MR. PUNCH IN CHINA.
Since each gobe-mouche is speaking of Nanking or Peking,
And as each critic, wit, or professional diner,
Explains that you can't choose but see that the Mantchews
Must soon be entirely driven from China,
And that a high price on our Pekoe and Hyson
Must be the infallible end of the clatter,
Mr. Punch, who's a strong goût for Souchong and Congou,
Determines to go and see what is the matter,
It boots not to say how he goes; for to-day
Young and old, grave and gay, so affect locomotion,
That the press every hour produces a shower,
Of "Rough Notes of a Slide on the Great Frozen Ocean,"
Or "A Midsummer's Ramble from Stamford to Stambol;"
Or "The Steppes of the Cossacks, by one who has walked in 'em;"
And I'm sure that whate'er Mr. Punch's plans were,
If these tourists could prosper, he wouldn't be baulked in 'em.
Like the witches, perchance, he might choose to advance,
And so order his coachman to bring out his brougham;
Or ask Phœbus to lead forth that spirited steed,
Which is furnished, in turn, by each Muse, with a groom;
But, however, we'll fancy him safely in Quansi,
Or Quantong, where, taking his place 'mid the great, he,
Like any philandering son of a mandarin,
Sits enjoying his opium cum dignitate.
Rich and stately pagodas he finds on the road, as
He goes through the land, for the most part erected,
When the smallest house-tax on Gaul, Briton, or Saxon,
Would have stood not the least chance of being collected.
Wide canals, dykes, and sluices he sees, too, whose uses
Were applied both to traffic, to drainage, and tillage,
When a hard rain had undone both Paris and London,
To the mud they were made of restoring each village.
And they show him the pages of China's first sages,
Which were printed for sale in the towns of the Tartar;
When, with us, scarce a spark of wit gleamed in one clerk,
And De Montfort "his mark" set to our Magna Charta.
They declare, too, that banking quite flourished in Nanking,
And that printed bank-notes were in vogue at the hour
When our yeomen and reeves exchanged bannocks for beeves,
And seldom bought less than a sheep'sworth of flour.
And he learns their silk factories furnished phylacteries,
Robes, handkerchiefs, tapestry too, in the jolly days
When our sires wore a quaint but light coat of blue paint,
With a few streaks of red upon high days and holidays;
And that long, long 'ere Bacon and Bungay were taken
Unawares by the sudden blow up of their crucible,
Each Chinese fire-eater had found "vile saltpetre"
To the purpose of killing "tall fellows" reducible.
Then the more he enquires concerning their sires,
The greater the reason he sees to anticipate
That much of the mystery shrouding the history
Of Europe, the records of China will dissipate;
For as old Hoang Ti built the wall, strong and high,
To check the fierce Huns as it now checks the Tartars,
Not long after old Hannibal conquered at Cannæ,
And then wasted his time in his snug winter quarters;
And as if China's sons had not driven those Huns
Into Europe by many a subsequent battle, a
Longer respite, I ween, for old Rome there had been,
Nor Europe so early had bowed to an Attila.
It is clear that a stranger and far greater danger
Threatened Rome when on Carthage her wrath she was wreaking;
And that Cato the Censor had shown greater sense, or
Discernment, by crying "Delenda est Peking!"
But alas! all these stories of China's old glories,
Mr. Punch plainly sees it is vain to recall,
Since the course of the nation in civilisation
Has for ages been typified best by its wall.
No more, like his sires, the Chinese aspires
In science and art to be making some new step;
But the national skill, like a soldier on drill,
Keeps performing a kind of perpetual goose-step.
For the vast population, the hand cultivation
Of the still fertile country no longer suffices;
Though to drain swamps they toil, and to carry up soil
To the rocky hill sides, no unfrequent device is.
And, on seeing their dainties, poor Punch fit to faint is,
As he cries, "Nought but famine gives such things a price!"
"Rats and mice, and such small deer," snakes and puppies are all dear.
As helping to eke out their pittance of rice.
Now whilst thus his quick wit is on their antiquities
Busy as that of a Layard or Bonomi;
Or, like that of M'Culloch, of pig, sheep, and bullock,
Rice and tea, is discussing the social economy,
There springs up a great riot near, and the patriot
Army comes marching along in its pride;
Crying out as they go, "We are hostile to Fô!"
They fling down the josses on every side,
And smash, in their scrimmages, all Buddha's images,
Whilst a new-fangled creed by their chiefs is propounded,
Which they call Christianity; though, when Punch comes to scan it, he
Finds it is but Confucius his creed "worse confounded."
Now in hamlet or city, all quarter or pity
To their long hated rulers the natives refuse;
"Peacock's plumes" and "Red buttons" are nought but lost muttons.
Whilst impatient his badges of serfdom to lose,
Each Chinese without fail parts his head from his tail,
And henceforth minds his toupées instead of his queues.
Mr. Punch—whilst applauding their courage, and lauding
Their natural wish to recover their freedom—
Still thinks that society may with propriety
Expect him a brief "screed o' doctrine" to read 'em.
So he summons their leader, and says, "You indeed err,
If you think that this triumph your labour will terminate;
When the Mantchews have vanished, there still must be banished
Many faults which for ages you've suffered to germinate.
Your own gross inhumanity, cunning, and vanity,
Which still are so great that I cannot ignore 'em,
Helped the Mantchews, who knew you right well, to subdue you,
As the Mongols and Khalkas had oft done before 'em.
You have broken your chains of to-day with small pains;
But hereafter, if courage and honesty you lack, you
Will be conquered once more—like your fathers of yore,
By the might of some yet to come Kublai or Hulakhu;
For the hordes of the North are still ripe to burst forth.
As oft in their tents the rude minstrel or rhymer
Tunes his harp in the praise of those glorious days,
When their sires fought bravely for Gengis or Timur.
To conclude. If you'd thrive, you must earnestly strive
To rub out of men's minds the stern dictum of Tennyson,
That 'in Europe one day beats a year in Cathay,'
And thereto Punch heartily gives you his benison."