Chapter 2

Haven't time to send you much information this week, as We,--the firm of Self and Corresponding Captain,--have had to write rather a heavy packet for the Daily Graphic. I suppose you will have got Herr Von GERMAN EMPEROR with you by the time you receive this from yours truly; or His Imperialness may have quitted your,--that is, our, though I'm here now,--hospitable shores. _À propos_ of Hospitable Shores, remember me to the most hospitable of all Shores--Captain SHAW--of the Fire-and-Water Brigade. My companions--"Jolly companions everyone"--the Cautious Captain, or the Wily WILLIAMS, Doubting Doctor, Energetic Engineer, all well. Wily WILLIAMS hard at his MS., giving an account of the "agricultural and mineral resources" of the What-can-the-Matterbeland, "through the instrumentality of the Chartered Company." He's great at this. Think I shall start new Company--"The Chartered Libertine." If my memory doesn't fail me, that's a Shakspearian title. But who was the "Chartered Libertine"? I notice these South-African States are independent of Home Government. 'Pon my word, I fancy W.E.G. was right about Home Rule. On whose shoulders can the G.O.M.'s mantle fall, without enveloping him in entire obscurity, except on those of the Leader or the once united, but now fractured _quartette_ party, "_quorum pars magna fui_?" I still keep up my Latin, you see. I wasn't sent to Eton for nothing; nor was any other boy that I've ever heard of.

CAPERS.

No wonder we've had so many dancing parties at the Cape, when all the inhabitants are Capers. I make this a present to my dear old DRUMMY; he can bring it out in his new Persian _Joe Miller_. Cheeky little street-boys give you Capers' sauce. They can lead you a pretty dance if you chivy them.

AMUSEMENTS OF THE BOERS.

To-day came across a Peep-Boer-Show. Seen it all before. Also a kind of Punch-and-Judy performance going on, translated into South-African dialect. There was not a paying public to witness it; and, with all my desire and with every intention to encourage native talent, I was compelled to turn away, "more in sorrow than in anger," (SHAKSPEARE again--_Hamlet's Ghost_, I think,) when the pipe-and-drummer man came to me for a contribution. Not a penny in my pocket. "I will reimburse thee nobly," said I, "on my return from the Mine-land." He quoted some line or other, which I did not catch, and gave the name of the writer, one "WALKER," as his authority. WALKER is associated in my mind with an English Dictionary, but, though it has been much added to in recent years, I doubt whether the words the Showman used on this occasion can be found in my pocket edition, or in any other edition of that excellent and trustworthy compilation.

CHANGE OF HAIR.

Called at native barber's to-day. Gave him no instructions. Thought of course he was going to cut it; and so fell asleep. I almost always fall asleep when under the mesmeric influence of a capillary administrator. I should like him to keep on doing it; cut and comb again. So soothing! Woke up and found myself--like this. (_See Hair Cut._) Herewith please receive portrait, and treasure it.

ARMA VIRUMQUE.

Must send you a sketch of some of our B.B.B.'s or the Bold Bobbies of Basuto all armed. Ha! ha! as dear old WOLFFY would have said, "I was quite _all-armed_ at seeing this!" Hope to be on the track of TOM TIDDLER's ground very soon. But anyhow till I am _sur la tache_, "on the spot," any one of these letters of mine (emphasis on the "mine") of which all are genuine--"proofs before letters" you have in my signed promise--is well worth a hundred pounds, and cheap at the price. It's my note of hand in exchange for the cash,--for the "ready ay ready!" as we say at sea. Away to the fields of gold!

PROSPECTING POSSIBILITIES.

N.B.--Rather think I am going to call on Queen ZAMBILI this afternoon. Ahem! Do you remember the ballads of "_My heart is true to Poll_," and "_The King of the Owyhees_"? Again, ahem! "Black Queen to mate in three moves." Of course, can't go in for this sort of thing myself, but by deputy, eh? Representative Government and King PROXY THE FIRST, with myself for Prime Minister. How's that Empire?

* * * * *

FROM OUR OWN BEN TROVATO.--Said an artistic collector to Mr. PARNELL, "Now I'll show you a beautiful specimen of CARLO DOLCI." "I wish you could have shown it me some days ago," replied the Ex-misleader of the Irish Party, "when I was presented with a specimen of _Carlow_ without the _Dolci_."

* * * * *

COOK'S TOURIST PRIZE JUBILEE JOKE.--_Mem. for Travellers contemplating a first visit to the Continent_.--Being raw to the business, get Cook'd. Depend upon it, you won't be "done."

* * * * *

"THE HUNDRED BEST BOOKS."--_Punch's_ Half-Yearly Volumes from the commencement, i.e., July 17, 1841, to June 27, 1891.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"GOOD-BYE, GRANDMAMMA!"

(_A LONG WAY AFTER "CHILDE HAROLD_.")

Adieu, adieu. Old Albion's shore! I leave, to bound the blue. My Yacht lies yonder! 'Tis a bore, But I _must_ part from you. I sniff the brine, I love the sea; Half Englishman am I. Farewell to England, and to thee, Dear Grandmamma--good-bye!

I leave your isle, the truth to tell, With qualified regret. July in London would be well, But for the heavy wet. The soaking shower, the sudden squall, Spare not Imperial "tiles." May it be dry when next I call, Your slushiest of isles!

Yet I've enjoyed my visit, much, In spite of wet and wind. I with JOHN BULL have been in touch; _You_ have been passing kind. My father and grandfather gone Once trod your city sad; Now I the daring deed have done, And--it is not half bad.

That Opera Show was quite a sight; Your Sheriff HARRIS--well-- AUGUSTUS, after Actium's fight, Was scarce a greater swell. The long parade, led by the Blues, Gave _me_ the blues again. Not that the citizen were screws, No, Grand'ma, 'twas that rain!

I--ahem! _blessed_ it fervently, Emperors must not complain; But do, _do_ keep your Babylon dry, When I come back again. For Garden Parties, Shows, Reviews, And civic functions pale, When water soaks the stoutest shoes, And it blows half a gale.

Your Lord MAYOR and his liveried lot, _They_ know a thing or two. Speeches of course are always rot, But then--the skies were blue! As for your Crystal Palace--ah! Your pride I would not shock, But you owe much, dear Grandmamma, To PAXTON and to BROCK.

Your warriors are fine, if few; But still, if you ask _me_, You leave far too much power to A Railway Company. I would not let civilians snub My paladins--no fear! But then a Teuton--there's the rub! Is no mere Volunteer!

And now I really must be gone Upon the wide, wide sea. Stiff state no more shall make me groan, Hurrah for liberty! I'm tired to death of functions fine, And ceremonial rot; Hurrah for ease! the breezy brine Tar-toggery, and my Yacht!

With yonder bark I'll gladly brave The seas about your isle. Thanks, Grand'ma, for that kerchief wave, And that right royal smile! Welcome, ye billows, tumbling brisk Beneath a cloud-swept sky! Give your white kerchief one more whisk, Dear Grandmamma--Good-bye!

* * * * *

SCOTT (ANYTHING BUT) FREE.

["It is human nature, after all. When conscientiously I cannot praise actors or actresses, or authors, they turn their backs upon me. But when conscientiously I am able to draw attention to their great merits, they simply overflow."--Mr. CLEMENT SCOTT, in _The Illustrated London News_.]

Unlucky Mr. CLEMENT SCOTT! Since those who act our plays or write them, Are so exacting that he's got The greatest trouble to delight them. When conscience tells him not to praise They "turn their backs" and will not know him, When their "great merits" make him raise His voice--they "simply overflow" him!

* * * * *

NOTE FOR AN IMPERIAL DIARY.--There were just a couple or so of real good wet days for our Imperial and Royal Highnesses. Jupiter Pluvius ladled it out to us unstintingly in Imperial buckets full. Our Cousin German, so affectionately dutiful to "Grandmamma," won't forget _La Rain d'Angleterre_ in a hurry. _Mem._ Next visit to London, bring fewer uniforms and more waterproofs and umbrellas.

* * * * *

* * * * *

IMPERIAL AND OPERATIC.

After considerable calculation as to re-imbursement for present outlay by a consistent course of future economy, I took a six-guinea stall for the EMPEROR's state visit to the Opera. "Court dress" being "indispensable," I decided to summon to my aid the well-known amateur theatrical costumier, DATHAN & Co. DATHAN sees at a glance what I want. He measures me with his eye. "Co." in waiting is dispatched to bring down two or three Court suits. In less than ten minutes I am perfectly fitted, that is, in DATHAN's not entirely disinterested but still highly artistic opinion, with which "Co." unhesitatingly agrees. For my own part, as a mere lay-figure, I should have preferred the continuations being a trifle less tight round the knee; also if the coat were a little easier about the shoulders, and not quite so baggy in the back I should breathe more freely; and, while we are on the subject, the collar might be lower, as it is in close proximity to the lobes of my ears and irritatingly tickles me. The white waistcoat--"well," as "Co.," in the absence of DATHAN, rapturously observes, "might ha' been made for yer!" "It might," true: but it certainly wasn't, as it is somewhat long, and there's a little shyness on the part of the last button but one in meeting the button-hole with which it ought to be on the best possible terms. But sharp-eyed little "Co." sees his way out of the difficulty; he hoists up the collar, he adjusts pins in the back, and, in a second, button and hole are in each other's embrace. The coat-collar can be taken in and done for--"nothing easier," says the undaunted Co.--and the part across my manly chest can be let out,--of course not a difficulty, as the whole suit, will be "let out" for the evening.

I am generally satisfied with my appearance in the glass as a portrait of a gentleman in repose, but I feel that any display of emotion, even of irrepressible loyalty, would probably be disastrous to some portion of my attire. The Court sword, too, is rather embarrassing, and, though Co. has adroitly fixed it for me by some mysterious process of invisible arrangement, yet, when I shall be left alone with the sheathed weapon, and have to do all this buckling and hitching for myself, I feel sure that that sword, which is only worn on the left to defend the right, will give me no inconsiderable trouble. Fortunately our washerwoman's husband, who comes late on a Wednesday for the linen, is a retired sergeant, and knows how this sort of thing should be done. He will assist in arming me for the operatic fray. _Tout va bien._

_At Opera, Wednesday Night, July 8_.--Grand sight. Very grand; not only that, but beautiful. Costumes, uniforms, military, diplomatic,--all sorts, the real article and the Dathanic,--impossible to tell one from the other, taking them as a lot; but still, I feel that it is better to remain in my Stall, where only the upper part of me is visible to the unclothed eye. The consciousness that I am here, not as myself, but in disguise as somebody else, name unknown, rather oppresses me; only at first, however, as very soon I recognise a number of familiar faces and figures all in strange array. A stockbroker or two, a few journalists, several ordinary people belonging to various callings and professions, some others noble, some gentle, some simple, but most of us eyeing each other furtively, and wondering where the deuce the other fellow got his costume from, and what right he has to wear it.

Every moment I expect some gaily attired person to come up and say to me confidentially, "I know that suit; I wore it last so-and-so. Isn't it a trifle tight about the shoulders? Beware! when I wore it, it went a bit in the back." Man in gorgeous uniform makes his way to the vacant Stall next to me. I am a bit flustered until he salutes me heartily with--"How d'ye do? How are you?" Why, it's--well, no matter who it is. I have met him everywhere for years; we are the best of friends. I knew he is something; somewhere in the City, but not much anywhere else, and at all events he is no more a military man than I am a courtier, but when he confides to me that he was once upon a time in the Dampshire Yeomanry, and that this uniform has served him for years, and looks uncommonly well at night though it wouldn't bear the light of day, I begin to comprehend the entire scene.

My friend--we will call him TOMMY TUCKER, (for I have frequently encountered him at supper, and am aware of his capacity)--is full of information. Some of our neighbours of an inquiring turn are asking one another who _that_ is, and who _this_ is, and so forth; and when the answers are incorrect, or even before the answers can be given, TOMMY TUCKER has replied in a low voice, with a view to imparting general information gratis, that So-and-So, in scarlet and silver, is Mr. BLACKSTONE, of BLACKSTONE & SONS, head of the great Coal Merchant Firm; that the man in blue and silver, supposed to be a Hungarian _attaché_, is the junior partner in BUNNUMS & Co., the Big Cake Purveyor; and that the warlike person, with a jingling sabre, is not a Prussian officer, but is Deputy JONES, in the gorgeous uniform of the Old Buckshire Yeomanry; and when he's in the City, where he began in the usual way that millionnaires always do begin, by sweeping out an office, he is simply JONES, of Messrs. BROWN, JONES, ROBINSON & Co., Wharfingers. TOMMY TUCKER knows everybody, and everything about everybody, too. Who is that lady with a splendid tiara of diamonds?--that is the Duchess of BURLINGTON, "who"--and here, in a semi-whisper, intended for everybody's information, he tells how those brilliants come out for "one night only," and how they will be called for to-morrow morning by a confidential agent from POPSHOPPER's Establishment in the Great Loan Land. TOM TUCKER is full of these stories. There isn't a person he doesn't know, until happening to recognise here a one and there a one, I correct him of my own private and personal knowledge, when he frankly admits that I am right; and after casually explaining how he does occasionally mistake the Countess of DUNNOYER for Lady ELIZABETH MARTIN, he goes off at a tangent, and picks out several other distinguished-looking personages, numbering them as "first to right," "second to left," and so forth, as if in a collection of wax-works, giving to each one of them a name and a history. His acquaintance with the private life of the aristocracy and the plutocracy is so extensive that I can only wonder at his knowledge, his or marvel at wondrous powers of ready invention.

So it goes on. Then enter the chief characters. All rise; the orchestra plays the "_National Anthem_," in German, suppose, out of compliment to our Imperial visitors; and afterwards in English (translated, and, I fancy, "transposed"), in honour of H.R.H. the Prince and Princess. All the wax-work figures form in a row, under the direction of Lord Chamberlain LATHOM; the machinery is put in motion; they all bow to the audience; glasses are riveted on them; everybody is craning and straining to get a good view; the people in the gallery and just over the Royal Box loyally enjoy the scene, being quite unable to see any of the distinguished persons who are, in this instance, "quite beneath their notice." And then Signor MANCINELLI turns his back on everybody, and gets to business.

After this, I feel that a buckle, somewhere or other, has turned traitor, and inventing an excuse with a readiness worthy of TOMMY TUCKER himself, I suddenly, but cautiously, retire. I descend the grand staircase between two rows of beefeaters reclining drowsily at their ease. Fast asleep, some of 'em, after too much beef. Imagine myself a prisoner, in disguise of course, escaping from the Tower in the olden time. Then, fearing the collapse of another buckle or button, or the sudden "giving" of a seam, I steal cautiously past the Guards--then past serried ranks of soldiers under the colonnade--then--once more in the street of Bow, and I am free! I breathe again.

Hie thee home, my gallant steed (an eighteenpenny fare in a hansom), and let me resume the costume of private life, trifle with a cutlet, drain the goblet and smoke the mild havannah. _Sic transit gloria_ Wednesday!

(_Signed._) (Mysteriously.) THE DUKE OF DIS GUISE.

P.S.--Although there was more money in the house than on any previous occasion, yet never did I see so many persons who had "come in with orders," which they displayed lavishly, wearing them upon their manly buzzums.

* * * * *

MEN IN POSSESSION.

The Manager of Covent Garden is Sheriff HARRIS. Can all his operatic officials all over the house be correctly termed "Sheriff's Officers"?

* * * * *

* * * * *

IMPERIAL IMPRESSIONS.

That they are not accustomed to ultra punctuality in the arrival of steam-yachts at Port Victoria.

That some one ought to catch it for not looking after the water-pipes in the State dining-room.

That it is rather trying to have to remain dignified with your boots in three inches of water.

That the Eton Volunteers are just the sort of boys to follow the tradition of the past, and win a second Waterloo.

That still it was a little awkward to have to review them in the pauses of a thunderstorm.

That the wedding as a wedding was not bad, but a couple of hundred thousand troops or so posted as a guard of honour, would have made it more impressive.

That Buckingham Palace is rather _triste_, when it is populated on the scale of one inhabitant to the square mile.

That Covent Garden Opera House, decorated with leagues of flower wreaths, is the finest sight in the world.

That Sheriff AUGUSTUS GLOSSOP HARRIS deserves a dukedom, and, if he were a German, should have it.

That one State Ball is like every other, but still it was very well done on Friday.

That the visit to the City was an entire success (although I wish the audience had made up their minds whether they would stand up or sit while I was speaking), thanks no doubt to the influence of the Sheriff.

That Saturday's doings were delightful. I was absolutely deafened with the cheering.

That it is very pleasant to be so well received, especially when, three years ago, I was generally snubbed and treated as a nobody.

* * * * *

THE BUSY BISLEY.

SCENE--_Within measurable distance of Waking. Enter Lounger and Marksman, R. and L.

_Lounger_ (_heartily_). Why, I _am_ glad to see you! And how are things going on?

_Marksman_ (_cordially, but abruptly_). Capitally! Good-bye!

_Loung._ But I say, what a hurry you are in! Can't you stop a minute for a chat?

_Marks._ Another time, but just now moments are precious.

_Loung._ But I say, you see I have found myself here--it doesn't take much longer than getting down to Wimbledon.

_Marks._ Of course it doesn't--whoever said it did? But there, old chap, I _must_ be off!

_Loung._ You _are_ in a hurry! Ah, we used to have pleasant days in the old place?

_Marks._ Did we? I daresay we did.

_Loung._ Why, of course! Grand old days! Don't you remember what fun it used to be decorating your tent; and then, when the ladies came down--which they did nearly all the day long--what larks it was getting them tea and claret-cup?

_Marks._ Very likely. But we don't have many ladies now, and a good job too--they _are_ a bore.

_Loung._ Well, you _are_ a chap! Why, how can there be any fun without your sisters, and your cousins, and your maiden aunts?

_Marks._ We don't want fun. But there, good-bye!

_Loung._ But I say, I have come all this way to look you up.

_Marks._ (_unbending_). Very kind of you, but, my dear fellow, you have chosen rather an unfortunate time.

_Loung._ Why, at Wimbledon you had nothing to do!

_Marks._ Very likely. But then Bisley isn't Wimbledon.

_Loung._ (_dryly_). So it seems. Everyone said that, when they moved the camp further away from home, they would ruin the meeting.

_Marks._ Then everyone was wrong. Why, we are going on swimmingly.

_Loung._ It must be beastly dull.

_Marks._ Not at all. Lovely country, good range, and, after it rains, two minutes later it is dry as bone.

_Loung._ Yes, but it stands to reason that it _can't_ be as popular as Wimbledon.

_Marks._ My dear fellow, figures are the best test of that. In all the history of the Association we have never had more entries than this year.

_Loung._ That may be, but you don't have half the fun you had nearer town.

_Marks._ (_laughing_). Don't want to! Business, my dear fellow, not pleasure! And now, old man, I really _must_ be off! Ta, ta! See you later. [_Exit._

_Loung._ Well, whatever he may say, I prefer Wimbledon. And as there doesn't seem much for _me_ to do down here, I shall return to town. [_Does so. Curtain._

* * * * *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Commons. Monday, July 6_.--Don't know what the House of Lords would do without WEMYSS. How the House of Commons gets along without ELCHO is another story. Of course we are not absolutely ELCHO-less. Amurath has succeeded to Amurath, and there is still an ELCHO in the Commons. Perhaps in time he may reach the towering height of his illustrious father. He does very well as it is; made exceedingly smart speech the other afternoon on adjournment over Derby Day. We try to bear up; make the best of things; but in our secret hearts confess that this century has seen but one Lord ELCHO, and now he's Earl of WEMYSS.

Was in fine old style to-night. DORCHESTER brought on question of Volunteers. They are going to Wimbledon on Saturday to be reviewed by that veteran the German EMPEROR. DORCHESTER, in modest, convincing speech, pointed out how unfair it was that, in addition to, in many cases, losing a day's pay, in all cases incurring a day's hard work, that Volunteers should be required to pay expenses of their trip to Wimbledon. DORCHESTER left nothing unsaid; put the whole case in brief speech. But WEMYSS not going to be left out. Interposed in fine patronising manner; made acknowledgment of DORCHESTER's good intention; but, suggesting an absolutely imaginary case, took exception to the presentation of the Volunteers in the light of asking for a day's pay. That, he said, would spoil the whole case.