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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 100, June 13, 1891
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 100, June 13, 1891
he has put down his foot;
On the neck of the Hebrew that foot he will plant.
Can fear strike a CÆSAR—a Russian to boot?
Can a ROMANOFF stoop to mere cowardly cant?
Forbid it traditions of Muscovite pride!
An Autocrat's place is the Conqueror's car,
But he who that chariot in triumph would ride,
Must not earn a name as the White-livered CZAR!
No, no, scurril scribe, dip your pen in rose-pink,
Or the Censor's black blurr shall your slander efface
A CÆSAR turn sophist, an Autocrat shrink?
Pusillanimous spite mark the ROMANOFF race?
Too wholly absurd! What is this we have heard
Which on courtier spirits must painfully jar?
Who is he, this mal à propos "little bird"
Who twitters such tales of the White-livered CZAR?
The Wolf and the Lamb? We all know that old tale.
But the Wolf, though a tyrant, was scarcely a cur.
He bullied and lied, but he didn't turn pale,
Or need poltroon terror as cruelty's spur.
But a big, irresponsible, "fatherly" Prince
Afeared—of a Jew? 'Tis too funny by far!
The coldest of King-scorning cynics might wince
At that comic conception, a White-livered CZAR!
No; Russia is heaven, the CZAR is a saint,
And the poor "Ebrew Jew" is a troublesome pest;
But is he the thing to make CÆSAR go faint,
Or disturb an Imperial Autocrat's rest?
The Jew's all to blame—as a matter of course;
The weak and the weary invariably are;
But weakness on power harsh tyranny force?
That's an argument worthy a White-livered CZAR.
An Israelite meshed in a 'Nihilist plot
Is a pitiful picture. Ungrateful indeed
Is the poor Russian Jew, not content with his lot—
As a slave to the Slav. But expel the whole breed?
Apply that same rule to your subjects all round,
And one fancies you'll find it too sweeping by far.
The vast realm of Muscovy then might be found
A wilderness—save for the White-livered CZAR.
The pick of your people, the best of your blood,
Your purest of women, your bravest of men,
O CZAR, have they not, in despair's dusky mood,
Turned Nihilist, plotted, been banished? What then?
Best banish them all, as you'd banish the Jew;
'Twill sweep your dominions more clear than red war.
Picture Russia a waste with one resident—you,
Perched high—and alone—as the White-livered CZAR!
Maybe they malign you. It cannot be sooth
That you talk like an angry illogical girl.
Yes, banish the Hebrews, as wholly as ruth.
Be cold in your wrath as the Neva's chill swirl,
Snub friendly remonstrance, blunt satire's keen blade.
With a blot of black ink! Will it carry you far?
A CÆSAR must not be a fool or afraid;
There's no place in earth's round for a White-livered CZAR!
SAD FINISH.—We see advertised, "George Meredith, A Study. By HANNAH LYNCH." Poor GEORGE! "Taken from life," of course. There's an end of him! Lynch'd!
THE ALARMED AUTOCRAT !
CZAR OF ALL THE RUSSIAS. "TAKE HIM AWAY!—TAKE HIM AWAY! HE FRIGHTENS ME!"
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
Messrs. R. Osgood & Co. in advertising Miss SARAH ORME JEWETT'S book, Strangers and Wayfarers, quotes an extract from one of Mr. RUSSEL LOWELL'S letters, which runs thus:—
"I remember once at a dinner of the Royal Academy, wishing there might be a toast in honour of the Little Masters, such as TENNIEL, DU MAURIER, and their fellows."
He "wished" it, but was the wish a silent one, or did it find expression in a speech? No matter: there are the Old Masters and the Young Masters, there are the Middle-Aged Masters; there are the Great Masters; and, according to Mr. RUSSELL LOWELL, there are "the Little Masters," without any middle term at all. "The Little Masters," like children in the nursery of Art, not admitted to dinner, but who come in afterwards for dessert. May they come in for their just deserts, as no doubt they will some day. Well, according to this Lowelly estimation of merit, these would be the Lesser Masters, and after them the No Masters at all, except perhaps the Toast-Masters. But why not follow a kind of public school classification which divides one form—of course all the artists belong to the very best form, and, like Sir FREDERICK the President, show the very best form—into several compartments, so that we should have in one form say, the Fifth, Upper Fifth, Middle Fifth, subdivided into Upper and Lower Middle, then Lower Fifth, with a similar subdivision? Orders of merit to be worn in the button-hole could then be distributed, and a new Order of the "B.P.", not "British Public," but "Brush and Pencil," could be instituted, to be entitled fully, "The Masters of the Black and White Art."
"(STAN)-HOPE TOLD A FLATTERING TALE."
Mr. Punch (to War Secretary). "VERY WELL ON ACCOUNT; BUT WHEN IS HE TO HAVE HIS REWARD IN FULL, LIKE HIS BROTHERS OF THE COMBATANT BRANCH?"
In the Fortnightly, besides an article on the prevailing epidemic, by Sir MORRELL MACKENZIE, M.D., which finishes with much the sort of general advice that was given by Mr. Justice Starleigh to Sam Weller, to the effect that "You had better be careful, Sir," whoever you are, who read this short, but generally interesting paper. There is an anonymous paper on an imaginary election at the Royal Academy, noticeable only for an excellent imitation of Mr. GEORGE MEREDITH'S style. The Novelist is supposed to look in casually, and, finding an election imminent, he offers sage words of counsel, and then begs to be allowed to "float out of their orbit by a bowshot." It seems to me that the paper was written for the sake of this one short paragraph, which, as a close parody, is inimitable. A Modern Idyll, by the Editor, Mr. FRANK HARRIS, is, as far as this deponent is concerned, like the Rule of Three in the ancient Nursery Rhyme, for it "bothers me," and, though written with considerable dramatic power, yet it seems rather the foundation for a novel which the Author felt either disinclined to continue, or unable to finish. ALTER HEGO (in the Office of the B. de B.-W.)
THE TYRANTS OF THE STRAND !
(Fragment from a Romance, Founded upon a Modern Strike.)
It was a dark and stormy night. The wind howled, the rain pelted, and the poor travellers were drenched to the skin. They shaded their eyes, and peered forth into the blackness to see if succour was at hand. Their strength was exhausted, and they felt they could go no further. Oh! what would they not have given to be once more on board the tight little craft they had abandoned! But no! it was not to be. They must seek for help from another quarter! Suddenly there emerged from the darkness a strange-looking structure, that with its lights seemed bent upon running them down. They signalled for help, and the grotesque vessel was hove to.
"What