Punch: Punch (69.1875)

34

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[July 24, 1875.

"Come," said he, " that is what I call entering into the spirit of
the thing I Would that there were more men like that Gallant
Rifleman in Wimbledon! "

The wish of Mr. Punch warranted—he noticed before leaving
the Camp that there were many more men like the Gallant Rifle-
man in question.

Clasping Rifle Exercises and Musketry Instructions, Pocket
Edition by Authority, fondly to his breast (regardless, it will be
seen, of the regulation printed on the cover, ordering him to carry
it in his pocket), the Hero of a Hundred Sights continued to notice
the shooting. Mr. Punch (easily tired with the monotonous occu-
pation) was about to turn away when he saw his old friend Full
Private (very Fall Private) Buffles preparing to add another
"bull" to his fast increasing score. He remembered the Full
Private's saying in days gone by, "If you want to make a big
figure at the targets, fire on the top of a good meal—never empty,
my boy." And here was Buffles as large as (after dinner) life
preparing to shoot in his accustomed style. His left arm rested on
its habitual support, no one who looked at him could doubt it for a
moment—Buffles was evidently firing on the top of a good meal!

And now Mr. Punch was fairly taken by surprise. The clouds
gathered together into a compact mass, and, to his intense astonish-
ment, it began to rain again! Rain at Wimbledon! Who ever heard
of such a thins: '• And then it was that the skill of the tent-pitcher
was tested. Those who had dug trenches and had cast their camp
on the side of a hill were rewarded for their forethought; those who
had done neither of these things soon assumed the appearance of
heavily-moistened sponges.

"Captain S. Bouquet in "The Soldiers' Retreat,"and the rest of
the Bandbox Brigade, must be very, very happy! " and Mr. Punch
laughed long and heartily.

The First General of his Age now waited for the rain to cease
(those who know hoio long he had to wait will keenly appreciate his
self-sacrifice), and hurried to his tent. The sun shone brightly as
he made the champagne cup. The birds sang their best, and the

crack of the rifle in the distance was pleasant indeed. Mr. Punch
sat down near his own tent-pole, and welcomed his guests—Comely
Canada, Arch America, and Juvenile Japan. He pledged them
with three times three (three cheers for each of them—Cocker), and
they were simply delighted. He saw near him, in happy fraternisa-
tion, John Bull with his rose, Pat with his shamrock, Sawney
with his thistle, and Yankee Doodle wearing the feather of a
Macaroni. Everything was delightful, and Wimbledon never
looked so well. And why was this ? The question was easily
answered. When Mr. Punch looked at Wimbledon for the last
time, he was following the fashion, and wearing a pair of glasses.
Those glasses (evidently with a view to counteracting the glare of
the sun) were stained. The colour of the stain was—ccmfewr de rose!

" CKEDE BYBON."

"I desire that my body may be buried in the vault of the garden of
Newstead, without any ceremony or burial service whatever, and that no

inscription, save my name and age, be written on the tomb or tablet"_

Byeon's Will. {See " Times," July 14.)

What perils posthumous environ
The mighty Poet's radiant fame
Which fools and scoffers sought to shame !
The Churchmen, prejudiced and shabby,
Denied him entrance to the Abbey:
And wherefore so ? Because, forsooth,
In Days of Sham he wrote the Truth—
Wrote it with keen, indignant ire,
In letters of eternal fire :

" Crede Byron j "

When that strong soul began to tire on
Its upward flight, its haughty way,
Into the worlds where song hath sway,
He, thinking of his final rest,
Dreamt of the place he loved the best,
Longed that soft earth should crumble o'er him
Where slept his passionate race before him,
Nothing thereon except his name—
Two syllables of deathless fame :

" Crede Byron ! "

Clay mingled with his strength of iron :
But he was greater far than they
Who dare to call him wholly clay.
If England wishes something done
For her last Age's strongest son,
Be it his statue, calm and grand,
By the first sculptor of the land.
Touch not his homely churchyard stone—
"My Monument my name alone:"

"Crede Byron!"

What can we do for Him?

Diving the other day into the columns of the Times, we happened
to fish up this pearl of an advertisement:—

AGentlemanly BACHELOR, of excellent social position and means,
wishes to RESIDE, or become acquainted with any one who will intro-
duce him into Wealthy Society. London, or within 20 miles preferred.
Address, &c.

A man who can describe himself in florid terms like these can
hardly, one would think, have a, deficiency of cheek. Instead of
losing time and money in advertisements, why does he not call upon
Lord Dudley, or the Duke of Westminster, or any other wealthy
member of Society, and ask for introductions to their family and
friends ?

Working-Men's Questions.

Why do the Workmen (some of them) rage against the proposal
to grant £140,000 for defraying the expense of the Prince of
Wajles's visit to India ? Which of them will contribute more
than a mite towards it, except by the consumption of intoxicating
liquors ?

TO LET, for Next Season, A FIRST-RATE MOOR. Applications
to be made to Signor Salvini, Stage-Door of Theatre Royal Drury
Lane.__

Spirits over Proof.—Printers' Devils.