Punch: Punch (69.1875)

July 17, 1875.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

21

marker, '' and how are we getting on, eh ? Outers all right ? Ricochets in fine

condition? Surely that touched the target ?" '.

4' No, Sorr," replied the intel-
ligent official—an Irish boy,
by the way—"the larst hit,
Sorr, was a miss, Sorr! "

" Indeed," murmured \Mr.
Punch, " from the sound I
should have taken it for a
bull!" Smiling to himself at
the quaintness of this merry
conceit, the Commander - in-
Chief wandered to another part
of the ground. The tents were
regularly pitched, and their
occupants seemed to be in good
spirits, and hard at work.
Altogether, Mr. Punch was
well satisfied with what he
saw, and made up his mind to
write a favourable report of the
Camp and its belongings.
Again he approached the shoot-
ing grounds of the happy Rifle-
men, and listened to the sweet
music of many bands as the
sounds floated past him, borne
to the targets on the zephyr
wings of summer breezes. It
may be seen from the construc-
tion of the above sentence that
he was rapidly becoming
poetical, when he was sternly recalled to prose by the following dialogue—
/ " Sergeant," whispered a timid voice, have you seen my Missis about ? "
f*f*Seen 'em!" thundered the Sergeant—the poor man was tired and out of

temper—" Seen 'em! I believe yer! High, low, right and left, and all over
the place! "

" Ah," murmured Mr. Punch, thinking of the fair sex,
but not exactly of his " Missis," " why do not the Ladies
make Wimbledon one of their rights ! How nice it would
be if this Camp were occupied by Amazons."

He bad scarcely uttered the words when silvery tones
pounded m his enchanted ears. He listened, looked, and
lo! the prettiest of shakos upon the glossiest of chignons—
(See m margin a thumb-nail sketch of the effect).

Cautiously advancing in the wake of this lovely vision,
his progress was arrested by a female sentinel—with the
prettiest voice—softly whispering, " Who goes there ? "

frien^" replied Mr. Punch, enthusiastically.

.But what do you do here, my dear Madam ?"

" Is this not the very place for us, Mr. Punch ? " an-
swered the Sentinel, smiling. "Is not Wimbledon in
July the Head Quarters of Flirtation ? "

Mr. Punch was perfectly charmed. For a few minutes
he could not utter a word. On every side he found proofs
oi female taste. Even the ammunition brown paper had
been converted into bonnet peaks.

Ah, Tennyson ! " he exclaimed/ \« You are at last outdone. You thought

of a College of Women, but I have discovered a Camp of
Girls."

" Not all girls, Mr. Punch ! " said a stern voice, and
to his horror the Great Creature found himself con-
fronted by his better half, wearing the costume of a
Major-General. " I will teach you to flirt, Sir."

"My dear," mildly replied the luckless ^one, "I do
not require teaching."

"Let him be tried by Court-Martial," and in a mo-
ment Mr. Punch was roughly seized by the collar.
* . * * * *

"Tickets, please Sir!" Mr. Punch woke to find him-
self certainly at Wimbledon, but still with a copy of
" The Queen's Regulations" lying open on the cushion
beside him.

And this was Mr. Punch's dream of Wimbledon,
suggested by memories of the past—he may, perhaps,
have something to say about the present of Wimbledon
—in the future.

A STOCKBROKER'S SOLILOQUY.

Do you remember, 0 Matilda sweet!

When steaks and you began to get so dear,

How everybody thought it very queer
If Man and Wife got bread and cheese to eat,

And now and then a modest pint of beer,
Upon that hum-drum sum, three hundred pounds a-year ?

And yet we both were brave enough to marry,
And of " incumbrances " disdained the fear.
Now we have eight: _ their little boots appear

Enough to make me wish them at Old Harry,
For everything is twenty times as dear,

And I, as yet, but make three thousand pounds a-year!

A precious lot of tin it takes to gild a
Life such as ours. Yquem succeedeth beer:
For your old Exmoor you've to drop a tear,

And drive a pair of dark brown cobs, Matilda!
Happily, on the Stock Exchange, my dear,

'Tis but a step from three to thirty thou, a year.

Make money, somehow! 'Twas my father's fancy":

I've an hereditary taint, that's clear;

And without coin should feel uncommon queer :
Wherefore I practise City necromancy,

Kill many clients (names do not appear),
In hope to fairly earn my thirty thou, a year.

And when I've got a snug estate in Kent
Or Surrey (London should be somewhere near,
For country life is rather tame, I fear),

Reposing calmly on my cent, per cent.,
Sipping my port, I '11 say, Matilda dear!

Did we once live upon three hundred pounds a year ? "

A City Chair (of Ease).

The Gotham Committee will shortly proceed to the
election of a Professor of Rhetoric. Respectable medi-
ocrity is essential, but no special qualifications are requi-
site. Testimonials, however numerous and weighty, are
of little value, and will probably not be read. No great
power of voice is required, as the previous exertions
of the Committee have been successful in limiting the
audiences to about six persons. Preference will be given
to any one connected with a great City company, or the
protege of an elector.

(C

What's in a Name ? "

At the Suffolk Agricultural Show held at Stowmarket
June 24th and 25th, the animal (one of Me. Sexton's)
•which took the Duke of Hamilton's prize as the best
hoar in the yard was named Dr. Kenealy, as claiming
descent from Disturbance and Bombast!

shadows op daekness.

Bishops and others very commonly talk of " shades of
thought in the Church." _ Respecting the dogma symbol-
ised by Ritualist practices, these shades of so-called
thought appear to the rational mind's eye shades of non-
sense.