قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari. Volume 1, July 31, 1841
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 1, July 31, 1841
ran:—
“Vy, a man shied at an oss, and so
An oss shied at a man!”
Oh, fearful crash! oh, fearful smash!
At such a rate we run,
That presently the Comet came
In contact with the Sun.
At that sad time each body felt,
As parting with its soul,
We were, indeed, a little whirl’d,
And shook from pole to pole!
Dunn, the miller of Wimbledon, has recently given his infant the Christian name of Cardigan. If there is truth in the adage of “give a dog a bad name and hang him,” the poor child has little else in perspective than the gallows.
PRAY DON’T TELL THE GOVERNOR.
A SONG OF TON.
Why, y-e-s—‘twas rather late last night;
In fact, past six this morning.
My rascal valet, in a fright,
Awoke, and gave me warning.
But what of that?—I’m very young.
And you’ve “been in the Oven,” or,
Like me, you’re wrong’d by rumour’s tongue,
So—pray don’t tell the Governor.11. The author is aware there exists a legitimate rhyme for Porringer, but believes a match for governor lies still in the terra incognita of allowable rhythm.
I dined a quarter after seven,
With Dashall of the Lancers;
Went to the opera at eleven,
To see the ballet-dancers.
From thence I saunter’d to the club—
Fortune to me’s a sloven—or,
I surely must have won one rub,
But—mind! don’t tell the Governor!
I went to Ascot t’other day,
Drove Kitty in a tandem;
Upset it ’gainst a brewer’s dray—
I’d dined, so drove at random.
I betted high—an “outside” won—
I’d swear its hoofs were cloven, or
It ne’er the favourite horse had done,
But—don’t you tell the Governor.
My cottage ornée down at Kew,
So picturesque and pretty,
Cost me of thousands not a few,
To fit it up for Kitty.
She said it charm’d her fancy quite,
But (still I can’t help loving her)
She bolted with the plate one night—
You needn’t tell the Governor.
My creditors are growing queer,
Nay, threaten to be furious;
I’ll scan their paltry bills next year,
At present I’m not curious.
Such fellows are a monstrous bore,
So I and Harry Grosvenor
To-morrow start for Gallia’s shore,
And leave duns—to the Governor.
THE EXPLOSIVE BOX.
Sir Hussey Vivian was relating to Sir Robert Peel the failure of the Duke of Normandie’s experiment with a terrible self-explosive box, which he had buried in a mound at Woolwich, in the expectation that it would shortly blow up, but which still remains there, to the great terror of the neighbourhood, who are afraid to approach the spot where this destructive engine is interred. Sir Robert, on hearing the circumstance, declared that Lord John Russell had served him the same trick, by burying the corn-law question under the Treasury bench. No one knew at what moment it might explode, and blow them to ——. “The question,” he added, “now is—who will dig it out?”
EXCLUSIVE INTELLIGENCE.
(From OUR West-end and “The Observer’s” Correspondent.)
We have every reason to believe, unless a very respectable authority, on whom we are in the habit of relying, has grievously imposed upon us, that a very illustrious personage has consulted a certain exalted individual as to whether a certain other person, no less exalted than the latter, but not so illustrious as the former, shall be employed in a certain approaching event, which at present is involved in the greatest uncertainty. Another individual, who is more dignified than the third personage above alluded to, but not nearly so illustrious as the first, and not half so exalted as the second, has nothing whatever to do with the matter above hinted at, and it is not at all probable that he will be ever in the smallest way mixed up with it. For this purpose we have cautiously abstained from giving his name, and indeed only allude to him that there may be no misapprehension on this very delicate subject.
ANIMAL MAGNETISM.
The Times gives a horrible description of some mesmeric experiments by a M. Delafontaine, by which a boy was deprived of all sensation. We suspect that some one has been operating upon the Poor Law Commissioners, for their total want of feeling is a mesmeric phenomenon.
ON SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, BART., not M.P. FOR LINCOLN.
That Bulwer’s from fair Lincoln bann’d,
Doth threaten evil days;
For, having much waste time on hand,
Alas! he’ll scribble plays.
THE NEW HOUSE.
“This is the House that Jack (Bull) built.”
Once there lived, as old histories learnedly show, a
Great sailor and shipbuilder, named MISTER NOAH,
Who a hulk put together, so wondrous—no doubt of it—
That all sorts of creatures could creep in and out of it.
Things with heads, and without heads, things dumb, things loquacious,
Things with tails, and things tail-less, things tame, and things pugnacious;
Rats, lions, curs, geese, pigeons, toadies and donkeys,
Bears, dormice, and snakes, tigers, jackals, and monkeys:
In short, a collection so curious, that no man
E’er since could with NOAH compare as a show-man
At length, JOHNNY BULL, with that clever fat head of his,
Design’d a much stranger and comical edifice,
To be call’d his “NEW HOUSE”—a queer sort of menagerie
To hold all his beasts—with an eye to the Treasury.
Into this he has cramm’d such uncommon monstrosities,
Such animals rare, such unique curiosities,
That we wager a CROWN—not to speak it uncivil—
This HOUSE of BULL’S beats Noah’s Ark to the devil.
Lest you think that we bounce—the great fault, we confess, of men—
We proceed to detail some few things, as a specimen
Of what are to be found in this novel museum;
As it opens next month, you may all go and see ‘em.
Five Woods, of five shades, grain, and polish, and gilding,
Are used this diversified chamber in building.
Not a nail, bolt, or screw, you’ll discover to lurk in it,
Though six Smiths you will find every evening at work in it.
A Forman and Master you’ll see there appended too,
Whose words or instructions are never attended to.
A Leader, whom nobody follows; a pair o’ Knights,
With courage at ninety degrees of old Fahrenheit’s;
Full a hundred “Jim Crows,” wheeling round about—round about,
Yet only one Turner’s this House to be found about.
Of hogs-heads, Lord knows, there are plenty to spare of them,
But only one Cooper is kept to take care of them.
A Ryder’s
