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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 107, September 15, 1894
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Punch, or the London Charivari
Volume 107, September 15th, 1894
edited by Sir Francis Burnand
OF VITAL IMPORTANCE.
"Hi, Billie! 'Ere's Cheap Gloves!"
ALL MY EYE!
Or, Rhyme and Reason.
(By Baron Grimbosh.)
And with rhyme's chymings blest a happy irth,
Poetic seekers of a "perfect rhyme"
Have missed the bull's-eye almost every thyme.
We want a brand-new Versifiers' Guide,
And he who Pegasus would neatly ruide,
Must shun bards' beaten highways, read no hymn,
Nor by phonetic laws his stanzas trymn.
The eye's the Muse's judge, and by the eye
Parnassian Pitmans must the poet treye.
Rhyme to the ear is wrong; at any rate,
Rhyme that greets not the eye cannot be grate,
And though by long wrong usage sanctified,
It may not pass my new Poetic Gied.
These new Rhyme-Rules let bardlings get by heart,
For from the New Parnassus must depeart,
From Toplady to Tennyson, all those
Who prove sweet Poesy's false phonetic fose.
Cowper and Rowland Hill must be arraigned;
In Keble, Heber, Newman, are contaigned
False rhymes the most atrocious upon earth,
Which might move Momus to derisive mearth.
Of Rhyme's true laws I'm getting to the root,
And a New Poetry will be the froot,
The Muse, now by the few acknowledged fair,
Shall then be warmly welcomed everywhair,
And not, as now, in one loud howl sonorous,
As "footle" banned by Commonsense in chorous.
Then a verse-scorning world, in pleased surprise,
Will to Parnassus lift delighted ise;
And from St. Albans to the Arctic Pole,
The "lyric cry" (in Grimbosh rhymes) shall role.
The people then not hymns alone shall praise,
But the sweet secular singer's luscious laise,
Phonetic laws to wish to change at once
Must prove a man a duffer and a donce,
The laws of spelling are less fatal foze.
(You can spell "does" as either "duz" or "doze,"
And if you wish to make it rhyme with bosh,
What easier than writing wash as "wosh"?)
If Tennyson were all rewritten thus,
His verse indeed would be de-li-ci-us;
And Isaac Pitman's spelling would add lots
Of charm to the great works of Isaac Wotts.
There! Grimbosh sets the world right once again!
May lesser poets mark! A-main!! A-main!!!
LITERARY INTELLIGENCE.
Scene—A Sea-side Library.
Visitor (wearily, after a series of inquiries and disappointments). What I want is a recent novel. I haven't read The Vermilion Gillyflower yet. It's been out six months or more. Surely you've got that?
Shop Attendant. I don't fancy it's in our catalogue. I don't remember hearing of it. (Brightly.) We've got Ivanhoe.
Visitor (ignoring the suggestion). Well, then, I could do with Conan Doyle's last, or Stanley Weyman's.
Shop Attendant. Stanley, did you say? Oh yes, we've ordered the Life of Dean Stanley, but it hasn't come yet.
Visitor (gloomily). I don't want anybody's life. I want—let's see—A Gentleman of France.
Shop Attendant. A Gentleman of France? I don't recollect the title. But (cheerfully) we've John Halifax, Gentleman, if that'll do as well.
Visitor (groaning). Oh no, it won't! How about So-so, by Benson, you know? Or I hear Mrs. Clifford's latest is worth reading. Or Bess of the Curvybills, by Hardy. That's been out a couple of years at least. (Hopefully.) Oh, I'm sure that's got to you.
Shop Attendant (floored). Would you look through the shelves for yourself, if you please? You'll find something to suit you, I know. There's one or two of Dickens's, and Middlemarch—now, that's a rather recent work. Or The Channings. We've had The Channings bound again, and it's a great favourite.
[Flits off quite relieved at the entrance of a girl who desires a penny time-table and a halfpennyworth of writing-paper.
The Plague of Poets.
(By a Rabid Reviewer.)
"Captain Jack Crawford, the Post Scout!"
Oh, bother the Bards! How the rhyme-grinders go it!
My future rule shall be "scout the poet!"
"Mutes and Liquids."—Some clever detectives, of the Birmingham Police Force—not by any means Brummagem detectives—disguised themselves as "Mourners' Mutes" and such like black guards of hearses, and, after a re-hearsal of their several parts, they went to a tavern for drink—grief, professionally or otherwise, being thirsty work—and managed to discover that this public-house was only a privately conducted betting-house, being, like themselves, in disguise. The result has yet to be ascertained, but so far it has proved a most successful "undertaking."
Good News.—"Cheer, Boys, Cheer!" "There's a Good Time Coming"; for the evergreen veteran, Mr. Henry Russell, is "preparing his reminiscences for publication." Mr. Punch looks forward with pleasure to perusing them, and wishes that Henry's congenial collaborator, Charles Mackay, were yet living to share the treat.