(_The Story of the Next Battle, written in advance for Next Month's
"Powder Magazine," by a Soldier in the Ranks._)
The Victory of Rumtumidity was certainly one of the most amusing things
I ever saw in my life. We landed at six o'clock in the evening, and
finding a grog-shop, were soon gone coons. Speaking for myself, I saw
the colours of the Regiment magnified by twenty! Well, we were ordered
to march, and off we started, staggering along in fine style. Out came
the moon, and one of us fell down in a dead faint.
"Suffering from sunstroke!" said the Surgeon, who was a Welsh Irishman.
"Leave him in the sand, and he will soon come to himself when he finds
you gone--if he doesn't, the vultures will hasten his movements."
This jest made us all laugh. Our Captain hearing one of us roaring a
trifle too loud, put his sword through him. Immense!
We marched along to the music of the prisoners, who yelled out bravely
when they were prodded by the guards set over them.
"Did you see the like!" said TIM O'FLANAGAN (from Edinburgh), who, no
doubt, would have developed the idea, had not his head at that moment
been carried off by a cannon-ball. Very comic!
"Now, my lads," said our Captain, who wasn't much of an orator, "look
here--England expects every man to do his duty; and, if you don't, why
_I_ am having you all watched, and, as sure as beans is beans, the
laggards will be bayoneted."
This little speech had the desired effect, especially after it had been
strengthened by a double ration of grog.
Then came the order to charge. We charged, and killed everyone we saw,
including our own officers. This simplified matters. A little later the
whole place was in our hands. Rumtumidity was taken!
Then came the order to bury the dead. But we did more--_we buried the
living with them_! Oh, how it made us laugh! Then came supper, and we
amused ourselves by telling to one another our adventures. I was just
recounting how I had emptied the pockets of a deceased officer,
when--"whisk!"--up came a cannon-ball and struck me! I was able to say
nothing more at that time; as, when the cannon-ball had passed, I found
it had left me defunct! And I have been dead ever since. My companion
and chum, whose name I must not give without permission, will vouch for
every word I've said.
(_Signed_) A. MUNCHAUSEN,
_Late Lance-Ensign, the Lincoln Longbowers_.
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"ENGLISH, YOU KNOW, QUITE ENGLISH."
Perhaps, the good old rule that, "You should never look a gift-horse in
the mouth," cannot be so rigorously applied to gifts of pictures to the
Nation as to other things. Nevertheless, Mr. TATE'S munificent proffer
of his Collection to the National Gallery, is surely too good a thing to
be missed through matters of mere detail. _Mr. Punch's_ view is--well,
despite _Touchstone's_ attack on "the very false gallop of verses,"
there are two things that come most insinuatingly in metre; offers of
love, and of friendly advice:--
ENGLISH Art no longer paints
Those "squint-eyed Byzantine saints"
Mr. ORROCK so disparages.
Martyrdoms and Cana Marriages
Over-stock our great Art Gallery,
Giving ground for ORROCK'S raillery.
Scenes in desert dim, or dun stable,
Than Green English lanes by CONSTABLE
Are less welcome, or brown rocks
And grey streams by DAVID COX.
Saint Sebastian's death? Far sweeter
Sylvan scenes by honest PETER;
There's a charm in dear DE WINT
Cannot be conveyed in print.
Verdant landscapes, sea-scapes cool,
Painted by the English School.
Must be welcome to our British
Taste, which is not grim or skittish;
Rather Philistine, it may be.
Sweet on cornfields and the Baby;
Yet of ROMNEY'S grace no spurner,
Or the golden dreams of TURNER.
Moral? Will a moral, bless us!
Comes like that old shirt of NESSUS.
Still, here goes! An Art-official
Should be genial, but judicial.
When an Art-Collection's national,
It is obviously rational
It should be a bit eclectic,
Weeding out the crude or hectic.
He who'd have his country's honour,
As a liberal Art-donor,
Thinks more of his country's fame
Than of _his_ particular name.
Would you win true reputation
As benefactor of the Nation.
Trust me 'tis not "special room"
Keeps _that_ glory in full bloom.
_Punch_ is a plain-speaking chap;
Here's his view of things. _Verb. sap._!
* * * * *
[Illustration]
PICTURES IN THE HAYMARKET.--"And there stood the 'tater-man, In the
midst of all the wet; A vending of his taters in the lonely Haymarket."
So sang one of the greatest of _Mr. Punch's_ singers, years agone. If he
had sung in the present day, he would have substituted pictures for
'taters; for surely this pleasant thorough-fare has become a mart for
pictures and players rather than potatoes. Look in at TOOTH'S Gallery,
and you will stay a long while, indeed you will age considerably, and
may be said to be "long in the TOOTH," before you come out, as you will
find the exhibition so paletteable. Then having refreshed your eye with
the spring sunshine--if there happens to be any about--you will turn
into MCLEAN'S _salon_ and see a marvellous picture of Jaffa, by G.
BAUERNFEIND, and other works by English and foreign painters. The County
Council will have to change the title of this street into the A-market,
"A" standing for Art, of course.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A Fancy Portrait of my Laundress, judging by her
Handiwork.]
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