قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 105 December 23rd, 1893
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
silver buttons, and had thus convicted Sir Aminadab of the crime. As we entered the drawing-room we were almost overwhelmed with the shouts of joy that welcomed this wonderful exhibition of the family talent. Skairkrow Holes, who was of a more reflective turn of mind, had, it seemed, been looking out of the window at the passers-by, and had just proved triumphantly to his youngest niece, Jemima, that a man whom she had taken for a vendor of cat's meat was in reality a director of a building society who had defrauded the miserable investors of fifty-two thousand pounds, eighteen shillings, and ninepence halfpenny. It was into this happy family party that Holes and I, led by Isabel Gumpshon, intruded on the memorable evening of which I speak.
(To be continued.)
Note.—There are, it seems, rumours about to the effect that my marvellous friend, Picklock Holes, is dead. Some even go so far as to assert that he never existed. I leave these two factions to fight the matter out. If he is dead he must have existed; if he never existed he cannot have died. This shows the folly of relying on rumour.—Samuel Potson.
THE LORD CHANCELLOR'S SONG.
(The Up-to-date Version.)
Oh! pity the lot of a harassed Lord Chancellor,
Suffering badly from too much to do.
Appointments to give, and appointments to cancel or
Magistrate making, not knowing who's who.
Work of a quantity highly distressing,
Jack-like it's dull with all work and no play.
I start in the morning when hurriedly dressing.
And stick to it then for full twelve hours a day.
Selecting with care and the utmost propriety,
I wade through long lists of the would-be J.P.'s,
Who wish to be benched for the sake of Society,
Till I sigh for repose and a quantum of ease.
It's hard—Ananias would hardly deny it,
After all it's £10 000 a year at the most.
Resignation's a virtue. I'm minded to try it;
A chance for some aspirants—who's for the post?
Motto for Editors of Very-Latest-News-Evening-Journals (hard up far a paragraph).—"When in doubt play Jabez Balfour."
Mrs. R. on the Dynamite Outrage in the French Chamber.—"Hanging's too good for such a scoundrel," said Mrs. R., indignantly; "but they don't hang in France, so the wretch will be taken and gelatined."
THE WERE-WOLF OF ANARCHY.
"BUSINESS FIRST."
Favourite Son of M.F.H. (to old Huntsman). "No, Smith, you won't see much more of me for the rest of the season; if at all."
Smith (with some concern). "Indeed, Sir. 'ow's that?"
Son of M.F.H. "Well, you see I'm reading hard."
Smith (interrogatively). "Readin' 'ard, Sir?"
Son of M.F.H. "Yes, I'm reading Law."
Smith. "Well, I likes to read a bit o' them Perlice reports myself, Sir, now an' then; but I don't allow 'em to hinterfere with a honest days 'Untin'."
THE WERE-WOLF.
[Anglo-Saxon wer, a man, and wolf—a man in the form of a wolf.
"The garments are changed into hair, his arms into legs; he becomes a wolf, and he still retains vestiges of his ancient form. His hoariness is still the same, the same violence appears in his features; his eyes are bright as before; he is still the same image of ferocity."—Ovid, on the metamorphosis of King Lycaon into a wolf.]
Wolf! Wolf! The cry that wakes
The slumbering shepherds, shakes
The faint-hearts of the fold with shuddering fear.
The flock's ferocious foe
Compassion doth not know,
His breathing's heard, his furtive foot-fall's near.
It is no season for slack guard,
But watchful care and unrelaxing ward.
This is the Man-Wolf, theme
Of ancient classic dream,
And mediæval myth, at last made fact.
Worse than the lupine pest
Upon whose hoary crest
Old monarchs laid a price! 'Gainst him a pact
Of all the peoples must be made;
Rapine's his life, red ruin his dread trade.
The old grey wolf who prowled
Around the fold, and howled
Impotent rage to the black wintry skies,
Was no such foe as this,
Our Were-Wolf, whom the abyss
Of yawning chaos looses, whose red eyes,
Half human and half bestial, glare
Malignant menace from his secret lair.
Such subter-human guise,
Such fiercely fiendlike eyes,
Arcadian Lycaon. Jove-changed, bore
When mortal hate took on,
At the Olympian frown,
Its fitting shape. The lessons of old lore,
Magic-divested, myth-stripped, still
Commend themselves to human wit and will.
Humanity must urge
Against this lupine scourge
Civilisation's forces banded close.
The watch-dogs, as of old,
Must guard the human fold
Against this last and worst of order's foes;
And the world's sleuthhounds led by Law
Must hunt this Were-Wolf of the insatiate maw.
Hunt him from every lair,
Till, outlaw everywhere,
This friend of carnage and sheer chaos finds
A foe at every turn.
A foot to crush or spurn,
The warning cry of "Wolf!" on all the winds,
And wheresoe'r the ravener stray
Civilisation's light must search—and slay!
"Très Bang!"—To T-m Sm-th, of the Wholesale Crackery Warehouse, with Mr. Punch's compliments. Certainly, at Christmas-time. T. S.'s crackers "get the pull!" At least, so says his Lordship the pop-ular Bishop of Go-Bangor.
Dr. R-bs-n R-se
(In the "Fortnightly" this month).
To be in perfect health live well and wisely:
This just sums up my article concisely.
Quite on the Cards.—In last Saturday's Daily Graphic there was an interesting picture on a pretty subject, to which was subscribed the
