"'One hand the pen, and one the sword employed.'
"My reward was banishment, imprisonment, poverty, neglect, and a miserable death in an almshouse. 'Soon after, however,' says the record, 'many epitaphs honoured his memory: the greatness of his merit was universally confessed, and his Lusiad was translated into various languages.' 'The whirligig of time brings its revenges,' as your own illustrious Singer saith. How think you myself and my friend Vasco de Gama here look upon the fallen state of our beloved native land? In vain he ventured for her. In vain I warningly sang:—
"'Chill'd by my nation's cold neglect, thy fires
Glow bold no more, and all thy rage expires.
Shall haughty Gaul or sterner Albion boast
That all the Lusian fame in thee is lost!'"
Mr. Punch bowed low to the illustrious Poet and the indomitable Explorer. "Greatness," said he, courteously, "claims reverence, and misfortune respect. Your countrymen, Gentlemen, have been rather angry with me of late. But 'sterner Albion' may be proud indeed if she produces such men as Gama to perform heroic deeds, and such poets as Camoens to sing them." The stately Shades saluted. "I wonder," said Gama, "who will be the Laureate of the later Ulysses, and which of your singers will write the Epic of Africa?"
"I fear," said Mr. Punch, "that at present they are too busy smiting the Socialistic big drum, or tickling their sonorous native tongue into tinkling triolets. In this Island of Venus——"
"I beg pardon," interrupted Stanley, with a sardonic smile. "This Island of Menus, you mean, Mr. Punch!"
Mr. Punch looked around. The Acidalian roses and myrtles, the purple lotos and the snowy thorn, the yellow pod-flowers and the waving palms, the vermeil apples and the primrosed banks, of Camoens' somewhat zone-confounding vision, had indeed vanished, and in their stead seemed to wave snowy serviettes, to flow champagne-streams, to glitter goblets, and to glow orchid-laden épergnes.
"Humph!" said the Sage. "The prose of the Restaurateur—which by the way sounds as if I were alluding to the literature of the Restauration,—hath insensibly superseded the poesy of the peerless Portuguese. Well, Gentlemen, in vain may 'sterner Albion' glory in the profusion of wealth and the pomp of 'glad repast,' unless also she breeds heroes to adventure and poets to celebrate. As you sang, my Camoens—
"'The King or hero to the Muse unjust,
Sinks as the nameless slave, extinct in dust.'
"For the present, Stanley's arm and Mr. Punch's pen suffice to save the State from such abasement. But let our timid Premiers and our temporising Press remember the glories of Gama and Camoens, and the fate of ungrateful and indolent Lusitania!"