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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 93.
NOVEMBER 12, 1887.


                      THE LETTER-BAG OF TOBY, M.P.

                      FROM A HOME-SICK SECRETARY.

                                           _By Guildford, Saturday._

[Illustration: D]EAR TOBY,

I HOPE you will forgive my not being more precise as to my whereabouts.
The fact is if I can get away from London for a day or two without
leaving my address, I am only too glad to do so. I was at the Cabinet
Council on Thursday, afterwards ran down here, _et j'y reste_, at any
rate over Sunday. I am getting more and more tired of London, and the
office sardonically called "Home." It has never been a sweet
resting-place, and of late has grown absolutely intolerable. I used once
to have Sunday to myself; but now, owing to the new-born church-going
fervour of the Unemployed, Sunday is the worst day of the week. So when
opportunity offers, as just now, I cut the whole business and get me
into the sweet seclusion of Surrey.

I see by the papers that I am about to resign office, and retire into
that private life, upon which during the past twelve months I have
looked back with increasing affection. Perhaps the statement is true,
and perhaps the Markiss would say it is "not authentic." We shall see.
In the mean time, at this distance from Parliament Street, I get the
advantage of perspective in regarding the office of Home Secretary. Down
here it seems odd enough that it should be so much hankered after by men
of various temperaments. H-NRY J-M-S wanted it at the time H-RC-RT
secured it. It had a strange fascination for L-WE, and I am disclosing
no secret when I mention that my old friend and patron, GR-ND-LPH,
fancies it would suit him down to the ground. I only wish he would try
it. If I were certain that he would come in, it might have some effect
in hastening my decision on the question of resignation. Of course
GR-ND-LPH and I remain on terms of friendliest regard. I am indebted to
him for a sudden promotion exceeding the hopes of the most sanguine
politician. Still, I would like to see him at the Home Office, if only
for a short six months. He is serenely confident he could grapple with
the situation. JOHNNY RUSSELL was quite a nervous, modest person,
compared with GR-ND-LPH. I should really like to see my old friend in my
old chair.

The post, of course, has its attractions. It is no small thing to be
principal Secretary of State, with a seat in the Cabinet, and an
adequate salary. But, to tell the truth, dear TOBY, the Home Secretary
lives too near the People to have an uninterruptedly pleasant time. He
is too close to, and too frequently under, the public eye. It is like
working in a glass hive. A Foreign Secretary labours in secret in the
Samoan Islands, or some equally remote quarter, and months elapse before
the publication of the Blue Book places his labour under the criticism
of the public. The Secretary for the Colonies works under similar
conditions, whilst the First Lord of the Admiralty and the War
Secretary, except upon rare occasions, have only their respective
Services to deal with.

But the Home Secretary is, necessarily, always at home to impertinent
lookers-in, or idle callers who have not sufficient business of their
own to attend to. If anything goes wrong with the water or the gas, if a
country Magistrate makes a more than usually particular ass of himself,
if a policeman arrests the wrong woman in Regent Street, if there is a
procession through the parks or a meeting in Trafalgar Square, it's ever
the Home Secretary that is wrathfully turned to for explanation. When
things go well with London or the Provinces, you never hear the Home
Secretary's name mentioned. The condition of affairs may be due to his
admirable administration, but there is no recognition of his agency. On
the other hand, if the least thing connected with his department goes
wrong, he is held personally responsible, and the fiendish newspapers
fall upon him.

That is my experience after a little more than twelve months in office,
and if I am a little wearied of it who shall blame me? Why should I
remain the butt of all the captious critics throughout the country? I
have no hour, except these stolen ones, that I can call my own. All the
pleasures and recreations of private life are swallowed up in official
cares. Why should I longer submit to be engulfed in this state of
slavery? I am not in the absolute prime of youth; but still, as we
Statesmen go, I am not old. For example, I have seen but two summers
more than that elderly young beau, H-NRY J-M-S. Someone once said of me,
that for my recorded age, I had the youngest-looking body in the House
of Commons. That is a subtle distinction, the value of which I cannot
grasp. I know that I have been a buck in my time, and if I only get my
time to myself once more, I may again become as ornamental as I am now
useful. I will think it over, and probably in the course of the next few
weeks you may hear what resolution I have taken.

                           Yours faithfully,         H-NRY M-TTH-WS.

                               * * * * *

                        A BLACK AFFAIR AT HAYTI.

The Foreign Office, whether represented by Lord SALISBURY or Lord
ROSEBERY,--two "berries," so that we are to judge of the worth of our
Foreign Office by its berries