Chapter 1

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 101.

August 1, 1891.

THE PRINCE.

(_A LETTER FROM NICOLA PUNCIO MACHIAVELLI TO THE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS VITTORIO EMANUELE, SON OF UMBERTO, KING OF ITALY._)

I.

There never was, nor is at this day, any man in the world who is not either a Prince or not a Prince. Seeing, therefore, that your Highness appertains of right to the class of them that are Princes, and being ambitious to present to your Highness that which should have the chiefest value in your eyes, I could not (though pondering much) deem anything more precious than the knowledge of men and of governments which I have learned through a space of half a hundred years. Forasmuch as your Highness hath travelled over stormy seas to the island of the British folk, I do presume to present to your Highness, as being one that seeketh wisdom, the ripe fruit of my knowledge, in order that your Highness may suck thereout such advantage as those who love your land chiefly desire both for yourself and for them to whose government you shall in the future be called.

II.--_HOW A PRINCE IS TO GAIN REPUTATION._

To begin, then, I say it would be advantageous to be accounted both liberal and of a like nature unto other men that are not Princes. For although the majority of mankind be penurious and apt to hoard their money, and although in their assembly the British make a show of niggardliness, imputing it to themselves for a virtue, nevertheless, if they discern in a Prince such inclinations as they praise in themselves, no nation was ever quicker to blame or decry. For each holds in private that while he himself is generous, the rest are mean and covetous. Therefore, I counsel you let your conduct in the bestowal both of snuff-boxes, which no man at this day uses, and of scarf-pins, which are a delight to many, be so ordered that men may think of you as one that with a true generosity performs such acts as each of them, were he a Prince, would perform as well.

Likewise if there be those who wish to read unto you addresses of loyal welcome, it is not well to flout them publicly by showing signs of sleep; since it is the fashion of municipalities and Mayors to hold themselves to be of high importance, and a wise flattery of this self-deception well becomes you. And in replying, let your speech be both short and homely. The present German Emperor came lately among this people, and, having spoken aloud of the kindness of his Grandmamma, at once the hearts of all of them that are or hope to be grandmammas, or have themselves possessed a grandmamma, were moved to him so that he was accounted one of themselves from that time forth.

Again, how honourable it is for a Prince to be outspoken, candid, and truthful, I suppose everybody understands. Nevertheless, experience has shown in our times that those Princes who have not pinned themselves up to that excess of truth-speaking, have not alone secured the love of their subjects, but have been held up as patterns of a royal wisdom and virtue. For in the assemblages of the great that shall be gathered in your honour, and in the banquets and receptions wherewith it is customary to overwhelm a Prince, there must often be those surrounding him, and holding converse with him, whose absence would cause him joy rather than sorrow, on account of their exceeding pompous dulness. Yet it is well at such times for a Prince to conceal his feelings, and, though he be flattened with tedious ceremony, to keep both a cheerful countenance and a pleasant tongue, as of one to whom life offers a succession of the proudest and happiest moments. There is a Prince at this time in being (but his name I shall conceal), who can often have nothing in his mind but sorrow and depression, so many are his labours and so great is the number of the foundation-stones he lays; and yet, had he revealed either the one or the other by speech or gesture, they had robbed him before this of his power and reputation.

III.--_OF THE WEARING OF UNIFORMS._

A Prince should have many uniforms, and wear them with much show and glitter. For it is expected of Princes that before they be weaned they should be Colonels, and should rank as Field-Marshals at a time when other lads still trail themselves to school. It is not indeed related of CÆSAR that he drilled a regiment at the age of six, nor of HANNIBAL that being yet a boy he did aught but take an oath. Yet now the custom of the world is otherwise, and a Prince who should never shine in the array of a soldier might justly be held odious and contemptible. That very German Emperor of whom I have spoken, won the applause of the multitude by cuirass and helmet, and having donned a British Admiral's uniform, was held of great account amongst a people apt for the rule of the sea. This honour in truth falls not to all; but others, and yourself among the number, may be made Post Captains, and wear a naval dress both with comfort and approbation.

IV.--_OF ITALY._

Here in the land to which you have come you shall find all men lovers of Italy. For there is not one of those that watched her long and grievous struggles, that did not welcome with a heartfelt joy her deliverance, both from foreign yoke and from native tyrants. Here too they know that the example of your illustrious family, the wisdom and moderation of your father not less than the unquenchable valour and bodily strength of your grandfather, his contempt of danger, his devotion to duty, shone forth as a star before the eyes of all Italians, even in their darkest hours. Who is there that hath not the liveliest hope that all prosperity may be confirmed to that beloved country, that she may advance from greatness to greatness, that her kings may be just, her people free and contented. Let your illustrious family, then, still address itself to the work with courage and confidence, that under them Italy may stand forth an example to the nations of the world.

* * * * *

QUEER QUERIES.--QUOTATION WANTED.--Can anybody inform me where this exquisite line occurs--

"Heredity, thou mother of our race!"

I fancy it must be by Lord TENNYSON, but I cannot find it either in _In Memoriam_ or the _Idylls of the King_. The line has been much admired by competent critics. A beautiful little volume of verse, recently published, is _The Fall of Cetewayo_. Possibly the line may be in that book.--P.S.--Is not £76 10s. 6d. too high a price to charge for bringing out an Epic Poem of 8000 lines, even if, as is asserted, there have been "no sales"?--LAUREATE PRESUMPTIVE.

* * * * *

MEREDITHOMANIA.--Miss HANNAH LYNCH (Author of _George Meredith--a Study_) is almost incoherently angry with "the inexcusable and comical consistency of stupidity" manifested by all those who are not, in the fullest sense, "Meredith-men"--or women. She is, however, so dogmatic and disdainful, that one suspects her of a tendency to substitute for the judicial verdict of the critical judgment-seat, the arbitrary and excessive punishment of "Lynch-law!"

* * * * *

WISBECH WINE.--Liberal Supply. The BRAND of 1891 acknowledged to be quite beyond competition.

* * * * *

"OFF TO MASHERLAND.".--Nothing from "GRANDOLPH the Explorer" this week. He's gone to the Diggings.

* * * * *

RIDING THE PIG.

[Mr. HEALY said he did not deny that after five years of liberal education the present Chief Secretary had greatly improved.... In reply to Mr. BALFOUR's inquiry, whether he could count upon Mr. HEALY's support in a Local Government Bill for Ireland, Mr. HEALY replied, "Certainly!"]

Ah! Spur, whip, and bridle are all very well, For a rider's equipment includes some "Coercion," But Jehu may need an additional spell, Whether riding a race or for simple diversion. There are reasons for giving a racer his head, And some flocks are driven and others are led.

Improved? Whillaloo! Fancy HEALY the hot Politely approving of "BALFOUR the Brutal"! How pleasant to picture the Pig at full trot, Without that "hard riding" some fancy must suit all! Too good to be true? That time only can show. 'Tis something that Piggy should _promise_ to "go."

Your Pig is a "gintleman,"--take him aright; Or so those maintain who best know the 'cute creature. If you make him "eat stick" in excess he'll show fight. The goad and the snout-ring we've tried. This new feature-- A lure in advance--may be worth being tried. That Piggy _can_ go--and this rider _can_ ride!

* * * * *

ENTHUSIASM À LA RUSSE!

SCENE--_A Bureau de Police at St. Petersburg. Present, Russian Bigwig and Subordinate._

_Russian Bigwig_ (_reading letter_). "And they are to be received with the greatest possible enthusiasm!" I can scarcely believe my eyes! The Fleet of the French Republic!

_Subordinate_ (_using a Muscovite imprecation_). _Caviare droski!_

_Rus. Big._ (_severely_). Slave! (Sub. _cringes_.) Another word, and I will have you knouted to death! It is the wish of our Little Father, the Czar of the Universe.

[_They both fall on their knees, remove their hats, and sing the National Hymn._

_Sub._ (_bowing to the ground_). And what are the Imperial wishes?

_Rus. Big._ That not only shall the "_Marseillaise_" be tolerated when played by the French, but also be performed by our own bands. (_With a burst of rage._) Oh, _Caviare droski!_

_Sub._ (_on his knees_). I would also add an oath, O Supreme Protector-of-the-Spirit-of-my-dead-Grandmother, had you not forbidden that extreme expression of opinion.

_Rus. Big._ You recall me to myself. O Son-of-PETER-son-of-PETER-son-of-PETER-son-of-TOMMY. I was wrong. But it makes my blood boil to think that our Master and his ancestors who scorned LOUIS PHILIPPE and NAPOLEON III. should recognise a Republic!

_Sub._ (_aside_). Say you so--this to the CZAR--thou Nihilist! (_Aloud._) My Lord-the-comforter-of-the-spirit-of-my-first-cousin-once- removed-on-my-mother's-side, is indeed right! It is a painful sight!

_Rus. Big._ (_aside_). Say you so--this to the CZAR--thou Nihilist! (_Aloud._) But perhaps we might improve matters. Supposing that the "_Marseillaise_" were imperfectly performed?

_Sub._ (_with note-book_). Excellent, my Lord! excellent! It shall be played out of tune on a score of regimental bands! Good, my Lord! good!

_Rus. Big._ And could not a translation be furnished suggesting ideas foreign to the original?

_Sub._ Again capital, my Lord. I will see that the troops have a version that gives the old legend (stolen from us by the English) of "The Song of Sixpence, or a pocketful of Rye-bread," as the real translation.

_Rus. Big._ A happy thought! The moral is wholesome. The Monarchical principle is advocated in the approved counting out of money and consumption of bread and honey by their Majesties, and the right of life and death is suggested by the pecking off of the nose of the housemaid while employed in hanging out the clothes! And about the troops--have they been warned that they might some day be expected to give a hated alien an enthusiastic reception?

_Sub._ They have, my Lord. And in anticipation of such an occasion, they have been taught for the last six months how to cheer in a whisper.

_Rus. Big._ Good! And now to a pleasanter duty. Have you those hundred thousand copies of _Punch_ that were yesterday seized at the frontier?

_Sub._ I have, my Lord!

_Rus. Big._ (_with fiendish glee_). To Siberia with them! Come, help me to post them!

_Sub._ (_trembling_). But, my Lord, should _Punch_ be read by the political prisoners who lie covered with chains in the secret mines under the lowest mountain in the Czar's dominions? What then?

_Rus. Big._ (_in an awesome whisper_). Mark me well! In the present pitiable state of the prisoners, such a feast of mirth-compelling waggery would kill them--yes, _kill_ them--with laughter!

[_Exeunt stealthily to put this craftily-conceived plot into guilty execution._

* * * * *

A NEW LEADER.

["At present the followers are obliged to be amiable because the Leader is amiable. Under the Leader I suggest they would be less amiable, and would be at liberty to say stronger things."--Mr. ATKINSON, M.P., _in the House of Commons_.]

_CHORUS OF AMIABLE TORIES._

Hear! hear! Mr. A. We are amiable too, For we follow our amiable Leader, like you; But when forced to say, "Bless you!" we choke with our spleen, And we add, _sotto voce_, "You know what I mean." While we sit spick and span as a picture by FRITH, And contend with our feelings, to please Mr. SMITH.

Oh, we pule and we prate, we are nerveless and weak, And we swallow, like _Pistol_, the odorous leek. We palter with truth, and we flatter our foes, And we cringe, and we crawl, and are led by the nose. We are fools soft of speech, and without any pith, For we smother our feelings to suit Mr. SMITH.

Time was when a Member who hated the Celt Might detest him aloud and declare what he felt. He might use the crisp words which, if lacking in length, Make up for their shortness by meaning and strength. But now we all fawn on the Celt and his kith, While we smother our feelings to suit Mr. SMITH.

So, friends, we must choose a new Leader, and then, With a Man at our head we shall quit us like men: We shall always retort with a sting when we're stung, With the bees in our bonnet, the D's on our tongue. And the words that are honeyed shall fade like a myth, When an ATKINSON stands in the shoes of a SMITH.

* * * * *

* * * * *

TWO VIEWS OF THE NEXT INVASION.

THE OPTIMIST.

The British Fleet, by a sad mischance, had disappeared.

It was then that the Nation had to depend upon its second line of defence--the Army.

The enemy flushed with victory, attempted to land, but were met with such a withering fire from the Volunteer Artillery, that they had to abandon the attempt in despair--at least for awhile. They retired for the night, and on the following morning were in front of Westgate-on-Sea. It was then found how wise the Committee of Home Defence had been in their recommendation. Feeling sure that the forces of the Crown would be ample to beat back any hostile attempt to seize a town the centre of one of the best of charities (St. Michael's Convalescent Home), the Committee had deprecated the suggestion of erecting extensive fortifications. Practically Westgate was without walls. But there was a better defence than brickwork. The Authorities had not been idle during the night, having utilised the Pause in the war to bring up two magnificent battalions of Militia--the 7th Rifle Brigade and the 4th Cheshire Regiment. Thus when the enemy succeeded in effecting a landing, they found themselves confronted by the very flower of the British Army. In ten minutes the hostile host were crumpled up like a sheet of paper, and disappeared in hot retreat.

During the following week the entire army of the foe was allowed to land in England, and were speedily exterminated. The contract given out by Government to an advertising undertaker was the means of making that contractor's fortune. Within ten days England was absolutely free from invasion.

"And are you surprised?" asked a journalist, addressing the greatest tactician of the century.

"Surprised!" echoed the other. "Why it was what we all expected from the first!"

THE PESSIMIST.

The British Fleet, by a carefully calculated plan, had disappeared. It was then that the Nation had to depend upon its second line of defence--the Army.

The enemy, although somewhat depressed at the losses they had sustained, attempted to land, and of course were successful. The picked batteries from Woolwich, consisting of the Royal Horse Artillery, opened fire, but without the smallest effect. On the following morning the main force of the enemy appeared in front of Margate, the recently fortified port. It was then found how foolish the Committee of Home Defence had been in their recommendation. Feeling doubtful of the means the Government would have at their command to defend an unprotected town, they had ordered every village on the coast to be surrounded by the most intricate network of bricks and earthworks. And now, in the hour of need, these elaborate preparations were valueless. The troops of the enemy poured into Margate almost without opposition. The forts were silenced in five minutes, and although on the following morning the Household Brigade came to the rescue, the assistance thus afforded was of no avail.

During the succeeding week the entire army of the foe was allowed to land in England, and were immediately victorious. The contract for finding them lodgings in London made somebody's fortune. Within a week England was grovelling in the dust at the feet of her conquerors.

"And are you surprised?" asked a journalist, addressing the greatest tactician of the century.

"Surprised!" he echoed--"why it was what we all expected from the first!"

* * * * *

NEW RIDDLE (WITH THE OLD ANSWER).--Where was ISAACS when the Balance-Sheet went out?

* * * * *

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

NO. II.

SCENE--_Courtyard of the "Grand Hôtel du Lion Belgique et d'Albion," at Brussels. It is just after Table d'hôte; PODBURY and CULCHARD are sitting on a covered terrace, with coffee._

_Podbury_ (_producing a pipe_). Not such a bad dinner! Expect they'll rook us a lot for it, though. Rather fun, seeing the waiters all troop in with a fresh course, when the proprietor rang his bell. Like a ballet at the Empire--eh?

_Culchard_ (_selecting a cigarette_). I'm not in a position to say. I don't affect those places of entertainment myself.

_Podb._ Oh! Where _do_ you turn in when you want to kick up your heels a bit? Madame Tussaud's? I say, why on earth didn't you talk to that old bloke next to you at dinner? He was trying all he knew to be friendly.

_Culch._ Was he? I daresay. But I rather understood we came out with the idea of keeping out of all that.

_Podb._ Of course. _I'm_ not keen about getting to know people. He had no end of a pretty daughter, though. Mean to say you didn't spot her?

_Culch._ If by "spotting" you mean--was I aware of the existence of a very exuberant young person, with a most distressing American accent? I can only say; that she made her presence sufficiently evident. I confess she did not interest me to the point of speculating upon her relationship to anybody else.

_Podb._ Well--if you come to that, I don't know that I--still, she was uncommonly--(_Happens to glance round, and lowers his voice._) Jove! she's in the Reading-room, just behind us. (_Hums, with elaborate carelessness._) La di deedle-lumpty--loodle-oodle-loo--

_Culch._ (_who detests humming_). By the way, I wish you hadn't been in such a hurry to come straight on. I particularly wanted to stop at Bruges, and see the Memlings.

_Podb._ I do like that! For a fellow who wants to keep out of people's way! They'd have wanted you to stay to lunch and dinner, most likely.

_Culch._ (_raising his eyebrows_). Hardly, my dear fellow--they're pictures, as it happens.

_Podb._ (_unabashed_). Oh, are they? Any way, you've fetched up your average here. Weren't there enough in the Museum for you?

_Culch._ (_pityingly_). You surely wouldn't call the collection here exactly representative of the best period of Flemish Art?

_Podb._ If you ask me, I should call it a simply footling show--but you were long enough over it. (CULCHARD _shudders slightly, and presently pats his pockets_.) What's up now? Nothing gone wrong with the works, eh?

_Culch._ (_with dignity_). No--I was merely feeling for my note-book. I had a sudden idea for a sonnet, that's all.

_Podb._ Ah, you shouldn't have touched those mussels they gave us with the sole. Have a nip of this cognac, and you'll soon be all right.

[_CULCHARD scribbles in lofty abstraction; PODBURY hums; Mr. CYRUS K. TROTTER, and his daughter, MAUD S. TROTTER, come out by the glass door of the Salon de Lecture, and seat themselves at an adjoining table_.

_Miss Trotter_. Well, I guess it's gayer out here, anyway. That Reading Saloon is just about as lively as a burying lot with all the tombs unlet. I want the address of that man who said that Brussels was a second Parrus.

_Mr. Trotter_. Maybe we ain't been long enough off the cars to jedge yet. Do you feel like putting on your hat and sack, and sorter smellin' round this capital?

_Miss T._ Not any. I expect the old city will have to curb its impatience to see me till to-morrow. I'm tired some.

_Culch._ (_to himself_). Confound it, how can I--! (_Looks up, and observes_ Miss T. _with a sudden attention_). That fellow PODBURY has better taste than I gave him credit for. She _is_ pretty--in her peculiar style--_quite_ pretty! Pity she speaks with that deplorable accent.

[_Writes--"Vermilion lips that sheathe a parrot tongue," and runs over all the possible rhymes to "tongue."_

_Podb._ (_observing that his pencil is idle_). Gas cut off again? Come for a toddle. You don't mean to stick here all the evening, eh?

_Culch._ Well, we might take a turn later on, and see the effect of St. Gudule in the moonlight.

_Podb._ Something _like_ a rollick that! But what do you say to dropping in quietly at the Eden for an hour or so, eh? Variety show and all that going on.

_Culch._ Thanks--variety shows are not much in my line; but don't mind me if you want to go.

[_PODBURY wanders off, leaving CULCHARD free to observe Miss TROTTER._

_Miss T._ CHARLEY writes he's having a lovely time in Germany going round. I guess he isn't feeling so cheap as he did. I wish he'd come along right here.

_Mr. T._ I presume he's put in all the time he had for Belgium--likely we'll fetch up against him somewhere before he's through.

_Miss T._ Well, and I don't care how soon we do, either. CHARLEY's a bright man, and real cultivated. I'm always telling him that he's purrfectly splendid company, considering he's only a cousin.

_Mr. T._ That's so every time. I like CHARLEY VAN BOODELER first-rate myself.

_Culch._ (_to himself_). If CHARLEY VAN BOODELER was _engaged_ to her, I suppose he'd be here. Pshaw! What _does_ it matter? Somehow, I rather wish now that I'd--but perhaps we shall get into conversation presently. Hang it, here's that fellow PODBURY back again! Wish to goodness he'd-- (_To PODBURY._) Hallo, so you haven't started yet?

_Podb._ Been having a talk with the porter. He says there's a big fair over by the Station du Midi, and it's worth seeing. Are you game to come along and sample it, eh?

_Culch._ (with an easy indifference intended for_ Miss T.'s _benefit_). No, I think not, thanks. I'm very comfortable where I am.

[_He resumes his writing._

_Podb._ Well, it's poor fun having to go alone!

[_He is just going, when Mr. TROTTER rises and comes towards him._

_Mr. T._ You'll excuse me, Sir, but did I overhear you remark that there was a festivity in progress in this city?

_Podb._ So I'm told; a fair, down in the new part. I could tell you how to get to it, if you thought of going.