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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, October 10, 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 101, October 10, 1891
Horner"? (Cheers.) Some commentators are of opinion that "HORNER." was a typographical error for "HOMER." But the prefix; and the epithet combined to militate against this ingenious and plausible, but specious, theory. "HOMER" was not in any sense "Little," nor was his Pagan name "JACK." Again, "Corner," in the second line, could not in any language have ever rhymed with "HOMER." He knew that "Cromer" furnished them with a rhyme for "HOMER;" but if this were accepted, what became of the ancient Greek, of the Syriac, of the Phoenician, of the Nimrodic legends, nay, of the very Iliad itself, if "HOMER" were a native of "Cromer"? (Loud and prolonged cheers.) No! "Jack Horner," or, as it was originally written, "Jakorna," was of Scandinavian origin, and it was, in all probability, a mythmic rhyth—No, beg pardon, he should say a rhythmic myth (Cheers) sung by a wandering Sam Oar Troupe on their visiting Egypt and the Provinces before the time of the Celtic-Phoenician O'SIRIS, or at least before the reign of RAMESES THE FIRST, ancestor of the great Scotch RAMSEY family—(Cheers)—at one of the social entertainments given on a non-hunting day by that eminent sportsman NIMROD. Then came the question of where was "the corner" in which Jakorna secluded himself? Of course, Christmas, as differentiating this pie from all others, was a modern substitution. The original word was probably "Kosmik." (The lecture was still proceeding when our Reporter left, the dryness of the subject having unfortunately affected his throat.)
A CONNOISSEUR.
Sir Pompey Bedell. "THIS BOTTLE OF ROMANÉE-CONTI SEEMS RATHER CLOUDY, BROWN! IT OUGHT TO BE ALL RIGHT. I KNOW IT STANDS ME IN TWELVE GUINEAS A DOZEN!"
The New Butler. "THERE CERTAINLY HIS SOME SEDIMENT, SIR POMPEY; BUT IT'S OF NO CONSEQUENCE WHATEVER! I TRIED A BOTTLE OF IT MYSELF THE OTHER DAY, AND FOUND IT FIRST-RATE!"
"WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT?"
["The 'tehorni narod'—the inconceivably ill-used, patient, long-suffering 'black people,' as the moujiks of White Russia are grimly denominated by their rulers—are dying by thousands, of sheer starvation, without a hand being stretched out by the 'Tchin' to rescue them from the greedy jaws of Death."—Daily Telegraph.
The moujiks are remonstrating and even rebelling in consequence.]
"Little Father," we have suffered long, and sorrowed,
We the "children" of the wonderful White Tsar,
Steadfast patience from staunch loyalty have borrowed,
Slaved for Slavdom still in Peace, and died in War;
We have borne the yoke of power, and its abuses,
We have trusted cells and shackles served their turn;
Nay, that e'en the ruthless knout had noble uses;
Now we starve—and think—and burn.
"Little Father," is your power then so paternal
As in pious proclamation is set forth?
If the round earth bears a brand of the infernal,
Does the trail of it not taint our native North?
Ay, we love it as in truth we've ever loved it.
Our devotion, poorly paid, is firm and strong;
Have our little pitied miseries not proved it,
And our weary tale of wrong?
"Little Father," we are hungering now, neglected,
While the foreigner shouts praises in our ports;
We are honoured, say your scribes, loved, feared, respected,
The proud Frank, we fought for you, your friendship courts.
The golden price of it you hug most gladly.
Well, that price, what is its destined end and aim?
The indulgence of ambitions cherished madly?
The pursuit of warrior fame?
Your realm is ever widening, Tsar, and lengthening,
Though its peoples—your dear children—prosper not;
Railways stretching, boundaries creeping, legions strengthening!
And the end, O Tsar, is—where?—the purpose—what?
The Afghan, Tartar, Turk feel your advancing,
The Persian and the Mongol hear your tread,
And an eager watchful eye is eastward glancing
Where the Lion lifts his head.
And your children, "Little Father"? They are lying
In their thousands at your threshold, waiting death.
Gold you gather whilst your foodless thralls are dying!
Is appeal, oh Great White Tsar, but wasted breath?
On armaments aggressive are you spending
What might solace the "black people" midst their dead?
Of the millions the effusive Frank is lending
Is there nothing left for bread?
BOUILLABAISSE.
[There has been some correspondence lately about Bouillabaisse, and a writer in the Evening News (who misquotes THACKERAY) actually gives a recipe without oil!]
Our THACKERAY in ancient days,
Wrote of a very famous dish,
And said in stanzas in its praise,
'Twas made of several kinds of fish.
A savoury stew it is indeed,
And he's "in comfortable case"
Who finds before him at his need
A smoking dish of Bouillabaisse.
And now folks laud that dish again,
And o'er it raise a pretty coil,
While one rash man we see with pain,
Would dare to make it minus oil.
Oh! shade of TERRÉ, you no doubt
Would make once more the "droll grimace,"
At such a savage, who left out
The olive oil, in Bouillabaisse.
"THOUGHT-WAVES." (By an Un-Esoteric.)—The Theosophists talk mistily about "the concentration of mind-force on a thought-wave"—which seems only another way of saying that such minds are, at the time, "quite at sea."
"WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT?"
STARVING RUSSIAN PEASANT. "IS NONE OF THAT FOR ME, 'LITTLE FATHER'?"
FANCY PORTRAIT.
SIR W.V. HARCOURT,
THE "ODD FELLOW" OUT.
MONEY MAKES THE MAN.
(A Fragment from a Romance dedicated by Mr. Punch to Mr. Diggle.)
"It is entirely your own fault," said the intruder, as he put another silver tea-pot in his bag.
"I don't see that at all," replied the master of the house, moving uneasily in his chair.
"Well, I have not time to argue with you," returned the other, as he held up an enamelled ship of beautiful workmanship. "Dear me, this is really very fine. I have never seen anything like