PROTEST FROM THE PLAYGROUND.
THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH.
THE WINTER ACADEMY OF 1995.
HOW TO WRITE AN EXTRA NUMBER.
THE POLITE GUIDE TO THE CIVIL SERVICE.
"RICHARD HIMSELF AGAIN."
PUNCH VOL CVIII
The Double Event
1894. — 1895.
London.
PUBLISHED AT THE OFFICE, 83 FLEET STREET,
Also sold by all booksellers
1895
LONDON:
BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
PREFACE
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
June 29, 1895.
It was the luncheon-hour at Lord's. Likewise it was exceeding hot, and Mr. Punch, after an exciting morning's cricket, was endeavouring to cool himself with an iced tankard, a puggreed "straw," and a fragrant whiff.
"Willow the King!" piped Mr. Punch, pensively. "Quite so! A merrier monarch than the Second Charles is William (Gilbert) the very First! And no one kicks at King Willow, even in these democratic days. The verdant, smooth-shaven lawn, when wickets are pitched, is your very best 'leveller'—in one sense, though, in another, what stylish Richard Daft calls 'Kings of Cricket' ('by merit raised to that good eminence'), receive the crowd's loyal and most enthusiastic homage. But, by Jove, the Harrow boys will want a new version of their favourite cricket song, if prodigy be piled on prodigy, like Pelion on Ossa, in the fashion to which the Doctor during the first month of Summer in this year of Grace has accustomed us."
"The 'Doctor's' throne has never been disputed by anyone outside Bedlam," said a strong and sonorous voice.
Mr. Punch looked up, and perceived before him a stalwart six-footer in flannels, broad-belted at the equator, and wearing broad-brim'd silken stove-pipe.
"Alfred Mynn, quoting 'the Old Buffer,' or I'm a Dutchman," said the omniscient and ever-ready one.
"'And, whatever fame and glory these and other bats may win,
Still the monarch of hard hitters, to my mind, was Alfred Mynn;
With his tall and stately presence, with his nobly-moulded form,
His broad hand was ever open, his brave heart was ever warm'—
as Prowse sang pleasantly."
The Kentish Titan blushed—if Shades can with modesty suffuse. "You know everything, of course, Mr. Punch," said he; "and therefore you know that the object of my visit is not to have my praises sung even by you or the Poet Prowse, but to back up that National Testimonial to the Cricketer of the century—and the 'centuries'—of which I'm glad to hear whispers in the Elysian Fields, where—alas!—we do not pitch the stumps or chase the flying 'leathery duke' of Harrow song."
"Well, it's a far cry from Hambledon to Downend," quoth Mr. Punch, pensively; "but even the gods of 'the Hambledon Pantheon,' as picturesque John Nyren called them, might have admitted the Downend Doctor as their Jove. Or, adopting his other figure, have made him the King Arthur of their Round Table, vice old Richard Nyren retired."
"I see you read what is worth reading," responded the Kentish Big 'Un. "Dick Nyren's style was as sound and honest and brisk as the English ale he lauded,—'barleycorn, such as would put the soul of three butchers into one weaver.' But the great Gloucestershire gentleman is worthy to bend the bow of Ulysses."
"Or to wear the pads of Alfred Mynn, which, I believe, were presented to him," said Mr. Punch, cordially.
"Ah! There is another and a bigger Presentation afoot, I understand, thanks largely to a truly Gracious Prince," returned "the monarch of hard hitters." "A knighthood? Well, that's as it may be! Quite deserved indeed; but a 'King' hardly needs the addition of the lesser honour, and indeed W. G. won his spurs on the tented field years and years agone. But a National Testimonial! Faith, the Briton who grudges a subscription to that doesn't deserve to see a sixer run out, or drink a flagon of genuine Boniface at the 'Bat and Ball' on Broad Halfpenny. Only wish we old willow-wielders in the Elysian Fields could contribute each our obolus. By Castor and Pollux, here he comes!"
Broad, bronzed, black-bearded, bear-pawed, bell-mouthed, beaming, in loose-cut flannels and M. C. C. cap, the redoubtable Doctor entered. 'Twas a sight to see those two six-foot-odders shake hands! And to hear the talk of the Cricket Heroes of two generations——
* * *
"Hillo, Mr. Punch! Wake up, old man! Match over!"
It was the veritable voice of the Gloucester Giant. But where was the Pride of Kent? He came like a shadow in summer slumber, and so departed. But William Gilbert was at least satisfactorily solid.
"Where are the Bats of yester year?" murmured the drowsy Sage.
"Oh, still scoring—some of 'em," said the practical smiter, cheerfully. "Keeping up a fair average, too."
"What is yours just now, Doctor?"
"Oh, ask Druce! His tops it, I believe—for the present."
"Ah, well! But the Century of Centuries, the Thousand of Merry May, the suggested knighthood, the coming National Testimonial, H. R. H.'s letter——"
"I never saw a nicer letter, and I hope to see as good wherever I go," interrupted the modest and taciturn giant, with a grin reminiscent of Wickets in the West and "the rapt oration flowing free," in a fourfold iteration of a single sentence.
"Better before the stump than on it, eh, William?" smiled the Sage, who had read his rollicking R. A. Fitzgerald, and understood W. G.'s allusion. "Unlike the other W. G., at present out in the Baltic."
"Ah, he could give the bowling beans, in his own way, which certainly isn't mine," said the Man of Many Centuries.
"What a season!" exclaimed Mr. Punch, preparing to puff.
"Centuries to right of us,
Centuries to left of us, | "Centuries all round us,
Volley and thunder! |
Mynn was here just now—in my vision. Wish you could have met him, as I dreamed you did! Par nobile fratrum! But even he never hit his hundred hundreds, though he played up to the age of fifty. Well, William mine, you've topped the toppers and cut all records. May the National Testimonial do likewise. Wish you a sovereign reward for every good hit with which you've pleased the populace—a 'quid' for every quo. And, to prove the sincerity of my love and admiration for the greatest Cricketer of all time, I propose, my dear (prospective) Sir William Gilbert Grace, K.G. (Knight of the Game), to head that same National Testimonial with a contribution outshining and out summing all others, to wit my
One Hundred and Eighth Volume!
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
Volume 108, January 5, 1895.
edited by Sir Francis Burnand
MR. PUNCH WELCOMES THE NEW YEAR.
So, 'Ninety-Five, my boy, you've come at last!
Another year has gone, and I am here
To greet you, as your brothers in the past
Were greeted on their coming, year by year;
For it's always been my practice, Sir—a bit of Punch's lore—
Since the day that I was volumed, until now I'm fifty-four
Aye, fifty-three New Years I've welcomed. This
I pray to Heaven in its arms may bear
A whole New Yearful of a nation's bliss—
A world without a tear, without a care.
'Tis thus that I have prayed, young Sir, full many years before;
But to know how oft I've prayed in vain, would make your young heart sore.
The Year that's dead was better, sure, than some;
But even he brought with him strikes and war,
Whose ghastly horrors smote the soft heart numb
And wrung and chilled it to the very core.
'Twas a villainous attention, this suffering and gore,
That we'd rather have dispensed with, from your brother 'Ninety-Four
But even he, my lad, a jest could work,
And on occasion smile, and nod, and beck;
To England gave—a rising Son of York,
And gave to Ireland—Mr. Gladstone's cheque!
Thus tickling Mr. Bull from smiles and laughter to a roar.
But hearty laughs like these, my friend, were few in 'Ninety-Four.
And you, young shaver, what is it you bring?
Razor and soap, like shavers young and old—
The soap to soothe, razor to cut and sting?—
Will wedding-bell be heard, and death-knell toll'd?
You see, my lad, we're anxious as to what you have in store,
For there's still some things to put to rights bequeathed by Ninety-Four.
In Parliament, no doubt, you'll make your game—
In Camp, and Court, and County Council, too?
Make sport of love—make foul an honoured name—
And all the little fun you're wont to do?
Well—take my tip. Just do your level best, remember! For
The blame, my son, lies at your own, not Mr. Punch's door.
So mind, young Sir, for Mr. Punch's eye
Is cocked upon you through your little life.
Go—rule the world!—and if before you die
You fill the earth with joy instead of strife,
You'll be the first of all your race—for all the smiles they wore—
That gave the country what she asked—from 0 to '94!
