Punch

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.-SEPTEMBER 16, 1882.

MIGHTN'T ME AND MAUD PLAY AT IT TOO?"

SEA-SIDE SPORTS.-TOBOGGANING AT WHITBY.

Miss Eva Bedell. "OH! DO LOOK AT WHAT A LOVELY GAME THOSE DEAR LITTLE BOYS ARE PLAYING AT, MISS SMART! The New Governess. "CERTAINLY NOT, EVA. I FEEL SURE SIR POMPEY WOULD CONSIDER SUCH A PROCEEDING MOST UNLADYLIKE!"

A GLORIOUS VICTORY.

Ir was a summer evening,

Old ROGER's work was done,
And he his fragrant honey-dew
Was smoking in the sun,

And by him sported, bright and fair,
His little grandchild, GOLDEN HAIR.
She saw her brother, CURLY HEAD,
Bring something hard and round
Which he, upon the mantel-shelf,
Beneath a shade, had found.
She came to ask what he had found
That was so hard, and smooth, and round.

Old ROGER took it from the boy

Who stood expectant by,

And then the old man told the tale

(Fire kindled in his eye)

"This is the Cricket-Ball," said he, "That tells of a great Victory.

"I prize it more than all I have,

It's worth can ne'er be told; 'Tis true 'tis only leather, but 'Tis more to me than gold! Go, place it back again," said he,was a famous Victory.".

'It

"Please tell us what it is you mean,"
Young CURLY HEAD he cries;
And little GOLDEN HAIR looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes:-
"Yes, tell us, for we long to know
The reason why you prize it so."
"It was the Colonists," he said,
"Of now undying fame,

Who met Eleven picked Englishmen
And put them all to shame:
For everybody said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous Victory.
"The contest at the Oval was-

The noted ground hard by

'Twas there that SPOFFORTH smashed the stumps, And made the bails to fly;

But things like that, you know, must be

At every famous Victory.

"Not even GRACE, of matchless skill

(No worthier in the land),

The Demon's' onslaughts could resist,

His awful speed withstand;

By lightning smit, as falls the oak,
The wickets fell beneath his stroke!
"And more than twenty thousand men,
With bated breath, looked on-

The threatening rain deterred them not,
Nor did the scorching sun;
Their time and money gave to see
Who'd gain the famous Victory.
"And when at last the crisis came-

When one must quickly yield-
When PEATE, the famous Yorkshireman,
His wicket failed to shield,
All over was the splendid play-
The Englishmen had lost the day!
"They say it was a wondrous sight,
After the match was done,

To see so many thousand men
After the Victors run;

But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous Victory.

"Great praise the 'Demon' SPOFFORTH gained, His bowling was so rare.'

"I think he must have frightened them," Said little GOLDEN HAIR.

"Well, well, my little girl," quoth he,
"It was a famous Victory!

"And everyone the Demon' cheered,
So many low he laid ".
"But what could they be all about
To let him?" CURLY said:

"Why that-I cannot tell," said he;
"But 'twas a famous Victory!"

CALL

N. 8.

"If Christianity was to be really aggressive, it must not spend itself in mere excitement, or cramp itself within the limits of narrow dogmas. It must be wide and open, teaching such doctrines as the fatherhood of God, the brotherhood of man, and a strong belief in immorality." (Sic.)

The "Serious Young Man" had always understood that the Unitarians, however sadly in error as to their peculiar principles, were, in point of moral doctrine, at any rate, a respectable body. He had ever supposed them altogether the reverse of Antinomians; or, as he has heard an old lady say, Antimonials, and never dreamt that not only did they profess Antinomianism, or Antimonialism, but pushed it to the extent of actually inculcating immorality. He had lately had an idea of joining the Salvation Army; an inclination which was very much strengthened by finding the method of that Soldiery represented by an Unitarian as opposed to a belief in immorality.

Of course, the Serious Young Man is dumbfounded simply by immortality without a T. (No paradise for a Teetotaller.) He fails to perceive that misprints will occur in the best edited newspapers.

Happy-Thought Notes in Wales-Still at Glwanffai Castle-Pre-
paring for the Eisteddfod-A Musical and Intellectual Evening.
I MAKE a point of attempting to remedy my previous mistake, by
inducing the Bardie Professor, EDWARD EDWARDS, "the Soaring
Eagle" (cannot help recalling Hiawatha and The Last of the
Mohicans)-to give me all the information possible about the coming
Eisteddfod.

Were we alone with our host, WYNEVAN, who, having to preside at one of the Festival meetings is, I feel sure, deeply interested in collecting the best materials possible for his speech, interesting and instructive conversation would flow easily enough. We two would put leading questions to the Welsh Harpist, and draw him out. But this style of thing is quite impossible when Miss GRILLSTON,. . . . see under H.... Heavy and while he is moving up his Christian name, MABEL, a decidedly handsome young lady of masculine character, sporting tone, and independent opinions, and JOHNNIE PROSSER are present. They haven't, between them, the slightest reverence for a Bard of any sort. Apart, they are reasonable beings, and can talk calmly, rationally, and sensibly on any topie; but once together, serious conversation in their presence is impracticable.

Happy Thought.-Simile. They are like the two wire points of an electric light: separated-quiescent: united-bang! N.B.-I shall compile a small handbook on similes. Nothing so useful and ornamental in general conversation as good similes. The similes most in use are deficient either in applicability or perspicuity. For example, What is conveyed by "Like one o'clock?" e.g., "He bolted like one o'clock; he danced like one o'clock." Again: "He looked as "Tenner!" repeats JOHNNIE, of course wilfully misunderstanding, melancholy as a bear with a sore head." How many of those who and choosing to treat the proposed engagement as a matter of busihear or use this simile have ever seen a bear under this affliction ?ness. "You wouldn't get him down all this way under a pony and Experience has taught us all the utter falsity of the supposed exs. paid, for a couple of nights." resemblance between a violent lunatic and a hatter. Perhaps one They haven't anything so lively as that," says Miss MABEL. question on this point has never been put,-namely, when a hatter "I like We are a Merry Family, and Tidings of Comfort and does go mad, is he invariably more dangerous than a lunatic of any Joy-that's very funny." other trade or profession? "Drunk as a Lord" is decidedly unfair. Having thoroughly considered this subject, I have determined to write a handy-volume of similes for the waistcoat-pocket, diamond edition, alphabetically arranged, so that in the middle of a conversation any one can retire to the window, or pretend to look at the clock, and, instead, consult his Diamond Edition of Similes, extract something brilliant, pocket the little book, turn round, rejoin the conversation, startle them with a brilliant simile, and then take his hat and go. If conversation were always conducted on this plan,

Those are ARTHUR ROBERTS's," interposes JOHNNIE PROSSER, thoroughly resenting such ignorance on the part of Miss GRILLSTON, who accepts the correction, observing that "she knew it was ARTHUR some one or other," a contemptuous indifference which threatens to throw quite a gloom over JOHNNIE PROSSER. The Bard's face wears a puzzled expression as he puts his finger to his forehead, and tries to connect the titles of the songs, and the names of the singers he has just heard mentioned, with anything in his own artistic experiences.

I cannot help asking, "But, Miss GRILLSTON, when did you hear 99

Oh, I suppose you think it's horridly improper ?" she begins, laughing. Ihasten to assure her that such a thought was far, &c., &c. "But," she continues, indicating PROSSER with her fan, "JOHNNIE knows. My brother HUGHIE sings them all, so does FREDDIE MICKHAM. Do you know FREDDIE MICKHAM?" No, I regret to say. "Oh, I thought everyone knew FREDDIE, and J. B. You know J. B.' of course." Not to be out of it this time, I say that I "don't know him personally, but know of him." Which is perfectly true, all my knowledge of him, having just come to me from Miss MABEL, in whose good opinion, my admission, accompanied on my part by a mysterious nod, and artful closing of my eyes, goes far to re-establish me. "Ah! of course you know of him. Well, J. B. plays the accompaniments."

They're all coming this evening," adds JOHNNIE PROSSER, nodding pleasantly at the Bard, as if promising him a real intellectual and musical treat; "and you'll be able to hear 'em. They're A 1." All hopes of obtaining any information from the Eisteddfodian Professor now vanish. After dinner there is just one more chance as we light a cigarette, but there is a sudden noise in the hall, wild shouts of triumph, as though the Castle had been surprised and taken by victorious Kerns who are giving vent to their joy in hunting-whoops, blasts on the coach-horn, and the banging of

savage gongs.

J. B. insist on showing him. Spirited resistance on JOHNNIE's part, resulting in general collapse of everybody on sofas. More whiskeys (without lemons), pipes, &c. Somebody is left asleep in the hall, it being charitably considered by everyone a pity to wake him. Blacking his face is proposed, but no one feels inclined to fetch a cork, and the process of burning it at a candle would take, it is very generally felt, a considerable time. So we decide on going to bed. The floors being highly polished and slippery, renders holding on by the balustrade fixed to the wall, absolutely necessary.

"Hate polished floors! says JOHNNIE PROSSER, who is gently allowing his wax-candle to melt all on one side, and dropping, like the gentle rain from Heaven, on FREDDIE's coat-tails, who is just before him on the staircase.

"Hang these rugs!" growls "J. B.," as one slips away from under his foot, and he recovers his equilibrium with an effort that has given him, he is afraid, a sprain in his back for life.

Happy Thought.-Get clear of them: t'other side of staircase, which in this ancient Castle is licensed to carry at least ten abreast. Say nothing except "Good night!" quietly, and creep down passage to bed. On the landing, where they are on a comparatively safe footing, they cannot resist commencing a last short but decisive bear-fight demonstration, which, however (I see from my dark retreat down the passage) is brought to an ignominious collapse by the appearance of the host in a dressing-gown, who, in a stage-whisper, says something-and evidently meaning it-about "Confounded noise-wake everybody-be off!"-whereupon the convicted Bears slink down different passages, and disappear to their dens, the doors of which are just heard mysteriously closing, one after another, in the distance.

In another second the dining-room door is burst open, and, scarcely giving our host time to exclaim, "Hallo, HUGHIE !-hallo, FREDDIE! -hallo, J. B.!" three young men in evening dress, the last carrying a gong and a hunting-horn, rush into the room, and testify to the ex- And this is the prelude for the Great Eisteddfod to-morrow uberance of their delight at seeing their "old pal," JOHNNIE PROSSER, morning! Where's the Bard? Who was it asleep on the sofa? once more (they haven't met for two days) by rushing at him with Wonder who he was.... Wind watch. What whoops and howls, their immediate object, apparently, being a night lights they are-no, I mean what light nights these are-in violent assault on his white tie, which JOHNNIE has to defend with Wales. Dear me just on four... Eisteddford-simile the utmost vigour. "They always have what they call a bear-fight book-Bard-J. B. Catch 'em with a whisht.... No more when they meet," my host explains to me, hopelessly. "But," he notes for similes to-night. . . . Out brief candle. ... Sleep. goes on, seeing that the Bard is gliding towards the door, and I am following him, "it's only among themselves." The Bard, not being entirely reassured, retires to the drawing-room. The Bears gradually subside, betaking themselves to separate mirrors to put themselves to-rights again. After this, becoming more composed, they are introduced as HUGHIE GRILLSTON, brother of Miss MABEL, FREDDIE MICKHAM, "his friend," as they used to describe "CHARLES" in the dramatis persona of plays, and Mr. Jos. BRAMLY, commonly known among his intimates as "J. B.," great at the piano in the singing and comic-song-accompaniment line.

All have come over from somewhere-they none of them seem very clear as to where they have come from, and are all, apparently, staying with one another, -for the Eisteddfod, being, evidently, just the very men to be deeply and reverentially interested in Old National Customs, Bardic Ceremonies, and Eisteddfodian Music.

Our hostess and host have arranged for a recital on the harp by the Professor, and for a variety of high-class music furnished by the guests, who have arrived from all parts, as a prelude to to-morrow's Eisteddfod; but somehow, after the Bard has concluded his harp recital, which is listened to with rapt attention by everyone except the bear-fighters, who remain in the outer hall, and, under the vigilant eye of the host, carry on an intermittent warfare with noiseless sofacushions, and after a lady has sung a melancholy ditty, with a refrain about "O my Fond One! O my Lost One!" which sets one of the FREDDIES, OF HUGHIES, OF JOHNNIES off with a sotto voce imitation of a cat, immediately suppressed by the frown of the hostess (at the door), the warning shake of the host's head, and a couple of unnecessary reminders with flying bolsters launched vigorously but surreptitiously by "J. B.," at the probable offender's head, we suddenly find ourselves bounding into the mazy dance, the hostess having yielded to Miss MABEL's representations about " wanting it, but afraid to ask," and as "J. B." prefers playing the piano to dancing, the next thing I see is the Bard himself led out by Miss MABEL, who will take no denial, and who whirls him round to a tune which JOHNNIE tells me is "Whisht! whisht! whisht! You (something) always catch 'em with a Whisht! whisht! whisht!" and I there and then give up all hope of any information about to-morrow's Eisteddfod until I actually take part in it, which, by the way, the Bard himself has told me he has to do in some official character, at a very early hour, something like eight A.M.

everyone

whoops,

...

To-night we forget all about the Eisteddfod. The heat is intense. We all saunter out into the moonlight. After this, as the papers say, "dancing was kept up with much spirit until a late hour." The guests depart. ... cheers, tears, and laughter hoorayings, and hornblowings our host retires bear-fightings in connection with the billiard-table and sofas, in which, I have a sort of indistinct idea, the Bard joins. Lemonswhiskeys pipes-cigars-da capo. Somebody observes, "the last Saraband has been danced in the hall"-when JOHNNIE asks what sort of a thing a Saraband is, whereupon HUGHIE, FREDDIE, and |

BALLADE DE L'ANGLOPHOBIE.

[Contemporaneously with the Lesseps Banquet project, parties of Tourists
were hissed at the Louvre and at the Bourse.]

HERE is the one link the Grand Nation needs
To join its slightly varying views and aims;
Here's a fine focus for its fighting deeds,

A time to call others than Frenchmen names;
Perhaps au fond the pure logician blames

A new crusade, preached more with hook than crook;
But this revenge true patriotism acclaims-
Feedons LESSEPS, et hissons Messieurs Cook.

Not the coarse means by which Albion succeeds

Be ours, who hate war's wicked brands and flames;
Europe, you know 's exhausted when France bleeds;
Prudence and peace are sometimes paying games,
And furia francese OTTO tames.
'Twas banners once, 'tis now a banker's book
A staid Republic's calm attention claims-
Feedons LESSEPS, et hissons Messieurs Cook.

And who tricked Tunis may try virtuous screeds
Before the Egyptian trickery of Saint James-
Find that the Seine's sly trickling farther leads
Than the broad current of old Father Thames.
Don't say our supine bragging somewhat shames
The race the First NAPOLEON bad look

Unto the Pyramids for fame; our fame's
To feed LESSEPS and hiss ces Messieurs Cook.
ENVOY.

For, Princes of Finance, who ever took

Egyptian bonds, the patriot soul exclaims:
"Let's jeer from some secure and cosy nook,
If chestnuts are to be pulled from the flames,
Feedons LESSEPS et hissons Messieurs COOK!"

ILLUSTRATED BOOKS AND LIGHT LITERATURE FOR OUR TROOPS IN THE EAST.-In answer to the Appeal recently made, MR. PUNCH's Packet, made up of his most recent Publications, Handy Volumes, Odd Volumes-the oddest he can pick out will be forwarded to Cyprus, or elsewhere, with the utmost possible dispatch.

Paterfamilias. "I SEE IT SAYS HERE, MY DEAR, THAT THE HOUSEHOLD TROOPS HAVEN'T BEEN ABROAD ON SERVICE SINCE THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO !"

Our Cook. "LAWK, MUM! WHAT A SHAME FOR GOV'MENT TO SEND THEM POOR OLD MEN OUT TO THE WARS AGAIN!"

THE SONG OF THE SULTAN.

(After Moore, more or less.)

FAREWELL-farewell to thee, ARABI darling!

(Thus murmured the SULTAN beneath his moustache.) No help for it now: the curst Giaour is snarling; Complete is the sell, and most utter the hash.

Oh! sweet as the whiff from my chibouque soft blowing,
Our joint little game till the Britisher came,
Like the wind from the desert rose-gardens o'erthrowing,
And blew it to bits. 'Tis a thundering shame!

But long upon ARABI's Orient guile and

Astuteness shall ABDUL sit brooding in gloom.
To be bowled out at last by that crass Western Island!
Would, would it were swept by the blasting Simoom!

And now by Old Nilus Sir GARNET is burning,
And calls to his standard the young and the old.
E'en the Guards, such home pastime as Polo stern spurning,
In sunshine Egyptian can broil yet be bold.

I've played fast and loose, but the Giaour's successes

My dark schemes have dished in the dismallest way;
I must leave thee to fate, though my bosom still blesses
The nice little game I must trust thee to play.

Nor shall Islam, who hails thee as hero, forget thee-
Those tyrants of Infidel dogs are too smart,
But if thou shouldst lick them, by Allah, she'd set thee
Supreme in the innermost shrine of her heart.

Farewell!-be it mine still to squat on this pillow,
And muse upon dodges exceedingly deep;

But those sons of burnt fathers who 've come o'er the billow
Will crumple my rose-leaves and trouble my sleep.

I've ground my poor teeth till I've shivered the amber,
My bloated pipe-bearer I've kicked till he wept.
(He lies at this moment, and howls, in yon chamber,
Most sore-footed slave that on blisters e'er stept.)

I'll dive where Intrigue's deepest plots still lie darkling,
But this Proclamation must hurl at thy head.

Thy prospects on Egypt's hot sands scarce look sparkling.
They gather, the Giaours, the Nile's in his bed.
Farewell-farewell! 'Tis a pity-but counting
The chances, at present, by Nilus's wave,
Thy star, my dear ARABI, scarcely seems mounting.
And so-go to blazes, recalcitrant slave!

The Benefit of the Doubt.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

[Signs reluctantly.

THE custom of taking Benefits is an ancient one. More than two hundred and fifty years ago, a party of the name of HERRICK, who had a pretty talent for turning verses, sang

"My Ben,

O come again!"

From this we may infer that his Benefit was so satisfactory that he was desirous of its repetition. We may also gather that Poets participated in a fine old institution now only reserved for actors. By all means let the good old custom be revived. Yours ritooloorally,

THE LAZY MINSTREL. Haven't seen him for some time. Let him call at our office, and we'll give him a Benefit.-ED.

ADVICE TO STATESMEN.-Never denounce any policy in Opposition, unless you are quite certain that you will not be obliged to adopt a course just like it when in power.

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