Punch: Punch (70.1876)

[April 8, 1876.

"NOBLESSE OBLIGE."

Interlocutor. "Who's that showy Woman who Talks and Laughs so loud, and digs People in the Ribs ?"

Interlocutrix. "Oh, that's the Duchess of Batswatek. She was a Lady Gwendolen Beaumanoir, you know !"

Interlocutor {witli warmth). "Ah! to be sure! That accounts for her high-bred Ease, her aristocratic Simplicity of
Manner, her natural and straightforward-"

Interlocutrix (putting up her eye-glass). "By the bye, pardon me ! I haye unintentionally misinformed you; It's Mrs.
Judkins. She's the Widow of an Alderman, and her Father was a Cheesemonger in the New Cut!"

Interlocutor. "Dear me !—Ah !—Hum !—er—Hum !—Ha ! That quits alters the case ! She is very Vulgar, I must say—
awful I " [N.B.—It was the Duchess, after all.

ME. PUNCH'S v OWN MAN " AT THE BOAT-
RACE.

An I premature ? Will anyone say that it is dishonest to describe
that grandest of contests,'that noblest of sights, that magnificent
exhibition of British pluck, the University Boat-Race, days before it
(as they have it on the river) "comes off " ? I pity the man who
thinks so. Yes, indeed I am sorry for the creature whose heart is so
dead to every noble impulse that he cannot appreciate an account of
the " Blue Riband of the River " simply because time is anticipated,
and dates are hurled into space. I have nothing to do.with him—
he is not of my class ; we (so to speak, and as they say at Putney)
do not "row in the same boat." It is to the true sportsman, the
honest young Englishman with rosy cheeks and curly hair, the
representative of all that is good and grand in the national charac-
ter—it is to him that I address myself. He will understand me, he
will appreciate my wonderful word-painting, he will recognise the
profound knowledge I possess of matters aquatic, his heart will beat
with mine—in a word, he will pull bow to my stroke. The Uni-
versity Boat-Race has often been described before; it is described
again. Once more, should it appear to some of the more thick-
headed of the public that the description (under the special circum-
stances of the case) is a little premature, let it be remembered that
Mr. Punch is no ordinary man, that his wealth is boundless, and
that wealth can purchase everything. Mr. Punch commissioned
his "Own Man" to write an account of the Boat-Race, and an
account of the Boat-Race has been written. Transactions of a simi-
lar character to ours between editors and contributors have taken
place before. Men have described battles on the Continent without

leaving London ; they have hunted the tiger in far Bengal, and yet
during the chase have still contrived to sleep nightly in their apart-
ments at Lower Tooting. Let it be remembered by the thoughtless
that one Boat-Race is the counterpart of the others, and then " good
luck to us all." Ring the bell, take off your hats in front, and clear
the course!

The Road.

" What sort of day is it ? " was the popular question in the early
morning of April 8th. Dukes reclining on couches set with jewels
and curtained with cloth of silver and gold, put the question to their
countless domestics ; and costermongers, taking their fevered heads
out of the coal-skuttles in which they had deposited them the night
before, made the same inquiry of their " old women." And what
was the weather ? Well, to some people it would have appeared a,
bright, sunny spring day. Others might have declared that it
rained heavily, and was bitterly cold. Nay, some might have said
it snowed. After all, the weather is a mere matter of opinion; and
such was the weather on the 8th of April, 1876.

From an early hour the roads leading to the scene of the contest
were thronged with pedestrians and vehicles. Who does not know
the scene ? Who does not remember the_ hansoms, four-wheelers,
stanhopes, broughams, and family coaches ? Why, it is a twice-told
tale, as stale as the news of the decease of Her Majesty Queen
Anne. Shall I tell this tale thrice ? Shall I, who have seen the
most glorious sights in the world—the mighty Niagara, the frowning
Rock of Gibraltar, the twinkling lights of the Rue de Rivoli—shall
I descend to such homely stuff as this ? Never ! I will content
myself with one or two sketches.

First, a roomy carriage filled with a bevy of pretty girls all
dressed exactly alike. Their beauty was the same—hazel eyes lan-