(_BY MR. PUNCH'S OWN PROPHET._)
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.
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