Whether the hint was taken or not, the fact remains that for a good many years Royal oratory has ceased to deserve such criticism. It may not be Ciceronian; it does not inflame or transport the hearer, but at least it is free from the cheap haberdashers' eloquence which aroused _Punch's_ wrath sixty years ago. The visit of the Queen and Prince Consort to Ireland in August, 1861, passed off without any untoward incident, but the comments in _Punch_ were mainly ironical, as in the cartoon, "Doth not a meeting like this make amends," in which the Queen observes, "My dear Ireland, how much better you look since my last visit. I am so glad." For the rest there is much pungent criticism directed against the assiduity of the newspaper correspondents in chronicling small beer. The demonstrations were too carefully stage-managed in the operatic style: the odour of the footlights invaded Killarney; and _Punch_ is quite furious with the snobbery of the unfortunate special correspondent who declared that "the Queen and Prince Albert repeatedly expressed their unqualified admiration of the scenery. His Royal Highness said many portions were sublime." It is by such practices, _Punch_ truly remarks, that "the Press is lowered in repute and people think it is the work of a vulgarian to write for it." In the year 1861 the Queen lost both her mother and her husband. The Prince Consort had outlived a great deal of his unpopularity--faithfully reflected in the pages of _Punch_. Yet even so late as 1858 he met with scant sympathy in the malicious imaginary conversation between the Emperor of the French, the Queen and himself at Cherbourg. The Emperor figures as the _miles gloriosus_, boastful of his strength; the Queen is ironically polite: Prince Albert angular and tactless. The mere suddenness and unexpectedness of his death brought a great reaction; those who had depreciated and disparaged him when living were especially vocal in their praises of the dead; but the full extent and significance of his loss to the Queen was not understood till long afterwards. Those terrible cartoons of Leech will keep coming before our eyes as we read the bland elegiac stanzas in which _Punch_ made amends for ten years of scarifying ridicule:-- It was too soon to die. Yet, might we count his years by triumphs won, By wise, and bold, and Christian duties done, It were no brief eventless history. This was his princely thought: With all his varied wisdom to repay Our trust and love, which on that Bridal Day The Daughter of the Isles for dowry brought. For that he loved our Queen, And for her sake, the people of her love, Few and far distant names shall rank above His own, where England's cherished names are seen. [Sidenote: _Punch and the Princess of Wales_]