Chapter 1

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 102.

February 27, 1892.

CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER.

V.--THE DUFFER AT CRICKET.

To hear my remarks on the Cricket, in the Pavilion, you might think that I had been a great player entirely, in my day. "Who is that fine old English sportsman," you might ask, "who seems to have been so intimate with MYNN, and FULLER PILCH, and CARPENTER, and HAYWARD and TARRANT and JACKSON and C.D. MARSHAM? No doubt we see in him the remains of a sterling Cricketer of the old school." And then when I lay down the law on the iniquity of boundary hits, "always ran them out in _my_ time," and on the tame stupidity of letting balls to the off go unpunished, and the wickedness of dispensing with a long stop, you would be more and more pursuaded that I had at least, played for my county. Well, I _have_ played for my county, but as the county I played for was Berwickshire, there is perhaps nothing to be so very proud of in that distinction. But this I will say for the Cricketing Duffer; he is your true enthusiast. When I go to Lord's on a summer day, which of my contemporaries do I meet there? Not the men who played for the University, not the KENNYS and MITCHELLS and BUTLERS, but the surviving members of College Second Elevens in the old days of Cowley Marsh, when every man brought his own bottle of Oxford wine for luncheon. These are the veterans who contribute most to the crowd of lookers-on. They never were of any use as players, but their hearts were in the game, and from the game they will never be divorced. It is an ill thing for an outsider to drop a remark about Cricket among us, at about eleven o'clock in a country house smoking-room. After that the time flies in a paradise of reminiscences, till about 4 A.M. or some such "wee, short hour ayont the Twal'," if one may quote BURNS without being insulted by all the numerous and capable wits of Glasgow. Why is it that the Duffer keeps up his interest in Cricket, while the good players cease to care much about it? Perhaps _their_ interest was selfish; his is purely ideal, and consequently immortal. To him Cricket was ever an unembodied joy of which he could make nothing palpable; nothing subject to the cold law of averages. Mine was 0.3.

My own introduction to Cricket, as to Golf, was peculiarly poignant. I and my brother, aged more or less about six or seven, were invited to play by the local Club, and we each received exactly one very slow and considerate lob. But his lob took him on the eye, and mine, kicking on a bad wicket, had me on the knee-pan. The subsequent proceedings did not interest us very much, but there is nothing like entering children early at a manly pastime.

Intellectual application will, to some extent, overcome physical difficulties. By working at least five hours a day, and by reading the _Cricket Field_ daily and nightly, I did learn to bowl a little, with a kind of twist. This, while it lasted, in a bowlerless country, was a delightful accomplishment. You got into much better sporting society than you deserved, and, in remote parts of the pastoral districts you were looked up to as one whose name had been in _Bell's Life_; we still had _Bell's Life_ then. It was no very difficult matter to bowl a rustic team for a score of runs or so, and all went merry as a wedding bell. But, alas, when Drumthwacket played Tullochgorum, there was a young Cambridge man staying with the latter chieftain. I began, as I usually did, by "yorking" Tullochgorum's Piper and his chief Butler, and his head Stalker, and then SMITH of King's came in. The ground, as usual, had four sides. He hit me over the enclosure at each of the four sides, for I changed my end after being knocked for five fours in his first over. After that, my prestige was gone. The rustics, instead of crawling about their wickets, took to walking in and smacking me. This would not have mattered, if any of the Drumthwacket team could have held a catch, and if the wicket-keeper had not let SMITH off four times in one over. My character was lost, and all was ended with me north of the Grampians, where the wickets are peculiarly suitable to my style of delivery.

As to batting, there is little that is pleasant to confess. As soon as I got a distant view of a ball, I was ever tempted to whack wildly in its direction. There was no use in waiting for it, the more I looked at it the less I liked it. So I whacked, and, if you always do this, a ball will sometimes land on the driving part of the bat, and then it usually happened that my companion, striving for a five or a six, ran me out. If he did not, I did not stay long. The wicket-keeper was a person whose existence I always treated as _une quantité négligeable_, and sometimes the ball would bound off his pads into the stumps. The fielders would occasionally hold a catch, anything _may_ happen. On the other hand there was this to be said for my style of batting, that the most experienced Cricketer could not tell where or in what direction I would hit any given ball. If it was on the off, that was no reason why I should not bang it to square-leg, a stroke which has become fashionable since my time, but in those old days, you did not often see it in first-class Cricket. It was rather regarded as "an agrarian outrage." Foreigners and ladies would find Cricket a more buoyant diversion if all the world, and especially LEWIS HALL and SHREWSBURY, played on my principles. Innings would not last so long. Not so many matches would be drawn. The fielders would not catch cold.

To speak of fielding is to revive unspeakable sorrows. For a short-sighted man, whose fingers are thumbs, no post in the field is exactly grateful. I have been at long-leg, and, watching the game intently, have perceived the batters running, and have heard cries of "well fielded!" These cries were ironical. The ball had been hit past me, but I was not fortunate enough to observe the circumstance. A fielder of this _calibre_ always ends by finding his way to short-leg. A prudent man can do a good deal here by watching the umpire, dodging when he dodges, and getting behind him on occasion. But I was not prudent. I observed that a certain player hit very much behind the leg, so there, "in the mad pride of intellectuality," I privily stationed myself. He _did_ it very fine, very fine indeed, into my eye. The same misfortune has attended me at short-slip; it should have been a wicket, it was a black eye, or the loss of a tooth or two, as might happen. In fact, I sometimes wonder myself at the contemptuous frankness of my own remarks on the fielding at Lord's. For if a catch could be missed (and most catches can), I was the man to miss it. Swift ones used to hit me and hurt me, long ones I always misjudged, little simple poppy ones spun out of my fingers. Now the unlucky thing about Cricket, for a Duffer, is that your misfortunes do not hurt yourself alone. It is not as in a single at Golf, it is not as in fishing, or riding, or wherever you have no partner. To drop catches is to madden the bowler not unnaturally, and to lengthen the period of leather-hunting. Cricket is a social game, and its proficients soon give the cold shoulder to the Duffer. He has his place, however, in the nature of things. It is he who keeps up the enthusiasm, who remembers every run that anybody I made in any given match. In fact, at Cricket, the Duffer's mission is to be a "judge of the game;" I don't mean an Umpire, very far from that. If you once let the Duffer umpire he could ruin the stoutest side, and secure victory to the feeblest. I may say that, at least in this capacity, I have proved really useful to my party in country matches. But, in the long run, my capacity even for umpiring came to be doubted, and now I am only a critic of Cricket. There is none more relentless, not one with a higher standard, at least where no personal feelings are concerned. For I have remarked that, if a Cambridge man writes about an Oxford victory (which he seldom has to do), or if an Oxford man writes on a Cambridge victory (a frequent affliction), he always leaves you with the impression that, in spite of figures, his side had at least a moral triumph. These admirable writers have all been Duffers.

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TIMES CHANGE.

["The 'Ranges Act' constitutes ... a standing menace to rights of common wherever commons and open spaces exist."--_The Times_.]

"The old order changes, yielding place to new." By Phoebus, you are right, mellifluous TENNYSON! Could Norman WILLIAM this conjuncture view, He'd greet our Progress with--well, scarce a benison; He, though ranked high 'midst monarchs and commanders, Had the same weakness as our troops in Flanders.

ROBERT the Devil's ruthless son would clear A county to make coverts, deer-runs, chaces. What had he thought of modern notions queer Concerning Common Rights and Open Spaces? "The People--who are varlets!--still oppose them, Whether the Powers that be make or enclose them!"

"The People _versus_ Powers that Be!" Ah, yes! Imperious Norman, that's a modern trial That's always being argued more or less; The Press keeps now such vigilant espial On every grasping would-be public plunderer. You, Sire, had not to reckon with "The Thunderer!"

Times change, stark soldier, and we have the _Times_ Premier to check and snub Chief Secretaries. Counting land-grabbing high among earth's crimes Would have amazed you! Public judgment varies. You and your wolf-hound, WILLIAM, would not now Try a "clean sweep,"--without a general row.

Ask OTTO! He is somewhat in your style, But he could tell you what new risks environ The ancient art of Ruling. You may smile At Print and Paper _versus_ Blood and Iron, But Sovereign and Crown, though loved by many, Stand now no chance against the Popular Penny.

Ask Malwood's Squire again! He knows right well The New Democracy,--and the New Forest; _Our_ great Plantagenet, a true blue "Swell," Fights for the People when their need is sorest. In Norman BILLY he'd own small belief; The People's WILLIAM is _his_ favourite chief.

Your ghostly presence in these verdant glades Might startle STANHOPE, musing on his Ranges, But not the angriest of Royal Shades May now arrest the progress of Time's changes. True, much is yielded yet to Swelldom's "Sport," But some aver that even _its_ time is short.

No, Clearances and Rights of Common, now Own not the sway of autocrats capricious. Small use, great Shade, to knit that haughty brow, And swear _your_ action would be expeditious. The days of Curfew and of Forest Law Are passed. _We_'re swayed by Justice--and Free Jaw!

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"FOR VALUE RECEIVED."--Aldgate Ward changed Alderman LUSK for one POUND.

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FROM PARLIAMENTARY EXAMINATION PAPER.

_Question_.--Explain the term "Standing Orders."

_Answer_ 1.--It means that when a visitor to the House has an order for the Speaker's Gallery, and can't find a seat, he then becomes one of the Standing Orders.--SISTE VIATOR.

_Answer_ 2.--When a friendly M.P. sees three of us waiting for him, takes us to the bar of the House, and orders drinks all round, which we take standing.--BIBENDUM EST.

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INDIA FOR THE IRISH!--"An amended estimate of the present Paddy Crop has been published by the Local Government." (_Vide Times_ for Feb. 15.) What more can the most thorough Home-Rulers want, if they would only be content to make their home in Burmah instead of Ireland? "Local Government" can soon be developed, for 'tis but Home Rule in the bud, and the "Paddy Crop" is already there.

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MOTTO FOR THE NEW RECORDER OF THE CITY OF LONDON.--"HALL There!"

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"COMBINING AMUSEMENT WITH INSTRUCTION."

(_A SKETCH AT THE COLLECTION OF INSTRUMENTS OF TORTURE._)

SCENE--_The Maddox Street Galleries. A large and appropriately lighted room. Upon walls of a sombre crimson, various Implements of Torture are arranged with considerable taste, and an eye for decorative effect, the central space being reserved for more elaborate contrivances in wood and iron. Visitors discovered inspecting the Exhibition by the aid of the excellent Catalogues, with the subdued appreciation of persons conscious that they are spending a very pleasant and profitable afternoon._

_Mr. Charnelhouse Goole_ (_as he enters, to Mrs. C.G._). Now, my dear, the first thing I want to see is that Iron Maiden there's so much talk about. I wonder whereabouts it is!

_Mrs. C.G._ I think _that_ must be it, up at the other end of the room. But don't you _think_, dear, it would be nicer to see the _other_ things first, and keep that for the _last_?

_Mr. C.G._ (_struck by the refinement of this suggestion_). Well, upon, my word, AMINA, I almost think it would!

_Mr. Frederic Frivell_ (_to his wife, whom he takes a marital pleasure in shocking_). What fun those old fellows must have had in those days, mustn't they?

_Mrs. Frivell_ (_a serious lady_). I don't think fun is at _all_ the right word, FREDERIC. I do _wish_ you wouldn't take these things so lightly. I'm sure it's melancholy enough to look at all these horrid machines, and think--

_Mr. F._ That Torture is a lost art? Isn't that what you were going to say? But it's _not_, you know; we've refined it--that's all. Look at the Photographer, and the Interviewer, and the Pathetic Reciter, and the--

[_Mrs. F. endeavours to convince him that she didn't mean that at all, and that he is comparing totally different things._

_An Aphoristic Uncle_ (_to an irreverent Nephew_). No. 89. "A Long-spiked Wooden Roller, known as a 'Spiked Hare.'" You see, TOM, my boy, the victim was--(_Describes the process._) "Some of the old writers describe this torture as being most fearful," so the Catalogue tells us.

_Tom-my-boy_ (_after inspecting the spikes_). Well, do you know, Uncle, I shouldn't be at all surprised if the old Johnnies weren't so far out.

_The Aph. Uncle._ Another illustration, my boy, of "Man's inhumanity to Man"!

_Tom-my-boy._ Not bad for you, Uncle--only you cribbed it out of the Catalogue, you know! [_The A.U. gives him up._

_An Indulgent Parent enters, leading a small boy in a tall hat, and is presently recognised by the A.U._

_The A.U._ So you've brought your son to see this collection, hey? Well, it's of the greatest educational value to a thoughtful youth--rich in moral and historical instruction!

_The I.P._ Well, it was like this, you see. I had to take him to the dentist's, and, finding we should have half-an-hour or so to spare before he could attend to him, I thought we'd just drop in here and amuse ourselves--eh, BOBBY? Wonderfully ingenious, you know, in their way, some of these things! Now, _here's_ a thing--"A Spanish mouth-pear, made of iron." You see, BOBBY, they forced it into the mouth and touched a screw, and it sprang open, preventing the victim from screaming.

_Bobby_. Y-yes, father. Should you think Mr. Fawcepps will have one of those?

_The I.P._ (_annoyed_). Now, what _is_ the use of my taking you to a place of this sort to divert your thoughts, if your mind is running on something else all the time? I won't have it, do you hear. Enjoy yourself like a sensible boy!

_Bobby_. Y-yes, Father, I am. It--it's quite cured my toothache already--_really_ it has!

_Mrs. Frivell_ (_reading from Catalogue_). "A Penitent's Girdle, made of barbed wire, which, when worn next to the flesh, caused the most unpleasant and uncomfortable irritation." Oh, FREDERIC, just fancy that!

_Mr. F._ My dear CECILIA, I can _quite_ fancy it!

_Mrs. F._ But I thought these tortures were only for _Malefactors_. Why do they call it a _Penitent's_ Girdle?

_Mr. F._ Can't say,--unless because he generally repented having put it on.

_Mrs. F._ I don't think that _can_ be the real reason.

_Two English House-maids_ (_to a small German Page-Boy who is escorting them_). Here, JOHNNIE, what's _this_ mean? (_Reads from Catalogue the motto on an Executioner's Sword._) "Di Herrin' sturin dem Unheel ick exequire ir End Urthile." Come, _you_ ought to know!

_Johnnie_ (_not unnaturally at a loss_). It means--it means--somding I do not understandt.

_The Housemaids_ (_disappointed in him_). Well, you _are_ a boy! I _did_ think, bein' German yourself, you'd be quite at _'ome_ 'ere!

_Mr. Ernest Stodgely_ (_impressively, to Miss FEATHERHEAD, his fiancée_). Just look at this, FLOSSIE. (_Reading._) "Executioner's Cloak, very long, of red woollen material; presumably red so as not to show blood-spots or stains." Hideously suggestive that, is it not?

_Miss Flossie._ I shouldn't call it exactly _hideous_, ERNEST. Do you know, I was just thinking that, with a high Astrachan collar, you know, and old silver fastenings, it would make rather a nice winter cloak. So deliciously warm! [_ERNEST avails himself of a lover's privileges to lecture her severely._

IN FRONT OF THE IRON MAIDEN.

_Mr. Ch. Goole._ So _this_ is the Iron Maiden! Well, I expected something rather more dreadful-looking. The face has really quite a pleasant expression. [_Disappointedly._

_Mrs. Ch. G._ (_with subtler appreciation_). Oh, but I think that makes it so much _more_ horrible, don't _you_?

_Mr. Ch. G._ Well, I don't know--perhaps. But there ought to be a wax figure inside it. They ought to have wax figures on most of these things--make it much more interesting!

_Mr. Frivell_ (_who is close by_). I quite agree with you, Sir--indeed, I would go farther. I think there should be competent persons engaged to provide practical illustrations of all the more amusing tortures--say from three to five every afternoon. Draw all London!

_Mrs. F._ (_horrified_). FRED, you _know_ you don't mean it! And besides, you would _never_ get people willing to be shut up inside that thing!

_Mr. F._ My dear, I'm perfectly serious, as I always am. And as to not getting subjects, why--(_He beckons to one of the Boy-Messengers in waiting, who advances_). Look here, my lad, you seem a bright intelligent youth. Would you mind just stepping inside and allowing us to close the door? We won't detain you an instant.

_Mrs. F._ What a shame, FRED! Don't _think_ of such a thing, there's a good boy! Say no--and I'll give you sixpence!

_The Boy_ (_grinning_). Well, Lady, make it a shillin', and I'll stay outside--to oblige you!

_Mrs. F._ (_giving him a shilling_). There's a good sensible boy! FREDERIC, have you gone _quite_ mad? You know you wouldn't hurt a fly?

[_The GOOLES move away, feeling that they have been trifled with._

_Mr. F._ A fly? Not for the world!--but this is only a boy. I want to know what they're here _for_. Now, my lad, you're not engaged to be _idle_, you know. Just think of the amount of innocent pleasure you would afford by getting into this spiked cradle and letting me rock you. You won't? Well, will you sit on the Spanish Donkey? come! I'll give you a leg up and fasten the weights on your legs for you. You aren't afraid of a donkey?

[_Bystanders collect in hope of amusement._

_The Boy_ (_sulkily_). Not of _some_ Donkeys, Sir, as ain't quite so sharp as that one, whatever they think theirselves!

[_Titters. Mr. F.F. feels that he has got rather the worst of it, and collapses, with the dismal completeness of a Funny Man; Mrs. F. remains behind to bribe the boy with another shilling to promise her solemnly never on any account to play with any of the tortures._

_Mrs. F._ (_rejoining her husband_). FREDERIC, how _can_ you? You make me feel perfectly _faint_ when you act like this!

_Mr. F._ (_recovering_). Faint, CECILIA? Well, I daresay they won't mind if you sit down in one of these spiked chairs for a minute or two.

_Mrs. F._ (_angrily_). I shall do no such thing, FREDERIC! And you ought to be _ashamed_ to suggest it!

_Mrs. Borrodale_ (_choosing photographs of Nuremberg_). Look, JOHN, what a lovely large one of the _Sebald's Kirche_! I really _must_ have this. Oh, and the _Insel Schutt_--and this of the _Schöne Brunnen_--and the view from the _Burg_--that makes the half-dozen. They will be joys for _ever_, JOHN! And _only_ three shillings each! Will you pay the boy for them, JOHN, please--it's just eighteen shillings.

_John_. Can't, my dear. Only half-a-crown in my pocket. Don't you remember, I lent you my last sov. not five minutes ago?

_Mrs. B._ Oh, so you did. Well, on second thoughts, perhaps this size is rather--I think I'll take five of the sixpenny ones instead--they're every bit as good. You can spare me that half-crown, JOHN!

_A Patriot_ (_coming out_). Well, it's just the same 'ere as everywhere else. All the things "made in Germany"! Sickenin' _I_ call it!

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RICE AND PRUNES.

Rice and prunes a household journal Called the chief of household boons: Hence my mother cooks diurnal Rice and prunes.

Therefore on successive noons, Sombre fruit and snowy kernel Woo reluctant forks and spoons.

As the ear, when leaves are vernal, Wearies of the blackbird's tunes, So we weary of eternal Rice and prunes.

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AN OLD FRIEND AT THE CRITERION.--Time flies, and _Fourteen Days_, occupying only a couple of hours or so at the Criterion, goes wonderfully. CHARLES WYNDHAM is the life and soul of the piece, and the giddy GIDDENS is another life and soul. Miss MARY MOORE, charming as ever, with a clearness of "dictation," as Mrs. MALAPROP would say, that is in itself a delight to the ear. Every word she speaks is distinct, and, which is more to the purpose, every telling word tells. _Fourteen Days_ is a survival and revival of one of H.J. BYRON's fittest. If it "catches on" once more, as it ought to do, it might run fourteen weeks, and then,--"Next please!"

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ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.