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قراءة كتاب Punch, Or The London Charivari, Volume 102, January 23, 1892
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 102, January 23, 1892
There was a time when idle tales
Could set your heart aflame;
But now the novel nought avails,
Philosophy's your game.
You talk of SCHOPENHAUER with zest,
And pessimistic teaching;
Believe me that I loved you best
Before you took to preaching.
There's still some loveliness in life,
Despite what cynics say;
It is not all ignoble strife,
That greets us on our way.
Then prithee smooth that pretty brow,
So exquisitely knitted;
Mankind in general, I trow,
Can do without being pitied.
We'll linger over fans and frills,
Discuss dress bit by bit,
As in days when the worst of ills
Were frocks that would not fit.
'Twas frivolous, but I'm content
To hear you talk at random;
For life is not all argument,
And "Quod est demonstrandum."
You smile, 'twill cost you then no pang,
To be yourself once more,
To let philosophy go hang,
With every Buddhist bore.
"Pro aris," like a Volunteer,
A girl should be, "et focis;"
Supposing then you try, my dear,
A new metempsychosis.
A COMPLICATED CASE.—The careless little boy who caught a cold from his cousin, caught it hot from his mother afterwards.
VENICE IN LONDON.
(By a Mosquito "out of it.")
Oh, it's all very fine, Mr. IMRE KARALFY,
Thus to blazon your "Venice in London" around,
To portray the Piazzetta for 'ARRY and ALFY,
But dispense with my tintinnabulary sound.
Ask the Tourist if, reft of my wee fellow-creatures,
On the face of the waters (and watermen) blown,
He can honestly recognise Venice's features
In their miniature—or, for that matter, his own.
Ever watchful, we guard, Messrs. ALFY and 'ARRY,
With our trumpet and spear for the Doges, their mute,
Opalescent, profanity-proof sanctuary,
And we swell the lagoon—and lagoonster, to boot.
Stare away at this pageant of eld—ever new 'tis,—
In the glimmering gondolas loll, if you like;
But I'll warrant one eye would be closed to their beauties,
Could I only escape for a second on strike.
Could I quiver concealed by yon mimic Rialto,
Till I swooped with a warrior's music and swing,
Were I only allowed, as I ought, and I shall, to
Be avenged on your barbarous hordes with my sting.
I would tilt at the fogs that mock Italy's glory,
I would pounce on the rabble—an insolent fry;—
With my forefathers' motto, "Pro Patria mori,"
I'd annihilate ALFY and 'ARRY—and die!
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
The Real Japan is the title modestly given by Mr. HENRY NORMAN to his book published by FISHER UNWIN. This, my "CO." remarks, seems to imply that all the rest (including the lady BIRD's not unknown work) is, as the Gentleman in trouble, who wanted to secure the advocacy of Mr. Jaggers, said, "cagmagger." This tone of bumptiousness is occasionally apparent in passages of the book, and is perhaps sufficiently explained by the circumstance, mentioned in the preface, that a number of the papers originally appeared in the Pall Mall Gazette. Foible apart, HENRY the Norman has contributed an interesting chapter to the history of a singularly attractive people. There is nothing new in the heavier parts, which smell vilely of Blue Books, and might as well have been written in Northumberland Street as in Yokohama. HENRY is best in the glimpses he gives of the people living their daily life—in the hands of justice, at school, working at their Arts and Crafts, dining and dancing.
In The Poet's Audience and Delilah, CLARA SAVILE CLARKE (whether Miss or Mrs. the Baron is unaware, and must apologise for stating the name as it appears tout court) has written two interesting but tragic stories. The Baron does not like being left in doubt as to the fate of any hero or heroine in whom he may have been interested, and therefore calls for "part second" to the first story. Delilah, short and dramatic. The Baron shrinks from correcting a lady's grammar, but to say "Mrs. Randal Morgan lay down the law" is not the best Sunday English as she is spoke. From Fin-de-Siècle Stories, by Messrs LAWRENCE AND CADETT, the Baron selects "A Wife's Secret" (nothing to do with the old play of that name), "Mexico," and "Honour is Satisfied." Try these, and you'll have had a fine specimen of an interesting passe-temps collection says,
In an article on the Salvationist disturbances at Eastbourne, the Times said that after the scuffle, "the Army reformed its dishevelled battalions, and marched back to its 'citadel' without molestation." In another sense, the sooner a reformation of the entire Army is effected in the exercise of Christian charity, which means consideration for their neighbours' feelings, the better for themselves and for the non-combatants of every denomination.
"A BAR MESS."—Recent difficulties about latitude of Counsel in Cross-examination.
OF THE WORLD WORLDLY.
"THERE GO THE SPICER WILCOXES, MAMMA! I'M TOLD THEY'RE DYING TO KNOW US. HADN'T WE BETTER CALL?"
"CERTAINLY NOT, DEAR. IF THEY'RE DYING TO KNOW US, THEY'RE NOT WORTH KNOWING. THE ONLY PEOPLE WORTH OUR KNOWING ARE THE PEOPLE WHO DON'T WANT TO KNOW US!"
THE BRIDAL WREATH.
IN MEMORIAM
H.R.H. THE DUKE OF CLARENCE AND AVONDALE.
BORN, JAN. 8, 1864. DIED, JAN. 14, 1892.
"I thought thy bridal to have deck'd ...
And not have strew'd thy grave."—Hamlet.
But yesterday it seems,
That, dreaming loyal dreams,
Punch, with the People, genially rejoiced
In that Betrothal Wreath;1
And now relentless Death
Silences all the joy our hopes had voiced.
The Shadow glides between;
The garland's vernal green
Shrivels to greyness in its spectral hand.
Joy-bells are muffled, mute,
Hushed is the bridal lute,
And general grief darkens across