The Press. — London, England, 1854-02-11 00:00:00

THE PRESS. 132 THE CZAR'S LETTER TO THE QUEEN. (,Our contemporary the Times stated on Wed nesda y that the Czar was about to write an autograph letter to th Queen of England. We are now enabled to lay a translation of this letter before ou r readers from a copy received just as we were going to press.] MADAME, AND MY SISTER, Deprived of our respective representatives, there is no longer reason why I should hesitate, personally, to approach your constitu • tional solitude (isolement). If for one moment I recur to recol lections of hospitality and paternal interchange (echange) of confi dence, it is only that I may strike, in your Majesty's bosom, a chord vibrating in unison with that which inspires my present utterance (parole). Au accomplished musician, your Majesty will not find this analogy frivolous. Hitherto Sisters, and charmed to bear on their waters an intercom muniou of the riches of commerce, the Neva and the Thames, are, it would seem, to be foaming rivals, eugulphing (engloutiseantea) amity. To speak of our mutual resources were now a cold insult. We know our strength, and repose in its embraces. A great ruler but accomplishes destiny when he puts forth (faisant voir) his utmost force. Heaven is Power, and the weak Sovereign is an Atheist. Why (if it were permitted to question geography) were we separated by the distance between London and St. Petersburg? Had that barrier been absent, and I could habitually (frequeminent) have presented myself, I will not say at the Saint James's throne, but at the Windsor chair, this deplorable condition of eventualities could never have been consummated. The Sovereign of England and her people would have been alike my friends. Is it allowed me to forget the cheers that rang down the green turf (gazon ) of Ascot, when the riders of England deigned to contest for the silver toy your Majesty sanctioned my setting before their ambition ? Again let my murmurs echo those of the intervening and chilling (frileux) Baltic. But there is no Past for a Monarch, who must still advance on ward, onward, the Juif Errant of institutions. Yet one ord for history, It is not with helm on brow, and sword in hand, guarding his creed and his nationalities, that a Sovereign's truth shall be doubted. It is not a RomanofT addressing a Guelph that shall be doubted. It is not a brother writing to his sister who shall be doubted. And truth is her own holy vindication, and her name is written in the stars. That Aberdeen humbugged me in the most owdacious manner. This strife, be it long or short (and my wishes on the subject are your Majesty's), results from the unrighteous combinations (tracas series) of that unrighteous old man. lam not aware that since the days of Eve a more flagrant case has happened than this satanical irruption into the European Paradise. I have the honour to swear to your Majesty that from the very outset of the difficulties with France about the Holy Places your Premier caused me to understand (penser) that I should have every thing I asked for, and that England was quite arrayed with me against those Papist Frenchmen. Fortified by this assurance I proceeded— but your Majesty knows the rest. The sword—l would beg your Majesty's pardon for naming such an article before a lady, but I know that I speak to Britannia rather than to Victoria—is drawn, Could it be replaced in the scabbard with honour, it might be well ; but our new-born chivalry must receive its baptism of blood—again begging your Majesty's pardon for mentioning the article. But it is well that you, my dear sister, and your people, should comprehend that but for the half-hearted (fainéant) policy of my Lord Aberdeen, who first encouraged me, and then (I do him but justice to rAty reluctantly) repelled me when he found out the senti ments of your nation, the sword might have slept in its scabbard, long and peacefully as he sleeps at Council—inapt simile, for the sword carries its point, and the Scottishman never does. I have cleared myself with your Majesty. I would that there were some possibility of healing the wound. It has occurred to me that my trusted friend Count Orloff has a desire to see the Sydenham Palace. Should Sir Paxton invite him it would be a disrespect I would never forgive did not Orloff solicit the honour of an interview with your Mkjesty. I will not hurt myself with the idea that there could be difficulty in according that interview, but would rather dwell upon the pleasure I should derive from hearing my friend detail (specifier) the - - amiable steps by which he had led your Majesty to a view of matters more in harmony with that of St. Petersburg than of St. Stephen's. Your Majesty, I read in the journals, has visited Sydenham, and will be enabled, should it be your gracious pleasure, to intimate to Count Orloff (I enclose his address) whether there is anything there worth seeing. Whatever be the issues of events (and it would not become me to be exultant in the convictions which tell me that either no war is holy or I am the Sovereign of Turkey), I have the honour, &c., NECI/0id2135. SATURDAY, TOMKIN S, THE LITERARY RADICAL.-A SKETCH. He spoke with scorn of dukes and earls, He said that there was nought in race, Although you saw a hundred churls Had given their being to his face ! He railed at bishops and at deans, When he assumed the critic-gown, To mend at once his broken means, And broken English—on the town. Himself—his prospects—his own chance, Were all in public things he'd see,— " Our British glories you advance, What have those glories done for ME ?" " The duke ! why should he toast friends round, If I with 'prentice lads must sup? Why bring the pheasant to the ground, If I must put the shutters up ?" He spoke—his corduroys he smote — His bluchers shook—no more he stayed. He left the shutters on the spot, And TOMEINB was an author made ! How blessed we of modern days Who lick our ancestors to fits ! We improvise immortal lays, And inundate the world with wits. JONES wearies of the sausage line, SNOGG thinks his business a bore, A moment !—lo ! two wits divine — Two aprons useless on the floor ! So TOMKINS, yesterday a clod, To-day writes lustily and well ; And, though he scarce believes in God, Yet trusts to Him for power to spell. TOMKINS has written ; goes about, Mimics the air of men of note, Tries to look easy at a rout, And happy in a new dress-coat ; Assumes a kind of brazen calm, His faltering confidence to cheer ; Keeps down with belt of brass each qualm, While marvelling at a chandelier. So, by degrees, achieves a square, Where third-rate lions lions view, Each aiming at a languid air, And thinking "Who the deuce asked you . 1 " IV. Oh, happy TomxtNs, wield the pen— " Latin without a master " get — Learn all about our public men, And study " Hints on Etiquette " ! Your brass grows brighter, men observe ; Your rustic wood acquires veneer— Your coarse face has an air of nerve, You venture on an awkward sneer ! Ex guovia lino in these days, We make a Plicebus or a Pan — A noisy Quackay wears the bays — A TOMKINS is called Gentleman ! V. Genius needs men of lower aims, Just to attend him at life's play ; And cry with vigour, that his fame's Triumphal chariot stops the way ! TOMICINB a Genius' path has crossed, Improves his taste with talk that's fine, As butlers at their masters' cost Learn to be connoisseurs in wine ! Tomxiss, too, manages with skill, Conveys a scandal in a hint, Prepares an inuendo-pill, And gives a lie a coloured tint. He shoves for fame; elbows for room ; Is always busy—always loud. A scavenger with active broom Would pass through the politest crowd ! VI. TOMKINB now grows a haughty man, "Aristocratic," old friends say— Cuts his relations—yet his ban Falls on Bohun and Courtenay. So (for the present) T. we leave— T.—by whom nobles are abhorred— Making his humble cousins grieve, And truckling to a Liberal lord ! 11 1011 `1 \