قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 104, January 21, 1893
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 104, January 21, 1893
And "Smacky-Smack" for "Tiddlums,"—Isn't hers a tile?—
"Salvation Sue"—the stiffest of stiff jobs—
For roopy-raspy-voiced and vain "Œolia,"
Who dubs herself the Schneider-Patti Blend;
And now, a prey to stone-broke melancholia,
I sit and rack my fancy, to no end!
My ink runs dry, my wits seem gone wool-gathering;
And yet I know that over half the town
My "stuff" the Stars are blaring, bleating, blathering,
Sacking a tenner where I pouch a crown.
I know that my—anonymous—smart verses,
Are piling oof for middlemen in sacks,
My verse brings pros. seal-coats and well-stuffed purses
My back care bows, whilst profits lade their backs.
If you'll show me any "Poet" more prolific,
If you'll point to any "patterer" more smart,
One whose "patriotic" zeal is more terrific,
Who can give me at snide slang the slightest start,
Who can fit a swell, a toff, a cad, a coster,
At the very shortest notice, as I can,
Why, unless he is a swaggering impostor,
I will gladly hail him as the Coming Man!
But he'll have to be a dab at drunken drivel,
And he'll have to be a daisy at sick gush,
To turn on the taps of swagger and of snivel,
Raise the row-de-dow heel-chorus and hot flush.
He must know the taste of sensual young masher,
As well as that of aitch-omitting snob;
And then—well, I'll admit he is a dasher,
Who, as Laureate (of the Halls) is "on the job!"
[Left lamenting.
THE MAN FROM BLANKLEY'S.
A Story in Scenes
Scene I.—Breakfast-room at No. 92a, Porchester Square, Bayswater. Rhubarb-green and gilt paper, with dark olive dado: curtains of a nondescript brown. Black marble clock on grey granite mantelpiece; Landseer engravings; tall book-case, containing volumes of "The Quiver," "Mission-Work in Mesopotamia," a cheap Encyclopedia, and the "Popular History of Europe." Time, about 9:45. Mr. Montague Tidmarsh is leaving to catch his omnibus. Mrs. T. is at her Davenport in the window.
Mr. T. (from the door). Anything else you want me to do, Maria?
Mrs. T. Don't forget the turbot—and mind you choose it yourself—and the lobster for the sauce—oh, and look in at Seakale's as you pass, and remind him to be here punctually at seven, to help Jane with the table, and say I insist on his waiting in clean white gloves; and be home early yourself, and—there, if he hasn't rushed off before I remembered half——(Mr. T. re-appears at the door.) What is it now, Montague? I do wish you'd start, and have done with it, instead of keeping Jane at the front door, when she ought to be clearing away breakfast!
Mr. T. Very sorry, my love—I was just going, when I met a Telegraph-boy with this, for you, I hope there's nothing wrong with Uncle Gabriel, I'm sure.
Mrs. T. Don't stand there holding it—give it to me. (She opens it.) "Regret impossible dine to-night—lost Great Aunt very suddenly.—Buckram." How provoking of the man! And I particularly wished him to meet Uncle Gabriel, because he is such a good listener, and they would be sure to get on together. As if he hadn't all the rest of the year to lose his Aunt in!
Mr. T. That's Buckram all over. Never can depend upon that fellow. (Gloomily.) Now we shall be thirteen at table!
Mrs. T. Nonsense, Montague—we can't be! Let me see—Uncle Gabriel and Aunt Joanna, two; the Ditchwaters, four; Bodfishes, six; Toomers, eight; Miss Bugle, nine; Mr. Poffley, ten; Cecilia Flinders, eleven, ourselves—we are thirteen! And I know Uncle will refuse to sit down at all if he notices it; and, anyway, it is sure to cast a gloom over the whole thing. We must get somebody!
Mr. T. Couldn't that Miss—what's her name? Seaton—dine, for once?
Mrs. T. The idea, Montague! Then there would be one Lady too many—if you can call a Governess a Lady, that is. And I do so disapprove of taking people out of their proper station.
