Punch: Punch (76.1879)

16

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[January 18, 1879.

OLD WOMEN IN THE CITY.

The Citizen bears
the following tes-
timony to the
wisdom and discern-
ment of certain of its
fellow - citizens, as
touching1

" Free Trade and
Reciprocity.—An ex-
tremely large number of
signatures have already
been affixed to the Me-
morial 'which is to be
presented to the Lord
Mayor urging him to
convene a public meet-
ing in the Guildhall
with regard to the pre-
sent depression of trade.
The Memorialists desire
a Parliamentary Inquiry
with the object of modi-
fying, if such should be
found advisable, the
existing system of Free
Trade."

One would imagine
that the City men

capable of seriously proposing the revival of Protection as a remedy
for the depression of trade, must be as small in number as insignifi-
cant in position. But says our Citizen :—

"From inspection of the document itself we are enabled to state that the
signataries include many of the largest firms of the City, wholesale warehouse-
men, bankers, and merchants of the highest standing."

Is it possible ? And this when distress prevails all the world over,
and most severely in the country where Protection is most thoroughly
established. What a hold the Unprotected Female must of late years
have been quietly taking on the City! What a number of old
Ladies in the largest firms around the abode of the Old Lady of
Threadneedle Street! The Protectionist panic of these old Ladies,
however, too clearly shows that, whatever progress they may have
been making in the commercial world, they have anything but
advanced in their knowledge of business.

FBIENDS AT A DISTANCE.

Being a Brief Record of a feio Winter-seasonable Visits to certain

Country Mouses.

Visit the Fiest.—Chaptee X.

Cat on Counterpane — Inducements —• Considerations about Cats
— Witches — Familiars —■ Manoeuvres — Decision — Away —
Disappearance-—Retirement—Thoughts on Smiles—In Bed—
Practicality—Attempts — My Dream—An Awakener—Inex-
plicable — Morning — Mystery — Question — Answer — Return
—Appointment—Narration—Rude Incredulity—Mem.

The Black Cat—• Griff is its name—still on the bed. It won't come
off. There is nothing for it but coaxing. A dog being of a more
credulous nature, can be induced to run out of a room on receiving
an intimation (false, of course) as to the existence of rats, or cats,
outside. But a cat is not to be taken in, or rather is not to be put
out, by such simple devices. Were I to open the door, and say,
" Mouse! mouse! Hi! In there, good cat!" he wouldn't stir.
The mention of a rat would present no attraction; and though a dog
would dash off anywhere in expectation of finding a cat, yet the
reverse of this is the case with the latter animal.

The part of the room, where the door is, becomes darker and darker,
as the fire only throws a warm glow on its own little social circle of
fender, fire-irons and hearth-rug. Occasionally, a gleam, shooting
up like a signal to the spirits, illumines, for a second, the face of the
old Cavalier in the picture. In that brief space, as I, in my'be-
wilderment, am looking up from the cat to the wall, utterly forgetful
of the picture, he seems to appear before me like the apparition of
the Flying Dutchman did to Senta ; and, by the light of that fitful
flame his eyes open and close upon me, as though he (whoever he is)
were astonished at my hesitation in dealing with a mere cat.

But it isn't a mere cat; it's a Tom Cat, a big Tom Cat, and a Tom is
much fiercer than a Tabby. At least, so I have always understood.

I feel I must be asleep before the fire goes out.

I cross into the shadow, and open the door. Silence and gloom in
the passage, anything but enticing to most animals, though I fancy
cats rather prefer darkness ; and to a London cat, a coal-hole offers

unusual advantages for rest and meditation, with occasional diver-
sion,—occasioned, I should imagine, by beetles and mice. But a
cockney cat, or Whittingtonian kitchen cat, is quite another being
from the sleek drawing-room bred, dining-room fed, black cat, in
a country house, which probably disdains the common domestic
mouse,—a term that sounds better than the " house-mouse,"—and
indulges only in field sports, and the excitement of poaching [on
various preserves.

I hold the door open. I could not be more polite were I ushering
a Duchess into a drawing-room.

" Puss ! Puss! Puss ! Come Pussy! "

" Mow! " replies Griff, still pacing up and down, and lifting up
his feet as though the counterpane were a patchwork of hot plates.

It flashes across me how so many fairy stories are associated with
cats, and not one with a dog. At least, I do not remember any dog
figuring as a hero. The witch's familiar is invariably a black cat.
Cats are always associated with something grotesque, weird, or dia-
bolical. I don't so much mind a feminine cat, like, for example, the
White Cat; but a black Tom Cat, a monster with glaring eyes, and
claws that you can hear as they pluck at the quilt—no !—out he
must go. I can't stand shivering at the door any longer. The fire-
shovel and poker must be introduced into the scene, when it will
become uncommonly like a haunted bed-room in the good old Panto-
mime times,—only without the music,—and I must take my chance
of waking people with the noise.

I steal round to the fire, giving, by my manner, no hint to the
cat of the contemplated manoeuvre. Now then! Whoosh! _ Whirr!
Clang! I am executing a sort of white-robed classic Indian war-
dance on the hearthrug.

The cat has vanished. Into the'darkness. Gone. I assure myself
of the fact, very carefully, and cautiously. Now, as Lady Macbeth
says, (why that horrid scene conjured up now f) "To bed! To bed!
To bed!!"

I expect to see a ghost. Were a ghost to appear now, as I snuggle
into the pillow, and insist on tucking me up for the night, it would be
nothing more than 1 had expected. I expect the door to open
slowly (in spite of its being locked). I hear the crackling of the last
log on the fire. I hear the furniture, and the wood-work, snapping,
like overstrained fiddle-strings. But it is warm and comfortable in
bed, and if a ghost came now, I feel I should have the best of it. In
seeing a ghost, I fancy being in bed, or out of bed, must make all
the difference. So it seems to me,—at present. In fact, I begin to
wonder about the wicked old Earl, and the picture, and the clock,
and then I remember somebody's after-dinner story about the ghost
of Cardinal AVolsey in blue coat and brass buttons, and I actually
smile.

_ I like smiling in bed ; it is so cosy. I am convinced that at no
time of one's life can one's smile appear so perfectly happy, or be
so indicative of a contented mind, at peace with all the world, as a
smile in bed.

It is a pretty subject, too, for a picture, " The Smiler in Bed," no
matter who the smiler may be. It may be true, and is true to a
certain extent, to say '' Therejis no place like Home;" but give me the
very kernel of that sentiment, and let me exclaim with enthusiasm,
" There is no place like bed ! "

With the glass at several degrees below freezing point, with
expenses within and expenses without, there is, no place like bed.
Bed! bed! soft, warm bed! wherever I wander there's no place
like bed. And as to ghosts—the bed-posts mark, as it were, the
boundaries of the charmed circle, within which no ghosts can pene-
trate to hurt me. No, here I can think, and blink, and smile at the
fire, and be happy.

Then, I argue, that if there are ghosts they won't hurt me; and I
have half a mind to utter this sentiment aloud, so that, should there
be any ghosts ready to appear, they may be anxious not to lose my
good opinion.

My clothes, hanging helplessly over the chair-back, assume a fan-
tastic shape, and I can't help thinking how really fearful it would
be, were the double of one's own face gradually to appear out of the
looking-glass. I direct my attention with a sort of deferential de-
fiance towards the portrait, half daring it to come out of its frame,
and half imploring it not to do anything of the sort.

Then I close my eyes, and try to sleep. Failure.

It occurs to me how foolish it is to indulge in any conversation
late at night calculated to excite the imagination. _ As a remedy, I
will close my eyes once more, and be practical. 1 will arrange what
I am going to do to-morrow. Everything in order, beginning with
the first thing in the morning—breakfast. I don't intend staying
here another day, as Jossltn DykE and his nervous aunt, Mrs.
Ttjpton", win not be lively company.

This practicality leads to sleep. I do sleep, but I dream an unin-
teresting stupid dream.

Somehow I am dressed in a Cambridge B. A. gown and hood, which
is not exactly a B.A. gown and hood, but only something of the sort;
and I am dining with a Lady, who it is I haven't the slightest idea,
as I am ignorant of her name, and have never seen her face before,