A Day’s Work in the City. Two O’clock.—the Lord Mayor’s Court. William S. Brunton (fl. 1859-71), artist. “By One of the Underpaid”Fun (10 October 1868): 45. Signed with a monogram lower left. Engraved by the Dalziels. Courtesy of the Suzy Covey Comic Book Collection in the George A. Smathers Libraries, University of Florida. Click on image to enlarge it.
The accompanying text
There’s something that comes home to a good many of us about the very name of the Lord Mayor’s Court even when we take a stroll into the Guildhall as it may be to see how they elect a Sheritf or hold what’s called a Common Hall of the Livery, to turn out one Mayor and get another in his place. We’re an uncommon Livery lot in the City, I can’t deny, and there’s a deal of flunkeyism everywhere about, but Mr. Alderman Allen was too much even for the Corporation to digest, and they can stand a good deal too. Their complaint was chiefly that, whatever they might be willing to stand, he wasn’t ready to stand anything, though he declined to take the chair at somebody else’s banquet because the tickets for the dinner were at such a low figure as not to promise that the dinner would be the ticket. Even Mr. Bennett couldn’t say much for him, and that’s saying a good deal, too, for when that eminent commoner’s wound up, his remarks are generally considered striking, and he has keen known to speak against time, as well he may, for Time’s mostly on the watch for him, and insists on being kept on his premises. On the occasion referred to, however, his remarks came to an end untimely, and, amidst a vote of censure, disguised as an expression of approval. Mr. Allen was hustled from the hustings, and Mr. Lawrence was called upon to take warning by the demerits of his predecessor; which meant, among other things, ihat be was to issue twice as many tickets for the banquet on the ninth of next month, and see that none of the turtle was mock.
It’s a lively reflection turtle is, — and perhaps that’s why they always advertise the reptiles in that way — when a chap happens to he on his way to the Mayor’s Court in the character of defendant. It’s for the recovery of small debts, the Lord Mayor’s Court is, and for a good many other things, such as actions for trespass and goodness knows w’hat; and is like a sort of Civic Chancery, just as you might call a chandler’s shop a “victualling warehouse” or the Lord Mayor himself “Potentate.” It’s peculiar to the City and makes part of the regular day’s work to a good many people that lounge about it or are brought before it, or put somebody else into it, or are summoned as witnesses, or are compelled to serve on the Jury, which ought to he called Jewery, there are so many gents of that persuasion in the box. It’s quite a judgment of Solomon’s when they give their verdict, and quite one of the sights of the City to see ’em all stand up and put their hats onto be sworn every ten minutes, for that’s the time they take to knock off a case when the Recorder's sitting there. For the Lord Mayor don’t “try,” though of course like everybody else he doesn't know what he can do till he does, he’s allowed to go and sit upon the bench when he likes and enjoy the air of the court and look at the pictures that hang on the walls — portraits of the eminent Kings and Queens that helped to make Lord Mayors what they are, and the City what it is; and he may join the Recorder in a chop and a glass of sherry, if that gent chooses to stand for both, but he mustn’t interfere except by looks, and there’s probably some sort of extra accommodation for Mayors of the full regulation size, for though the honourable judge himself can’t be described as corpulent, there’d scarcely be room on the bench, — and the canopy’s much too skimpy (even the part of the hangings that isn’t wood painted to imitate red drapery) to take a couple of wigs under it, let alone a Tory and a Radical or even two Tories. It’s come within my day’s work sometimes to appear as a witness there, and beyond a sort of follow-feeling for a chap that's in debt and can’t pay, I don't object, for there’s generally something hanging to it if it’s only a lunch and a glass of bitter at the Three Bucks, where in my time there used to be a convivial meeting that called themselves “The Bucks,” — nobody quite knowing why, except they did it out of deference to the landlord. One of ’em ence told me it was because they were chased in manors, but that was only his pun, — or at least his fun, and if they only met to talk such rubbish as that, — but there, — the thoughts ot the Mayor’s Court puts me out of a convivial humour, for it reminds me of the County Court, and of the way we chaps in the City go home to find the housekeeping little bills waiting to be paid just as the end of the quarter comes round and the landlord’s waiting for the rent while the tax gatherer’s turning the corner. These little bills weekly or monthly it’s all one; how precious ready the tradespeople are to let you run 'em for the sake of the percentage they put on every bit of beef and every pound of butter, and how precious soon they run into the County Court and take you along with ’em with ten per cent, added costs, if you don’t find it convenient to settle when “Master sends his compliments and has a large account to make up.”
Last modified 5 June 2018