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قراءة كتاب Punch, Or The London Charivari, Volume 102, March 26, 1892
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about). Both of them bleeding already! There's blood on the walls already! Already blood on the walls! (&c.).
The Bedell. The Prince has slain DJOË. Take him into custody.
[PONSCH strikes the Bedell down.
The B. Ha! ha! ha! (Tries to rise—but is struck again). Ha! ha! (PONSCH strikes once more.) Ha!
[The Bedell dies; a draught enters under the door and blows out two of the candles; a thunderbolt is heard coming down-stairs, and the Ghost of JÖDI suddenly appears from behind a tapestry representing "The Finding of Moses."
Ponsch (to Ghost). Have you any hearse-plumes at hand? Do not be angry with me. Can you hear my teeth? I am only a poor little old man. Will you please undo my necktie? (cf. "King Lear"). Let us go to breakfast. Will there be muffins for breakfast?
[Exit, leaning heavily on Ghost's arm.
The Dutch Dolls (with conviction). One more such night as this, and all our heads would have gone bald!
SAMPLE No. III.—The Courtyard with a scaffold and gibbet. A blood-red moon is sailing amid the currant-bushes, and a shower of stars proceeds uninterruptedly. PONSCH discovered looking through the fatal noose.
Djakketch (the Court Executioner). Can you see anything through the loop?
Ponsch. Not yet. I cannot see the audience anywhere.
Djak. No; we are probably above the heads of the audience. But can't you distinguish Mr. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE?
Ponsch. Wait one moment. No, I cannot see Mr. SHAKSPEARE anywhere.
Djak. Because he has had to take a back seat. Look again. Can you see nothing?
Ponsch. I can make out an omnibus in the street. It is green.
Djak. Ay, ay! A Bayswater 'bus. They are green. But don't you see any of the general public?
Ponsch. I can see Mr. WILLIAM ARCHER, and some new Critics, and unconventional Dramatists. They are following the text with books of the Play. But there are no more errand-boys with baskets.
Djak. This is wonderful. No more errand-boys with baskets?
Ponsch. No more small children with babies!
Djak. No more small children? Do pray let me look. (PONSCH retires, and DJAKKETCH puts his head through the loop.) Oh, I can see plainly now. There is not a single spectator left. They have all been bored to death!
Ponsch. All bored to death? Now then, lift your head a little, and I will fondle you. [Pulls the cord towards himself.
Djak. Oh, what have you put round my neck? Oh me! You are going to ... oh, you are!
Ponsch. Oh, I am!
Djak. Then—oh!
Ponsch. Oh!
[Exeunt all, except DJAKKETCH, who ceases kicking gradually. A peacock is heard warbling in a cemetery round the corner; a barn-door fowl jumps on a wheelbarrow, and crows.
HORACE IN LONDON.
TO A CRUSTED OLD PORT. (AD AMPHORAM.)
Old liquor born on my birthday, a twin to me,
Whether ordained wit and mirth to put into me,
Or passions that witch and defy us,
Or, peradventure, the sleep of the pious.
Vaunt not its shippers, my friend, but produce it—an
Actual, "forty-five," languorous Lusitan,
Befitting, whate'er be its label,
You, my good host, and the guest at your table.
Steeped though you frown in this dryasdust clever age,
Dare you presume to resist such a beverage?
Why, ELDON, that dragon of virtue,
Never imagined its vintage could hurt you.
Liquor like this from a bottle whose crust is whole,
Liquor like this rubs the rust from the rusty soul;
The faddist it mellows: the private
Secrets of State it can somehow arrive at.
Under its spell frolics Hypochondriasis;
Poverty learns what a millionnaire's bias is,
Yes, Poverty, such a spell under,
Laughs at the County Court's impotent thunder.
Fill, then! A bumper we'll empty between us to
Bacchus, the Pas-de-trois Graces, and Venus too,
With all of that classical ilk, man—
Till the stars fade with the morn and the milkman.
THE "TA-RA-RA" BOOM.
(By Our Own Melancholy Muser.)
I am shrouded in impenetrable gloom-de-ay,
For I feel I'm being driven to my doom-de-ay,
By an aggravating ditty
Which I don't consider witty;
And they call the horrid thing, "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!"
Every 'bus-conductor, errand-boy, and groom-de-ay,
City clerk, and cheeky crossing-sweep with broom-de-ay
Makes my nervous system bristle
As he tries to sing or whistle
That atrocious and absurd "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!"
So I sit in the seclusion of my room-de-ay,
And deny myself to all—no matter whom-de-ay—
For I dread a creature coming
Whose involuntary humming
May assume the fatal form, "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!"
Oh, I fear that when the Summer roses bloom-de-ay,
You will read upon a well-appointed tomb-de ay:—
"Influenza never lick'd him,
But he fell an easy victim
To that universal scourge—'Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!'"
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
One of the Baron's Assistant Readers has been reading a really interesting, well written novel in two volumes, by MARY BRADFORD-WHITING. It is called Denis O'Neil, and tells of the adventures of a young Irish Doctor who gets entangled in the plots of one of those Secret Societies that used to exist in "the most distressful country that ever yet was seen," some twenty years ago. The romance contains some clever sketches of character. The story (published by BENTLEY) ends sadly, and those who want to find fault with it will say it is too short.
Our Competition Novel.—Competitors at Work.The Leadenhall Press,—immortalised by its invention of that invaluable work of art, "The Hairless Author's Paper Pad," which the Baron herewith and hereby strongly recommends to Mr. GLADSTONE, who has so much writing to do with a pad on his knee, and for this purpose Mr. G. would find this the "knee plus ultra" of inventions,—this same Leadenhall Press has recently published a story without a title, offering a reward