Punch, or The London Charivari | Page 2

intense enthusiasm for
the pastime. "It was a fine drive," said the Head of the Faculty. "Mr.
BLACKWELL never hit a finer." Thus inflamed with ardour,
BULGER persevered. He learned to waggle his club in a knowing way.
He listened intently when he was bidden to "keep his eye on the ba'",
and to be "slow up." True, he now missed the globe and all that it
inhabit, but soon he hit a prodigious swipe, well over cover-point's
head,--or rather, in the direction where cover-point would have been.
"Ye're awfu' bad in the whuns," said the orphan boy; and, indeed,
BULGER'S next strokes were played in distressing circumstances. The
spikes of the gorse ran into his person--he could only see a small part of
the ball, and, in a few minutes, he had made a useful clearing of about a
quarter of an acre.
It is unnecessary to follow his later achievements in detail. He returned
a worn and weary man, having accomplished the round in about a

hundred and eighty, but in possession of an appetite which astonished
him and those with whom he lunched. In the afternoon, the luck of
beginners attending him, he joined a foursome of Professors, and
triumphantly brought in his partner an easy victor. In a day or two, he
was drinking beer (which he would previously have rejected as poison),
was sleeping like a top, and was laying down the law on stimy, and
other "mysteries more than Eleusinian." True, after the first three days,
his play entirely deserted BULGER, and even Professors gave him a
wide berth in making up a match. But by steady perseverance, reading
Sir WALTER SIMPSON, taking out a professional, and practising his
iron in an adjacent field, BULGER soon developed to such an extent
that few third-rate players could give him a stroke a hole. He had been
in considerable danger of "a stroke" of quite a different character before
he left London, and the delights of the Bar. But he returned to the
Capital in rude health, and may now often be seen and heard, topping
into the Pond at Wimbledon, and talking in a fine Fifeshire-accent. It
must be acknowledged that his story about his drive at the second hole,
"equal to BLACKWELL, himself, TOM MORRIS himself told me as
much," has become rather a source of diversion to his intimates; but we
have all our failings, and BULGER never dreams, when anyone says,
"What is the record drive?" that he is being drawn for the entertainment
of the sceptical and unfeeling. BULGER will never, indeed, be a player;
but, if his handicap remains at twenty-four, he may, some day, carry off
the monthly medal. With this great aim before him, and the consequent
purchase of a red-coat and gilt-buttons, BULGER has a new purpose in
existence, "something to live for, something to do." May this brief but
accurate history convey a moral to the Pessimist, and encourage those
who take a more radiant view of the possibilities of life!
* * * * *
A PLEBISCITE FOR PARNASSUS.
[The result of the _Pall Mall's_ competition for the Laureateship has
been to place Mr. ERIC MACKAY and Mr. GILBART-SMITH first
and second, and SWINBURNE and MORRIS nowhere.]
A popular vote the Laureate's post to fill? Ay! if Parnassus were but
Primrose Hill. The Penny Vote puts lion below monkey. 'Tis
"Tuppence more, Gents, and _up goes the donkey!_"
* * * * *

QUITE MOVING.--From Far and Near and All Alive, are two
excellent "movable toy-books" that will please the little ones (when
their seniors are tired of playing with them) far into the Yule-tide
season. The author is LOTHAR MAGGENDORFER, a gentleman to
whom _Mr. Punch_ wishes a "Merry Christmas and a Happy New
Year." This may appear a little premature, but it is a far cry from
England to Germany, and the Sage of Fleet Street has allowed for any
delays that may be caused by fogs, railway unpunctuality, and other
necessary evils.
* * * * *
THE AMERICAN GANYMEDE.
[Illustration]
[The extraordinary triumph of Mr. GROVER CLEVELAND,
Democratic Candidate for the American Presidency, is attributed to a
general revolt against the McKinley Bill.]
O plump and pant-striped boy, upborne, Like Ganymede of old, Punch
hails you, with your slack, untorn, Fast in the Eagle's hold. It is, indeed,
a startling sight That speculation tarries on; And it must give an awful
fright To Hebe (alias HARRISON!)
Up, up to the Olympus, where The White House spreads its board,
Whirled high through the electoral air, A boy less long than broad! He
looks not like the Tammany breed, That with high tariffs dally; He
proves, this Yankee Ganymede, The Democratic rally.
This eagle's a colossal fowl, Like _Sindbad's_ monstrous Roc, A bird
of prey