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[Illustration: _A Midsummer Day-dream, and its waking Sequel._]
It was the luncheon-hour at Lord's. Likewise it was exceeding hot, and
Mr. PUNCH, after an exciting morning's cricket, was endeavouring to
cool himself with an iced tankard, a puggreed "straw," and a fragrant
whiff.
"Willow the King!" piped Mr. PUNCH, pensively. "Quite so! A merrier
monarch than the Second CHARLES is WILLIAM (GILBERT) the very First!
And no one kicks at King Willow, even in these democratic days. The
verdant, smooth-shaven lawn, when wickets are pitched, is your very
best 'leveller'--in one sense, though, in another, what stylish
RICHARD DAFT calls 'Kings of Cricket' ('by merit raised to that _good_
eminence'), receive the crowd's loyal and most enthusiastic homage.
But, by Jove, the Harrow boys will want a new version of their
favourite cricket song, if prodigy be piled on prodigy, like Pelion
on Ossa, in the fashion to which the Doctor during the first month of
Summer in this year of Grace has accustomed us."
"The 'Doctor's' throne has never been disputed by anyone outside
Bedlam," said a strong and sonorous voice.
Mr. PUNCH looked up, and perceived before him a stalwart six-footer in
flannels, broad-belted at the equator, and wearing broad-brim'd silken
stove-pipe.
"ALFRED MYNN, quoting 'the Old Buffer,' or I'm a Dutchman," said the
omniscient and ever-ready one.
"'And, whatever fame and glory these and other bats may win,
Still the monarch of hard hitters, to my mind, was ALFRED MYNN;
With his tall and stately presence, with his nobly-moulded form,
His broad hand was ever open, his brave heart was ever warm'--
as PROWSE sang pleasantly."
The Kentish Titan blushed--if Shades can with modesty suffuse. "You
know _everything_, of course, Mr. PUNCH," said he; "and therefore you
know that the object of my visit is _not_ to have my praises sung even
by you or the Poet PROWSE, but to back up that National Testimonial to
_the_ Cricketer of the century--and the 'centuries'--of which I'm
glad to hear whispers in the Elysian Fields, where--alas!--we do _not_
pitch the stumps or chase the flying 'leathery duke' of Harrow song."
"Well, it's a far cry from Hambledon to Downend," quoth Mr. PUNCH,
pensively; "but even the gods of 'the Hambledon Pantheon,' as
picturesque JOHN NYREN called them, might have admitted the Downend
Doctor as their Jove. Or, adopting his other figure, have made him the
King ARTHUR of their Round Table, _vice_ old RICHARD NYREN retired."
"I see you read what is worth reading," responded the Kentish Big 'Un.
"DICK NYREN'S style was as sound and honest and brisk as the English
ale he lauded,--'barleycorn, such as would put the soul of three
butchers into one weaver.' But the great Gloucestershire gentleman is
worthy to bend the bow of Ulysses."
"Or to wear the pads of ALFRED MYNN, which, I believe, were presented
to him," said Mr. PUNCH, cordially.
"Ah! There is another and a bigger Presentation afoot, I understand,
thanks largely to a truly Gracious Prince," returned "the monarch
of hard hitters." "A knighthood? Well, that's as it may be! Quite
deserved indeed; but a 'King' hardly needs the addition of the lesser
honour, and indeed W. G. won his spurs on the tented field years and
years agone. But a National Testimonial! Faith, the Briton who grudges
a subscription to _that_ doesn't deserve to see a sixer run out, or
drink a flagon of genuine Boniface at the 'Bat and Ball' on Broad
Halfpenny. Only wish we old willow-wielders in the Elysian Fields
could contribute each our obolus. By Castor and Pollux, here he
comes!"
Broad, bronzed, black-bearded, bear-pawed, bell-mouthed, beaming, in
loose-cut flannels and M. C. C. cap, the redoubtable Doctor entered.
'Twas a sight to see those two six-foot-odders shake hands! And to
hear the talk of the Cricket Heroes of two generations----
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"Hillo, Mr. PUNCH! Wake up, old man! Match over!"
It was the veritable voice of the Gloucester Giant. But where was
the Pride of Kent? He came like a shadow in summer slumber, and so
departed. But WILLIAM GILBERT was at least satisfactorily solid.
"Where are the Bats of yester year?" murmured the drowsy Sage.
"Oh, still scoring--some of 'em," said the practical smiter,
cheerfully. "Keeping up a fair average, too."
"What is yours just now, Doctor?"
"Oh, ask DRUCE! _His_ tops it, I believe--for the present."
"Ah, well! But the Century of Centuries, the Thousand of Merry May,
the suggested knighthood, the coming National Testimonial, H. R. H.'s
letter----"
"I never saw a nicer letter, and I hope to see as good wherever I go,"
interrupted the modest and taciturn giant, with a grin reminiscent
of _Wickets in the West_ and "the rapt oration flowing free," in a
fourfold iteration of a single sentence.
"Better _before_ the stump than _on_ it, eh, WILLIAM?" smiled the
Sage, who had read his rollicking R. A. FITZGERALD, and understood
W. G.'s allusion. "Unlike the _other_ W. G., at present out in the
Baltic."
"Ah, _he_ could give the bowling beans, in his own way, which
certainly isn't mine," said the Man of Many Centuries.
"What a season!" exclaimed Mr. PUNCH, preparing to puff.
"Centuries to right of us, | "Centuries all round us,
Centuries to left of us, | Volley and thunder!
MYNN was here just now--in my vision. Wish you could have met him, as
I dreamed you did! _Par nobile fratrum!_ But even _he_ never hit
his hundred hundreds, though he played up to the age of fifty. Well,
WILLIAM mine, you've topped the toppers and cut all records. May the
National Testimonial do likewise. Wish you a sovereign reward for
every good hit with which you've pleased the populace--a '_quid_' for
every _quo_. And, to prove the sincerity of my love and admiration for
the greatest Cricketer of all time, I propose, my dear (prospective)
Sir WILLIAM GILBERT GRACE, K.G. (Knight of _the_ Game), to head that
same National Testimonial with a contribution outshining and out
summing all others, to wit my
=One Hundred and Eighth Volume!="
[Illustration]
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