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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charavari, Volume 93, October 8, 1887
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Volume 93, October 8, 1887.
edited by Sir Francis Burnand
OUR AMERICAN COUSIN AGAIN TO THE FRONT.
THE BATTLE OF THE WAY.
A Lay of Lake-land.
"Now, Lake-men, claim your right of way, and see the business done,
Come with your crowbar, spade, and pick;—and sure the battle's won,
For bolts and bars show Spedding's race that you don't care a fig,
And prove that right's no match for might when rallied round Latrigg."
So shouted Routh-Fitzpatrick, and Lake-men with a cheer,
To Fawe Park Gates from Keswick's peaceful slopes were drawing near,
When high upon the topmost wall as if to break the spell,
There uprose the Solicitor of Mrs. Spencer Bell.
He spoke and as his voice he raised his arms he waved around,
"Beware," he cried, "what you're about, for this is private ground.
With sundry pains and penalties you'll surely be repaid,
Who dare to-day set hand to move this lawful barricade!"
But Routh-Fitzpatrick heeded not his protest, nor replied;
So Mrs. Bell's Solicitor, he promptly stood aside,
And watched the next proceedings with a disapproving frown,
For up went crow-bar, pick, and axe, and gate and bar went down.
Yes, 'neath the sturdy Lake-men's blows the barriers gave way,
And lo! in rushed the joyous thronging crowd without delay;
And some on foot, and some in drags, and some in waggons stowed,
Held on their way triumphantly down the disputed road.
So onward towards Silver Hill advanced the active host,
And cleared each wire fence away, and levelled every post;
And when with crowbar, pick, and axe, they'd made their purpose plain,
To Nichol Ending they returned in triumph once again.
Then Secretary Jenkinson uprose and spoke a word,
And said how by the sights that day his manly breast was stirred,
And how that, if on Saturday as they had now begun
They held their own, they might regard the fight already won.
And then a telegram from Mr. Plimsoll he read out,
The which the Lake-men greeted with a hearty answering shout;
And Mrs. Bell's Solicitor retired from the field,
But with an ugly look that seemed to say, "We'll never yield!"
And so commenced the fray that day, and though we know, of course,
As everybody tells us, there's no remedy in force,
Still, if the Lake-men's pick and axe this matter sets at rest,
We must admit how ills to cure at Keswick they know best.
But which side wins or loses in the still impending fight,
Whether force of public freedom, or trick of legal right,
The eager world on-looking may have watched a deadlier fray,
But none more keen in contest than the Battle of the Way!
Parnellite Proverb (applied to the Baleful Balfour).—Give him an inch (of law) and he'll take a (National) League.
THE MORNING'S REFLECTIONS.
Scene—Breakfast-table of an Illustrious Statesman of stalwart proportions and "Gladstonian" politics. Illustrious Statesman discovered, admiringly perusing three closely-printed columns of leading Morning Paper.
I. S. (soliloquising). Hah! Really reads very well, very well indeed. Points neatly put, hits smartly delivered! They shan't call me the "Champion Slugger" for nothing. American pugilist, named Sullivan, original bearer of that honorific title, I believe. Should like to see Sullivan. A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous—curious. Not kind, always, or Joseph and William—but no matter.
Hm—m—m! Hm—m—m—m! Excellent! Sparklers calculated to illuminate Lewes, startle Sussex, electrify thecountry. Slugging and sparkling my specialities. One or two decent speakers about; "our distinguished leader" can—distinguish, at great length and with considerable verbosi—I mean eloquence. Randolph can rattle, and Morley can pound, and Rosebery twitter pleasantly. But they can't coruscate and crush. The power of the bolt, which at once shines and smashes, is Jovian—not Rhodian, as Dizzy once nastily suggested. "My thunder," and I'm proud of it.
By the way, wonder what the other "Thunderer" thinks of it. Touches a tender chord, the chord of memory. Lost chord now, indeed. But no matter, let's see.
[Turns paper.
Hm—m—m! Hm—m—m—m! Hah! Too bad! "His bludgeon, or—considering his present connection—may we say his shillelagh?" Tut-tut! The Cloud-Compeller as a bludgeon-man, the Titan-queller flourishing a blackthorn like a tenth-rate Theseus, a Hibernian Hercules! Absurd! No sense of keeping whatever. "Swashbuckler," too! Nasty, and not even new!
As to "beating the big drum in Sussex"—why, how often have I done it—to their delight—in their own pages! "Travesty of contemporary history"—this to their own omniscient Historicus!
Shows the "Champion Slugger" has struck home, though. Your hard-hitter—your fellow who smites, as the appreciative rustic (Sussex man, I wonder?) put it, "blooming hard, blooming high, and blooming often," generally scores—even in the cricket-field. I am the Bonnor of debate, the Thornton of the platform. And doesn't the "Ring" like it?
Knocked holes in the "Jubilee Session," I fancy, "Ignorant people who mistake the flush of fever for the bloom of health, the torpor of apoplexy for the tranquillity of sleep," think that blazing Balfour and stertorous Smith are never "a penny the worse" for my repeated poundings. Pooh! "Salted with fire"—my fire—they—not being of the indomitable race of Dizzy—will not "undecaying live" much longer. I prophesy—but no, prophecy, private prophecy at least, is not profitable. Don't suppose a Delphic priest, or even a Derby tipster ever wasted time in prophesying to himself!
Still—still, if Champion "slugging" combined with coruscation does lead to Leadership—as why should it not?—I fancy I know some one who will have what the sporting patterers call, I think, "a look in" one of these days. Parochial shrewdness is all very well, so is philosophical precision combined with Puritan fervour. But the "swashing blow" strikes home, and if the Unionist bucklers are beaten down