Punch (29.1855)

September. 8, 1855.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 93

PUNCH'S ILLUSTRATIONS TO SHAKSPEARE.

" Hear the king's pleasure, Cardinal: who commands you
To render up the Great Seal presently

Into our hands :"— Henry VIII., Act iii., Scene 2.

A PARISIAN SOLEMNITY.

Our Parisian contemporaries have been full
of glowing descriptions of what they termed the
"solemnity" which took place at the Grand
Ooera on the occasion of the Queen's State Visit.
The solemnity consisted of a tri) from William
Tell; some variations sung by Cruvellt; an
etincelant bolero; le galop cosmopolitej and, by
way of conclusion, le fameux Gode Save the
Queen. Oar vivacious neighbours have an odd
idea of a "solemnity" when they describe by
such a term a sort of medley performance, in
which a bolero and a galop formed the principal
ingredients. We could conceive the tille of
"solemnity" being given to a selection, from
the Old Masters, whose Ops. present the most
ponderous specimens of abstruse counterpoint;
but to attach the notion of anything solemn to
an entertainment comprising sparkling boleros
and cosmopolitan galops is an idea we cannot
realise.

We can imagine a solemnity made up from
the labours of the old contra-pointists, but there
is a vast difference between the galop of mo-
dern date and the slow coach movements of the
ancient harmonists. With our mercurial neigh-
boars, however, everything is a solemnity, if it
has any object beyond the moment; and as such
we are willing to accept every incident c mnected
with the visit of the Queen to the French
Emperor.

Idiosyncrasy or the Czar.—Some people
faint at the smell of cheese: a cat in a cup-
board will make others uncomfortable. The
Emperor of Russia, who can swallow any
quantity of train-oil, is thrown into fits by the
mere mention of a box of Sardines.

PUNCH AT BOULOGNE.

August 27.—Boulogne has scarcely been in bed all night; the town
may have taken twenty winks, but before cock-crow was wide awake
and doing. When Victoria flashed along the Port to the railway
terminus, she just left a lambent stream of light behind her to mark
her way, but that was all. Boulogne saw nothing of the royal counte-
nance—nothing of the royal smile, that, during the absence of the sun
from foggy England, ripens the royal peaches in the royal gaidens.
Therefore, Boulogne resolved, on the return of the Queen, to embark
for faithful Albion, to have a good stare at Her Majesty by dav-light,
moon-light, and fire-light. To this end, the sun of sunny France
vouchsafed its brightest lustre—(it could not have been finer on the
morn of Austerliiz)—whilst the moon, with a gentle pale face, sweet and
fair as Eugenie's, looked mildly down; and yet the same moon that
shone on Agincourt! The fireworks slept like dragons in sheets of
paper, ready to spit and sparkle with the first " Promethean touch."
Boulogne was so full, that many families slept with their feet out of
Hotel windows—English all; a fact easily, and withal painfully, commu-
nicated to the Gallic beholder by the clumsiness of the sleepers' shoe-
leather. One enthusiastic solicitorfrom Thavies' Inn could be accommo-
dated for a bed with nothing more extensive than a knife-board ; but
being professionally accustomed to make much of a little, he was over-
heard to assure his friend Knaggs (of Furuival's) that he couldn't
have slept more sweetly on a woolsack. Perhaps, indeed, he got up all
the sharper for that knife-board!

It touched the British bosom tenderlv, musically,—so musically, that
the British heart-strings, vibrating to the sentiment, softly murmured
God Save the Queen—\o mark the hospitable, the affectionate preparations
made to welcome the Bonne Petite Reine. She had shot through Boulogne
like a sunbeam onward to Paris ; she had beheld, to the astonishment
of the dust of grandfather George the Third, the capital of his
natural enemy; she had beheld, and wondered; and was now returning,
filled and lustrous with the splendours she had gazed upon ! The
glories of the Hotel-de-Viile must still float about her—the glitter of
the thousands of bayonets, glistening in the Champ-de-Mars, must
make a halo around the royal bonnet. Queen Victoria, an excellent
little Queen, landed at Boulogne, and went on her rapid way to Paris.
But now she returns, glorified, sublimated by the homage, the raptures
of the past week,—and, par Lieu ! she is now not only une bonne petite
reine, but une reine magnifique ! For, bad she not gone, haud in hand
with the Emperor, to the coffin of Napoleon ? Had not Britannia,

a little remorseful about St. Helena, gazed with reverent softened eyes
at what covered so much dust—dust, that once burned with the
quickening might of myriads! That right hand had hurled thunder-
bolts, every bolt bringing down some throne. One the thunder could
not reach, but still fell short, still went down into the deep that still
hissed in scorn. And now, the gentle woman who adorns that throne,
in her very gentleness embodying the calm strength of England, comes
to the coffin of the dead enemy of her land ; aud in his coffin—t he while
the organ peals old England's anthem—buries all dead enmities. Such
nn incident is, in its solemnity, the very religion of history. Painters
historical, prepare your palettes !

Punch changes paragraphs, and is again at Boulogne. At five
o'clock, a cannon boomed forth—" Here she comes ! " " She comes
" she comes "—bellowed another and another. " She is come," another
bellows, with thundering satisfaction. The magnificent Queen has.
returned to Boulogne, and Boulogne fetches a long breath !

There can be no doubt of the magic influence of Paris on the Queen op
England; yes, and on the Queen's first and most dutiful subject,
Prince Albert, late of Saxe-Gotha. The Boulogne mind discerna
even in the improved bonnet of the Queen of England the blessed in-
fluence of the Paris visit. The Queen's brow is more ample ; a tablet
enlarged to hold greater memories : the Queen's eyes were blue as the
sea at its bluest,—but now, as the sea, they are deep. Her Majesty
has devoured go many wonders, that she has become exalted beyond
mere Britannic royalty. She has eaten and drunk of the ambrosia and
nectar of Pans, and her mien, her looks, declare the influence of t he
celestial fare. So speculates and resolves the philosophic mind of
Boulogne!

In a few minutes, and the Queen is prepared to review the trooDs
on the Sands. The Champ-de-Mars had been honoured in Paris,—why
not the Champ-de-Neptune in Boulogne? There were the compact
fellows drawn out, drawn in; and all of them very plainly understanding
their business; a truth Mr. Pu?ich-wa,s immediately convinced of, when
he observed Field-Marshal Prince Albert give an approving nod.
The Marshal seemed particularly pleased with the marvellous move-
ments of the Chasseurs de Vincennes, who treat war as a practical
joke, and, would have as much fun and no more in dislodging monkeys
from a sugar plantation as in routing regiments of Russians. In fact,
to a Chasseur, a mounted Don Cossack is no more than a monkey on
pony-back.—Nothing can beat the good-temper of these fellows : they
crack a skull as a good joke; and to their teeth bullets are merely
sugar-plums. If there be " dogs of war," then are the Chasseurs war's
playful puppy-dogs! The review ended, and, it is said by some who