قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98, February 8, 1890
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Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98, February 8, 1890
Olympian Barnum has done much good for himself, seeing how gigantic the expenses must be; and certainly he can't have done good to the theatres. As to Shows, "The more the merrier" does not hold good. "The fewer the better" is nearer the mark in every sense, and perhaps the experience of this season may suggest even to Druriolanus to give the public still more fun for their money (and there is plenty of genuine fun in Jack and the Beanstalk), with less show, in less time, and at consequently less expense to himself, and with, therefore, bigger profits. We shall see.
"Mr. Gladstone desires that ALL LETTERS, &c., should be addressed to him at 10, St. James's Square, London."—Standard, Jan. 25.
Why should "all letters" be addressed to Mr. Gladstone? Isn't anybody else to have any? How about Valentine's Day? Will "all letters" be addressed to him then? If so—then the above Illustration conveys only a feeble idea of the result.
FELINE AMENITIES.
Fair Hostess (to Mrs. Masham, who is looking her very best). "Howdydo, Dear? I hope you're not so Tired as you look!"
THE FINISHING TOUCH;
Or, Preparing for Mr. Speaker's Party.
Ah! he's ready now, thanks be!
But a plaguier child than he
I am sure we Nusses three
Never dressed.
But at last we have got through;
Well-curled hair, and sash of blue!
Yes, we rather think he'll do,
Heaven be blessed!
Ah! the awful time it took!
Never mind; by hook or crook
We have togged him trimly. Look!
There he stands!
His long wailings nearly hushed,
Buttoned, pinned, oiled, combed and brushed,
And his tight glove-fingers crushed
On his hands.
Does us credit, don't you think?
How the chit would writhe and shrink,
Get his garments in a kink
Every way!
Awful handful, hot and heady,
Shuffling round, ne'er standing steady,
Feared we'd never get him ready
For the day.
Mr. Speaker's Party,—yes!
Hope he'll be a great success;
His clean face and natty dress
Ought to please.
But there'll be no end of eyes
On his buttons, hooks, and ties;
Prompt to chaff and criticise,
Tear and tease.
There'll be many an Irish boy
Who will find it his chief joy
To upset and to annoy
The young Turk;
And, with no particular call,
Try to make him squeal and squall,
Disarrange him, after all
Our hard work.
Not to mention other lads,
Regular rowdy little Rads,
Full of ill-conditioned fads,
And mean spite;
Who will pinch and pull the hair
Of our charge who's standing there,
After all our patient care
Right and tight.
For we know they don't like us,
And they're sure to scold and cuss
The tired three, and raise a fuss
And a pother
About Hopeful here. Heigho!
But he's ready, dears, to go.
Ah! they little little know
All our bother!
On our hands heaven knows how long
We have had him. 'Twould be wrong
To indulge in language strong;
But how hearty
Is our joy that we have done!
There now, Reppy, off you run!
Only hope you'll have good fun
At the Party!
