قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, July 23, 1892

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Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, July 23, 1892

Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, July 23, 1892

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
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(vide HADYN!)

"Upheaved from the deep," swift, tremendous,

Leviathan sports on the far-foaming wave.

If he runs athwart us, what power shall save,

From the doom to which promptly he'd send us?

His "soundings," or "diggings," are many and deep;

But would that his "three-hundred fathoms" he'd keep,

Below in the ocean's cold quiet.

But no, not at all; he's not that sort of whale!

He must breathe, he must blow, he must roar, till the gale

Is charged with the sound of his riot.

Leviathan loves the wild turmoil of strife,

And lashing the billows to him is true life;

Behold how he buffets and scourges them!

Chase him? The Captain (though also a Kaiser),

Might think that his course to avoid him were wiser,

Until sheer necessity urges them.

And yet whales are beaten—by narwhals and men,

And other mere pigmies. 'Tis said, now and then,

E'en sword-fish can compass their ruin,

By stabbing together—in Cassius's way

With Cæsar. Leviathan, dead, is a prey

To dog-fish, and sea-birds, or Bruin.

There he blows! There he goes! Would an amateur Whaler,

Like WILHELM, that fine blend of Statesman and Sailor,

Incline to the chase and the capture

Of such a huge, wandering, wallopping whale,

To whom "Troubling the waters" with blow-holes and tail

Seems a source of such riotous rapture?


DUST AND HASHES.

SIR,—When I first took my present house, I was advised to get a Sanitary Dust-bin, instead of the old brick one which existed in my back-yard. One of the blessings predicted for my Sanitary Dust-bin, was, that it was "easily removable." I find this to be the case. It has already been removed by some area-sneak, and as I have got rid of the old brick dust-bin, the Vestry threaten to prosecute me for creating a nuisance, because my dust is now placed in a corner under my front steps. What am I to do?

AGGRIEVED HOUSEHOLDER.

SIR,—I find that the law recently passed against tips to Dustmen is quite unknown—at all events, to the Dustmen themselves. My servants, I find, go on freely bribing these functionaries, to remove bones and vegetable refuse. Their rate of tipping, as far as I can make out, is about a halfpenny per bone. If I were now to enforce the law and forbid tips, I foresee that the Dustcarts would have pressing business elsewhere, and would visit me about once a month. Then would follow a régime of "big, big, D.s"—in the window—which would be intolerable. I prefer tipping to typhoid.

Yours long sufferingly,
VICTIM OF THE VESTRIES.

SIR,—The Vestry is quite right to insist on every house burning up its own odds and ends. The true domestic motto is—"Every kitchen its own crematorium." I do this habitually, out of public spirit. It is true that a sickening odour permeates the house for an hour or two of every day, created by the combustion of dinner remnants; also that most of my family suffer from bad sore throats, which they attribute to this cause. What of that? The truly good Citizen will prefer to poison himself rather than his neighbours.

A CLERKENWELL CATO.

SIR,—I recently purchased Dodger's Digest of Dustbin Law, and recommend it to the perusal of every householder. In the case of The Vestry of Shoreditch v. Grimes, Lord Justice SLUSH remarks—"The Vestry complains that the Defendant's bin was improperly covered; that, in fact, it was not under coverture. To this the Defendant replies that his bin was void ab initio, as there was nothing in it. Then the question arises whether the Defendant's Cook was justified in tipping the Dustman into the empty bin, considering that the Legislature has distinctly forbidden tips of all kinds to Dustmen. I am of opinion that the Cook was the Defendant's agent, and that the rule of qui facit per alium facit per se applies here. The Cook's proceeding was undoubtedly tortious; it was not a criminal action, though it certainly cannot be called a civil one. I agree with my brother CHIPPY that the ratio decidendi must be, whether the Dustman, in coming to clean out an empty dust-bin, had a malus animus or no. On all these points I hold that judgment must be for the Vestry." Your readers will see the importance of such clear obiter dicta.

Yours,
AMATEUR LAWYER.


PROOF POSITIVE.

PROOF POSITIVE.

"I CAN'T THINK HOW THAT IMPRESSION GOT ABOUT, LADY GWENDOLINE. I SPEND HALF MY TIME IN CONTRADICTING IT. OUR NEW MEMBER IS BY NO MEANS A SMALL MAN. I'VE BEEN ON THE PLATFORM WITH HIM OFTEN, AND HE STANDS FULLY AS TALL AS I DO!"


THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN.

Soon on Piccadilly's pavement solitude once more will reign;

Soon the Park will be a desert, for the Season's on the wane;

In Belgravia's lordly mansions nearly all the blinds are down,

For "the Family is gone, Sir,"—not a soul is left in Town.

South to Switzerland they hurry, to explore each snowy fell;

North to Scotland's moors and forests, where the grouse and red-deer dwell;

Carlsbad, Homburg, Trouville, Norway, soon their jaded eyes will view;

For Society is speeding "to fresh woods and pastures new."

Everyone is gone or going,—everyone, that is, one knows,—

And the "Great Elections'" Season fast is drawing to its close.

Never surely was a poorer; such dull dinners, so few balls,

Such an Epsom, such an Ascot, or so many empty stalls.

Gone the Season, with its dances, with its concerts and its fêtes,

With its weddings and divorces, with its dinners and debates;

Gone are all its vapid pleasures, all its easy charities,

Gone its causes célèbres and scandals, gone its tears and tragedies.

Weary legislators envy still more weary chaperōns;—

Much they know the truth who deem them of Society the drones;—

All the maidens are ennuyées, vow they "can't do anymore,"

All the gilded youth are yawning—everything's a horrid bore.

Hearken then, ye youths and maidens, favoured Children of the West,

East and South and North are children, who are hungering for rest.

They have never seen the country, never heard the streamlet flow:

London pavements, London darkness, London squalor,—these they know.

Not for them to range the moorland, or to climb the mountain-side;

They must linger on in London, till the grave their sorrows hide.

From year's end to dreary year's end they must pace the noisy street.

Do you hear the ceaseless echo of their weary, weary feet?

Just one day without your wine, Sir! Madam, just one ribbon less,

And one wearied child in London from afar your name will bless.

Think, ere now you seek

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