"Here awa', there awa', wandering WILLIE."
O WILHELM, my lad, you might well sing that song.
This stir's getting troublesome, not to say silly,
Our "Travelling EMPEROR"'s coming it strong.
This playing at Soldiers, is't never to cease?
There's no rest but the grave for the Pilgrim of—Peace!
Sub tegmine fagi, in holiday Autumn,
E'en Emperors sometimes incline to take ease,
But when once he has dropped in upon 'em, and caught 'em,
The Tityrus rôle is all up. 'Tis a tease.
I was just settling down to my pipe and my bock,
When he bursts in like this! Gives a man quite a shock!
He has stirred them up pretty well all round already.
Good Grandmother GUELPH! Well, with her, 'twas just "come and off!"
(A true British "Summer" the wildest will steady),
And then he drops in upon tired Cousin ROMANOFF.
Ha! ha! How the CZAR must have laughed—in his sleeve—
At that "capture," which WILHELM could scarcely believe!
Taken prisoner, the "Travelling EMPEROR!" Funny!
Oh, could they have kept him till Autumn was o'er!
No such luck! I must stir up, and spend time, and money,
In playing the old game of Soldiers! Great bore!
Ah, my youthful, alert, irrepressible KAISER,
When just a bit older you'll be a bit wiser.
Voecklabruck's pleasant in genial September,
And now I must start for Silesia. Ah me!
That name gives a KAISER so much to remember—
Would FREDERICK—THE GREAT—have "waltzed round" with such glee,
Trotting out Europe's soldiers and ships in this way?
Well, the KAISER's a "kid," I suppose it's his play.
I wonder what BISMARCK the blunt thinks about it.
He hardly takes Kriegspiel views of the earth;
He may be prepared to applaud, but I doubt it.
I fancy him moved to a saturnine mirth.
I wonder where next the young ruffler will go.
I should like, if I dared, to suggest—Jericho!
"Come out, Cousin HAPSBURG, your uniform don,
And let's play at Soldiers!" Ah, yes, that's his voice.
How glad Grandma GUELPH must be now he has gone,
And how at his leaving the CZAR must rejoice!
And now I am in for it all, for awhile.
Ah, well, I must dress, and endeavour to smile.
Only if he would off it to Stamboul or Cairo,
Look up EMIN PASHA, survey Zanzibar,
Or try butterfly hunting at Kilimi Njaro,
The Crowned Heads of Europe were easier far.
But Africa's "fauna and flora" would pall—
He wants armies and fleets, or he can't rest at all.
Silesian manoeuvres! I know what they mean;
Long hours in the saddle, much dust, many hails!
An elderly Emperor's fancy might lean
To idling, or hunting the chamois with WALES.
Now, he would not worry—but grumbling's no use,
So here's for Schloss Ronnstock, and endless Reviews!
OUR FAILURES.—"One man in his time plays many parts," and JOHN L. SULLIVAN, the great American "Slogger," having lately rather failed, perhaps, as a pugilistic "Champion," has done what Mr. HARRY NICHOLLS's lyric hero so yearned to do, viz., "gone on the Stage." Decline of the Drama, indeed! Recruited from the ranks of the Amateurs, on one side from the "Swells," on the other from the "Sports," the Stage ought to flourish. "Critics," said Dizzy, "are those who have failed in Literature." Will it by-and-by be said that Actors are those who have failed in "Sassiety" and the Prize Ring, as Mashers or as Bashers?
We sought it with search-lights, we sought it with care,
We pursued it with ships and hope;
But it seemed to have suddenly vanished in air
From under the heaven's blue cope.
We shuddered to think that the chace might fail,
And TRYON, excited at last,
Went ramping like redskin in search of a trail,
For the ten days were nearly past.
"There is Thingumbob shouting!" the Admiral said.
"He is shouting like mad, only hark!
He is waving his hands, he is wagging his head,
He has certainly found the—Snark!"
We gazed in delight, whilst a Bo'sun exclaimed—
(Your Bo'sun is always a wag!)—
"In the East there's a wision, a mirage it's named!
That the Snark? Put yer head in a bag!"
Then Admiral TRYON he ramped like a lion,
In prospect of splendid success.
But the Snark, with a spasm, plunged in a sea chasm;
Of SEYMOUR one couldn't see less.
"It's the Snark!" was the sound that first fell on our ears,
It seemed almost too good to be true.
Then followed a torrent of laughter and jeers,
Then the words, "It is all a Yah-Boo—"
Then silence. Some fancied they heard in the air
A sigh (from the lips of J.D.?)
That sounded like "——jum!" But some others declare
It was more like a half-choked big D.!
We hunted ten days and ten nights, but we found
Not so much as poor collier-barque.
By which we might tell that we steamed o'er the ground
Where CULM-SEYMOUR had handled the—Snark!
In the depths of that two thousand square miles, they say,
'Midst the world's mocking laughter and glee,
SEYMOUR softly and silently vanished away—
This Snark was a Yah-Booh-Jum, you see!
"Is this a dagger that I see before me?"
No, c'est un souvenir d'Aubourg, une petite truelle à poisson de l'Hostellerie des Vieux Plats, Gonneville.
For the benefit of all tourists in Normandy, and visitors to Le Havre, Etretat, and all round and about that quarter, I gave an account, two weeks ago, of the excellent fare provided for us by La famille Aubourg at Gonneville. But on that occasion I made the great mistake of calling their curious old house—a perfect little museum of curiosities and works of Art—"a hotel." By my halidom! "Hotel," save the mark—and spend the shilling. "Hotel," quotha! "Hotel" is far too modern. Old English "Inn" more like. The kind of inn, good gossip, which was kept in SHAKSPEARE's time by "mine host," where everyone, with coin of the realm in his purse, could take his ease and be happy. So, to put me right on this matter, M. AUBOURG sends me a truelle of burnished metal, on which is inscribed, "Hostellerie des Vieux Plats, Souvenir d'Aubourg," which truelle, if not large, "yet will serve" to help fish, or pommes soufflées, or pommes Anna, and, mark ye, my masters, will also serve to recall to my memory a right merrie, even tho' 'twere an all too short, holiday.
"But when the swinging signs your ears offend,
With creaking noise."
GAY's Trivia; or, The Art of Walking the Streets of London.
Offend our ears? Pedestrian Muse of GAY,
Had you foreseen the London of to-day,
How had you shuddered with ashamed surprise
At "swinging signs" which now offend our eyes!
Long have Advertisement's obtrusive arts
Pervaded our huge maze of malls and marts;
But now the "swinging signs" of ogre Trade,
Even the smoke-veiled vault of heaven invade,
And sprawling legends of the tasteless crew
Soar to the clouds and spread across the blue.
See—if you can—where Paul's colossal dome
Rises o'er realms that dwarf Imperial Rome.
Cooped, cramped, half hid, the glorious work of WREN
Lent grandeur once to huckstering haunts of men,
Though on its splendour Shopdom's rule impinged,
And plaster, had they power, kind heaven's clear vault
With vulgar vaunts of Sausages or Salt.
Picture the proud and spacious city given
Wholly to Shopdom's hands! 'Twixt earth and heaven
Forests of tall and spindly poles arise,
With swinging signs that almost hide the skies.
Huge letterings hang disfiguring all the blue
To vaunt the grace of SNOBKINS's high-heel'd Shoe.
A pair of gloves soar to a monstrous height,
Long have its letterings large, its pictures vile,
Possessed the mammoth city mile on mile;
Made horrors of its hoardings, and its walls
Disfigured from the Abbey to St. Paul's,
And far beyond where'er a vacant space
Allowed Boeotian Commerce to displace
Scant Urban Beauty from its last frail hold,
On a Metropolis given up to Gold.
But till of late our sky at least was clear
(Such sky as coal-reek leaves the civic year)
If not of smoke at least of flaming lies,
And florid vaunts of quacks who advertise.
Not these sky-horrors, huge and noisy-hinged,
Shamed the still air about it, or obscured
Its every view. Is it to be endured,
O much-enduring Briton? There be those
Who'd scrawl advertisements of Hogs or Hose
Across the sun-disc as it flames at noon,
Or daub the praise of Pickles o'er the moon.
Unmoved by civic pride, unchecked by taste,
They 'd smear the general sky with poster's paste
And at Dan Phoebus seem to "take a sight."
Colossal bottles blot the air, to tell
That MUCKSON's Temperance drink is a great sell.
Here's a huge hat, as black as sombre Styx,
Flanked by the winsome legend, "Ten and Six."
Other Sky-signs praise Carpets, Ginghams, Socks,
Mugg's Music-hall, and "Essence of the Ox."
Bah! GAY's trim Muse might sicken of her rhymes
Had she to read these Sky-signs of the Times!
I Was aware that Mr. J. was a semolina-brained impostor, but I should never have conceived that even he, the jelly-faced chief of the chowder-heads, could have attained to such a pitch of folly as to inform me that "the Prix Montyon is not a medal, and cannot be worn at Court." These are his words. Did I ever say it was a medal? I remarked that the QUEEN had given me permission to wear it at Court. That is true. But I never said that I would or could so wear it. As for Her Most Gracious Majesty's permission, it was conveyed to me in a document beginning, "VICTORIA, by the grace of," &c, and containing the signature of Lord HALSBURY, the Lord Chancellor—No, by the way, that is another Royal communication. The Permission begins, "To our right trusty and well-beloved." What beautiful, confiding, affectionate words are these! Who can wonder that a Queen who habitually makes use of them should reign in the hearts of her subjects?
Since I returned from France I have been on a further and more extensive Continental tour, and have received more marks of distinction from various Crowned Heads. Did you hear the strange story of what took place at the meeting of the German EMPEROR with the CZAR of Russia? It was the hour of the mid-day meal. The EMPEROR, at the head of his Wyborg Regiment, had performed prodigies of valour. Mounted on his fiery Tchinovick (a Circassian mustang) he had ridden into the heart of the hostile position, and with one stroke of his Pen (a sort of Russian scimetar with a jewelled hilt) he had captured a convoy containing three thousand Versts (a sort of condensed food), intended for the consumption of the opposing Army. Tired with his labours, he was now lying at full length beside his Imperial host on the banks of the torrential Narva. The CZAR, in attempting to open, a Champagne bottle, had just broken one of his Imperial nails, and had despatched his chief butler to Siberia, observing with pleasant irony, that he would no doubt find a corkscrew there. At this moment a tall and aristocratic stranger, mounted upon a high-spirited native Mokeoffskaia, dashed up at full gallop. To announce himself as Lieutenant-General POPOFF, to seize the refractory bottle, to draw the cork, and pour the foaming liquid into the Imperial glasses, was for him the work of a moment. That stranger was I. In recognition of my promptitude, the CZAR has conferred upon me the Stewardship of the Vistula Hundreds, with the command of a division of the Yeomanoff Cavalry, the most distinguished horse-soldiers in Europe.
The German EMPEROR was equally impressed. His Majesty smiled, and, turning to General CAPRIVI, told him to consider himself henceforth under my orders for everything that concerned the peace of the world. I could see that CAPRIVI did not relish this, but I soon made him know his place, and when I threatened to send for Prince BISMARCK—who, by the way, has granted me the unique honour of an interview—he became quite calm and reasonable. On my way home, I called in on Prince FERDINAND of Bulgaria, who offered me his Crown, telling me at the same time that he intended to take a course of German Baths. He said I should find STAMBOULOFF a very pleasant fellow; "but," he added, "you've got to know him first."
I, of course, refused His Highness's offer, and accepted instead the Cross for Valour on the Field of Battle. I then hurried off to Servia. King MILAN informed me that, if I wished to take a Queen back with me to England, he would dispose of one very cheaply. Having advised the Regents as to the best method of governing the country, I departed for Roumania. The Queen of ROUMANIA welcomed me as a literary man. She writes all the Roumanian sporting prophecies in verse. The King invested me at once with the Stonibroku Order in brilliants, with the Iohu Clasp for special promise shown in connection with turf literature. I may assure you in confidence that there will be no war for the next week or two. This result is entirely due to me.
Do you want to hear about the St. Leger? I need only say that my own Surefoot has brought me Alloway Heaume. Whilst in Russia I heard about plenty of Serfs, but they were not saints. Anybody who proposes to wear a Blue-green waistcoat on the Queen's Birthday ought to eat Sainfoin for the rest of his life, and be taken Right Away. Finally, if The Field is to Memoir as a window-sash is to a Duchess's flounces, what chance has a crack-brained Bedlamite of munching potatoes in St. James's Palace? Answers must he posted not later than Monday. All prizes genuine. No blanks.
Yours as always, GENERAL POPOFF.
Captain Thérèse, Comic Opera. Music by ROBERT PLANQUETTE, composer of Paul Jones and Les Cloches de Corneville. Book by Messrs. BISSON and BURNAND; GILBERT À BECKETT assisting in the lyrics. The Carl Rosa Company, DRURIOLANO IMPERATORE, wouldn't wait for the production of an Opera in Paris in order to bring it out here with the French cachet, but determined to have one done all for themselves, and to bring it out here first. So the French author began it, the English one finished it, and the Composer wrote music for original French and original English words. It is an international Opera; a new departure, and in the Operatic world an important one. It answers a question which was once the question of the day, "Why should London wait?" London, represented by Sheriff DRURIOLANUS, did not wait, and was served immediately with Captain Thérèse, produced Monday the 25th, at the Prince of Wales's Theatre; and the gratitude of London has justified the generosity of all concerned behind the Curtain, and in front of the house. Even in August the five million odd of those left in Town can appreciate good music, capital acting, magnificent dresses, and perfect mise-en-scène. The Prince of Wales's Theatre has a reputation for level excellence in Comic Opera—it is the spécialité de la maison, and the new lyrical piece is a worthy successor to Dorothy, Marjorie, and Paul Jones. As Captain Thérèse, Miss ATTALLIE CLAIRE reminds mature playgoers of that "such a little Admiral" that was irresistible many years ago. She is bright, clever, and, above all, refined. Miss PHYLLIS BROUGHTON makes up for rather a weak voice by great strength in dancing, and Mr. HARRY MONKHOUSE is genuinely comic. Mr. HENRY ASHLEY, always conscientious even in his mirth, at the end of the Second Act, is suggestive of the Astley's of the Westminster Road. Like the piece, he is very well mounted. Madame AMADI is also excellent, a genuine lady-comedian—or should it be comédienne? Then there is Mr. JOSEPH TAPLEY, a capital tenor, and Mr. HAYDEN COFFIN, silver-voiced and graceful, the beau idéal of the hero of a Light Opera company. For the rest, the chorus and band could not be better, and the production is worthy of DRURIOLANUS, or, rather, CHARLES, his brother, and also his friend. So Messrs. BISSON and PLANQUETTE, and their English collaborateur, may toast one another, happy in the knowledge that the entente cordiale has once more received hearty confirmation at the hands of the London public; they may cry, with reason, Vive la France! and Hip, hip, BRITANNIA! feeling sure that, by their joint exertions, they have obtained for the Anglo-Saxon race that blessing to the public in general, and Theatrical Managers in particular, a lasting piece.
The sportive M.P., when the Session is done,
Is off like a shot, with his eye on a gun.
He's like Mr. Toots in the Session's hard press,
Finding rest "of no consequence." Could he take less?
But when all the long windy shindy is o'er,
He, like Oliver Twist, is found "asking for Moor!"
JOTS AND TITLES.—The busy persons who, in a recent Mansion House list, had found quite "a Mayor's nest" in the highly important question of a Cardinal's precedence, have recently started another scare on discovering that the Ex-Empress's Chaplain at Chislehurst has described himself, or has been described, on a memorial tablet which he had put up in his own church, as a "Rector." Evidently a mistake. If he erected the Memorial, he should have been described as "The Erector."
NOTICE—Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.