Cards to view may be had at the Treasury any day after the meeting of
Parliament.

* * * * *

“Very like a whale!” as the schoolmaster said when he examined the boy’s back after severely flogging him.

* * * * *

THE DIARY OF A LORD MAYOR.

All the world is familiar with the “Diary of a Physician,” the “Diary of an Ennuyee,” the “Diary of a Lady of Rank,” and Heaven knows how many other diaries besides! but who has ever heard of, or saw, the “Diary of a Lord Mayor,—­that day-book, or blotter, as it may be commercially termed, of a gigantic mind?  Who has ever perused the autobiography of the Lama of Guildhall, Cham of Cripplegate, Admiral of Fleet Ditch, Great Turtle-hunter and Herod of Michaelmas geese?  We will take upon ourselves to answer—­not one!  It was reserved for PUNCH to give to his dear friends, the public, the first and only extract which has ever been made from the genuine diary of a late Lord Mayor of London, or, as that august individual was wont, when in Paris, to designate himself on his visiting tickets—­

       “Mr. ——­
  “FEU LORD MAYOR DE LONDRES.”

How the precious MS. came into our possession matters little to the reader; suffice it to say, it is a secret which must ever remain confined to the bosoms of PUNCH and his cheesemonger.

DIARY.

Nov. 10, eight o’clock.—­Dreamed a horrid dream—­thought that I was stretched in Guildhall with the two giants sitting on my chest, and drinking rum toddy out of firemen’s buckets—­fancied the Board of Aldermen were transformed into skittle-pins, and the police force into bottles of Harvey’s sauce.  Tried to squeak, but couldn’t.  Then I imagined that I was changed into the devil, and that Alderman Harmer was St. Dunstan, tweaking my nose with a pair of red-hot tongs.  This time, I think, I did shout lustily.  Awoke with the fright, and found my wife pulling my nose vigorously, and calling me “My Lord!” Pulled off my nightcap, and began to have an idea I was somebody, but could not tell exactly who.  Suddenly my eye rested upon the civic gown and chain, which lay upon a chair by my bed-side:—­the truth flashed upon my mind—­I felt I was a real Lord Mayor.  I remembered clearly that yesterday I had been sworn into office.  I had a perfect recollection of the glass-coach, and the sheriffs, and the men in armour, and the band playing “Jim along Josey,” as we passed the Fleet Prison, and the glories of the city barge at Blackfriars-bridge, and the enthusiastic delight with which the assembled multitude witnessed—­

[Illustration:  THE LORD MAYOR TAKING WATER.]

I could also call to mind the dinner—­the turtle, venison, and turbot—­and the popping of the corks from the throats of the champagne bottles.  I was conscious, too, that I had made a speech; but, beyond this point, all the events of the night were lost in chaotic confusion.  One thing, however, was certain—­I was a bona fide Lord Mayor—­and being aware of the arduous duties I had to perform, I resolved to enter upon them at once.  Accordingly I arose, and as some poet says—­