The Maiden’s-blush Rose—and she seem’d all dismay’d,
Array’d in her white Lady’s-smock,
She call’d Mignonette—but the sly little jade,
That instant was hearing a sweet serenade
From the lips of a tall Hollyhock.
The Pheasant’s eye, always a mischievous wight,
For prying out something not good,
Avow’d that he peep’d through the keyhole that night;
And clearly discern’d, by a glow-worm’s pale light,
Their Two-faces-under-a-hood.
Old Dowager Peony, deaf as a door,
Who wish’d to know more of the facts,
Invited Dame Mustard and Miss Hellebore,
With Miss Periwinkle, and many friends more,
One evening to tea and to tracts.
The Butter-cups ranged, defamation ran high,
While every tongue join’d the debate;
Miss Sensitive said, ‘twixt a groan and a sigh,
Though she felt much concern’d—yet she thought her dear Vi—
Had grown rather bulbous of late.
Thus the tale spread about through the busy parterre:
Miss Columbine turn'd up her nose,
And the prude Lady Lavender said, with a stare,
That her friend, Mary-gold, had been heard to declare,
The creature had toy’d with the Rose.
Each Sage look’d severe, and each Cocks-comb look’d gay,
When Daffy to make their mind easy,
Miss Violet married one morning in May,
And, as sure as you live, before next Lady-day,
She brought him a Michaelmas-daisy.
NOTHING WONDERFUL.
The Duke of Normandie accounts for the non-explosion of his percussion-shells, by the fact of having incautiously used some of M’Culloch’s pamphlets on the corn laws. If this be the case, no person can be surprised at their not going off.
MODERN WAT TYLERS.
The anxiety of the Whigs to repeal the timber duties is quite pardonable, for, with their wooden heads, they doubtlessly look upon it in the light of a poll-tax.
Head of a Botecudo previous to disfigurement.
Head of a Butecudo disfigured by chin and ear pendants.
Head of a Botecudo disfigured by civilisation.