Punch (77.1879)

September 27, 1879.]

PUNCH, OE THE LONDON CHAEIVAEL

137

care. I won't ask any more about Eton. It is no longer " the old
place"—but quite a new one. And the boys are all new too. I'm
sure we were more respectful.

Another serve. Fault. Applause. Hang the fault!

Another serve for the right. Returned into the centre. It comes
slowly. I see it coming. I know exactly the place where it must
bound. I slip forward, make my hit at it, but the ball passes on
underneath.

Applause from gallery.

The Etonian calls out, " There's a hole in your racket."

I examine my bat. Roars of laughter, specially from boy. As I
am examining it, and see no hole, it suddenly occurs to me that this
is his chaff. I am perfectly sure / was more respectful to my elders
—for I now admit I am his elder—when I was a boy at Eton. On a
change tout cela.

[Happy Thought.—To continue my inspection of bat as if this was
part of my chaff. Everybody, however, I am sure, sees through this
very shallow performance.]

More games. After the third I fall back, so to speak, on my
weight of years and gravity of character, and protest I don't see the
fun of running about—not, of course, that I can't, but simply that I
don't care about doing it.

Boy becomes careless, as despising his foe. He wins all the games
in something less than a quarter of an hour. I've only scored twice,
when he was yeby careless.

I say to him, patronisingly, " Why, you 're a capital player ! "

He has become rather grumpy—I think he has been bored—by
being sent to play with me, as if I were so many years younger, and
no companion for him. At all events, he replies, candidly,

" You don't practise much, do you ? "

I "admit that I do not " practise " much, by way of answering his
question, which implies that 1 " don't practise much, and can't play
at all."

" Now, then," cries my host, apparently in exuberant spirits at
the conclusion of my performance, " we '11 have a real good match ! "
And forthwith, while I retire into the shade, the Etonian is mixed
up in a set of four, is obliged to take off his coat, and, to my great
delight, is tackled by his elder sisters, who work him hard and chaff
him mercilessly : he then finds himself pitted against an elderly, but
cool, and agile gentleman, an expert at the game, who, on every occa-
sion (having no _ fear of Eton before his eyes), treats him as though
he were a mere; child; and I, as one of the gallery, following the
fortunes of the^ game, come out of my shell, applaud ironically,
make facetious}, remarks, call out " Butter-fingers I " when the
Little Etonian misses the ball, and congratulate myself generally on
taking/the.change out of him.

[Happy Thought {as one of the spectators).—"'Yantage to me."

I confess I am rather afraid of a reprisal; but he hasn't time for
it, as he is taken away by his family, who have to return to dinner
after this exciting contest is finished.

Happy Thought.—Shall run down to Eton and stay a few days at
the Christopher—is there a Christopher?—do they "keep up the
Christopher ? "—just to see what the place is like. I will. Yet—
won't it be melancholy ? Shall I not be returning to my former
haunts, like a Spirit from The Shades ? I shall have no one to talk
to ; and if I address one of the boys, he will run away as though he
had seen a ghost. I might get another ghost to accompany me.
I'11 try.]

A HAPPY RELEASE!

Dear Me. Punch,

Or course, I congratulate Lord Beaconseield and his
Cabinet, and Lord Chelmsfoed, and Sir Baetle, and Sir Gabnet,
and Major Maetee, and the King's Dragoon Guards, and the Local
Parliament, and the Managers of Madame Tussaud's Exhibition,
and myself, and every other despairing tax-payer, on the latest
brilliant addition" to English History — on Cetewayo being
"ketched" at last. But, more than all these, I congratulate you,
dear Sir, because I hope you will now be rescued from the brisk fire
of jokes and jocularities on the Zulu King and his name, which, I
suspect, you have had to face from the very beginning of the out-
break. May your daily pile of letters now be lessened! May your
W.P. baskets be immensely relieved !

Yours loyally, Afeicanus.

P.S.—We brought away an umbrella from Ashantee; we have
now received an elephant's tusk from Zululand, another trophy for
the South Kensington Museum—what are we to look for from
Afghanistan ?

["A Happy Release " our correspondent calls it. He little knows
the floodgates that the event opens on Punch's devoted head. Let
him read what follows :—

to all whom it mat conceen.

The tide of obvious puns on Ketchwato just ketch'd, and Major
Maetee his ketcher, having set in, with even exceptional severity,
Punch heeeby gives notice that no play of words on either name
can be admitted to his columns. " Play," as such things may seem
to their perpetrators, they are death to Punch, to say nothing of his
readers.]

Doctrinal Desideeatum.—Orthodoxy without Paradoxy.

WHAT WILL BE DONE WITH HIM?

-_. an anyone say ?—

Will he be sent
to the Tower ?

Will rooms be
taken for him at
Claeidge's ?

Will he be ban-
nished to Cyprus?

Will he join
the circle assem-
bled at Hughen-
den Manor ?

Will he be
mobbed some
Sunday soon at
the Zulu-logical
Gardens ?

Will he be re-
leased on parole,
and enjoy the
privilege of gaz-
ing at his own
effigy at Madame
Tussaud's ?

Will he be car-
ried captive in
the Lord Mayor's

Procession on the Ninth of November next (as in the Roman triumphs of old), and afterwards
have to stand the fire of Lord Beaconsfleld's rhetoric in the Guildhall ?

Will he be produced as the latest African novelty at the opening meeting of the Royal
Geographical Society ?

Will he be allowed to lecture and exhibit himself and his kraal at St. James's Hall t

Will the Aquarium eventually get hold of him ?

Will he be the Lion of the next London Season ?

Will he appear at Exeter Hall ?

Will people at last learn to spell and pro-
nounce his name correctly ?
Won't he be photographed!

This will be Done with Him.

He will be photographed in several cartes
—each utterly unlike the other—in his fat
and lean states, with and without his crown
and in and out of his Court cow-tails.

He will be taken as the trade-mark for a
new " South African Ptelish."

He will appear as the principal figure in
more than one highly imaginary group in
more than one of the Illustrated papers.

His biography will form a substantial
part of the padding to the current numbers
of several shilling Magazines.

For nearly three weeks his name will
loom large in the "Extra-Parliamentary
utterances" of all the less responsible
members of the Ministry.

He will be missing, like the Cabul mas-
sacre, from Lord Beaconsfleld's first rural
oration.

For a month his swarthy physiognomy
will appear and disappear in a dissolving
view, at the Royal Polytechnic Institution.

He will enlist the sympathies of many
thousands of well-meaning people, who will
take the deepest interest in him for nearly
a month.

He will appear in effigy at Madame Tus-
saud's, and continue as an addition to that
most perennial of exhibitions until his wax
is required for a newer novelty and a more
startling sensation.

And then—he will be forgotten !