I learn from _The Freeman's Journal_ that "Lord WINDSOR, who presided
at the Librarians' Congress, is an all-round man. In addition to his
interest in libraries and the support which he has given to struggling
Tory papers, he is a first-class lawn-tennis player who has narrowly
escaped playing for the amateur finals, and a cricketer who carries
about with him still the marks of a blow which he received on the nose
in the playing fields of Eton College." I assume, though the fact is
not expressly stated, that the blow was inflicted by a cricket ball,
and not by the hostile fist of a fellow Etonian. It appears, then, that
in his early youth there was about Lord WINDSOR'S nose a something, a
bridge, an angle, _que sçais-je_, which forbad the idea of complete
roundness. The providential arrival of a sort of homoeopathic cricket
ball removed the protuberance, and now Lord WINDSOR is _totus teres
atque rotundus_. And, what is more, he still carries the marks about
with him. Gallant President of the Librarians' Congress!
[Illustration]
* * * * *
As a small boy at Eton Lord WINDSOR, I hear,
Played a good game of cricket, but failed as a sphere.
But behold, he grows rounder, the older he grows,
With a ball to each eye _plus_ a ball on his nose.
* * * * *
West Bromwich has my profound sympathy. I read in a Birmingham paper
that "there is a complete deadlock with regard to the mayoralty of
West Bromwich for the coming year. The deputation appointed at the
meeting in August have waited upon several eligible gentlemen to try
and induce them to accept office, but without any success up to the
present. Alderman ROLLASON has declined, and Councillor BUSHELL will
not undertake the duties, and the committee are now doing their best
to induce Councillor SLATER to take the position a second time." By
this time, let us hope, the difficulty may have been removed, for
imagination boggles at the idea of a town without a mayor.
* * * * *
West Bromwich's Committee-men, they fairly tore their hair.
In all West Bromwich's expanse they could not find a Mayor.
Each deputy with anguish notes his prematurely shed lock,
But, dash it, what are men to do confronted by a deadlock?
Each portly Alderman his Aldermanic self excuses,
In vain they try the Councillors, for every one refuses.
Declined with thanks by ROLLASON, the honour next they proffer
To BUSHELL, who, in turn, declines their most obliging offer.
Next, moving on, they tempt again their ex-Mayor, Mr. SLATER,
"Be thou," they cry, with emphasis, "our mayoral dictator.
With badge and chain and gown of fur it's not a paltry billet;
The breach is ready-made," they say; "step into it and fill it.
A vacuum a nuisance is, we ask thee to abate it;
Our edifice is roofless now, climb up and promptly slate it."
* * * * *
If Mr. SLATER should ultimately decline the proffered mayoralty, the
only suggestion I can make is that somebody should be pricked for the
office. I don't quite know what it means, but I know that every year
some forty estimable gentlemen are pricked for the shrievalty of their
respective counties. One after another they arise in the Court of
Justice in which this terrible ceremony takes place and declare that
there are circumstances which absolutely forbid them to accept the
post of High Sheriff. One pleads a reduced rental, another asks to be
excused on the ground of failing health, but the plea is allowed in
very few cases, and in the end most of them are reluctantly pricked.
The new cook on board ship in CHARLES DICKENS'S _American Notes_ was
boxed up with the Captain standing over him, and was forced to roll out
pastry which he protested, being of a highly bilious nature, it was
death to him merely to look at. But he had to roll it out all the same.
So it ought to be with an unwilling candidate for a mayoralty.
* * * * *
Let us be just to our American cousins in spite of boat-racing and
yacht-racing _fiascos_. There are certain things that they obviously
order much better than we do. For instance, when the silly season
presses they just mark out one of their prominent literary men and
have him attacked by highwaymen. At least this is what lately happened
to Mr. RICHARD HARDING DAVIS, for I read in _Harper's Weekly_ that
"a considerable number of daily journals of average veracity in New
York and Boston published accounts of Mr. DAVIS'S encounter, differing
to such a degree in details that each paper seemed to derive its
information from an independent source. The very variation of the
reports was an indication of a basis to the original tale: but after
all, the despatch which carried most conviction was one only four lines
long, in which Mr. DAVIS was quoted as intimating that some industrious
writer had lied about him."
* * * * *
Notice again how magnificently they manage an earthquake. Little more
than a week ago a telegram, emanating from Tegucigalpa in Honduras,
was published in the _New York Herald_. In this it was stated that
"mail advices from Yetapan announced that a terrible earthquake
had occurred in that section of the country." There were elaborate
details. Three hundred persons perished. Four thousand people from the
outlying villages flocked into the city. During the night "sheets of
flame appeared at different points in the north-west rising to immense
heights. A church tower crashed down, carrying with it the roofs of
three houses. Just before daylight a prolonged shock rocked the entire
town as though it were a cradle, and on the mountain side quantities of
grazing cattle were engulfed by lava. At Covajunca thirty-seven houses
were laid in ruins: at Cayuscat twenty-nine houses collapsed. A later
despatch states that 353 bodies have already been recovered." In short,
this earthquake was carried out in a style of lavish completeness, and
no expense was spared to make it a record convulsion. It is unnecessary
to add that it never happened. There wasn't a single quake in the whole
of Honduras. Like _Falstaff's_ assailants, and like the highwaymen that
waylaid Mr. RICHARD HARDING DAVIS, it wore a suit of buckram. And of
all qualities of buckram the American is unquestionably the best.
* * * * *
It appears, moreover, that CAIN and ABEL lived in Central America, and
that the mausoleum of ABEL is still to be seen in Yucatan, with all
the inscriptions complete. Somehow or other a migration to Egypt then
took place, and the Sphinx was erected by ABEL'S widow as a monument to
her murdered husband. All this has been discovered by M. LE PLONGEON;
and, to confirm the truth of the story, Mr. W. T. STEAD is to publish
it, bound in buckram, of course. "JULIA'S" share in this discovery is
not stated, but there can be no doubt that she must have been hovering
round.
* * * * *
I am told that Cheshire cheese is in a bad way; that the price of it
has fallen so much as to make the total disappearance of Cheshire
cheese extremely likely. At the same time it is said that Cheshire
cheese is going down because the farmers wilfully produce an inferior
article. It may be so, though I hope it is not. But if it is, why
delay the punishment? To produce inferior cheese is as bad as robbery
with violence; and a dozen or so with a Cheshire cat ought to prove an
effective deterrent to the most hardened offender.
* * * * *