PREFACE
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
June 29, 1895.
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.