Punch (50.1866)

PUNCH OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

119

March 24, 1866.]

DINING OUT IN A HUNTING NEIGHBOURHOOD.

First Foxhunter. “ That was a fine 40 Minutes Yesterday?”

Second Ditto. “ Yes ; didn’t seem so long, either ! ”

[Curate is puzzled, and wonders—do they allude to his lecture in the School-room ?

ENTOMOLOGICAL JOURNALISM.

Success to the new publication named in the
ensuing paragraph extracted from a contem-
porary :—

“ Suburban Literature.—Last week there appeared
an addition to our weekly literature, the suburban village
of Hornsey having put forth a periodical which is to
remedy all local abuses and supply all local wants The
name chosen is the Hornsey Hornet, and the profits are
to be devoted to the relief of the village newsman,
named Knight, who lost his sight while working as a
compositor.”

The appearance of the Hornsey Hornet will
doubtless be the signal for the out coming of other
kindred and alliterative insects in the neighbour-
hood of London. We may expect soon to see a
Hampstead Humble Bee, and a Wimbledon Wasp.
All these, of course, will be satirical papers, and
regular stingers, to which, perhaps, the Woolwich
Working Bee will be added, to be followed, pos-
sibly, by the Dulwich Drone. Erom the Bees
suburban journalism will next perhaps go for
nomenclature to some of the other Lepidoptera,
and start a Brixton Blowfly, in the interest ot
the butchers, to keep up the price of meat. Then
the Coleoptera may come in for their turn under
the title of a Kensington Cockchafer or Barnes
Beetle. The Articulata perchance will also be
represented by a Sydenham Spider, a Surbiton
Scorpion, and a Clapham Cricket. To pursue this
train of thought much farther would be to
descend to a depth of insect life of a degree too
low to be suitable to the refinement of any
reader except an enthusiastic entomologist. The
condition requisite for the success of any new
journal is that it shall supply some want. The
Hornsey Hornet is calculated to do this. We
trust that the issue of the Hornsey Hornet will
raise a hornet’s nest of subscribers arouud the
head of Mr. Knight, the newsman, who lost
his sight in fighting life’s battle in the ranks of the
Press.

THE COMING BOAT RACE.

Attend, all ye who wish to see the names of each stout crew,

Who’ve come to town, from cap and gown, to fight for their fav’rite

First Tottenham comes, a well-known name, that cattle-driving Cox’en,
Who oft to victory has steer’d his gallant team of Oxon.

O’er Putney’s course so well can lie that team in safety goad,

That we ought to call old Father Thames the Oxford-Tottenham Road.
Then comes the stroke, a mariner of merit and renown ;

Since dark blue are bis colours, he can never be dun-brown.

Ye who would at your leisure his heroic deeds peruse,

Go, read Tom Brown at Oxford by his namesake, Thomas Hughes.

Next Senhouse, short for Senate-house, but long enough for seven,
j Shall to the eight-oar'd ship impart a sen-at-orial leaven.

Then Number Six (no truer word was ever said in joke)
in keeping with his name of Wood, has heart and limbs of oak.

I The voice of all aquatic men the praise of “ Five ” proclaims ;

No fiuer sight, can eye delight,, than “HENLEY-upon-Thames.”

Then Number Four, no better oar, is sure to turn out game ;

Eis heart’s true blue, and “pulls it through,” though Willan* is his
name.

| Then Freeman rows at Number Three, in a free and manly style ;

No finer oar was e’er produced by the Tiber, Thames, or Nile.

Let politicians, if they please, rob freemen of their vote.

Provided they leave Oxford men a Freeman for their boat.

Among the crowd of oarsmen proud, no name will fame shout louder
I Than his who sits at Number Two, the straight and upright Crowder.
i Then Raikes rows bow, and we must allow that with all the weight
that’s aft,

The bow-oar gives a rakish air to the bows o’ the dark blue craft.

This is the crew, who’ve donned dark blue, and no stouter team of Oxon,
Has ploughed the waves of Old Father Thames, or owned a better Cox’en.

CAMBRIDGE.

Now, don’t refuse, Aquatic Muse, the glories to rehearse
I Of the rival crew, who’ve donned light blue, to row for better for worse,
lhey ve lost their luck, but retain their pluck, and whate’er their fate
may be,

’ Cf. Pickwick. “ Here I am, but I hain't a willan.”—Fat Boy.

Light blue may meet one more defeat, but disgrace they ne’er will see.
We’ve seen them row, thro’ sleet and snow, till they sank—“ merses
prof undo ”

(Horace forgive me !) “pulchrior Cami evenit arundo."

First little Forbes, our praise absorbs, he comes from a learned College,
So Cambridge hopes, he will pull bis ropes, with scientific knowledge.
May he shun the charge, of swinging barge, more straight than an
archer’s arrow,

May he steer his eight, as he sits sedate, in the stern of his vessel narrow !
Then comes the stroke, with a heart of oak, who has stood to his flag
like twenty,

While some stood aloof, and were not proof against “ dolce far niente."
So let us pray that Griffiths may to the banks of Cam recall,

The swing and style, lost for a while, since the days of Jones and Hall.
Then Watney comes, and a pluckier seven ne’er rowed in a Cambridge
crew;

His long straight swing, is just the thing, which au oarsmau loves to
view.

Then comes Kinglake, of a massive make, who in spite of failures past,
Like a sailor true, has nailed light-blue, as his colours to the mast.

The Consul bold, in days of old, was thanked by the Patres hoary,
When, in spite of luck, he displayed his pluck ou the field of Cannae gory;
So whate’er the fate of the Cambridge eight, let Cambridge men agree.
Their voice to raise, in their Captain’s praise, with thrice and three
times three.

The Number Five is all alive, and for bard work always ready,

As to and fro his broad back doth go, like a pendulum strong and steady.
Then Fortescue doth “ pull it through” without delay or dawdlin’;
Right proud I trow as they see him row are the merry men of Magdalen.
Then comes a name well known to fame, the great aud gallant Burke;
Who ne’er was known fatigue to own, or to neglect his work.

New zeal and life to each new stroke stout Selwyn doth impart.

And ever with fresh vigour, like Antaeus, forward start.

Then, last ot all in danger’s hour, to row the boat along,

They’ve got a bow whom all allow to be both Still and strong.

No crew can quail, or ever fail, to labour with a will,

When so much strength and spirits are supplied them by their Still.

We’ve done our task—to you who ask the probable result,

We more will speak, if you next week our Prophet will consult.

Punch’s Prophet.