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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, June 11, 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, June 11, 1892
and the other, without attempting to deny this, thinks "there may be more to see at Brussels." "Not more than there is here," says his friend: "all these places much about the same." "Well," says the first, yawning, "shall we stay where we are?" "Just as you please," says the other. "No; but what would you rather do?" ... "Me? oh, I'm entirely in your hands!" First man, who has had Green Chartreuse with his coffee and seems snappish, annoyed at this, and says, "it's dam nonsense going on like that." "Oh," says the second, "then you leave it to me—is that it?" "Haven't I been saying so all along!" growls the other. Second Undecided Man silent for a time, evidently forcing himself to come to a decision of some sort. At last he looks up with relief. "Well," he says, very slowly, "what do you think about it?" Whereupon they begin all over again. This indecision is catching—leave them.
In the Street—about 11:30 P.M.—Back from Variety Theatre. Hotel doors closed. Have rung several times—no result at present. Curious impression that I shall be hauled up before a Dean or somebody for this to-morrow and fined or gated. Wish they'd let me in—chilly out here. Is there a night-porter? If not—awkward. Carillon again from Cathedral tower. Ghost has managed to recollect a whole tune at last, picking it out with one finger. Seem to have heard it before—what the Dickens is it? Recognise it as the "Mandolinata in E." Remember the VOKES Family dancing to it long ago in the Drury Lane Pantomime. Not exactly the tune one would expect to meet in a Cathedral.... Unbolting behind doors. Nervous feeling. Half inclined to assure Porter penitently that this shall not occur again. Wish him good-night instead—pleasantly. Porter grunts—unpleasantly. Depressing to be grunted at the last thing at night. To bed, chastened.
THE MOAN OF THE MUSIC-HALL MUSE.
[It is hinted that the vogue of the tremendously successful but tyrannously ubiquitous "Ta-ra-ra-Boom-de-ay!" is beginning, at last, to wane.]
She museth upon "the Boom that waneth every day," and wondering what she shall "star" with next, breaketh forth into familiar strains:—
What shall I do now? My song was going
Like a tide flowing, all Booms beyond;
What shall I do, though, when critics hide it,
And cads deride it who're now so fond?
"Ta-ra-ra" chiding, "Boom-de-ay" deriding!—
Nought is abiding—that's sadly true!
I'll pray for another Sensation Notion.
With deep emotion—that's what I'll do!
(Gazes mournfully at her unstrung harp, and, smitten by another reminiscence, sings plaintively):—
The harp that once through Music Halls
Sheer maddening rapture shed,
Now hangs as mute on willow-walls
As though that Boom were dead.
So dims the pride of former days,
So fame's fine thrill is o'er,
And throngs who once yelled high with praise,
Now find the Boom a bore.
No more to toffs and totties bright
Thy tones, "Ta-ra-ra" swell.
The gloom that hailed my turn to-night
Sad tales of "staleness" tell.
The Chorus now will seldom wake,
The old mad cheers who gives?
And LOTTIE some new ground must break
To prove that still she lives.
She harketh back to the old strain:—
What would you do now if distant tidings,
Thy fame's confidings should undermine,—
Of some "Star" abiding 'neath other skies,
In the public eyes yet more bright than thine?
Oh, name it not! 'Twould bring shade and shame
On my new-made name, and it can't be true.
This far fame of mine, did some rival share it,
I could not bear it—what would I do?
What would you do, now, if home returning,
With anger burning at the fickle crew,
You found the prospect of another Boom,
To dispel your gloom—ah! what would you do?
Why then by Ta-Ra, I'd bless the morrow
And banish sorrow, and raise my "screw."
I'd re-string this Harp hung no more on the willow,
And with tears my pillow no more bedew.
TO BE, OR NOT TO BE—DISCOVERED!
SCENE—A Borough. TIME—Within measurable distance of the General Election. Enter BROWN and JONES.
Brown. Well JONES, I am glad to hear that you purpose standing for Parliament. You are a first-class man, and the House will be all the better for having your assistance.
Jones. You are mistaken, my dear BROWN. I did intend to stand for Parliament, but since the Archbishop has published his letter, I have determined to retire from the contest.
Brown. What nonsense! Why I, as you know, have been in the House for years and I assure you I have never met a more suitable man for the place. Why, my dear JONES, you are absolutely cut out for Parliament—absolutely cut out for it!
Jones (sadly). I wish I could think so. But alas, no, after the Archbishop's letter, I must, I will give it up.
Brown. Have you not made the question of the Criminal Code your own?
Jones. Yes, but I must admit (and I make the admission with shame) that years ago at school I was rightly accused of stealing apples.
Brown. And was the accusation believed—were you punished?
Jones (struggling with his emotion). Alas! it was, and I received (from the Bench) a severe reprimand. It brings the red blood into my cheeks—a severe reprimand!
Brown. Then you know all about the Libel Acts,—you are up in a slander?
Jones (bitterly). And should I not be? Do you not know that I was once fined ten shillings and costs for saying that a drunken cook was intoxicated!
Brown. Surely there was not much harm in that?
Jones. It was immoral to call the cook intoxicated, and the Archbishop says, "that persons previously condemned on grounds of immorality of all kinds are not proper legislators." Under the circumstances I have detailed, I should not be a proper legislator!
Brown. But look at me! Here am I living a free life, doing exactly what I please, and deserving the censure of the Bench five times a week! I will undertake to say that you are three times as good a fellow as I am; yet I am as certain of my seat as possible.
Jones (sadly). But there is a gulf between us—the gulf that divides not-entirely-conscious innocence and half-imaginary vice. You are safe, and I am not.
Brown. I don't see why! Why am I safe? Or rather let me mend the question—why do you think your chance of being elected so small?
Jones. Because, my dear BROWN, I have been found out!
[Scene closes in upon conventional virtue perfunctorily triumphant.