Punch (72.1877)

January 13, 1877.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVAEI.

9

MR. PUNCH'S CELEBRITES CHEZ EUX.

No. I.—The Great Man at Home.

{By One who Knows—his Footman.)

ever,al magnificent
Parks, one leading
out of the other;
then a gorgeous
garden full of tro-
pical plants and
flowers, a fresh and
fragrant tangle of
greenery, a musical,
melodious, mur-
muring melange of
birds, fountains,
fruit - trees, lakes,
and mountains.
Always blue sky,
and always sun-
shine and soft sweet
breezes. Such the
surroundings of the
Palace.

The House itself.
A noble building of
marble and precious
stones, now remind-
ing one of the

Louvre, now of Hampton Court, now of Belvoir Castle. A quaint old place,
with immense stacks of red brick chimneys, heaps of bronze doors, and hundreds
of latticed windows. A home for a Cromwell, a Napoleon the Great, or an
Edward the Confessor. At the back, twenty square miles of good mixed
shooting, and a hundred leagues of trout-stream.

The Servants' Offices excellent. A splendid suite of apartments for the
Butler, with a secret passage leading from the comfortable library into the
cellar. An airy pantry, with cupboards full of plate. A nicely-furnished
Housekeeper's Room, the very place for wit and comfort. A Servants' Hall
ever ready to extend its hospitality to litterateurs. And the employes, in their
powdered hair and magnificent uniforms of plush smalls and yellow coats—nice,
amiable, unaffected men, full of anecdotes of Him—the Great Man it is their
pride to serve. Prom the Butler himself down to the young gentleman in
buttons all equally chatty and confidential.

Up-Stairs. Gold, silver, and blue brocade. Here is the Hall where the
Great Man puts his umbrella and hat. That unpretending bronze peg is the
one upon which he hangs his overcoat. Yonder cupboard hides his well-
worn wide-awake, his hunting-whips, his favourite rods, and his short pipe.
The Great Man, when he can escape from his followers, delights in a ramble
across country. He will start at four in the morning, and, whistling to half-a-
dozen dogs (a retriever, two foxhounds, a Newfoundland, a bull-terrier, and
a pug), will, thus followed, hunt for hours the artful rabbit or the wily snipe.
Then he will drop in at a country inn, and dine on the simplest fare—some soup,
a little fish, a few entrees, and a bird. But this he will do only when he has
some particular chum staying with him—such as His Royal Highness fresh
from_ Marlborough House, or my Lord Beaconsfield. On State days he will
remain in the gold drawing-room, in his simple but effective costume of black
velvet slashed with red satin, giving audiences to the great and noble.
Courteous to the last degree, he bows his guest into the jewelled chair, and
talks for five minutes. Then he rises, and another graceful bow proclaims
the interview at an end. But he is an inveterate smoker, and never appears
without a homely " yard of clay " hanging from between his lips.

His wardrobe contains all sorts of magnificent costumes, the gifts (in great
part) of his admirers. Here is the Court dress of a North American Indian,
there the mufti of a Pield-Marshal of Peru; yonder (thrown about in confusion)
are a number of patents of nobility. The Orders of Knighthood (of which the
Great Man possesses sixty-seven) are not here to-day. They have been sent down
to the footman's pantry to be brushed up with the rest of the plate.

And how does the Great Man spend his day ? At five he wakes, and takes a
cup of tea with two lumps of sugar in it. Then he dashes into a swimming-bath,
and afterwards spends a couple of hours in his private gymnasium. After this
he is ready for his secretaries. Ten of them enter his study (a smaB apartment,
full of books, desks, and magnificent extra-sized chandeliers), and read to him
his correspondence. As his letters number on the average two thousand a post,
his secretaries read them simultaneously to save time. Then comes breakfast—
a o^vPv? ™ea^ °* co^ee> daret, lobster, mushrooms, muffins, pig's fry (a dish of
which he is particularly fond) a few pates de foie gras, and perhaps a haunch of
venison, or a canvas-back. After breakfast the usual business of the day
commences. Prom noon till two o'clock he writes. He is a quick thinker, and
works fast. In these two hours he will sometimes knock off at one sitting a
five-act comedy, a draft treaty of commerce, and a three-volume novel. At
two he sees the Ambassadors, giving precedence to the Prench as the repre-
sentative of an unfortunate,-people. Then come the German, the Russian, the
Italian, and the Austro-Hungarian. Of late he has refused to see the Turkish
Ambassador. - It is scarcely necessary to add that the Great Man talks to each

foreigner in his visitor's native tongue. After the
Ambassadors come the statesmen. Lord Hartlngton
is put into the Red Room, while Sir Stafford North-
cote lounges in the Blue.

Even if each visitor should receive no more than the
regulation five minutes, these interviews consume
several hours. At six, the Great Man devotes some
forty-five minutes to recreation. It is at this time that
he meets his, greatest friends en petit comite. The brown
boudoir (furnished in the Oriental fashion with couches
and Old Masters) rings with the laugh of Alfred Tenny-
son, the chuckle of Carltle, the soft "ha-ha" of
Charles Reade, and the boisterous merriment of Mr.
Gladstone. The Venetian glasses at these times mirror
the faces of such men as Sir Wilfrid Lawson, the
Archbishop of Canterbury, Mr. Buckstone, Sir
George Nares, Major O'Gorman, and Dr. Cumming of
Scotland. Then comes dinner, a glorious meal with a
menu a yard long ; and then the Great Man goes out to
be petted and feted by Society, to dance with the
Duchess of This, and to flirt with the Countess of That.
At these times he refuses to talk business. Bismarck
may telegraph and Rothschilds may follow him about,
but to no good—his rule has not an exception. When
he requires country air, a hearty welcome awaits him at
Balmoral, Sandringham, and Osborne. He refuses daily
invitations from the Elysee, and the imperial palaces of
Vienna, St. Petersburg and Berlin; he hates ceremony
with its guards of honour, its court-banquets, and military
reviews. He likes to be with his friends, and when he
pays a visit, only takes with him half-a-dozen of his
valets, and a few cordons bleus. And what is the name
of this truly Great Man ? The question is easily
answered. The name of this truly Great Man is—■
Mr. Punch.

HOW TO USE A CLUB.

Never pay your subscription until you have obtained
post rank. Modern Clubs collapse so suddenly that
it is well to be on the safe side; besides, you gain the
interest of the money and get your name advertised
gratis.

Always run down the Club when you are in it; even call
it a pot-house. The other members will, of course, think
that you belong to several superior Clubs, and love you
accordingly.

Always swear at the Waiters. It is not included in
their wages, but they regard it as a perquisite.

No Club Man, who is wise, ever buys a new umbrella.
Why should he, when so many men daily do it for him ?
The time for the best is between seven and eight, when
members are pretty safe in the dining-room.

If you take a fancy to any engraving in the rarer
library books—cut it out when no one is by. If the
Committee inform you that this is dishonest, reply that
that may be their impression, but that you prefer proofs.

When the Smoking-room Waiter brings you the
cigar-box, ask boldly and loudly, "Which are the
eighteen-penny ones ? " and select quietly a twopenny
cheroot. So you gain at a minimum of expenditure
one of the greatest advantages of wealth.

Invariably black-ball men who are put up for election
by either your proposer or seconder. As in nine cases
out of ten we have cause to regret introducing men as
members of our Club, you will be doing your friends an
unobtrusive yet essential service.

Stare at strangers as though they were some new
form of wild beasts. You don't pay an entrance-fee and
annual subscription to have your Club turned into an
hotel. Besides, other members' friends are always cads.

When the conversation turns, upon books, though the
only two you know are your laundress's and an old Ruff,
speak airily of your " library." That at the Museum is
as much yours as it is anybody's.

Get hold of a lord if you can, even though it be but an
Irish peer ; invite him to dinner, and take care that
everyone knows who he is. After he is gone, shrug your
shoulders, call him "Poor devil!" and hint that you
" dessay he's glad of a dinner." So you score doubly.

When compelled to speak of your three-pair-back,
allude to it as your "chambers;" and to Sally, your
fifteen years' old maid-of-all-work as your " man."

Back your bill daily. Complain of the cigars, dinner,