Punch: Punch (87.1884)

July 26, 1884.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

45

THE TOWN.

No. VII—Lobd’s.

Spobt ! What commingling visions at the word
Crowd on the fancy ! Nimrod, Mr. Briggs,

Chaldean, Cockney,
tragical, absurd,
Broad Tory No-
bles, proud patri-
cian Whigs,

The smug M.P.
chasing the small
brown bird,

The bronze-faced
Anglo - Indian
sticking pigs;
From tiger-hunt-
ing to the tennis-
court,

How various are
thy votaries,
mighty Sport!

A Libyan lion-
chace would
somewhat flutter
The country gen-
tlemen who read
the Field ;

But though these days he branded “ bread-and-butter,”

The sporting instinct reigns, it does not yield
To later cults of the Intense and Utter.

Shrill Anti-Vivisectionists have appealed,

S.P.C.A.’s have preached and prayed in vain,

Sport still rules strong in the stout Saxon strain.

But here the fetish of our race assumes
Its fairest and least fevered shape. This sward
Has witnessed many a fight, but fallen plumes,
Blood-stained—of knights or pigeons—have not marred
Fond memories of its verdure ; love illumes,

Cool courage consecrates them, and the bard
May well be snared in sentiment’s close thicket,

Who ’d critic play whilst English youth plays cricket.

Oh, enviable, in the heat of June,

Free-limbed and flannel-vestured! Gordon G regg,
Eton’s proud boast, found fame at plenilu'ne,

The hero of that mighty swipe to leg!

Who such high claim to worship dared impugn ?

Premiers for such applause might vainly beg.

To rouse the ring and ravish the Pavilion
Is sweeter than the service of the Million.

Half London, in light blue, it seemed, had swarmed
To watch his swelling score. Correct and cool
He cut and drove, whilst ancient dry-bobs warmed
To yelling youth again, and all the School
With thunderous acclaim the welkin stormed,

And even the lisping fashionable fool
Forgot his affectation and his “ weed,”

In boyish shouts of “ Played, Sir ! Played indeed ! ”

The Ladies, like a shattered rainbow ringing
The spacious oval, half oblivious grew
Of dress-display and dainty £e*7/«</e-fiinging ;

Sir Pebcy Slope, the adipose Old Blue,

Forgot the coming “ feed,” till by the upspringing
Of ball in air the breathless thousands knew
“ Old Gregg’s grand innings, Sir ! ” at last was o’er,

Adding a hundred odd to Eton’s score.

Oh, then came shouts and shouldering, and then
Hundreds of hungry heroes fed like one ;

And fair-faced flowers of the Upper Ten
Found chaff, champagne, and chicken such good fun,

And that huge round became a splendid pen
For Epicurus-porkers ; boyhood’s bun
And ginger-beer, dear to a simpler race,

To Pommery and pigeon-pie gave place.

So Britain’s sons, we boast, are nurtured, so
Her battles won,—and so Society gains
A fete day and al fresco feast! The glow

In smooth round cheeks is not all health, youth drains
The sparkling beaker, and the boyish heau
Learns here how muscle lords it over brains,

And how a stripling Fashion’s eyes can fix
Who, giftless else, can slog a ball for six.

Important lessons ! Gordon Gregg was quick
To spy their hearings, though the youth indeed,
When not before the wicket, seemed a “ stick,”

Some might have said a clown, but that his breed
Forbade the imputation. Though the pick
Of Town’s athletic swelldom may succeed
In winning cheers and cups as sporting Titans,

They are not always Admirable Crichtons.

Though Gbegg “ compiled” so many “ centuries,”
And at the swiftest shooters would not blench,

He has not lived to witch his country’s eyes,

Or to adorn its Senate, Bar, or Bench.

Not even stalwart manhood’s simpler prize
Has he attained in camp, or charge, or trench.

He’s no more soldier than he’s senior wrangler,

But that unvirile vaurien a Town-dangler.

Lobd’s knows him yet, a lounger flushed of face,
Valiant at luncheon-hour, and prompt to tell
His ancient scores again. To “ swipe ” or “ place”

Is his no more, but the blue-cinctured belle
He bores with copious comment; she, blonde Grace,
“ Wishes the stupid game were not so swell.”

Or that they’d leave her, sunshade-screened, to toy
With sugared strawberries and Lord Beaupoy.

Gbegg poses as old hero, but, alack !

The sheeny-hatted, snowy-collared toff,

With taste for toffee still, has caught the knack
Of cool irreverence, and is apt to scoff
At antique claims ; so Gbegg, the Cambridge crack,
The Eton Star, fails somehow to “ come off ”

Either with girls, whom he is apt to bore,

Or boys, against whose “ cheek ” he cannot “ score.”
Gbegg, in sad seriousness, though stalwart still,

Is “ tubby ” now, and something of a butt
To those he plagues with memories of past skill
At forward play, at leg-hit, drive, or cut.

A witless chatterer, roseate of gill,

With stiffly-waxed moustache and swelling strut,
He scarcely seems to set the final chrism
On the great gospel of Athleticism.

Contemn not muscle ! In a ruling race

Strong sinew, steady nerve, and patient pluck
May not be shelved for genius, wit, and grace ;

’Twixt wickets, or in war, these might “ get stuck,’
As Gbegg would say, for want of stay or pace.

Genius is but an Ariel, Wit a Puck,

Apart from Manhood, power undefined,

But born as much of Muscle as of Mind.

Only hysteric, headlong, modish gush
All spheres invades. Not honest love or zeal
Moves the full-feeding fashionable crush.

Society’s sham-enthusiasms steal
The freshness e’en from youth; a painted blush
Is scarce more false than fulsome dames who feel
Boredom’s full burden ’midst the greed and noise
Which now attend the Battle of the Boys.

Gregarious hero-worship, blind, half-hollow,

Makes of a Gbegg the fetish of his day.

Platonic nous, the brightness of Apollo,

Would serve him less than skill to “hit” and
In winning plaudits from the crowds who follow
Fashion’s forefinger ; but that Goddess gay
Is fickle in her smiles, and will not warm
To Milo’s self, when old, or “ out of form.”

The Muscle-cultus, forced into a fever,

Or fondled into a mere social fad,

Of British Youth may prove the arch-deceiver.

Tall scoring will not save the callow lad
From feebly foolish manhood ; the achiever
Of mighty swipes may prove a clown or cad.

Grim morals Gordon Gbegg’s career affords,

And worthy pondering, e’en at sunny Lord’s !

We hear with pleasure that Mr. James Bussell Lowell is all
right and about again. Everybody will be glad to hail him, Lo!
well! And long may he keep so.

A Player who sprained his wrist at Lawn Tennis explained that
“ he had been trying a regular wrenchaw, and did it effectually.”

What is the fruit of the Irish Orange Tree ? Alas ! Blood Oranges.