AN IMAGINARY SKETCH.|1877-06-16|Pontypool Free Press and Herald of the Hills - Welsh Newspapers Online
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AN IMAGINARY SKETCH.

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AN IMAGINARY SKETCH. In an article in the Daily Yewo, entitled, "Round About France," the writer, in referring to the present situation in France, depicts the following imaginary remarks that might be made to Marshal MacMahon by his valet A robust belief in oneself is a fruit which grows naturally under the blandishments of an admiring consort and an enthusiastically affectionate family; but even King Canute confessed that he could not sus- pend the laws of nature, and probably he had arrived at this modest estimate of his powers from hearinghiggood Queen remark in her saga^iou* moods that he was not quite the fine fellow lie thought himself. Talleyrand or some other observed "11 n'y a pas de grand homme pour son valet de chambre;" doubt- less the Marshal has a valet, and perhaps this gentleman, like the rest of his craft, has bpt a mediocre opini 'n of his master's omnipotence—if so. France is saved. Things which a hvin wife would scruple to utter at times when private misgivings got the better of political infatuation, might appropriately be suggested by a confidential servant in those delicate movements when a hero sits with a napkin round his neck, and his face covered with lather. Grasping the j great wairribt's nose, atld pfc/Mng his razor, the vlClet J might glibly remark-" So the people are grumbling, Monsieur le Mar^chaL Well, well, they are a dis- contented lot, who never know what's good foi them. All the same if I had the honour of governing them. (here a gentle dab on the mouth with the shaving brush to prevent the hero from answering), if I governed them I should just fling a Bonaparte at their heads and have done with it. My impresssion is that this would silence them (dab), though nothing else would unless you gave 'em a Republic in earnest, which is of course out of the question. (Dab.) Steady, please, Monsieur le M arsenal, or we shall snick our chin. Going to the perfumer's yesterday to buy tms soap, I told 'em the last caKe aian t lather as it ought, but they answered that politics were the cause of it, for trade was going to the dogs. That's the old story and there was a barber in the shop who said that if Monsieur le Mare- chal would have himself proclaimed Emperor we should all dance in a ring, and be happy, but I laughed- (dab, dab)—and replied that Monsieur wasn't made of the wood out of which they cutmonarchs (dab) Lor' bless you," said I, "the Marshal wants to die comfortably in bed in his mansion of the Rue Belle- cliasse, instead of perishing of ennui as an exile among the fogs of the Thames; and I flatter myself that I spoke wisely, eh, Monsieur?" If the magical Marshal's servant be not equal to speaking to him in the above strain (continues the writer) it may be hoped that some other discreet member of his household will muster nerve enough to do so between now and the 'time when the expected collision between the MacMahonale and the nation will occur. It might save a deal of trouble.

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