Punch: Punch (69.1875)

20 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [July 17, 1875.

7 p.m.—The Home Forces have been, strengthened by the arrival
of a Reserve Brigade (Mb. Smith's mother-in-law), and a severe
engagement is imminent.

8 p.m.—One of the Umpire Staff (a bachelor friend) has arrived,
and has directed the Enemy to retire to the Club.

9 p.m.—Recommencement of hostilities. Demonstration of the
Commander of the Home Forces strongly supported by the Reserve.
Feints, volleys, tears, and grand attack upon the better feelings of
the Enemy.

9 30 p.m.—The Enemy is wavering. The last attack of the Home
Forces is expected to prove successful.

10 p.m.—Arrival of the Umpire-in-Chief (the Doctor), who, after
carefully inspecting the present condition of the Forces of the con-
tending parties, orders the Enemy to retire immediately to Dieppe—
the march to commence on the morrow. Triumph of the Commander
of the Home Forces.

10'15 p.m.—The Commander of the Home Forces, after declaring
peace, has resumed the supreme command. The order to " cease
tiring " (at first resisted by the Reserve) is now being obeyed on all
sides. The Commissariat of the Household Brigade is in magnificent
condition. Supplies good and ample.

10'30 p.m.—Commanding Officer's call to supper. End of engage-
ment.

PUNCH AT WIMBLEDON.

v xWX E course, as all the world

knows, Mr. Punch looks
remarkably well in any and
every costume it may please
his fancy to assume ; but
when Mr. Punch wishes to
appear to special advan-
tage, he dons his Volunteer
uniform. As it would cause
great and natural heart-
burning were the name of
the happy Corps of which
Lieutenant-Colonel
Pitnch is the Commanding
Officer to be divulged, the
number of his Regiment
shall be carefully concealed.
It is enough to say that his
uniform, like many other
Volunteer uniforms, is
rather ornamental than
useful. The sleeves of his
tunic are covered with the
handsomest silver lace—
lace which glistens in the
sun when there is a sun, and which tarnishes in the rain when the
timid civilian unfurls his umbrella. He wears, as a Field Officer, a
perfectly useless sabretasch, for the very excellent reason that he has
received orders from the Horse Guards to add it to the long list of
his accoutrements. On his head he balances a heavy shako, that
those who regard him may admire his powers of endurance. His
sword is of the regulation length, his high boots are of the regula-
tion tightness, and his spurs are after the regulation pattern.
Mounted on his charger, with his holsters containing pocket-pistols
loaded to the mouth with Brown Sherry, and his pouch-belt full of
the best cigars, he is a man that Mars himself might admire. Nay,
more—not only Mars but daughters also.

As Mr. Punch has never missed putting in an annual appearance
at Wimbledon, it was not to be expected for a moment that he
would neglect to do his duty in July, 1875. Accordingly, on Mon-
day last he presented himself amongst the first of those who claimed
the attention of the clerk at the Waterloo Station, and in due time
received the necessary voucher franking him to the Camp from the
hands of a bowing official. Conscious of the fact that a soldier
should always appear "smart" on parade, he refused to enter a
smoking carriage. Ladies are charming creatures, but opening
doors for them is not an exercise calculated to improve the appear-
ance of regulation buck-skin gloves. A hint to the Guard secured
for him a compartment all to himself. It was evidently intended
for the use of elderly Generals, as it bore a label suggesting that it
was appropriated to the service of aged females. Then in perfect
privacy Mr. Punch opened the magic volume that is his greatest
solace in times of intense sleeplessness, and began to peruse " Sec-
tion 10.—Gymnastic Training.—III. Course for Drilled Soldiers."

Having nearly mastered the secrets of the Horse Guards, he found
himself, rather suddenly, outside the Station at Wimbledon. A
General, of rather genial appearance, had evidently been anticipating
his arrival with impatience.

"Ah, here you are at last!" cried the General, inviting Mr.
Punch to mount a gaily caparisoned charger.

"Morning, your R.H.," said the man of men, gracefully
flinging himself into the saddle. " What is the matter ? "

" The matter, indeed! Why, Sir, how do you think we can get
to work until you have inspected us ? "

"How, indeed!" echoed Mr. Punch. "How are you getting
on?"

" Oh, pretty well! I think the regulations you issued last week
will be tolerably well observed. I hear that wide-awakes are not to
be worn this year on duty, and sentries will mount guard without
umbrellas."

" Come," said Mr. Punch, cheerfully ; " that's a great improve-
ment," and the two great men cantered away to the Camp. There
was the usual demonstration. The guard turned out, the bugles
sounded, and the cheers were deafening.

" Sorry I am obliged to leave you," said the genial General,,
sorrowfully. " But the fact is, I have a great deal to do just now.
I am President of the Association, don't you know, and then I have
to look after the Summer Manoeuvres over yonder. Ah! I wish you
were at the head of the Control."

" Well," said Mr. Punch, modestly.. " I think I could help you a
little. It shouldn't be such a very difficult matter to feed 10,000
men seventeen miles from Aldershott."

" You have heard of that Mess ! "

" It seems to me (to make an old joke) that there was no Mess at
all," and Mr. Punch laughed, pleasantly.

"Don't say anything more about it," said the genial General,,
anxiously. '' Take a cigar ? "

" Never smoke in uniform, your R.H." replied Mr. Punch.
"Besides it is your last—not that that matters much! If what
somebody says is true—there must be plenty of weeds at Alder-
shott !"

The genial General shook his head, and slowly rode away.

Thus the two Generals parted—the Man of the Sword to umpire-
in-chief at Aldershott. The Man of the Pen to inspect the Volun-
teers.

"And so," pondered the pensive Punch, "the Riflemen are
smarter this year. They no longer contrive uniforms of peculiar
construction. They no longer combine the stern majesty of the
military tunic with the graceful outlines of the alpaca umbrella."
And Mr. Punch was well pleased. The greatest warrior of the age
(amiably dispensing with the chairing that certain enthusiastic
votaries of Mars would have forced upon him) wandered slowly
through the tented field.

" Ah, the old, old form," murmured Mr. Punch mournfully, as
he neared a well-remembered group—a group he had seen in years
gone by, a group he will see again, if Ridicule is powerless, and
Laughter is in vain. " Every inch a soldier, except a foot of hat!"
commented Mr. Punch sorrowfully, as the figure of a stalwart Scot,

clothed in the garb of old Gael, plus a " chimney-pot" (according to
the regulations laid down by that most eminent firm of cap-con-
trivers, Messrs. Lincoln and Bennett, came into view. Yes,
and every foot a civilian, except a few inches of shako! he added,
as he noticed that a gentleman wearing what appeared to be The
Tourist suit as advertised," had donned for the nonce a distinctly
military head-dress. " And yet they say that our Volunteers have
no notion of discipline and smartness! " and he sighed heavily as he
hurried away from a picture which was at once painful and exces-
sively absurd.

" Let me get me to the shooting," he said more cheerfully.
"Well, my man," said he, on his arrival at the targets, to the