قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 100, May 9, 1891
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Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 100, May 9, 1891
at once, had he not aggravated the baseness of his conduct by using the vulgar expression, 'Fork it out quick!' But I regret to say that his origin is painfully low. Whereas, anybody who consults my relatives will hear from them that they belong to the very highest County Families. Indeed, he would hear it all day long if he lived with them, as I do!
"On the day of the abduction, I was treated barbarously! Even the cab in which I was taken off was, so the coachman informed me, 'put down to my account.' Oh, had I but guessed the truth about Mr. JONES when I went to the Altar—I mean the Registry Office! Supper consisted of cold mutton and pickles (!) which latter he upset, and I had a dress ruined."
On perusing the above, Mr. JONES decided that he could no longer keep silence, and has made public the subjoined explanation:—
"When I first saw Mrs. JONES—then Miss THOMPSON—her youthful grace quite captivated me. Her age was under fifty-six, and mine was just sixty. She was, in fact, as I told her at the time, almost old enough to know her own mind. It is true that she was wealthy, but that had no influence on my conduct. On the contrary I felt it as a positive drawback, as my domestic ideal has always been Love in a Cottage! But as she was bent upon our marrying, I agreed to waive this objection.
"In proof of this assertion I need only say that on the very day after our first meeting, I received the following letter:—
"'PRICELESS AND ADORABLE PET,—How are your little tootsy-wootsicums? Did they get wet in conducting me home after that delicious interview? If so, and you were to catch cold in your precious head, I should never forgive myself. Oh, come and see me soon! Your Own, till Death, ANGELINA.'
"Possibly I may be blamed for publishing this letter. I do it for her sake, not for mine. Even now I believe that, were I left alone with her for an hour, with none of her relatives nor a policeman near, I could persuade her to retract her calumnious statement about the poker. I conclude by saying that it is my belief that her relatives, who are all of them powerful mesmerists, have hypnotised her!"
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
My Face is My Fortune, by Messrs. PHILIPS and FENDALL. Why don't they agree to spell both names with an "F," and make it FILLIPS and FENDALL. I fancy that FENDALL couldn't do without the sensational fillips. This story excites curiosity throughout the first volume, and then, in the other volume, satisfies it in so disappointing and commonplace a fashion as to suggest the idea that one of the authors, becoming weary of his share in the work, suddenly chucked it up, and said, "Oh, bother! let's finish anyhow;" and then the other collaborateur, whichever it was, did finish it as best and as quickly as he could. There is evidence of laziness or of lack of invention in the story. If it were for the first time in fiction that a secret is learnt by some one hiding behind some pantomime plants in a conservatory, then too much praise could not be bestowed on the ingenious devisers of so strong and original a situation. But as "we know that situation,—he comes from Sheffield," and as it has done duty some scores of times before, on or off the stage, why, the thoroughgoing novel-reader shakes his head and asks, "Couldn't they have devised something better than this between them?" "I expected much from this combination in Authorship, and am disappointed," says the candid BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.
WHAT OUR ARTIST (THE NEWLY-MARRIED ONE) HAS TO PUT UP WITH.
Our Artist. "JUST LOOK, DARLING! I WAS SHORT OF CANVASSES, SO I'VE STRETCHED A CLEAN POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF!—SEE HOW SPLENDIDLY IT TAKES THE PAINT!"
His Prudent Little Wife.. "OH, JOHN DEAR, HOW EXTRAVAGANT OF YOU! IT'LL NEVER COME OUT!"
THE ADOPTED CHILD.
"Last year the CHANCELLOR of the EXCHEQUER frittered away his resources in a number of small remissions, for which hardly anyone was grateful. This year he squanders the greater part of his surplus in providing for Free, or—as the phrase is—Assisted Education—an innovation for which there is hardly any genuine demand, and which a very large class of the community, including many of the most loyal supporters of the Government, view with rooted distrust."—The Standard.
MRS. GAMP (the "Old Regular") loquitur:—
"More changes, too, to come afore we have done with changes!"
Ah! I said that to good Mister MOULD years agone; which 'ow memory ranges
All over them dear "Good Old Times," as I wish them wos back agen, bless 'em!
Which the new ones ain't much to my mind; there's too many fresh "monthlies" to mess 'em.
No; monthlying ain't wot it were; the perfession's too open, a lump.
Nusses now ain't no more like old SAIREY, no not than the old Aldgit Pump.
Like the Cristial Palluses fountings; A Pilgjian's Projiss is life,
And a Nuss ain't no more like a Nuss than a Wife now resembles a Wife.
Heigho! Which it's no use a frettin'. But Fondlings! Ah, well, I did think
Our respectable fam'lies, though mixed, from sich ojus demeaning would shrink,
Which no greater hinsult to me, the old reglar, could well be deviged;
And though I've to live and to learn, I confess as this turn I'm serpriged.
A Fondling!!! Turned up unbeknownst on a doorstep permiskus, no doubt.
And then to adopt him! Oh dear, wot the plague is our Party about?
Wich to monthly to it were my pride; its legitermit offspring I've nussed
Many years with the greatest success, but to-day I feels flurried and fussed,
And my eyes is Saint Polge's fontin with tears, and this brat is their source;
As it isn't no offspring of ourn—of the fam'ly I mean, Ma'am, in course;
But a Brummagem bantling, picked hup, as were not worth its swaddlin' and food,
And I never yet knowed any brat from that source as turned out any good.
Missis G., Mum, it's all a mistake, as you know in your 'art all the same,
For you turned up your nose at the child when JOE CHAMBERLING give him a name,
Afore we was thick with his set, when you snubbed him, and laughed him to scorn,
And heaped naughty names on this kid, as you swore was his nat'ral fust-born.
And now you come dandling, and doddling, and patting the brat on the 'ed,
And forgetting the things as you promiged, and backing on all as you said.
Missis G., you do raly amaze me! This comes of our precious mix-up;
Which the child's no more like one of ourn than a pug's like a tarrier-pup.
In the best-regulated o' fam'lies things will go askew, I'm aweer;
As I says to my friend Mrs. HARRIS, as says to me, "SAIREY, my dear,
You looks dragged, my sweet creetur," she says. "Missis HARRIS," I makes 'er reply,
"When the 'art in one's buzzum beats 'ot, there's excuge for the tear in one's heye.
Which wales isn't in it for worrit, my love, with your poor old pal, SAIREY,
Along o' the Fam'ly," I says; "as things do seem to go that contrairey,
My services now ain't required, with 'adoptions' all over the shop,
From Brummagem, yus, and elsewheres; and I ast 'Where is this thing to stop?'
RITCHIE'S 'pick-up' was tryin', most
