"GOOD OLD GRACE!"
Reading edition
(Doggerel on "The Doctor," by an "Old Duffer.")
"Dr. Grace, who seemed to forget his lameness, played with great vigour and dash, and his cuts and drives possessed all their old brilliancy."—The Times, on the exciting finish in the Cricket Match between the M.C.C. and the Australians, June 3, 1890.
One hundred and eleven runs, and eighty-five minutes to make 'em in, And with Turner and Ferris to trundle as fast as they could pitch and break 'em in! And it looked any odds on Murdoch's men contriving to make a draw of it; But Cricket, my lads, is a curious game, and uncertainty seems the sole law of it. So they sent in Grace and Shuter to start. Well, the Doctor is now called "a veteran," But at forty-two when he's on the job 'tisn't easy to pick out a better 'un. And he "spanked for four," like a lad once more, and he cut and he drove like winking; Though his leg was lame, he forgot that same, and he "played the game" without shrinking. And Surrey's Shuter he did his part, and so did Notts' Gunn, Sir, Though he might have chucked the game away when the Doctor he managed to out-run, Sir. It was hard, you see, upon W. G. in that way to lose his wicket, But all the same he had won the game, and had played superlative Cricket. Forty-three to make, and forty-five minutes! But Grace and Gunn were equal to it; And a win, with a quarter of an hour in hand, was the satisfactory sequel to it. The Australians played a manly game, without any dawdling or shirking; And if they didn't avoid defeat why it wasn't for want of hard working. But the stiff-legged "Doctor" who forced the game in the most judgmatical fashion, And forgot his leg and his "forty year" odd, full flushed with a Cricketer's passion! Why he's the chap who deserves a shout. Bravo, brave "W. G," Sir. And when you next are on the job, may the "Duffer" be there to see, Sir!
DEVELOPING HAWARDEN.
"The locality is extremely healthy, and Hawarden will probably become a large residential place, and a centre of mining industry."—Mr. Gladstone's Evidence before the Commissioners for Welsh Intermediate Education.
Monday.—Wood-cutting. Inconvenient having so many villas built all round park. Inhabitants inspect everything I do. Nasty little boys (whom I can see over their garden wall) shout "Yah!" and wave large primrose wreath. Irritating. Perhaps due to healthiness of air. Retire to another part of the demesne. Heavens! what is that erection? Looks like a Grand Stand, in a private garden, crowded with people. It is! Invited (by owner of garden) specially to view me and (I hear afterwards) my "celebrated wood-cutting performance," at a shilling a-head. Disgusted. Go in.
Tuesday.—Down local coal-mine. Interesting to have one at Park-gates. Explain to colliers principle of the Davy lamp. Colliers seem attentive, Ask me at the end for "a trifle to drink my health with." Don't they know I am opposed to Endowment of Public-houses? Yes, "but they aren't," they reply. Must invite Wilfrid Lawson to Hawarden.
Wednesday.—Curious underground rumblings. Wall of Castle develops huge crack. What is it? A dynamite plot? Can Salisbury have hired——? Herbert comes in, and tells me the proprietor of Hawarden Salt Mine has just sent his compliments; with a request that I would "shore up" the Castle. Otherwise "he is afraid it may fall in on his workmen." Impudence! Why can't they dig under Eaton Hall instead?
Thursday.—Watkin here. Offers to make a Tunnel under Castle, from one mine to the other. Why a Tunnel? Also wants to dig for gold in Park. Ask him, if there's any reason to suppose gold exists there? He says you never can tell what you may come to if you bore long enough. "At all events, even if no gold there, the boring useful if at any time I feel inclined for a Tunn——" Go in. Watkin has bored long enough already.
Friday.—Stephen drops in, and says "new Hawarden Cathedral"—really built to accommodate people who come to hear me read Lessons, only Stephen thinks it's his sermons that are the attraction—"will soon he finished." I suggest that he should have Welsh "intermediate" services now and then. Stephen says "he doesn't know Welsh, and can't see why Welsh people can't drop their horrible tongue at once, and all speak English." Pained, Tell him he needn't conduct service—any Welsh-speaking clergyman would do. Stephen replies that if he introduced Welsh service, "villa-residents would boycott the Cathedral altogether." Well, supposing they do? Stephen retorts that "I had better have an Irish service at once, and get Parnell up to read the Lessons." Something in the idea. Must think it over.
Saturday.—My usual holiday. Fifteen speeches. Park literally crammed. Excursionists, colliers, salt-miners, villa-residents, and Chester Liberals, all seem to find locality tremendously healthy. All enjoying themselves thoroughly. Wish I was. Worn-out in evening. Begin to wonder what Park and Castle would fetch, if I were to go and settle in Hebrides to escape mob.
Sunday.—Escorted by two regiments of mounted Volunteers to Church. Volunteers have great difficulty in securing a passage. Have to use butts of their muskets on more impulsive spectators. Curious that just at this point I should Remember Mitchelstown. Must try and get over the habit. Lessons as usual. Find a crushed primrose between the pages, evidently put there on purpose. Those villa-residents again! Surely Drew might inspect the lectern before service commences! Home, and think seriously of Hebrides.
ON THE SPOT.
(By a Practical Sportsman.)
The spot for me all spots above In this wide world of casual lodgers, Is not the nook sacred to love; The "cot beside a rill" of Roger's. 'Tis not the spot which Tommy Moore Praised in "The Meeting of the Waters." Avoca's Vale my soul would bore; I should prefer more lively quarters. Thy "little spot," Eliza Cook, Means merely patriotic flummery; And Coleridge's "hidden brook" Won't fetch me, e'en when weather's summery. I hold the Picturesque is rot, "Love in a Cot" means scraps for dinner; I only know one pleasant spot,— I mean the "spot" that "finds a winner!"
Private and Special Literary Intelligence.—Mr. George Meredith's new novel is to be entitled, Won of the Conquerors. It would be unfair to the author to mention how what the Conquerors had conquered was won from them in turn. "I am at liberty to inform the public, however," says the Baron de B.-W., "that William the Conqueror is not in it with the others. I am able also to assure his numerous admirers that Beauchamp's Career is not a medicinal romance, and has no sort of connection with a certain widely-advertised remedy."
"WILL HE GET THROUGH?"
William Henry loquitur:—
Pouf! Pouf! I'm that awfully out of breath with my long and terrified scamper, With that bull on my track, and this bag on my back, a burden that Milo would hamper. Though Milo was not a pedestrian "pot," nor was it a turnstile that nipped him; No, if I remember my classics aright, 'twas the fork of a pine-tree that gripped him. But nowadays one had need be a Milo and a fleet Pheidippides in one, Sir. And with carrying weight I'm in such a state, it isn't much further I can run, Sir. Oh, drat that bull! Will nobody pull the brute by the tail, and stop him? Such beasts didn't ought to be let loose; in the clôture pound they should pop him, With a gag on his muzzle. This turnstile's a puzzle, with its three blessed wings, confound it! I don't see my way to getting through it, and there's no way of getting round it; And I am that fat—no, I won't say that; but I'm not, like dear Arthur, quite lathy. And I'm sure, by the bellow of that bull, that the fellow is getting exceedingly wrathy. Pouf! Now for a burst! Which to take the first of the turnstile wings is the floorer. If I breast it wrongly, though I'm going strongly, I'll expose my rear to yon roarer. Eugh! I fancy I feel his horns, like steel, my person viciously prodding. Against such points broadcloth's no protection, although padded with woollen "wadding." Oh, hang this bag! I shall lose the swag, if I slacken or lag one second. I thought I had measured my distance so well, but I fear that I must have misreckoned. That bull of Gladdy's most certainly mad is, though he gave me his word, the Old Slyboots, It was perfectly quiet. I have Salisbury's fiat, but I wish he was only in my boots. "Tithes first," indeed! Why, with all my speed, and my puffings, and perspiration, I doubt if I'll be in time to get through; and as for that "Compensation," It is sure to stick. "Quick, Smith, man, quick!" Oh, it's all very well to holloa; With a sack on one's back, and a bull on one's track, 'tisn't easy that counsel to follow. My life's hardly worth an hour's "Purchase," if I'm overtaken by Taurus. Such brutes didn't ought to be loose in the fields, to bore us, and score us, and gore us. "Run! run!" Oh, ain't I running like winking? Reach the turnstile? I may just do it But with its three wings—oh, confound the things!—I much doubt if I'll ever get through it!
[Left trying.