قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, October 22, 1892
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
"He won't let us write to the newspapers!" was heard from the ranks.
"Is this really so?" asked the new-comer, in a tone more of sorrow than of anger.
"Well, Sir," returned the Captain, "as it is a rule of the Service that no communications shall be sent to the Press, I thought that—"
"You had no right to think, Sir!" was the sharp reply. "Are you so ignorant that you do not know that it is a birth-right of a true-born Briton to air his opinions in the organs of publicity? You will allow the men to go to their quarters at once, that they may state their grievances on paper. They are at perfect liberty to write what they please, and they may rest assured that their communications will escape the grave of the waste-paper basket."
Thus encouraged, the Company dismissed without further word of command.
"And who may you be?" asked the Captain, with some bitterness. "Are you the Commander-in-Chief?"
"I am one infinitely more powerful," was the reply. And then the speaker threw off his disguise-cloak, and appeared in morning-dress. "Behold in me the Editor of an influential Journal!"
A week later the Captain had sent in his papers, and every man in the Company he had once commanded wore the stripe of a Lance Corporal. And thus was the power of the Press once again sufficiently vindicated.
THE BATTLE OF THE BARDS; OR, THE LISTS FOR THE LAURELS.
Proem.
Tan-ta-ra-ra-ra-ra! The trumpets blare!
The rival Bards, wild-eyed, with windblown hair,
And close-hugged harps, advance with fire-winged feet
For the green Laureate Laurels to compete;
The laurels vacant from the brows of him
In whose fine light all lesser lustres dim.
Tourney of Troubadours! The laurels lie
On crimson velvet cushion couched on high,
Whilst Punch, Lord-Warden of his country's fame,
Attends the strains to hear, the victor-bard to name.
And first advances, as by right supreme,
With frosted locks adrift, and eyes a-dream,
With quick short footfalls, and an arm a-swing,
As to some cosmic rhythm heard to ring
From Putney to Parnassus, a brief bard.
(In stature, not in song!) Though passion-scarred,
Porphyrogenitus at least he looks;
Haughty as one who rivalry scarce brooks;
Unreminiscent now of youthful rage,
Almost "respectable," and well-nigh sage,
Dame GRUNDY owns her once redoubted foe,
Whose polished paganry's erotic flow,
And red anarchic wrath 'gainst priests, and kings,
The virtues, and most other "proper" things,
Once drew her frown where now her smile's bestowed.
Such is the power of timely palinode!
Soft twanged his lyre and loud his voice outrang,
As the first Bard this moving measure sang:—
ON THE BAYS.
I.
Beyond the bellowing onset of base war,
Their latest wearer wendeth! With wild zest.
Fulfilled of windy resonance, the rest
Of the bard-mob must hotly joust and jar
To win the wreath that he beyond the bar
Bare not away athwart the bland sea's breast.
II.
And sooth the soft sheen of that deathless bay
Gleams glamorous! Amorous was I in my day,
Clamorous were Gath's goose-critics. But my fire,
Chastened from To-phet-fumes, burns purer, higher;
My thoughts on courtier-wings might make their way
Did my brow bear the laurels all these desire.
III.
For I, to the proprieties reconciled.
Who hymned Dolores, sing the "weanling child."
At "home-made treacle" I made mocking mirth;
That was before my better self had birth.
At virtue's lilies and languors then I smiled,
But Hertha's not thine only goddess, O Earth!
IV.
For surely brother, and master, and lord, and king,
Though vice's roses and raptures did not spring
In thy poetic garden's trim parterre;
Though thou wert fond of sunshine and sweet air,
More than of kisses, that burn, and bite, and sting;
Some living love our England for thee bare.
V.
Thou, too, couldst sing about her sweet salt sea,
And trumpet pæans loud to Liberty,
With clamour of all applausive throats. Thy feet,
Not wine-press red, yet left the flowers more sweet,
From the pure passage of the god to be;
And then couldst thunder praises of England's Fleet.
VI.
I did not think to glorify gods and kings,
Who scourged them ever with hate's sanguineous rods;
But who with hope and faith may live at odds?
And then these jingling jays with plume-plucked wings,
Compete, and laureate laurels are lovely things,
Though crowing lyric lauders of kings and gods!
Beshrew the blatant bleating of sheep-voiced mimes!
True thunder shall strike dumb their chirping chimes.
If there be laureate laurels, or bays, or palms,
In these red, Radical, revelling, riotous times,
They should be the true bard's, though mid-age calms
His revolutionary fierce rolling rhymes,
Fulfilled with clamour and clangour and storm of—psalms
That great lyre's golden echoes rolled away!
Forth tripped another claimant of the bay.
Trim, tittivated, tintinnabulant,
His bosom aped the true Parnassian pant,
As may a housemaid's leathern bellows mock
The rock—whelmed Titan's breathings. He no shock
Of bard-like shagginess shook to the breeze.
A modern Cambrian Minstrel hopes to please
By undishevelled dandy-daintiness,
Whether of lays or locks, of rhymes or dress.
Some bards pipe from Parnassus, some from Hermon;
Room for the singer of the Sunday Sermon!
His stimulant tepid tea, his theme a text,
Carmarthen's cultured caroller comes next!
THE WORTH OF VERSE.
Wild thoughts which occupy the brain,
Vague prophecies which fill the ear,
Dim perturbation, precious pain,
A gleam of hope, a chill of fear,—
These vex the poet's spirit. Moral:—
Have a shy at the Laureate Laurel!
Some say no definite thought there is
In my full flatulence of sound.
Let National Observers quiz
(H-NL-Y won't have it. I'll be bound!)
Envy! O trumpery, O MORRIS!
Could JUVENAL jealous be of HORACE?
I know the chambers of my soul
Are filled with laudatory airs,
Such as the salaried bard should troll
When he the Laureate laurels wears.
And I am he who opened Hades,
To harmless parsons and to
