قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, July 23, 1892
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PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 103.
July 23, 1892.

TOO CLEVER BY HALF.
"AND WHERE DID YOU LEARN TO SPEAK ENGLISH SO WELL?"
"FROM LADY JENKINSON'S CHILDREN, MADAME. I CAME OVER FROM SWITZERLAND TO TEACH THEM FRENCH AND GERMAN!"
"AND DID THEY LEARN FRENCH AND GERMAN?"
"NO, MADAME, NOT A WORD!"
TO A SUMMER FLOWER.
Oh, lovely flower sent from afar,
Like sunlight to this world of ours,
What art thou but a golden star,
A priceless gem amongst the flowers?
Alas, all earthly things must die,
Thou, too, fair yellow flower must fade,
Thou wilt not charm an Artist's eye,
Upon the breast of some fair maid!
Ah, no, thine is a nobler fate,
Unlike the lily or the rose,
Thou passest to a higher state
When in sad death thy petals close:
For then thine outward form, grown pale
Is changed to what, at first scarce seen,
Is still thyself, so fair, so frail,
A little fruit of tender green!
When quite matured, how very choice
Thy juicy flavour; who can then
Sing all thy worth with mortal voice,
Or write thy praise with mortal pen.
There, take it gently from the ground,
O costermonger, to thy barrow,
And shout, with loud discordant sound,
The praise of Vegetable Marrow!
ROE, BLOATER'S-ROE.
Faintly it wakes at the even chime,
The appetite long past its prime.
The supper-room at the Club looks dim.
What shall I "peck" for an epicure's whim?
Roe, Bloater's Roe! That's the brief repast
To tickle the palate, to break the fast!
They may prate of the pleasures of "early purl,"
Of the frizzled rasher's seductive curl,
But, when I fear I can munch no more,
When the thought of banquets becomes a bore,
Roe, Bloater's Roe, upon toast they cast,
And nausea's fled, and repletion's past!
Yes Bloater's Roe—upon toast. Ah, boon!
That stayeth satiety, late or soon.
Best of bonnes bouches, that all seasons fits!
The tenderest tickler of all tit-bits!
Roe, Bloater's Roe! O chef, grill fast,
And prepare my palate its pet repast!
ONE FORM OF A "SHELLEY MEMORIAL."—Awful indigestion the morning after a Lobster Supper.
FROM DAY TO DAY.
(A Study in Political Journalism, from some of the Morning Papers.)
No. I.
To-day, the first pollings of the General Election take place, and the electors will be called upon to decide one of the most momentous issues that have ever been submitted to the judgment of the country. For ourselves, we cannot doubt for a moment as to what the verdict will be. It is impossible that a policy of empty promises, backed by mere misrepresentation, should prevail against a glorious record of administrative, legislative, and financial success. Careful calculations have convinced us that those who now hold the reins of office will return to power with a largely increased majority, to continue their beneficent work. The country recognises by this time that anything short of that would mean disaster to the commonwealth. Even with a small majority, the forces of disorder would be able to work untold mischief. Such a result, however, is not within the bounds of possibility, seeing that the Election will be fought purely and simply on the Irish question, which has been placed fully before the electorate in all its bearings. Our organisation is perfect, and our triumph assured.
No. II. (Three Days Later.)
We are constrained to admit that, so far, the result of the Elections has not come up to the confident anticipations of our Party. Seats have been lost that ought to have been retained. On the other hand, we have failed to win seats that we had a right to count upon as certainties. It is not easy to apportion the responsibility for failure. Over-confidence and a consequent want of energy may have had something to do with it; but the chief reason is to be found in the disgracefully defective organisation of the Party. The story is an old one. We have ourselves deemed it our duty to lay this aspect of the case before the Leaders of the Party, but our repeated warnings have been unheeded, and the necessary consequences have followed. Our opponents, however, have not much to congratulate themselves upon. The Irish question has been kept studiously in the back-ground, and the results, so far as they have gone, only prove conclusively that there is no diminution whatever in the dislike with which the majority of the electorate regard the proposals of the party of disorder. We are far from saying that even now we shall lose the Election. Everything may yet be retrieved. But, even should the result be numerically favourable to the Opposition, they will be powerless for mischief with the small majority which is all they are likely to get.
No. III. (A Week Later.)
The Elections are now nearing an end, and it is possible to summarise the results. It is not surprising that our opponents should be reduced to the lowest depths of despair. They counted with the utmost certainty on a majority of two hundred. But, as matters stand, it is out of the question that their preponderance should exceed fifty. Where are now the confident boastings with which they inaugurated the campaign? They have confused the judgment of the electors with every kind of side-issue. Misrepresentations have been sown broadcast, and have, in too many instances, succeeded. But the great heart of the country is still sound. Votes must be weighed as well as counted, and it is safe to assume that, with a paltry and heterogeneous majority of merely fifty, the advocates of revolution will be reduced to impotence, even if they can succeed in forming a Government at all. The result is one on which our Party may well congratulate themselves. They have worked hard, and the solid fruit of their efforts is now within their reach. We may safely say that the Irish policy of our opponents has received its death-blow.
"There he blows! There he goes!" Like a Titan in throes,
With his wallopping tail, and his wave-churning nose,
The spouting Cetacean Colossus!
Eh? Harpoon that Monster! The thought makes one pale,
With one thundering thwack of that thumping big tail,
To the skies in small splinters he'd toss us!
Rolling in foaming wild billows, ice-laden
He goes, like the "boisterous sea"