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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, October 22, 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 103, October 22, 1892
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 103.
October 22, 1892.
IN MEMORIAM.
William Hardwick Bradbury.
Born, Dec. 3, 1832. Died, Oct. 13, 1892.
Large-hearted man, most loyal friend,
Art thou too gone—too early lost?
Our comrade true, our tireless host!
Prompt to inspire, console, defend!
Gone! Hearts with grateful memories stored
Ache for thy loss round the old board.
The well-loved board he loved so well,
His pride, his care, his ceaseless thought;
To him with life-long memories fraught;
For him invested with the spell
O'er a glad present ever cast
By solemn shadows of the past.
That past for him, indeed, was filled
With a proud spirit-retinue.
Greatness long since his guest he knew.
Whom THACKERAY's manly tones had thrilled;
Who heard keen JERROLD's sparkling speech,
And marked the genial grace of LEECH.
What changes had he known, who sat
With our four chiefs, of each fast friend!
And must such camaraderie end?
Shall friendly counsel, cordial chat,
Come nevermore again to us
From lips with kindness tremulous?
No more shall those blue eyes ray out
Swift sympathy, or sudden mirth;
That ever mobile mouth give birth
To frolic whim, or friendly flout?
Our hearts will miss thee to the end,
Amphitryon generous, faithful friend!
Miss thee? Alas! the void that's there
No other form may hope to fill,
For those who now with sorrow thrill
In gazing on that vacant chair;
Whither it seems he must return,
For whose warm hand-clasp yet we yearn.
Tribute to genius all may give,
Ours is the homage of the heart;
For a friend lost our tears will start,
Lost to our sight, yet who shall live,
Whilst one who knew that bold frank face
At the old board takes the old place.
For those, his closer kin, whose home
Is darkened by the shadow grey,
What can respectful love but pray
That consolation thither come
In that most sacred soothing guise
Which natural sorrow sanctifies.
Bereavement's anguish to assuage
Is a sore task that lies beyond
The scope of friendship or most fond
Affection's power. Yet may this page,
True witness of our love and grief,
To bowed hearts bring some scant relief!
"ANECDOTAGE."
Companion Paragraph to Stories of the same kind.
CURRAN, the celebrated Irish Patriot, was a man of intense wit and humour. On one occasion he was discussing with RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN the possibility of combining the interests of the two countries under one Crown. "It is a difficult matter to arrange," observed the brilliant author of the School for Scandal, "Right you are, darlint," acquiesced CURRAN, with the least taste of a brogue. "But where are ye to find the spalpeens for it? Ye may wake so poor a creature as a sow, but it takes a real gintleman to raise the rint!" Then, with a twinkle in his eyes, "But, for all that, ma cruiskeen, I'm not meself at all at all!"
THE LAY OF A SUCCESSFUL ANGLER.
The dainty artificial fly
Designed to catch the wily trout,
Full loud laudabunt alii,
And I will join, at times, no doubt,
But yet my praise, without pretence,
Is not from great experience.
I talk as well as anyone
About the different kinds of tackle,
I praise the Gnat, the Olive Dun,
Discuss the worth of wings and hackle;
I've flies myself of each design,
No book is better filled than mine.
But when I reach the river's side
Alone, for none of these I wish.
No victim to a foolish pride.
My object is to capture fish;
Let me confess, then, since you ask it—
A worm it is which fills my basket!
O brown, unlovely, wriggling worm,
On which with scorn the haughty look,
It is thy fascinating squirm
Which brings the fattest trout to book,
From thee unable to refrain,
Though flies are cast for him in vain!
Deep gratitude to thee I feel,
And then, perhaps, it's chiefly keen,
When rival anglers view my creel,
And straightway turn a jealous green;
And, should they ask me—"What's your fly?"
"A fancy pattern," I reply!
SWORD AND PEN;
Or, The Rival Commanders.
(Extract from a Military Story of the near Future.)
Captain Pipeclay was perplexed when his Company refused to obey him. He was considered a fairly good soldier, but not up to date. He might know his drill, he might have read his Queen's Regulations, but he had vague ideas of the power of the Press.
"You see, Sir," remonstrated his Colour-Sergeant; "if the rear rank think they should stand fast when you give the command 'Open order!' it is only a matter of opinion. You may be right, or you may be wrong. Speaking for myself, I am inclined to fancy that the men are making a mistake; but you can't always consider yourself omniscient."
"Sergeant," returned the officer, harshly; "it is not the business of men to argue, but to obey."
"Pardon me again, Sir, but isn't that slightly old-fashioned? I know that theoretically you have reason on your side; but then in these days of the latter end of the nineteenth century, we must not he bound too tightly to precedent."
The Captain bit his moustache for the fourth time, and then again gave the order. But there was no response. The Company moved not a muscle.
"This is mutiny!" cried the officer. "I will break everyone of you. I will put you all in the cells; and in the orderly room to-morrow morning, we will soon see if there is such a thing as discipline."
"Discipline!" repeated the Sergeant. "Beg your pardon, Sir, but I don't think the men understand what you mean. The word is not to be found in the most recent dictionaries."
And certainly things seemed to be reaching a climax, for however much the Commander might shout, not one of the rank and file stirred an inch. It was at this moment that a cloaked figure approached the parade-ground. The new-comer strode about with a bearing that suggested one accustomed to receive obedience.
"What is the matter?" asked the Disguised One.
"I can't get my men to obey me," explained the Captain. "I have been desiring them to take open order for the last ten minutes, and they remain as they were."
"What have they to say in their defence?" was the inquiry of the Man in the Cloak.