 | King Poppy |  |
47
I. THE COURT.
Now, once upon a time there was a king.
King of a country once upon a time
Call'd Diadummiania, was he.
His kingdom's capital was Diadum,
And Diadummianus was his name.
King of a country once upon a time
Call'd Diadummiania, was he.
His kingdom's capital was Diadum,
And Diadummianus was his name.
This simple statement—“Once upon a time
There was a king, et cætera”—may appear
Somewhat indefinite to all whose minds
Have by Geography been prejudiced,
Or warp'd by History; for such folks persist
In always asking (just like children) where,
And when, and how things happen'd. To appease
Their puerile curiosity, the world
Acknowledged by Geography contains
Those places only that a man may reach
By sea or land, incurring as he goes
The risk of being sea-sick, ship-wreck'd, drown'd,
Robb'd by inn-keeping rogues along the road,
Or search'd upon the frontier by police.
Neither by land, however, nor by sea
Need travellers any sort of risk incur
In reaching Diadummiania,
And therefore it is mention'd on no map.
Yet where else could have happen'd all the things
About to be related in this book?
Certainly not in England. Anywhere
Except in Diadummiania
They would have been impossible. 'Tis true
That Diadummiania as yet
Is unacknowledged by Geography;
But this, tho' true, proves nothing. The north pole
Geography acknowledges with pride;
And yet, instead of it, discoverers find
Only the frozen carcasses of those
By whom 'twas not discover'd. True it is,
Moreover, that to none of the events
In this authentic chronicle set forth
Hath History any notice yet vouchsafed.
But what of that? Geographers at least,
Even when they find not what they seek, succeed
In sometimes finding what they have not sought;
And then, by merely finding it, they prove
That what they happen to have found, exists.
But what Historians seek exists no more,
And what they find is but a record left
Of something which, for aught that record proves,
May never have existed. Scripta manent!
Ay, and the Ministerial Journalist,
Whose scripture daily decks our morning meal,
To coming ages glowingly presents
Pictures of how this favour'd realm of ours
Its present gifted government preserves
From every possible peril, and endows
With countless blessings coveted in vain
By all the other nations of the world.
What past was ever such a present? Turn
The first page of the Opposition Print,
And all those glowing pictures melt in gloom.
If History's prime architect, blind Chance,
Of these two scriptures should select the first
For the instruction of the babes unborn,
Posterity will certainly affirm
That in the west of Europe, at the close
Of that enlighten'd century, the nineteenth,
There bloom'd a better'd Arcady. But ah,
The second scripture may the first survive,
And then, in after ages, by mistake
Folks will confound Great Britain with Byzant.
The scripture stays, the truth escapes—perchance
In flying words; and men the meaning miss
Of ‘Scripta manent, verba volant.’ Words,
Fugitive migratory words, there be,
That birdlike hover in the air, and fleet
By ways invisible from land to land.
In every language they have left behind
Their lingering echoes. Native air they breathe
In every clime, and every folk believes
It was the first to hear them. Round the world,
Safe over shipless seas, untrodden wastes,
And mountain tops impassable, they pass.
Their passage none can stop, none stay their flight,
Nor set the uncertain course of it. But, fraught
With intimations from afar, in flocks
Or singly, here and there they settle down
Unbidden; and where rural homes abound
They build, and brood, and, singing, fill men's hearts
With wonder, and men's memories with song.
That song in written speech no more abides
Than the lark's music, or the nightingale's,
And Science scorns it. But the untutor'd folk,
Whose bookless lore was old ere hers began,
List to it, love it, learn it, and transmit
Traditions of its truth from age to age.
'Tis they whose witness warrants our belief
That once upon a time there was a king,
And Diadummianus was his name.
There was a king, et cætera”—may appear
Somewhat indefinite to all whose minds
Have by Geography been prejudiced,
Or warp'd by History; for such folks persist
In always asking (just like children) where,
48
Which is an exact science; as is proved by the well-known fact that, when a geographer has disappeared without leaving his dress, and it is nearly certain that he has met with some fatal disaster. Geography, at great expense, equips an expedition to make quite certain of it. For such is the exactitude of this science, that it takes no account of the mere probability of disaster, however great; whilst, on the other hand, it has furnished us with accurate knowledge of the actual occurrence of a vast number of extraordinary disasters, which, but for geographic research, might never have occurred.
Their puerile curiosity, the world
Acknowledged by Geography contains
Those places only that a man may reach
By sea or land, incurring as he goes
The risk of being sea-sick, ship-wreck'd, drown'd,
Robb'd by inn-keeping rogues along the road,
Or search'd upon the frontier by police.
Neither by land, however, nor by sea
Need travellers any sort of risk incur
In reaching Diadummiania,
And therefore it is mention'd on no map.
Yet where else could have happen'd all the things
About to be related in this book?
Certainly not in England. Anywhere
Except in Diadummiania
They would have been impossible. 'Tis true
49
Is unacknowledged by Geography;
But this, tho' true, proves nothing. The north pole
Geography acknowledges with pride;
And yet, instead of it, discoverers find
Only the frozen carcasses of those
By whom 'twas not discover'd. True it is,
Moreover, that to none of the events
In this authentic chronicle set forth
Hath History any notice yet vouchsafed.
But what of that? Geographers at least,
Even when they find not what they seek, succeed
In sometimes finding what they have not sought;
And then, by merely finding it, they prove
That what they happen to have found, exists.
But what Historians seek exists no more,
And what they find is but a record left
50
May never have existed. Scripta manent!
Ay, and the Ministerial Journalist,
Whose scripture daily decks our morning meal,
To coming ages glowingly presents
Pictures of how this favour'd realm of ours
Its present gifted government preserves
From every possible peril, and endows
With countless blessings coveted in vain
By all the other nations of the world.
What past was ever such a present? Turn
The first page of the Opposition Print,
And all those glowing pictures melt in gloom.
If History's prime architect, blind Chance,
Of these two scriptures should select the first
For the instruction of the babes unborn,
Posterity will certainly affirm
That in the west of Europe, at the close
Of that enlighten'd century, the nineteenth,
51
The second scripture may the first survive,
And then, in after ages, by mistake
Folks will confound Great Britain with Byzant.
The scripture stays, the truth escapes—perchance
In flying words; and men the meaning miss
Of ‘Scripta manent, verba volant.’ Words,
Fugitive migratory words, there be,
That birdlike hover in the air, and fleet
By ways invisible from land to land.
In every language they have left behind
Their lingering echoes. Native air they breathe
In every clime, and every folk believes
It was the first to hear them. Round the world,
Safe over shipless seas, untrodden wastes,
And mountain tops impassable, they pass.
Their passage none can stop, none stay their flight,
Nor set the uncertain course of it. But, fraught
With intimations from afar, in flocks
52
Unbidden; and where rural homes abound
They build, and brood, and, singing, fill men's hearts
With wonder, and men's memories with song.
That song in written speech no more abides
Than the lark's music, or the nightingale's,
And Science scorns it. But the untutor'd folk,
Whose bookless lore was old ere hers began,
List to it, love it, learn it, and transmit
Traditions of its truth from age to age.
'Tis they whose witness warrants our belief
That once upon a time there was a king,
And Diadummianus was his name.
His was a goodly kingdom. Safe asleep
There in its birthplace Monarchy reposed.
No otherwhere, nor ever since that once,
Hath such a kingdom been. Time's restless waves
The wandering cradle of the nations waft
Hither and thither; and to every shore
That gives it shelter that toss'd bark bequeathes
A handful of invaders. In the blood
Of its inhabitants these bandits soak
The soil that gives them hospitality;
And, when no drop of native blood remains,
They patriotically shed their own
For what they call their native land, a realm
Foreign itself, by foreigners possess'd.
But hoary Monarchy's dim childhood slept
In Diadummiania secure
Where it was born: and to the king the land,
As to the babe its mother's breast, belong'd;
He to the land, as its indigenous hills
And immemorial forests. Now, the throne
Of Diadummiania had pass'd
Age after age from princely sire to son
In male succession, till this tale begins;
When, after many a year of hope deferr'd
Her Majesty the Queen was brought to bed.
The public duty tardily perform'd
On that occasion was her life's last act.
But on the day before she left this world
Her Majesty most graciously vouchsafed
To introduce to it (with due regard
To all court rules for royal births and deaths)
A little princess: who, as soon as born,
Was christen'd Diadema. When the King
Heard that his Heir Apparent was a girl,
His royal mind was mightily perplex'd.
Never before had such a case occurr'd,
And no provision for it could be found
In any of the statutes of the realm.
The Court Physician fell into disgrace
In consequence of this untoward event;
For which all felt that someone was to blame,
And if not he, then who? He had deliver'd
The Queen in her own presence, and of a child
Whose sex was contrary to precedent!
The funds went down: the oracles went wild:
The weathercocks went every way about
And back again, for they no longer knew
Which way to turn. These minatory signs
Alarm'd the Government: and, with concern,
The Minister of Public Safety learn'd
From the Inspector General of Police
That lately in the streets of Diadum
The sanguinary and seditious cry
Of Cherry Ripe had more than once been heard.
That was the revolutionary song,
The Diadummianian Marseillaise.
Whenever it was heard about the streets
You might be sure that things were getting hot.
A Deputation, led by the Lord Mayor,
Proceeded to the Palace; where, the King,
Acting upon his ministers' advice,
Was graciously, with much displeasure, pleased
To give it audience. The Lord Mayor, in terms
Respectfully but firmly out of place,
Address'd his Majesty; referring first
To cases teeming with embarrassments
Of various kinds which, having all occurr'd
In previous reigns, might happily have served
As precedents for this particular case,
Had they in aught resembled it. He next
Express'd a hope, unflatteringly faint,
That still, henceforth as heretofore, the Crown
Of Diadummiania might be
With undiminish'd dignity maintain'd;
And nothing ever suffer'd to deprive
Its loyal subjects of their right to pay
For trying, every now and then, new kinds
Of gunnery against new kinds of scarps
And counterscarps, on territories own'd
By foreign princes: thus promoting peace,
Which States would have no opportunity
Of making, if they never went to war.
These patriotic duties of the Crown
Concern'd the People; who, altho' it paid
For their performance, had some cause to fear
That, if the Crown were clothed in petticoats,
Its feminine possessor might not feel
The proper manly pride in them display'd
By those great princes who, before her birth,
(Which so unconstitutionally changed
The Constitution's sex) had grandly worn
The cock'd hat, leather breeches, and jack boots
Of Diadummianian Majesty.
The People's claim to its full money's worth
Of national discomfort and renown
Was with appropriate amplitude set forth
By Diadum's chief magistrate: who thus
Concluded his remarkable address—
“Sire, of all subjects, to your subjects all,
Taxation is the dearest, and indeed
'Tis growing annually dearer still.
For hitherto the right of being tax'd
To none except convicted criminals,
Paupers, and lunatics hath been denied.”
He ceased: and, but for that impetuous rush
Of quite ungovernable self-restraint
The Royal Presence commonly call'd forth
In those admitted to it, loud applause
From all his fellow-worthies would have hail'd
His eloquent oration's welcome close.
Since courtly etiquette, however, check'd
Their rising cheers, the Aldermen remain'd
Emphatically mute, with lips compress'd,
And looks down bent, whilst one of them began
To scratch his ear, and tight in puckers shut
The corresponding eye; implying thus
The feeling of the City, that affairs
Were ticklish, and the civic outlook dark.
Across the King's distracted fancy came
A horrible suspicion there might be
Some meaning latent in the Lord Mayor's speech;
And to the Chancellor, in great alarm,
He whisper'd, “What the Dickens does he mean?”
The Chancellor evasively replied,
“Ah, what a lord mayor means must be confess'd
One of the greatest mysteries! But Sire
Excuse me. I was thinking, and I think
That I have an idea.” “Never mind!
We trust you none the less,” the King replied.
“If you could understand a word he said,
Answer him! But be short! And pray, my Lord,
Be careful not to compromise the Crown!”
The Chancellor was never at a loss
To answer anyone. With grace severe,
Forward he stepp'd: and everybody felt
The Government by that judicious step
Had strengthen'd its position. Forth he drew,
And thrice sedately tapp'd, the jewell'd box
Wherein he carried his pulvilio.
This made a deep impression. The belief
Had long been prevalent in Diadum
That the Lord Chancellor was capable
Of anything, when driven to a pinch.
“Sire,” said His Excellency, “we propose
To meet the dangerous contingency
His Worship has sagaciously foreseen,
By levying all the taxes in advance.”
That was the great Lord Chancellor's idea,
And it was then a novel one. Meanwhile,
The Lord Mayor at an open window stood;
In order, if occasion should arise
For such a public duty, to step out
Into the balcony, and thence harangue
The populace below it. The Lord Mayor
Was puzzled by the Chancellor's idea.
He knew not whether it conceal'd a trap,
Or granted a concession. Oft before
In similar positions he had found,
When doubting what to say, or how behave,
That by the simple blowing of his nose
He both gain'd time and also clear'd his head.
So from his pocket thoughtfully he pull'd
His pocket-handkerchief. A little breeze,
That round the open window chanced to blow,
Flutter'd the handkerchief; and this produced
Responsive flutterings in the crowd beneath.
His Worship felt the moment had arrived.
Into the balcony he stepp'd, and there
To the expectant multitude he waved
His pocket-handkerchief. Whereat the mouths
Of all the multitude with one accord
Began to cry aloud, “Long live the King!”
It was the merest chance they did not cry,
“Long live the Revolution!” or begin
Singing in chorus that seditious song
Of Cherry Ripe! But for their loyal cheer
There was a cause, a reasonable cause,
Altho', no doubt, an accidental one.
For different colours act upon a crowd
In different ways. Above it boldly wave
A red flag, and forthwith it is The Mob,
A white one, and as quickly it becomes
“The King's Devoted People.” Had the hue
Of the municipal signal, then display'd,
Unluckily been red instead of white,
Everything might have instantly gone wrong,
And everybody been dissatisfied.
But luckily 'twas white instead of red,
So everything went well, and everyone
Was satisfied. Except, perhaps, the King;
Who seem'd not altogether pleased to see
His subjects so concern'd about a crown
Which, after all, was his crown and not theirs.
Proud of his pocket-handkerchief's effect
Upon the public mind, and quite convinced
That in his pocket he was carrying
His country's future fortunes, the Lord Mayor
Took from a Page, who follow'd in his train,
A crimson velvet cushion, only used
On great occasions, when it served to bear
The keys of Diadummianian towns,
Presented, with a patriotic speech,
By their municipal authorities
To the besieging enemy. Therewith
The cradle of the Princess he approach'd,
Knelt on one knee, and from a ribbon'd scroll
Read to Her Royal Highness this address—
There in its birthplace Monarchy reposed.
No otherwhere, nor ever since that once,
Hath such a kingdom been. Time's restless waves
The wandering cradle of the nations waft
53
That gives it shelter that toss'd bark bequeathes
A handful of invaders. In the blood
Of its inhabitants these bandits soak
The soil that gives them hospitality;
And, when no drop of native blood remains,
They patriotically shed their own
For what they call their native land, a realm
Foreign itself, by foreigners possess'd.
But hoary Monarchy's dim childhood slept
In Diadummiania secure
Where it was born: and to the king the land,
As to the babe its mother's breast, belong'd;
He to the land, as its indigenous hills
And immemorial forests. Now, the throne
Of Diadummiania had pass'd
Age after age from princely sire to son
In male succession, till this tale begins;
When, after many a year of hope deferr'd
54
The public duty tardily perform'd
On that occasion was her life's last act.
But on the day before she left this world
Her Majesty most graciously vouchsafed
To introduce to it (with due regard
To all court rules for royal births and deaths)
A little princess: who, as soon as born,
Was christen'd Diadema. When the King
Heard that his Heir Apparent was a girl,
His royal mind was mightily perplex'd.
Never before had such a case occurr'd,
And no provision for it could be found
In any of the statutes of the realm.
The Court Physician fell into disgrace
In consequence of this untoward event;
For which all felt that someone was to blame,
And if not he, then who? He had deliver'd
The Queen in her own presence, and of a child
55
The funds went down: the oracles went wild:
The weathercocks went every way about
And back again, for they no longer knew
Which way to turn. These minatory signs
Alarm'd the Government: and, with concern,
The Minister of Public Safety learn'd
From the Inspector General of Police
That lately in the streets of Diadum
The sanguinary and seditious cry
Of Cherry Ripe had more than once been heard.
That was the revolutionary song,
The Diadummianian Marseillaise.
Whenever it was heard about the streets
You might be sure that things were getting hot.
A Deputation, led by the Lord Mayor,
Proceeded to the Palace; where, the King,
Acting upon his ministers' advice,
Was graciously, with much displeasure, pleased
56
Respectfully but firmly out of place,
Address'd his Majesty; referring first
To cases teeming with embarrassments
Of various kinds which, having all occurr'd
In previous reigns, might happily have served
As precedents for this particular case,
Had they in aught resembled it. He next
Express'd a hope, unflatteringly faint,
That still, henceforth as heretofore, the Crown
Of Diadummiania might be
With undiminish'd dignity maintain'd;
And nothing ever suffer'd to deprive
Its loyal subjects of their right to pay
For trying, every now and then, new kinds
Of gunnery against new kinds of scarps
And counterscarps, on territories own'd
By foreign princes: thus promoting peace,
Which States would have no opportunity
57
These patriotic duties of the Crown
Concern'd the People; who, altho' it paid
For their performance, had some cause to fear
That, if the Crown were clothed in petticoats,
Its feminine possessor might not feel
The proper manly pride in them display'd
By those great princes who, before her birth,
(Which so unconstitutionally changed
The Constitution's sex) had grandly worn
The cock'd hat, leather breeches, and jack boots
Of Diadummianian Majesty.
The People's claim to its full money's worth
Of national discomfort and renown
Was with appropriate amplitude set forth
By Diadum's chief magistrate: who thus
Concluded his remarkable address—
“Sire, of all subjects, to your subjects all,
Taxation is the dearest, and indeed
58
For hitherto the right of being tax'd
To none except convicted criminals,
Paupers, and lunatics hath been denied.”
He ceased: and, but for that impetuous rush
Of quite ungovernable self-restraint
The Royal Presence commonly call'd forth
In those admitted to it, loud applause
From all his fellow-worthies would have hail'd
His eloquent oration's welcome close.
Since courtly etiquette, however, check'd
Their rising cheers, the Aldermen remain'd
Emphatically mute, with lips compress'd,
And looks down bent, whilst one of them began
To scratch his ear, and tight in puckers shut
The corresponding eye; implying thus
The feeling of the City, that affairs
Were ticklish, and the civic outlook dark.
Across the King's distracted fancy came
59
Some meaning latent in the Lord Mayor's speech;
And to the Chancellor, in great alarm,
He whisper'd, “What the Dickens does he mean?”
The Chancellor evasively replied,
“Ah, what a lord mayor means must be confess'd
One of the greatest mysteries! But Sire
Excuse me. I was thinking, and I think
That I have an idea.” “Never mind!
We trust you none the less,” the King replied.
“If you could understand a word he said,
Answer him! But be short! And pray, my Lord,
Be careful not to compromise the Crown!”
The Chancellor was never at a loss
To answer anyone. With grace severe,
Forward he stepp'd: and everybody felt
The Government by that judicious step
Had strengthen'd its position. Forth he drew,
And thrice sedately tapp'd, the jewell'd box
60
This made a deep impression. The belief
Had long been prevalent in Diadum
That the Lord Chancellor was capable
Of anything, when driven to a pinch.
“Sire,” said His Excellency, “we propose
To meet the dangerous contingency
His Worship has sagaciously foreseen,
By levying all the taxes in advance.”
That was the great Lord Chancellor's idea,
And it was then a novel one. Meanwhile,
The Lord Mayor at an open window stood;
In order, if occasion should arise
For such a public duty, to step out
Into the balcony, and thence harangue
The populace below it. The Lord Mayor
Was puzzled by the Chancellor's idea.
He knew not whether it conceal'd a trap,
Or granted a concession. Oft before
61
When doubting what to say, or how behave,
That by the simple blowing of his nose
He both gain'd time and also clear'd his head.
So from his pocket thoughtfully he pull'd
His pocket-handkerchief. A little breeze,
That round the open window chanced to blow,
Flutter'd the handkerchief; and this produced
Responsive flutterings in the crowd beneath.
His Worship felt the moment had arrived.
Into the balcony he stepp'd, and there
To the expectant multitude he waved
His pocket-handkerchief. Whereat the mouths
Of all the multitude with one accord
Began to cry aloud, “Long live the King!”
It was the merest chance they did not cry,
“Long live the Revolution!” or begin
Singing in chorus that seditious song
Of Cherry Ripe! But for their loyal cheer
62
Altho', no doubt, an accidental one.
For different colours act upon a crowd
In different ways. Above it boldly wave
A red flag, and forthwith it is The Mob,
A white one, and as quickly it becomes
“The King's Devoted People.” Had the hue
Of the municipal signal, then display'd,
Unluckily been red instead of white,
Everything might have instantly gone wrong,
And everybody been dissatisfied.
But luckily 'twas white instead of red,
So everything went well, and everyone
Was satisfied. Except, perhaps, the King;
Who seem'd not altogether pleased to see
His subjects so concern'd about a crown
Which, after all, was his crown and not theirs.
Proud of his pocket-handkerchief's effect
63
That in his pocket he was carrying
His country's future fortunes, the Lord Mayor
Took from a Page, who follow'd in his train,
A crimson velvet cushion, only used
On great occasions, when it served to bear
The keys of Diadummianian towns,
Presented, with a patriotic speech,
By their municipal authorities
To the besieging enemy. Therewith
The cradle of the Princess he approach'd,
Knelt on one knee, and from a ribbon'd scroll
Read to Her Royal Highness this address—
We, ye burghesses
And cyte counceyllors of Diadum,
Desyre on thys occasyon to professe
More pleasyr than can possybly be felte
That yow have condescendyd to be borne.
We dutyfully hoped yow wold have deygned,
Moost myghty Pryncesse, to be borne a prynce.
But, fylled with pyous & unbounded feythe
In ye mystakes of Prouydence, our hertes
Welcom Your Royal Hyhenes with a joye
More easely descrybed than understood.”
And cyte counceyllors of Diadum,
Desyre on thys occasyon to professe
More pleasyr than can possybly be felte
64
We dutyfully hoped yow wold have deygned,
Moost myghty Pryncesse, to be borne a prynce.
But, fylled with pyous & unbounded feythe
In ye mystakes of Prouydence, our hertes
Welcom Your Royal Hyhenes with a joye
More easely descrybed than understood.”
The little Princess to these loyal words
Listen'd, whilst sucking, with serene assent,
In her sweet, warm, wet rosebud of a mouth
A Gingerbread Gilt Captain of Dragoons.
This military sweetmeat was a gift
Presented to her by his Majesty
To please the Army. The Lord Chancellor,
However, whose all-watchful eye was fixt
Upon the Princess and the gay Dragoon,
With secret agitation now perceived
That brilliant, but too favour'd, officer
Had lost his head. At once, with timely tact,
The wary minister stepp'd in between
The cradle and court-circle. “My Lord Mayor,
Her Royal Highness has received,” said he,
“With the appreciation it deserves
Your loyal and appropriate address.”
These words politely signified, “Be off!
The ceremony's over.” For a time
Appearances were saved by this device,
And without comment the bad omen pass'd.
But later on (for after the event
Predicted by them all prognostics thus
Excite attention) when the next sham fights
A failure proved, the Opposition Press
Noticed the fact, and bitterly remark'd,
“If our ideal military type
Has lost his head, what have we to expect
From all our actual military heads?”
The Chancellor submitted to the King
A note requesting leave to prosecute
The writers of those libellous words, “design'd
Unpatriotically to impair
The State's external safety,” he observed,
“By casting doubts on the efficiency
Of Diadummiania's martial power.”
Whereon His Majesty thus minuted:
“Fiat. The nation should be reassured.
Our gallant army may with confidence
Be counted on to beat whatever force
Is weaker or less skilful than its own;
And more than this no army can achieve.
As for our Generals, we know them fit
To frighten anyone. They frighten us.”
Listen'd, whilst sucking, with serene assent,
In her sweet, warm, wet rosebud of a mouth
A Gingerbread Gilt Captain of Dragoons.
This military sweetmeat was a gift
Presented to her by his Majesty
To please the Army. The Lord Chancellor,
However, whose all-watchful eye was fixt
Upon the Princess and the gay Dragoon,
With secret agitation now perceived
That brilliant, but too favour'd, officer
65
The wary minister stepp'd in between
The cradle and court-circle. “My Lord Mayor,
Her Royal Highness has received,” said he,
“With the appreciation it deserves
Your loyal and appropriate address.”
These words politely signified, “Be off!
The ceremony's over.” For a time
Appearances were saved by this device,
And without comment the bad omen pass'd.
But later on (for after the event
Predicted by them all prognostics thus
Excite attention) when the next sham fights
A failure proved, the Opposition Press
Noticed the fact, and bitterly remark'd,
“If our ideal military type
Has lost his head, what have we to expect
From all our actual military heads?”
The Chancellor submitted to the King
66
The writers of those libellous words, “design'd
Unpatriotically to impair
The State's external safety,” he observed,
“By casting doubts on the efficiency
Of Diadummiania's martial power.”
Whereon His Majesty thus minuted:
“Fiat. The nation should be reassured.
Our gallant army may with confidence
Be counted on to beat whatever force
Is weaker or less skilful than its own;
And more than this no army can achieve.
As for our Generals, we know them fit
To frighten anyone. They frighten us.”
So ended that most memorable day.
But, when the Deputation was dismiss'd,
His Majesty in secret sought advice
From one whose influence o'er the royal mind,
Being a backstairs influence, had it been
To his unconscious Cabinet betray'd,
Would, as he knew, most probably have caused
A ministerial crisis. For the King
On all important matters, ever since
His prosperous accession to the throne,
Had privately consulted his old nurse,
Dame Rhoda. Long past active service now,
And placed upon the Pension List, she still
Her rank and title at the Court retain'd,
As Grand Hereditary Head Nurse: rank
That, by its code, the Official Hierarchy
Of Diadummiania recognized
As full equivalent, in Civil Grade,
To that of a Lieutenant-General
In military dignity, or else
To the position on the Navy List
Of a Vice-Admiral. The Titular Head
Of the State's Lactary Department, she;
Chief Marshal of the Mammelary Corps
Of Body Guards about the Royal Babes
Of Diadummianian Dynasties.
And, tho' no more her matron bosom flow'd
With alimental founts for infant lips,
Yet still for comfort, as a babe for milk,
To her the old King in his troubles turn'd.
But, when the Deputation was dismiss'd,
His Majesty in secret sought advice
From one whose influence o'er the royal mind,
67
To his unconscious Cabinet betray'd,
Would, as he knew, most probably have caused
A ministerial crisis. For the King
On all important matters, ever since
His prosperous accession to the throne,
Had privately consulted his old nurse,
Dame Rhoda. Long past active service now,
And placed upon the Pension List, she still
Her rank and title at the Court retain'd,
As Grand Hereditary Head Nurse: rank
That, by its code, the Official Hierarchy
Of Diadummiania recognized
As full equivalent, in Civil Grade,
To that of a Lieutenant-General
In military dignity, or else
To the position on the Navy List
Of a Vice-Admiral. The Titular Head
Of the State's Lactary Department, she;
68
Of Body Guards about the Royal Babes
Of Diadummianian Dynasties.
And, tho' no more her matron bosom flow'd
With alimental founts for infant lips,
Yet still for comfort, as a babe for milk,
To her the old King in his troubles turn'd.
| King Poppy | |