'Tis November makes the (Lord) Mayor to go. As the ninth approaches, the year's tenant of the Mansion House packs up and says farewell to all his greatness. On the principle that attributes happiness to a country that has no annals, the outgoing Lord Mayor is to be congratulated on his year of office. It is probable that out of aldermanic circles not one man of a hundred in the street could straight off say what is his Lordship's name. Mr. Punch, who knows most things, only ventures to believe that the good alderman is known in the family circle as Sir Edward Tyler. And a very good name, too. In the occult ceremonies pertaining to freemasonry it is understood there is an official known as the Tiler, whose duty is to guard the door, strictly excluding all but those whose right of entrance is peremptory. Our Sir Edward has indeed been the Tiler of the traditionally hospitable Mansion House.
BROKEN CHINA.
It is curious to observe the attitude of Western Powers towards the life-and-death struggle going on in the far East. We of course regret the loss of life, but are mainly interested in observing the effect in actual work of ships and guns identical with our own. It is a sort of gigantic test got up for our benefit at somebody else's expense. That an ancient empire seems tottering to a fall moves no emotion. "Yes," said the Member for Sark, to whom these recondite remarks were addressed; "Pope wasn't far out of it when he very nearly said 'Europe is mistress of herself though China fall.'"
"MOVING ABOUT IN WORLDS NOT REALISED."
(By a prejudiced but puzzled Victim of Teacaddies and Ginger-jars.)
I suppose there's a war in the East,
(I am deluged with pictures about it,)