The Sun.
London, England, 1870-05-30 00:00:00

TOWN TALK.

(From the Western Mail of Saturday.)
LONDON, FRIDAY EVENING.

Another wholesale murder like that of the Kinck Family
by Traupmann—a startling telegram on Tuesday morning
through the Atlantic Cable, announcing that the Fenians
were moving from several points upon the frontiers of
Canada—an astounding revolution at Lisbon, astounding
even among Portuguese revolution—tidings like these
have, since my last letter to yon was completed, roused
even fashionable London from its customary insouciance.
As for the massacre of the unfortunate Marshalls, at
Denham, near Uxbridge, it proves to be a crime so por-
tentous in its brutal enormity that it has even distracted
attention from the raw-head-and-bloody-bones atrocity of
that miserable wretch Walter Miller, whom the Times,
having in error once spoken of as William, persists, for
some inexplicable and occult reason, in still speaking of as
William, down to the very end of the chapter. As for
the Fenian raid newly threatened on the border-line of
the Dominion, the tidings of it make one think with a
qualm, at the first blush, having reference to Ireland, and,
at the second, having reference to Lord Granville. As to
this new revolution on the banks of the Tagus, what can
I say further than this, that it is worthy of the insurrec-
tionary genius of the Portuguese. The mere notion of
an old marshal, close upon ninety years of age, marching
at one o'clock at night, at the head of half a dozen bat-
talions, upon the regal palace at Lisbon, being confronted
there at the gates by the Royal guards, killing seven of
them and wounding thirty others, taking possession of
Fort St. George, and then knocking the young King
Louis up at four o'clock in the morning (surely the
earliest visit ever paid to a crowned head since
heads were crowned and uncrowned) the Duke of Saldanha,
this old marshal of ninety, thus storming his way to power
and place, and all its perquisites, at the point of his sword,
at the unlikeliest hour out of the whole twenty-four,
through the palace of the King, in the very presence of his
Sovereign ! How the royal authority can be maintained,
in any shape whatever, after scenes and incidents like
these, altogether passes my comprehension. The whole
narrative of the proceeding reads to me like one of the
greatest " larks " in history.
Meanwhile, in the other and larger division of the Iberian
peninsula, Marshal Espartero, in his green old age of 80,
is having all Spain in deputation at his feet, beseeching
him to accept the kingly crown, which he has already
declined to receive almost as many times as Julius Caesar
declined when that other crown was proffered for his ac-
ceptance, again and again, upon the Lupercal. At length,
in answer to almost tearful remonstrances, his Majesty
King Baldomero the First, that is to be, vouchsafes the
tardy concession that, if elected to the crown by the Cortes,
otherwise by the nation, he will, in that contingency,
answer at last in the affirmative, though even then re-
luctantly ! Saldanha ninety—Espartero Eighty. Clearly
old age is in the ascendant alike among the Spaniards and
the Portuguese. If oaths are to have any credence now-
adays, Spain and Portugal are not as yet to be amalga-
mated, Marshal the Duke of Saldanha having spontane-
ously sworn that by him the independence of his own
country shall be always maintained and vindicated.
The proclamation of the plebiscite at Paris occurring,
as it did in May, came as a reminiscence of the famous
Champ de Mai when the seemingly incongruous names
and interests of Napoleon and Liberty were fifty-
five years ago first brought into association. As a mere
spectacle, the sight must have been magnificent. For en-
thusiasm it appears to have surpassed any previous inci-
dent in the history of the second Empire.
Amongst ourselves, here in Parliament, we have had
within these last few days enough to interest us. The mere
fact of the passage through committee—at last—of the
Irish Land Bill transformed (political cynics are mutter-
ing, "The deformed transformed") was sufficient of itself
to give a character of its own to this middle week of the
Parliamentary session. Monday next will bring us to the
crowning incident of the third reading, when both sides
will muster strongly for the anticipated division. Another
event, not only in the Commons, but in the Lords also,
has been the discussion upon those horribly wanton
murders of our own countrymen and others when peace-
fully journeying across the plains of Marathon. " That
man," exclaimed old Samuel Johnson in one of the finest
passages he ever wrote, in one of the finest passages in the
English language, " That man is little to be envied whose
patriotism would not gain force upon the plains of Mara-
thon, and whose piety would not grow warmer among the
ruins of lona." Those words were written nearly a cen-
tury ago, but, in the recent and painful remembrance of
the mangled bodies of our fellow-countrymen, Mr. Vyner
and Mr. Herbert, it is impossible to read them without
feeling our patriotic sympathies glowing within us at that
reference to the now once more blood-stained plains of
Marathon—and glowing within us with an almost pain-
ful sense of burning indignation. In the House of Commons
this feeling called forth from a veteran diplomatist like
Sir Henry Bulwer an expression of cordial goodwill towards
Russia, and if by no other means than that of Russia the pre-
servation of law and order in Greece could for one instant
be supposed to be in any way capable of being reasonably
assured. In the House of Lords the same painful theme
drew from the Earl of Carnarvon an impressive and, in
parts, affecting tribute to the memory of his murdered re-
lative, followed by an earnest appeal to the Legislature
and to the Government to see well to it that the shedding of
the life-bood of unoffending and unarmed Englishmen
shall not be allowed to pass by unpunished. Another and
a very surprising incident of a parliamentary character
occurred on Thursdaynight, when the member for the Ayr
burghs insistedpro bone public° (that is from his point of
view) upon having the House cleared of all strangers, in-
cluding the reporters, before the four hours' discussion upon
Mr. Fowler's motion, for a Bill for repealing the Conta-
gious Diseases Acts of 1866 and 1869, could be com-
menced. In the midst of the confusion, almost scrim-
mage, caused by the clearing of the galleries, a mingled
sense of surprise, amusement, and indignation was caused
by the reluctance of two very pertinacious and unblushing
ladies to withdraw from their birdcage. Who were they ?
I wonder—just as I am marvelling to myself who those
could possibly have been who have been sitting for hours
unwearied, listening eagerly, breathlessly, with a sort of
horrible gusto, to the revolting inquiry that has been
slowly yielding up its abominable revelations in the head
police-court in Bow-street.

Mark Lemon's death has for us all that poignant touch
of the pathetic in which tears and laughter are so in-
timately blended in Hamlet's lament over the death of
Yorick—" Alas, poor Yorick ! I knew him, Horatio ; a
fellow of infinite jest and most excellent fancy—Where be
your gibes now? your songs? your flashes of merriment,
that were wont to set the table on a roar ?" for very nearly
thirty years editor of Punch ; a capital playwright in the
light-farce way ; a charming song-writer ; an excellent
teller of stories for big and little children ; a genial com-
panion ; a Falstaff, like Stephen Kemble, requiring no
padding, being as they both were, in appearance that
is, born to the character. Mark Lemon had the
paunch of Falstaff, but not the wit, certainly none of
the humour essential to the part in its impersonation.
One marvellous incident in his career falls, by the way,
within the scope of my own personal recollection of him.
Several years ago, when Mr. Herbert Ingram was yet
alive, being then M.P. for Boston, and proprietor of the
Illustrated London News, I remember one day chat-
ting for a long while with Mark Lemon, noticing
every now and then, while I did so, that he had an un-
wonted air of importance, as if he had some secret he was
burning to relate. At last, nothing leading up to it, and
apparently bent upon dragging it in by the head and
shoulders rather than not at all, quoth Mark Lemon, all
of a sudden, " I suppose you know what I am now ?"
" Still editor of Punch?" " No—that, of course—but I
now, besides that, ahem ! Mr. Ingram's private secre-
tary." Looking into his eyes to see through their twink-
ling some latent joke that I had not precisely caught, I
woke to the recognition of the fact that the words were to
be taken au serieux—that it was a genuine boast ; that
this sly humourist, so perceptive of what was ludicrous
in others, never realised in the least the incongruity
of the social relations he was referring to ; but, not
only that, was really and truly proud of it rather than
otherwise.

There just now comes into my hands, very prettily got
up, what appears to be a homely little domestic story or
novelette, by Lady Lytton, called " The Household
Fairy." Among the literary chit-chat of town, I hear
talk just now of a new monthly magazine to be entitled
Mayfair. A newspaper called the Latest News—but for
that matter the latest news is presumed to be in every
newspaper—hitherto carried on as a weekly, is about to
appear every morning at a halfpenny.
The hon. member whose soul was "in arms and ready
for the fray" the other evening. because a heap of stones
had been collected together at the back of the GuArds'
Memorial, ought to be calmed and comforted, for the
stones have been cleared away, and the space occupied by
them very neatly gravelled.
All London is now in the glory of the May season, when
Rotten-row is a sight to see, especially about six o'clock
in the evening.