أنت هنا
قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, July 9, 1892
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 103.
July 9, 1892.
SIMPLE AS A "B" "C."
DEAR EX-CHANCELLOR WITH A PAST,—I am sorry to have to address you, especially as to you I owe my promotion. But matters are coming to a crisis, and the Fatherland is suffering from your indiscretions. You are making a great mistake—you are, indeed.
Now, I ask you, what would you do under the following circumstances? Supposing you were in my position, what would you do if your predecessor held you up to ridicule, spoilt all your favourite diplomatic plans, insulted your employer, and made himself generally disagreeable all round? You must know, my good Prince, that you are sowing dissension in every direction. You are embroiling us with Russia, and running the chance of a war with France. Moreover, you are breaking the very laws you made for the solitary purpose of meeting the case you have raised yourself! So now, with every kindly recollection of the past, tell me why I don't arrest you, why I don't put you into prison, why I don't break your power once and for ever?
Reply to the above.
DEAR CHANCELLOR WITHOUT A FUTURE,—I will answer you why you do not arrest me? The simple reason is that you, my dear friend, are not BISMARCK.
A CORRESPONDENT signing himself "ONE WHO LIVES AND LEARNS," wishes to know what is the meaning of the expression, "The Minute Gun at Sea?" We will tell him. "A Minute Gun" is, of course, a very small one. When it goes wrong, it is "at sea." No extra charge for this gun.
MEM.—You can't expect much from the Speakers at a Convention, where the Speeches must be Conventional.
"HARPY THOUGHT!"—Mr. JOHN THOMAS's Grand Harp Concert.
A WILDE IDEA.
OR, MORE INJUSTICE TO IRELAND!
The licence for the production of his French Play of Salomé, accepted by SARAH B., having been refused by the Saxon Licenser of Plays, The O'SCAR, dreams of becoming a French Citizen, but doesn't quite "see himself," at the beginning of his career, as a conscript in the French Army, and so, to adapt the Gilbertian lines, probably—
"In spite of great temptation
To French na-tu-ra-li-sa-tion,
He'll remain an Irishman!"
MY PUGGY!
[A Correspondent writes to the Standard in praise of pugs, as the most useful household dogs to prevent burglaries.]
Who bears, despite a wrinkled skin,
A heart that's soft and warm within,
And hates a visitor like sin?—
My puggy!
Who has a little temper of
His own, and sports a winter cough,
And thinks himself a mighty toff?—
My puggy!
Whose voice, disturbing midnight rest,
Do wily house-breakers detest,
And move to some less guarded nest?—
My puggy's!
Who does not, like a stupid cat,
'Gainst burglars' boots rub himself flat,—
Soliciting a felon's pat?—
My puggy!
And when the burglar's body's half
Inside the sash, with doggish laugh,
Who masticates his nearest calf?—
My puggy!
Who owns a phiz (which I could hug),
That's called by stupid boys an ug-
ly sulky unattractive "mug?"—
My puggy!
Our old friend, Mrs. RAMSBOTHAM, has been sightseeing in the country. Being asked whether she had seen the Midgetts, she said, "Don't mention 'em, my dear! I've seen 'em, and felt 'em—thousands of 'em—they very nearly closed my eyes up."
THROUGH EVER-GREEN GLASSES.
["On the side of those poor men who constitute the Irish nation, with their few and disparaged leaders, we have found a consideration, a calmness, and a liberality of view, a disposition to interpret everything in the best sense, and to make every concession that could possibly bring harmony about."—Mr. Gladstone in Edinburgh.]
Och, Erin dear, and did ye hear the cry that's going round?
The Home-Rule plant they would forbid to grow on Irish ground.
I had my doubts at one time, but more clearly I have seen
Since I took—in shamrock spectacles—to Wearing of the Green.
I'm Ever-Green myself, ye know, so take me by the hand,
And tell me how Ould Oireland is, and how our chances stand.
'Tis the most disthressful country, dear, that ever yet was seen;
But I'm sworn to right ye, darlint, now I'm Wearing of the Green!
With unsurpassed frivolity and cruelty, 'tis said,
That you, Mavourneen, wish to set your heel on Ulster's head.
If you, who under Orange foot so long time have been trod,
Would trample down your tyrants old, it would be passing odd.
When the law can stop your friends, my dear, from growing as they grow,
When the Tories stop my "flowing tide" from flowing as 'twill flow,
Then I will change the colour, dear, that in my specs is seen,
But until that day, please Heaven, I'll stick to Wearing of the Green.
I am Ever-Green myself as is your own dear Emerald Land,
And that is why the Green Isle's case I've learned to understand.
'Tis the most disthressful country, yours, that ever yet was seen;
But I'll right ye. Twig my glasses, dear! I'm Wearing of the Green!
THE LAST TRAIN.
It will fade from mortal vision,
So the fashion-plates ordain;
Worthy subject of derision,
Not the mail, but female, train!
It has goaded men to mutter
Words unhappily profane,
Trailed in ball-room or in gutter,
Whether cheap or first-class train.
Far and wide, on floor and paving,
Spread the dress to catch the swain;
Sometimes long—in distance