Punch: Punch (97.1889)

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [November 23, 1889.

EXCLUSIVE.”

Our Philanthropist (who often takes the Shilling Gallery—to his Neighbour).
1 Only a middling House,”

Unleashed Artisan. “Ay—that Sixpence extry. ’rather heavy for the
LIKES o’ HUZ, i’rNOW. BUT THERE ’s ONE THING—IT KEEPS OUT THE RlFF-

Raff ! ! ”

A MEDICAL OWL.

[An Owl has taken up his abode in a tree at Guy’s Hospital.]

An Owl seen at Guy’s! We may surely surmise,
That the bird of Minerva seeks knowledge ;

And comes to the place to find favour and grace
At the hands of the men of that college.

They may say, “It’s absurd to encourage this bird,”
Like the hero of Lear's famed fasciculus ;

But why that should be so we realty can’t see,

There are many things far more ridiculous.

No man can deny that, in ages gone by,

The Owl for his wisdom was famous:

This bird may aspire, with a clinic desire,

In medical culture to shame us.

At the lectures we feel he will certes reveal
Strict attention, in every attitude;

With a wink in his eye (Do owls wink, by the bye ?)
When Professors indulge in a platitude.

Minerva we know, in the ages ago,

Was the patron of physic concoctors;

Why should not the Owl, as the goddess’s fowl,

Be enrolled on the list of our Doctors ?

Let us see that he gains the result of his pains ;

Make him free of each medical mystery ;

Till we hail Strix M.D., as he sits on the tree,

To practise,—the first time in history!

ROD AND (HARD) LINES.

Mr. Justice Mark (in giving judgment for himself and
Mr. Justice Wonts) said : “ This is a case in which we

are asked to give our judicial decision as to whether caning
is, or is not, a suitable punishment to inflict on boys. A
school-master is charged with assault, for having caned a
recalcitrant scholar on the hand ; and the Learned Counsel
for the Defendant naturally asks—If a boy may not be
caned on the hand, where may he be caned ? What,
then, is the ideal punishment we should he' disposed to
recommend ? My learned Brother and myself have come
to the conclusion, that if a boy who had offended were
made to read twenty pages of the ‘Law Reports,’ he
would never commit the offence again. Flagrant cases
of insubordination might involve a perusal of Coke on
Lyttleton, or even attendance at this Court for a whole
day to listen to the proceedings. We—and we think
boys as well—would prefer this system to either of the
two methods which the Learned Counsel has humorously
described as the ‘palm-oil’ and the ‘switch-back1’ plan.
The Defendant is discharged.”

STATESMEN AT HOME.

DCXXXV. The Marquis of Hartington at Devonshire House.

As you descend from your ’bus in Piccadilly, pleased to hand the
attendant conductor the penny he modestly demands, you observe on
the right-hand side (going up) a high brick wall, once red in hue, but
now held in the grip of the smoke of London. Passing between the
jambs of a fifteenth century doorway, you find yourself in the great
courtyard of Devonshire House. Although the date 1379 still
lingers on the principal tower, the mansion, where the heir to the
dukedom of Devonshire lives when in town, is not of great antiquity.
It stands on the site of Berkeley House, built in 1658 by Sir John
Berkeley, created Lord Berkeley of Stratton (whence Stratton
Street.) Here Queen Anne lived before she died. In 1693, she
quarrelled with William: the Third, and, fearful for her young
life, escaped to Berkeley House. Here she dwelt with Lady Marl-
borough for sole companion, and your host presently shows you a
relic of the staircase, up which, at cockcrow every morning, she
lightly stole, and gazed across the park towards distant Westminster.
Lady Marlborough, standing at the foot of the staircase, ever put the
anxious question, “ Sister Anne ! Sister Anne ! Do you see anyone
coming ? ” There is a break in your host’s voice as he tells how the
years passed, and finally came the Duke of Marlborough with news
that William and Mary were dead, childless, and hailed this last
member of the Stuart Family, daughter of James the Second and
granddaughter of the renowned Clarendon, Queen of Great Britain
and Ireland!

Berkeley House perished in the flames in 1733, and William
Kent, third Duke of Devonshire, built on it the massive but simple
structure in whose low pillared entrance hall you linger. Beyond

is the winding marble staircase at the head of which, upon occasion,
your host stands and heartily welcomes Mr. WigginSj Mr. Jesse
Codlings, and other statesmen and luminaries of social life. As
the ancient servitor throws open the State Drawing-Room and
announces you, you observe your host standing on the costly hearth-
rug in the act of yawning. The action is so perfectly coincidental
with the opening of the door, that, for a moment, you suspect
some cunningly devised connection between the Norman doorway
and your host’s facial arrangements. But before you leave you
have opportunity of observing, that the gesture, so to speak, is
distinct from the doorway. Your host is always ready to fill up
any pauses in your conversation with a hearty yawn.

Spencer Compton Cavendish, Marquis of Hartington, leads you
from the State Drawing-Room into the Saloon, calling your atten-
tion as you pass to the beautiful ceiling, earliest work of Bellini.
But, before you go, you find yourself enjoying the varied beauties of
Paul Veronese’s “ Adoration of the Magi," over the doorway;
Giacomo Bassano’s “Moses and the Burning Bush") II Cala-
brese’s “Musicians" ; Michael Angelo Caravaggio’s “Barrel-
organ,” the musician earnestly regarding the upper windows of a
modern house; Cignani’s “ Virgin and Child." and Jordaens’s
“ Prince Frederick Henry of Orange, and his Wife." You notice
the picturesque feeling, quite unusual in this Master, in the arch
with the vine-tendril climbing across, and the parrot pecking at it—
both dark, against a dark sky, the better to bring out the light on
the lady’s forehead. You say this to your host, who yawns.

Your host, firmly poising his right hand in his trousers-pocket,
his left arm swinging loosely but gracefully by his side, leads the
way into the Saloon, where you pause to admire a number of family
portraits, by Sir Godfrey Kneller. Here is the first Duke of
Devonshire; and in the courtly curl of the lip, the swft glancing of