DOI issue:
December 21, 1889
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17688#0304
December 21, 1889.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
299
LITERA SCRIPTA.”
Wooer. “Oh, Miss—oh, Lavinia ! may I not stiil hope?—or is your cruel rejection of my Suit final and irreyoc-”
Spinster {firmly). “Yes, Mr. Brown, I seriously desire you will regard it so.”
Wooer. “Then, Dearest, may I ask you”—[producing the materials from adjacent writing-table)—“to—ah—put it on Pa-par!
I shall feel safer ! ”
STATESMEN AT HOME.
DCXXXIX. The Right Honourable Arthur Wellesley
Peel, M.P., at Speaker’s Court.
An equipage belonging to the commodious and well-appointed
line of the London Road Car Co. lands you at the bottom of
Parliament Street on your way to the Palace of Westminster, of
which Speaker’s Court occupies a favoured corner. The insular
prejudice of the conductor declines to accept the French penny you
casually offer him, and the little controversy that arises affords you
opportunity of endeavouring to attract the attention of the courteous
police stationed at this point. If the House were in Session and you
looked like a Member of Parliament, they would stop the traffic, so
that you might pass unhurt and unsplashed across the road. In the
recess you must needs make your way across as well as you can, and
so pass through Palace Yard, deserted by all save a remnant of the
flock of pigeons, who sadly walk round ana round the stony pavement
wondering where are the oats of yesteryear ?
Passing under a low massive archway, you enter a quiet courtyard,
at which, on this chill December day, the sun coldly stares. Facing
you is the Speaker’s house, the front door bearing in old English
letters a mediaeval legend requesting callers not to ring unless an
answer is required. You boldly ring, and displaying your credentials
are ushered into a long room with deeply embrasured windows
looking forth on the stately Thames, with the ruddy frontage of St,
Thomas’s Hospital in the middle distance. The room in which you
stand is comparatively modern, but a thrill passes through your slim
well-proportioned figure as you reflect that it stands upon the site of
the Palace inhabited by your ancient Sovereigns from early Anglo-
Saxon times till Henry the Eighth moved up the street to White-
hall. Here Edward the Confessor entertained the Norman cousin
who was to succeed him, and here he died on the 14th of January,
1066. _ William Rufus built the Hall, Stephen erected the Chapel,
to which finishing touches were given by Edward the Third.
Edward the First was born and Edward the Fourth died almost
within arm’s reach of the violet velvet mantelboard on which you
lean, as these great thoughts fill your mind. In the yard fronting
Westminster Hall, through which you lately passed, Perkin
Warbeck was set a whole day in the stocks. William Prim here
stood in the pillory, branded on both cheeks, and lost his left ear.
Here the Duke of Hamilton, Lord Capel, and Henry Rich, Earl
of Holland, were beheaded by the Cromwellians ; and not far from
here stood the Painted Chamber, where the High Court of Justice sat
for the trial of Charles the First, aud where Cromwell and
Henry Martin, signing the King’s death-warrant, incidentally
inked each other’s faces.
There were several other things you were going to think of in
connection with the historic pile, when the door is suddenly flung
open, and an attendant, entering and standing just inside, with
his back to the wall, roars at the top of his voice—
“ Mr. Speaker ! ”
Then you perceive your host advancing towards you in wig and
gown, the train of the latter upborne by a respectable genial-faced
young page, some fifty-five years of age. Before the Speaker
marches the Sergeant-at-Arms, with the Mace on his shoulder. _ You
are about to advance and greet your host, when the person in the
doorway, uplifting once more his strident voice, bellows forth—
“ Hats off, Strangers! ”
You are growing a little bewildered, when Mr. Erskine. drops
the Mace with a heavy thud on the Chippendale table by the window,
with its wealth of Lowestoft China, and its choice bits of Majolica
and Sevres. The Speaker lightly pirouetting, withdraws his skirt
from the grip of the page, and motioning you to a seat somewhat
abruptly (as you think) tells you the story of his life.
The Right Hon. Arthur Wellesley was born the younger son
of Sir Robert Peel, second baronet, the well-known minister, and
father of the all-round statesman who recently contested a southern
borough. Educated at Eton and at Balliol, your host was from his
birth predestined to political life. Entering the House as Member for
Warwick in 1865, he was speedily promoted to the Secretaryship of
the Poor Law Board, and so passed, by easy and natural stages, to
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
299
LITERA SCRIPTA.”
Wooer. “Oh, Miss—oh, Lavinia ! may I not stiil hope?—or is your cruel rejection of my Suit final and irreyoc-”
Spinster {firmly). “Yes, Mr. Brown, I seriously desire you will regard it so.”
Wooer. “Then, Dearest, may I ask you”—[producing the materials from adjacent writing-table)—“to—ah—put it on Pa-par!
I shall feel safer ! ”
STATESMEN AT HOME.
DCXXXIX. The Right Honourable Arthur Wellesley
Peel, M.P., at Speaker’s Court.
An equipage belonging to the commodious and well-appointed
line of the London Road Car Co. lands you at the bottom of
Parliament Street on your way to the Palace of Westminster, of
which Speaker’s Court occupies a favoured corner. The insular
prejudice of the conductor declines to accept the French penny you
casually offer him, and the little controversy that arises affords you
opportunity of endeavouring to attract the attention of the courteous
police stationed at this point. If the House were in Session and you
looked like a Member of Parliament, they would stop the traffic, so
that you might pass unhurt and unsplashed across the road. In the
recess you must needs make your way across as well as you can, and
so pass through Palace Yard, deserted by all save a remnant of the
flock of pigeons, who sadly walk round ana round the stony pavement
wondering where are the oats of yesteryear ?
Passing under a low massive archway, you enter a quiet courtyard,
at which, on this chill December day, the sun coldly stares. Facing
you is the Speaker’s house, the front door bearing in old English
letters a mediaeval legend requesting callers not to ring unless an
answer is required. You boldly ring, and displaying your credentials
are ushered into a long room with deeply embrasured windows
looking forth on the stately Thames, with the ruddy frontage of St,
Thomas’s Hospital in the middle distance. The room in which you
stand is comparatively modern, but a thrill passes through your slim
well-proportioned figure as you reflect that it stands upon the site of
the Palace inhabited by your ancient Sovereigns from early Anglo-
Saxon times till Henry the Eighth moved up the street to White-
hall. Here Edward the Confessor entertained the Norman cousin
who was to succeed him, and here he died on the 14th of January,
1066. _ William Rufus built the Hall, Stephen erected the Chapel,
to which finishing touches were given by Edward the Third.
Edward the First was born and Edward the Fourth died almost
within arm’s reach of the violet velvet mantelboard on which you
lean, as these great thoughts fill your mind. In the yard fronting
Westminster Hall, through which you lately passed, Perkin
Warbeck was set a whole day in the stocks. William Prim here
stood in the pillory, branded on both cheeks, and lost his left ear.
Here the Duke of Hamilton, Lord Capel, and Henry Rich, Earl
of Holland, were beheaded by the Cromwellians ; and not far from
here stood the Painted Chamber, where the High Court of Justice sat
for the trial of Charles the First, aud where Cromwell and
Henry Martin, signing the King’s death-warrant, incidentally
inked each other’s faces.
There were several other things you were going to think of in
connection with the historic pile, when the door is suddenly flung
open, and an attendant, entering and standing just inside, with
his back to the wall, roars at the top of his voice—
“ Mr. Speaker ! ”
Then you perceive your host advancing towards you in wig and
gown, the train of the latter upborne by a respectable genial-faced
young page, some fifty-five years of age. Before the Speaker
marches the Sergeant-at-Arms, with the Mace on his shoulder. _ You
are about to advance and greet your host, when the person in the
doorway, uplifting once more his strident voice, bellows forth—
“ Hats off, Strangers! ”
You are growing a little bewildered, when Mr. Erskine. drops
the Mace with a heavy thud on the Chippendale table by the window,
with its wealth of Lowestoft China, and its choice bits of Majolica
and Sevres. The Speaker lightly pirouetting, withdraws his skirt
from the grip of the page, and motioning you to a seat somewhat
abruptly (as you think) tells you the story of his life.
The Right Hon. Arthur Wellesley was born the younger son
of Sir Robert Peel, second baronet, the well-known minister, and
father of the all-round statesman who recently contested a southern
borough. Educated at Eton and at Balliol, your host was from his
birth predestined to political life. Entering the House as Member for
Warwick in 1865, he was speedily promoted to the Secretaryship of
the Poor Law Board, and so passed, by easy and natural stages, to