(_FRAGMENT FROM A HISTORICAL SKETCH YET TO BE WRITTEN._)
[Illustration]
It was shortly after the middle of July, 1892, that the Great
Representative of the British Race stood upon the Victoria Embankment,
watching the river-steamers as they passed to and fro. There were few
persons about, for the General Election was over, and civilised London
was out of Town. Some of civilised London had gone abroad, some were
in Scotland, some by the Sea. So the Great Representative expected to
see no one.
"_Mr. Punch_, I believe!" said some one, approaching the Great
Representative. The speaker was a person who wore a garb peculiarly
suitable to the autumnal sultriness of the weather. He had about a
couple of yards of calico, and one good coating of serviceable paint.
The Great Representative bowed his head, and by a gesture, invited
further explanation.
"I am connected with the literary world, and am a Colonist. I am
known, or used to be known (for I am getting a trifle out of date), as
Lord MACAULAY's New-Zealander."
Again the Great Representative bowed. He knew his visitor, and bade
him welcome. Then he asked him the cause of his visit.
"Well, I really don't know," replied the New-Zealander, with a short
laugh. "I am afraid I must have been hoaxed. I was told that England
was absolutely ruined, and was looking for a comfortable seat amongst
the remains of London Bridge."
"You see you are slightly premature," returned the Great
Representative, pointing towards a more or less majestic pile in the
offing. "There was some talk of rebuilding the structure some short
while ago, but a viaduct near the Tower was considered preferable.
When it is opened, there will be Knighthoods for the Sheriffs, and a
Baronetcy for the Lord MAYOR."
"And yet," pondered the New-Zealander, "I was certainly informed by
wire, that the glory of Britain had vanished for ever."
"Very likely an Election cry," observed _Mr. Punch_, "In the midst of
a contested polling, both sides think the success of their rivals must
be followed by immediate disaster. But somehow or other, things settle
down afterwards, and nothing comes of it. Whichever side wins, the old
flag floats in the wind as gaily and as prosperously as ever."
"And yet I was certainly told that the sun of England had set never
to rise again," persisted the Aboriginal, who seemed to be of an
obstinate turn of mind. "Now I remember--the cause was something to
do with Diamonds and Henley. Stay, the bright brains of the nation had
disappeared. I recollect, the Diamond Sculls of the nation (once so
great) had passed to foreigners."
"Ah, now I take your meaning." said the National Representative, with
a smile, "and you must have heard of the result of the race for the
Diamond Sculls at Henley."
"That must be it," acquiesced the New-Zealander. "I had forgotten to
take into account possible errors in transmission. But tell me, has
there been a national defeat?"
"Well, yes," admitted _Mr. Punch_, with a sigh--"we did not
come out altogether satisfactorily. Even the second man was a
Frenchman--albeit, his name was suggestive of dear old Scotland."
"And do you mean to say," said the New-Zealander, "that the best
scullers of England were beaten by a boating-man from the Seine?"
"It is too true, and the Frenchman himself succumbed to a
Dutchman--yes, we confess it, and with shame."
"I don't see why you should," returned the other, changing his tone
to one of greater satisfaction. "As a New-Zealander, I observe nothing
degrading in the superiority of Old Holland." And considering the
prowess of VAN TROMP in the past, there was perhaps nothing so strange
in the triumph of OOMS in the present.
* * * * *
"TO PAY OR NOT TO PAY, THAT IS THE BISLEYNESS."
MY DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I see that the receipts of the National Rifle
Association have fallen off, and that there is a proposal to make the
Bisley Meeting this year rather more attractive than its predecessors.
The Camp is to be open, and there are to be Concerts and other
distractions. But is this enough? Once confess that Rifle-shooting
is not the sole business of the gathering, and the way is cleared for
more amusing items. All that is wanted to convert a semi-failure into
a triumphant success, is a Manager who could combine entertainment
with instruction, thus:--
6 A.M.--Gun-fire. The Camp awakes, and, to the music of the band, gets
up. Reserved seats in band-enclosure, sixpence extra.
7 A.M.--Balloon Ascent. Firing at the sun with revolvers by trained
aëronauts. Seats in parachutes, five shillings a-piece.
8 A.M.--Early performance of BUFFALO BILL before his departure for
Earl's Court. Prices as usual.
9 A.M.--Sham Fight, augmented by Menagerie from Travelling Circus.
Cards to visit the stables, half-a-crown.
10 A.M.--Representation of Siege Scene from Venice in London, under
the title of "The Bridge of Sighs within measuring distance of Woking
Cemetery." Season tickets, half-a-guinea.
11 A.M.--Performance of the Battle of Waterloo by veterans, late of
Astley's Theatre. Families and schools half-price.
12 NOON.--Visit of Royalty, and Presentation of Purses. No Purse
accepted containing less than two pounds ten.
1 P.M.--Grand Luncheon, with speeches by the leading Military
Authorities, followed by a Smoking Concert. One-and-sixpence.
2 P.M.--Variety Show, including several of the best Lion Comiques,
and the astounding performances of the Bounding Brothers of Bohemia.
Stalls, ten shillings. Soldiers in uniform admitted at a considerable
reduction.
3 P.M.--Cricket Match between the famous Clown Eleven _versus_ the
Ladies' Sixteen. Grand Stand, three-and-six.
4 P.M.--Comic Carnival, entitled, "Rollicksome Riflemen, or the
Vicissitudes of the Volunteers." Reserved Seats, ninepence.
There, my dear Sir, I think I have written enough. If there was any
time to spare, the shooting programme might still be carried out; but
business is business, and only by the means I have indicated (in my
opinion) can Bisley be made to pay. Trusting that my suggestion may be
accepted in the spirit in which it is offered, I remain,
Yours truly, DIVIDEND BEFORE DEFENCE. _The Money Grubberies, the
Twenty of Shillingsworth-in-the-Pound._
* * * * *