Punch (76.1879)

July 5, 1879.] PUNCH, OR, THE LONDON CHARIVARI. ill

HERE was nothing else for it, they said at the F. 0. and the C. 0.

It had been Sir Gaenet's last wish, as he stepped on board the transport at Portsmouth, to have me at his elbow.

I had promised him to think about it. I had thought about it. I had handed over the charge of the Office to Toby
—transferred the Editorial Chair to the oldest Contributor—kissed Judy and embraced our child—bought a solar topee and a
Kharkee jacket—-detached from the trophy, of which it forms the central ray, " le sabre, le sabre, le sabre de mon pere,"—and,
to cut a long story short, I was there !

" Push on to the front," said Sir G.; " and see if you can't set things straight with Cetewayo."
To hear was to obey. I am not particular about Commissariat or personal comforts. My habit is not to make diffi-
culties, but to overcome them. I waive the tale of my inspannings and outspannings, my struggles over spruits and drifts and
dongas, my weary veM-marches, my breakneck kopje-climbs, my gauntlet-running of Zulu ambuscades, my defiance of all imps
of darkness, and impis of deeper darkness still. Enough that I was there, at last—-in the black presence—front to front with
the formidable son of Panda. I will not say that my interview had not been facilitated by a letter of my friend and Cete-
wayo's, worthy Bishop C-l-nso.

" Let me introduce my old friend Punch," he wrote, concisely. " If anybody can make things straight between you
and the English Government, he will. Only listen to what he tells you, and do it."

I have no very distinct recollection of how I came into the Royal presence. My recollection on this point is, I own,
confused. It could not have been the Caffre beer. I had kept it up late, I know, with the chief poet and head witch-finder,
but they assured me there was not a head-ache in a hundred calabashes; and I was cool, quite cool—in fact, in something
like a cold chill—when I was told by a black Chamberlain in cow-tail garters, and a court-dress of a bead-belt and head-ring,
that Cetewayo would be glad to hear anything I had to say to him ; that I was his father; and that he hoped I would adopt
him as my son, and teach him, now that he had washed his spears, how to dry them.

To my astonishment the Zulu monarch was not alone when I reached the presence. He was surrounded with repre-
sentatives of all the Powers England has been at odds with during the last twelvemonth. No wonder the kraal of audience
was crowded. As I stood there—my topee on my head—I had notified to the Chamberlain that I would no more stoop to
take off my hat before the Royalty of Ulundi than our Burmese Envoy his shoes before that of Mandalay—the sabre of my
father under my arm, ** in act to speak, . . . and graceful waved my hand," I was enabled to identify, on the other side of the
estrade which divided me from my auditors, types of Afghan and Burman, Sclav and Bulgar, Egyptian and Greek, Turk
and Skipetar and Montenegrin—representatives of almost as many races and bloods as there are divisions of opinion in the
Irish Home-Rule party.

" And these are the races we have been fighting—or at least quarrelling with when we were not fighting ! " I thought
with pride. " What an illustration of that ' peace ' which we have, at last, learnt to reconcile with ' honour ' " !