قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 146, April 8, 1914

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Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 146, April 8, 1914

Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 146, April 8, 1914

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
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And from the still-remembering walls to wipe
All traces of a previous occupation—
Briefly, to light my pipe.

Paint is no hall-mark of a decent dwelling,
And moving furniture makes such a din;
The master's part shall be the ghost-dispelling—
That is where he comes in.
Forget not, while ye tramp with tread sonorous
The unclothed stairs and catch my weed's perfume,
That three mild spinsters had the house before us;
This was their morning-room.
Evoe.

A quotation in The Edinburgh Evening Dispatch of a verse of Mr. Robert Bridges' new poem ends like this:—

"From numbing stress and gloom profound
Madest escape in life desirous
To embroider her thin-spun robe."

[PARAGRAPH ADVERTISEMENT.]

'WHO'S THE LADY?'"

Perhaps the Poet Laureate will answer.


THE BOOK-BUYER.

There was plenty to eat, the landlord said, if the commercial gentlemen made no objection to my joining their table; and such objection was very unlikely, since nicer gentlemen you couldn't hope to meet.

He then went off to put the point to them, and they seem to have been very charming about it, judging by the cordiality and courtesy of the welcome which I received. Being, however, at the end of the table, I had but one neighbour, and he not a very communicative one, for, although he did at once lay down his knife and fork to tell me that the beef came from Scotland and was therefore more to be desired than the mutton, which was local, he said no more, and I was therefore left to eat in silence, my two vis-à-vis being engaged in a private conversation. Such little as from time to time I heard among the others was not much in my line, dealing as it did either with horses, Ulster, or Mexico; but suddenly a big man with a purple face and a signet ring as large as a carriage lamp plunged me into curiosity by remarking that he "never bought less than three two-shilling books a week, and sometimes four."

These being the last words I should have expected from him, for he looked absolutely the type that reads only a half-penny daily and a sporting sheet and puts in the rest of its leisure at gossip or cards, and as I am interested in people's taste in literature, I determined to improve his acquaintance and discover something as to his favourite authors; and again, as I made this resolve, I realised how foolish it is ever to expect the outside of a man to be any index of his mind. One never can tell, and one is always having further proof that one never can tell, and yet one goes on trying to tell.

Studying him in a series of glances, I set him down for a Nat Gould man.

The arrival of coffee and the departure of certain guests (wisely, as it happened,) who did not want that curious beverage, relaxed the table, and I moved up to the brave buyer of books. He received me affably, and we exchanged a few remarks on those ice-breaking matters of no importance upon which real convictions are not expected. Then, with a deft touch, I turned the talk to literature. "I suppose," I said, "with your long journeys you get plenty of time for reading?"

"Time enough," he said.

I continued by a reference to the advantages which we enjoyed over our fathers and grandfathers in the multiplicity of cheap books. "Those wonderful sevenpennies!" I said.

He agreed. He had often spent ten minutes at a junction in looking at them.

"And the shilling books," I said. "The more serious ones—'Everyman's Library,' and all that sort of thing. Most remarkable!"

He had noticed those too, but still he offered no views of his own.

I saw that he was one of the uncommunicative kind. Information must be drawn forcibly from him.

"And the two-shilling novels," I said—"they're wonderful too."

I But his eyes did not light; his I purple mask kept its secrets.

"The two-shilling ones," I repeated, with emphasis on the price. Hang it, how slow he was.

Still he said nothing.

"So much better than the old yellowbacks at that figure," I said.

He was, if anything, more silent.

Clearly I must plunge. "Who is your favourite writer?" I demanded, point-blank.

"I haven't got such a thing," he said.

Here's a strange thing, I thought. I suppose he's one of those mechanical readers who go through a book as a kind of dutiful pastime and never even notice the author's name.

"But you read a lot?" I suggested.

"Me? Good gracious, no," he said. "I don't read a book from one year's end to the other. Papers—oh, yes; but not books."

I was staggered.

"But I thought," I said, "that I heard you say a little while ago that you never bought fewer than three two-shilling books a week, and sometimes more?"

His purple took on a darker richer shade, which I subsequently discovered indicated the approach of mirth. He began to make strange noises, which in time I found meant laughter.

For a while he gave himself up to chromatic rumblings. At last, able to speak, he replied to me. "So I did say," he said; "so I did say I bought three two-shilling books a week. But not books to read"—here he became momentarily inarticulate again—"not books to read, but those little two-shilling books of stamps in red covers that you get at the post-office. I don't know where I should be without them."

Shade of Carnegie!


Injured Party

Injured Party (who has just been turned out of a public-house, explaining his little grievance). "Now, what d'you shay, conshable? d'you think I'm intoxicated?"

Constable. "Yes, I should certainly say you were."

Injured Party. "Well, I'm quite willing to be analysed."]


Musical Criticism.

"Sir John French had stultified himself singing the order."—Irish Independent.

Personally we sing it over to ourselves in the bath every morning—all except the last two paragraphs.


Messrs. Bell quote the following appreciative notice of one of their spelling books:—

"The spelling exercises, largely alliterative—e.g., 'A Beach-tree, a sandy beach'—are quite attractive, and once in the mind remain there."—School Guardian.

This attractive way of spelling "beech-tree" will not, we hope, remain indefinitely in the minds of our readers.


First Clubman.

First Clubman. "Well, how are you?"

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