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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, August 27, 1892
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
"Mr." is immense at entertainments; it is "Mr." who organises "Se Spanish Consairt," "Se Duetto of se Poor Blinds," and, of course, "Se Bal"; he is very proud of his latest acquisition—the Orchestrion that plays the dinner down. To see "Mr." dispatch itinerant minstrels would do our County Council good.
"Mr." knows our compatriots au fond; he makes no extra charge for toast at breakfast, and you only pay half-a-crown for a pot of George the Third Marmalade, to lubricate it withal. Five-o'clock tea comes up at six, just as at home. He makes much of Actors, Peers, and Clergymen. Sunday is a great day for "Mr." He directs everyone to the English Church in "The Grounds"—(fifteen benches and one tree, with a fountain between them); and then goes off to play cards, but always in his frock-coat. The "Chaplain" gets his breakfast-egg gratis; and a stray Bishop writes, "Nothing can exceed the comfort of this Hôtel," in that Doomsday Book of Visitors.
When you depart—and, abroad, this is generally about daybreak—"Mr." is always on the spot, haughty, as becomes a man about to be paid, but considerate; there is a bouquet in petticoats for the Entresol—even, for me, a condescending word. "When you see Mr. SHONES in London, you tell him next year I make se Gulf-Links." I don't know who the dickens JONES may be, but I snigger. It all springs from that miserable fiction of being an Habitué. "Sans adieux!" ejaculates "Mr.," who is great at languages; so am I, but, somehow, find myself saying "Good-bye" quite naturally. À propos of languages, "Mr." is very patient with the Ladies who will speak to him in so-called French or German, when they say, "Où est le Portier?" or "Es ist sehr schön heute," he replies, in the genuine tongue. I once overheard a lady discussing the chances of rest and quiet in the "Grand Hôtel." "Oui c'est une grande reste." said she. It only puzzled "Mr." for a moment. "Parfaitement, Madame; c'est ravissant, n'est-ce pas?" and then "Mr." sold her the little Hand-book, composed by the Clergyman, on which he receives a commission.
NEED I SAY MORE?
I loved—and need I say she was a woman?
And need I say I thought her just divine?
Her beauty (like this rhyme) was quite uncommon.
Alas, she said she never could be mine!
My Uncle was a Baronet, and wealthy,
But old, ill-tempered, deaf, and plagued with gout;
I was his heir, a pauper young and healthy;
My Uncle—need I say?—had cut me out.
I swore—and need I say the words I muttered?
Sir HECTOR married KATE, and changed his will.
Dry bread for me! For her the tea-cake buttered.
I starved—and, need I say, I'm starving still!
"A CARPET KNIGHT"—Sir BLUNDELL MAPLE. Likewise that Sir B.M. is "a Knight of the Round Table." [N.B. Great rush to let off these. Contribution-Box joke-full of 'em. Impossible, therefore, to decide "who spoke first." Reward of Merit still in hand.]
SUGGESTION.—The Music-and-Hartland Committee will permit the performance of brief "Sketches" in the Music Halls. Wouldn't "Harmonies" by our own WHISTLER be more appropriate?
AN EARNEST POLITICIAN.
"I'M VERY GLAD SIR PERCY PLANTAGENET WAS RETURNED, MISS!"
"WHY,—ARE YOU A PRIMROSE DAME?"
"NO, MISS,—BUT MY 'USBAND IS!"
TIP TO TAX-COLLECTORS.
(After Herrick's "Counsel to Girls.")
A Song of the Exchequer.
Gather ye Taxes while ye may,
The time is fleetly flying;
And tenants who'd stump up to-day,
To-morrow may be shying.
That annual "Lump," the Income Tax,
Still higher aye seems getting;
The sooner that for it you "ax,"
The nearer you'll be netting.
That payer's best who payeth first
The Exchequer's pert purse-stormer:
As the year wags still worse and worst
Times, still succeed the former.
Then be not lax, but keep your time,
And dun, and press, and harry;
Tax-payers shirk, nor deem it crime,
If long Collectors tarry.
"WHERE SHALL WE GO?" is of course an important subject in the holiday-time, and one to which Sala's Journal devotes a column or two weekly; but a still more important one is "How shall we go it?" and having totted up the items there comes the final question, "Where shall we stay?" And the wise, but seldom-given answer is—"At Home." In any case, the traveller's motto should always be, "Wherever you go, make yourself quite at Home"—and stay there, may be added by the London Club Cynic, who wants everything all to himself.
THE LOST JOKE.
(A Song of a Sad but Common Experience.)
Seated one day in my study
I was listless and ill at ease,
And my fingers twiddled idly
With the novel upon my knees.
I know not where I was straying
On the poppy-clustered shore,
But I suddenly struck on a Sparkler
Which fairly made me roar.
I have joked some jokes in my time, Sir,
But this was a Champion Joke,
And it fairly cut all record
As a humoristic stroke.
It was good for a dozen of dinners,
It was fit to crown my fame
As a shaper of sheer Side-splitters,
For which I have such a name.
It flooded my spirit's twilight
Like the dawn on a dim dark lake,
For I knew that against all rivals
It would fairly "take the cake."
I said I will try it to-morrow,—
I won't even tell my wife,—
It will certainly fetch Lord FUMFUDGE,
And then—I am made for life!
It links two most distant meanings
Into one perfect chime—
Here my servant broke the silence,
And said it was dinner-time!
I have sought, but I seek it vainly,
That great Lost Joke of mine,
Which had slipped from my mind entirely
When I sat me down to dine.
It may be that something some day
May bring it me back again;
But I only wish—confound it!—
I had fixed it with pencil or pen.
It may be that luck—bright Angel!—
May inspire me once more with that stroke,
But I fear me 'tis only in Limbo
I shall light on my great Lost Joke!
MRS. R., who has been busy with her juniors, tells us that she has