THE EVOLUTION OF FELIX FAURE-TUNATUS THE FIRST. They point out to one another which is the Prince of WALES'S yacht, which is the German Emperor's, all wrong of course,while some well-informed person, knowing rather less about it than anybody else on board, confidently corrects everybody, until the captain, casually overhearing him, sets him right on every point, and so, quietly, but effectually, sits on him; whereupon the nautical impostor disappears, and is neither seen nor heard any more; and the captain, having delivered himself oracularly, and said as much as he was going to say on the subject, remains perched up aloft, subsiding into the quiet perusal of a newspaper, occasionally raising his eyes to sight his glasses, or to address some remark to the man at the wheel, with whom only the captain has the privilege of holding a conversation. So we go on, round the island, seeing the yachts; then, on another occasion, to Portland to inspect the battleships, and humming "Rule Britannia" as we glide swiftly along, looking at the vessels of every nation. Doing this from day to day, the landsman becomes emboldened, and, in an expansive moment, says to his companions twain, Why should we not go to Southampton and take a cruise to the Channel Islands ?" For response they sing, "We will! We "ON THE TRAIL OF A GHOST." I WAS really quite pleased with my spectral visitor. As I sat in my study at work she was most careful not to interrupt me. She never opened or closed a door, but glided through the walls without creating the least disturbance. "I would feel grateful for a chat," said I, one evening, after my work was done, "if you have no better engagement. But if you have, pray do not let me clash with your arrangements." The spectre, which was on the point of vanishing through a book-case, most graciously returned to an arm-chair, and, so to speak, over-shadowed it. "Are you able to speak?" I asked. And my visitor moved her head in the negative. "Can you hear ?" She nodded in the affirmative. "What do you think of the situation ? " I am not a proficient in gesticulation, but as far as I could understand her signs, she seemed to hold strong views on the subject of education. From what I could gather she appeared to be in favour of endowing voluntary schools, and was not adverse to the reduction of the grant to State-assisted institutions. She also seemed to consider that the British occupation of Egypt was perfectly defensible. "And I presume you believe in apparitions?" I murmured, smilingly. Your presence here is a proof of that faith." Well, no, she did not. Her wonderfully explanatory byplay suggested the reverse. I gathered, from her attitudes, that she thought that the subject was open to the introduction of fraud. Not only this, the imagination might play tricks and cause one to fancy real what was unquestionably imaginary. "Have you, yourself, been seen before ?" I asked, with some interest. In a moment she had told me by her pantomime that she had appeared to an army doctor, a professor of history, and a well-known chemist. She sketched, with much brilliancy, the characteristics of each. The medico was fond of professional jokes, the man of science of good food, and the chemist of artificial flowers. By this time the night was growing late, and I felt that it would be well if I returned to my books. My visitor immediately took the hint and began to disappear through the tapestry. "Good evening, I hope I shall see you shortly." She drew herself up to her full height, and certainly was imposing. Then she smiled sadly, and vanished. I have nothing more to write, beyond expressing my mature opinion that I am quite sure that my visitor was no less a person than Queen ELIZABETH. Ancient Mariner (indicating the Ocean). "IF THAT THERE WAS ALL BEER, GUV'NOR, THERE WOULDN'T BE NO 'IGH TIDES!" SPORTIVE SONGS. (4 jealous person of the male persuasion, having heard from his lady-lore of the attentions of an artist in Italy, writes a metrical letter never despatched.) How little you know of the state of affairs My life is a desert of horrible cares, Whereon sunshine can never more play. I have lost with the change of your heart, Yet you know it and knew it when penning those lines You say that you wrote them 'mid scent-bearing pines, While the peeps of blue sky were like windows above Your picture was worthy to show on the walls To be labelled, "The Springtide that Autumn recalls," But the picture for me is the one that I framed It is fresh as it was when the subject, unnamed, When I called you the Mouse and you styled me the Cat, Through one long afternoon you said "This " and I" That," But now since you cozen to spots and that man, Who is MILLAIS and LEIGHTON combined, I will hie to Beersheba or even to Dan, So long as our love 's left behind. So long as I never Good Heavens ! what's this You write in "P.S." over-page? "You must not be angry, or take things amiss, He is eighty-and old for his age!" KEW-RIOS. DEAR MR. PUNCH,-It is to be hoped that a recent decision of the Richmond magistrates will not convert the lovely domain known as Kew Gardens into a general picnic-place. The wiseacres in question have declared that hand-bags might be taken into the pleasaunce, an importation hitherto forbidden. Perhaps the worthy dispensers of local law have never seen Kew Green after a Bank Holiday celebration. I did once, on the sly, after dark. Kew Gardens, under similar license, would simply be ruined for ever, and paper and ginger-beer bottles be as common as flowers. My friend the Pelican, who shares the islet on the pond with me, declares that he would rather retire into the wilderness were hand-bags permitted, but then, like myself, he does not live on bread-crusts, like the ducks. But, chatting together last night, after a copious fish dinner, we came to the conclusion that the Public, who pay for the maintenance of the Gardens, ought certainly to be admitted to their property before mid-day, despite the opposition of Mr. THISELTON-DYER, his personal friends with free admission, and his staff of German Generals in disguise. The excuse made about interference with students is a yarn, which I should like to relate to the Marines, whom, in my childhood, I occasionally flitted across in the Solent. To sum it up briefly, the programme of both the Pelican and myself is, "No hand-bags, earlier hours, and whitebait three times a week." Your obedient servant, Kew Gardens Hotel. PHINEAS THE CORMORANT. P.S.-We see your paper by means of an arrangement with the Mandarin ducks, who take it in, but are unable to read it. After some time I arrive to Brighton. Tiens! He makes fine. I mount in "fly," I say to the coacher, "Go to the cricket-game," we file enough quick, and we arrive. As soon as entered I encounter a little boy who sells some programmes. I buy of them one for better to comprehend the game, and then, seeing a tribune at the shelter of the wind, I pay one shilling and I sit myself therein. Before me extends herself a verdant prairie. All around there is some tribunes, some benches, and a great assistance. That has almost the air of an arena, and I think to the plaza de toros at Madrid, where I have seen one time the courses of bulls. The national sports, english and spanish. But what difference! Not of lacerated horses, not of tortured bulls, not of bloodstained sand! Ah no! A simple prairie of beautiful "gazon anglais," and at the middle some peaceful men, dressed of white, who amuse themselves to pursue a little ball. A ball, not a bull. C'est charmant! Naturally I have often heard to speak of the cricket, but I have never studied the game. In effect I know not of him even the origin. But seen that the hindoo princes play him, I suppose that he comes from the Oriental Indias. I am sure of it when I perceive among the players at Brighton two men in long white robes. They have absolutely the air of to be Hindoos, a little pale at cause of the bad english climate, excepted that each one carries on the head a melon hat-chapeau melon-at place of a turban. Evidently also at cause of the bad climate, for to protect themselves from the rain. See there then the famous Prince and one of his compatriots. I believed him all young, but I am deceived myself. Naturally I desire to comprehend that which they do. Tiens, le programme! I regard him. I read "Sussex County Cricket Ground. Sussex v. Surrey." That, that is easy to understand. But that which follows-thousand thunders! It is a veritable cryptogram in cipher language, as the little announces in the french journals. "b. 1-b. w. n-b. Total." Qu'est-ce que ça veut dire? Et encore, "lbw b Jephson" and st Butt b Hartley." It is incredible that it may be some names. But yes! The Hindoos, for sure! BLBWNBTOTAL, LBWBJEPHSON, STBUTTBHARTLEY. It are the others, the compatriots of RANHJIJSHIHJTJHTIHJ. Perfectly. Then I commence to study the game. What is that which they do? I perceive that the two Hindoos rest planted there, while that one of the players in european costume throws a ball, which another hits of a species of little oar, or of long trowel in wood. Evidently the ball should to hit a Hindoo. That comprehends himself. But the player with the little oar succeeds never. Each time that the ball goes herself away, that one there runs violently towards one of the Hindoos, brandishing his oar, but another player encounters him, and he retires himself. In same time other players run very quick, they entrap the ball, and they throw her against a Hindoo. But he holds himself there, immovable, tranquil, calm,-the imperturbable Oriental. Then all the players change of position, and they attack the other Hindoo. But they hit him never. Then I comprehend that they do this DEAR MISTER,-For to avoid the great heat and for to respire generosity towards a conquered nation. C'est admirable! It is the english express, exprès. They wish not to hit him. the air of the sea, I have quitted London there is three weeks, Still one thing which I have remarked. The player who carries and I am gone to Eastbourn. If I have respired the air of the sea! Mon Dieu! Since all that time he has made a time of the the oar puts himself before three little sticks, upright on the most stormys; without cease some wind, some rain, some tem- turf. One or two times he who throws the ball is suchly malapests. Impossible of to make excursions in sea, one would not droit that he makes to fall two of the sticks. All the world be en mer but dans la mer! Impossible of to repose himself cries, and the oarsman is suchly angry that he plays not more, tranquilly on the plage at the middle of a hurricane; impossible but retires himself. It is droll that the players have not someeven of to stroll on the promenade! Two times I have essayed of thing of more solid for to mark the position of the oarsman. But to carry a new hat of straw. Each time he is parted all to the these sticks are evidently of oriental origin, for it is one of the far, tout au loin, at the beyond of Pevensy probably. The um- Hindoos who gathers them, les ramasse-ah no, picks up them. brellas are absolutely unuseful. Alldays he must to walk himself Probably since the epoch of the Aryans the Hindoos have picked in mackintosch and in casket of voyage. Even one desires to up some similar sticks. Ah, the eternal patience of the impercarry a "south-western" hat, as the marines. I am very content of to have seen a game so interesting, of which I have could to seize the most remarkable features. I go to see again one game some part, quelque part, and then I shall write a study on "The Cricket " for a french review. By a such time, what to do? One speaks to me in the hotel of excursions in train to Hastings and to Brighton. But is it that he makes fine there down? At Brighton-ah no, by example! I recall to myself the tempests at Brighton there is nine months. And however. One speaks to me of the games, that which you call a "match of cricket" or a "cricket-game," which have place at Brighton. He appears that these games are the most remarkable in the department of the Sussexshire, and that one there sees to play the famous Indian, who calls himself-sapristi, quel nom! How to write him? Try we. RANHJTJSHIHJTJHTIHJ, Young America (to Young England, on board of a Transor something as that. Eh well, I have never seen a great cricket-atlantic Liner). You see, our great WASHINGTON was the one game. Impossible of to find a hurricane more violent at Brighton, man on earth who never told a lie. evidently one can to refuge himself in a tribune, at the least it is something to do. I go there. Thus I part the thirty and one of the past month, provided of a mackintosch and carrying on the head an impermeable casket. VOL. CXIII. Young England. Then how was it he swore allegiance to King Young America (calmly). I didn't say he never swore. DARBY JONES ON THE ST. LEGER. HONOURED SIR,-I have never been able to comprehend why the race for the St. Leger should be styled a Classic Event. It seems to me, nowadays at least, to have few of those attributes with which your Superior Mental Genius would associate Bucephalus and Atalanta. In my humble and altogether unpretending opinion, this once noble contest (so called after Colonel ST. LEGER, who was not of kin to the Anglo-Irish celebrities with the same name, of whom Viscount DONERAILE is now chief) is only "bucked up," in vulgar parlance, by the elegant articles of that famous writer and estimable gentleman, the Hon. FRANK LAWLEY, supported by the storming of the Butterscotch Metropolis by hordes of irresponsible pitmen, who swarm from the Black Diamond Golcondas of Yorkshire, Durham, and Northumberland. Mr. LAWLEY is an Aristocratio Scribe, second to none. He has the Godolphin Arabian, Waxy, Eclipse, SAM CHIFNEY, and the glories of Yorkshire past and present at the tip of each of his digits. Quite rightly he appreciates Doncaster, as I do his good and genial work, belikening myself to a cook's mate admiring the tact of an Admiral of the Fleet. But of the diggers and delvers into the bowels of our globe I cannot conscientiously speak with such enthusiasm. Board schools have neither changed their language, nor elevated their tone. I am not, Sír, as you may well believe, knowing me as well as you do, a Count DE GRAMMONT, Beau BRUMMEL, or Lord CHESTERFIELD in my deportment, nor do I habitually quaff the rarest produce of Champagne and Burgundy, as is the custom of the good and great, but I cannot say that the Pitman is a Creature of Joy to me. His voice causes temporary deafness, his boots are so wide in structure and so heavy in expression that they possess the might of a steam hammer combined with the torture of the rack, while the tongue which he uses is possibly that in vogue among the natives of Behring's Straits, as described by that eminent traveller, Mr. HARRY DE WINDT. Frankly, Sir, I do not appreciate the Pitman at Doncaster. He may be adorned with all the virtues of the Zodiac, but he appeals to my regard in no sort of way. He stamps on my corns without apology, he makes my ribs sore with his elbows, and like a Teutonic warrior, he treats Doncaster as a sort of Alsace-Lorraine. He has one redeeming point: he provides us with Winter Warmth. I can, as I pen these lines, see your noble brow contract and your magnetic eyes flash with fire in the endeavour to discover whether an action for libel, Pitmen v. Punch, would lie in HER MAJESTY's Law Courts. All I can say is-Try the game yourself and verify my assertion, instead of intrusting to Me a special mission as parlous as that of ANDREE to the North Pole. Far be it from me to deny that the Tykes and Tykesses do not also muster in their thousands of each and every degree. You will find at Doncaster many samples of the Nobility and Gentry, but as my esteemed friend, Count CRACKEMOFF, of the Siberian Dragoons, observed to me only last night, "The stranger is done at Doncaster." The jest is only too apparent if pronounced in phonetic and foreign fashion. Wafting any further complaints from my brain, I proceed to business. My muse, unrefreshed by those partridges and prawns at which you recently hinted when packing your portmanteau for Southern climes, sings to a bygone popular strain :Said the Old Obadiah to the Young Obadiah, "What will win, Obadiah, what will win?" Said the Young Obadiah to the Old Obadiah, ""Tis the Irishman, pounds to a pin! If you want an outsider, the Yankee should be Among those who are placed by the Judge, one, And the Primrose may do what we'd all like to see." two, three, Said the Old Obadiah, "You are right." Such, honoured Sir, in deathless verse, is the dictum of Your old and stalwart henchman and defender to the death, DARBY JONES. |