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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 105, July 8th 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 105, July 8th 1893
Punch, curiously enough, by the same post. Here they are, just as they were received:—
Dear Mr. Punch,—Will you allow me, through your columns, to thank the public for the brilliant way in which they are recognising my claims to distinction? As I walk through the streets I see evidence on all hands that on Thursday night London will be ablaze with "G. M."! Permit me, Sir, thus publicly to thank a discriminating public.—Yours Egoist-ically,
Dear Mr. Punch,—The Alderman in Art is beaten, and even the City is one continuous tribute to "G. M." Critics, envious of my Speaker reputation, may carp, and say the tribute's all gas—a half-truth, concealing truth; but the public evidently know where to look for the true critical insight. I am obliged to them, and I thank you for this opportunity of saying so.
Something that had been better left Unsaid. (By an ex-Old Bachelor, discontented with his condition in general, and his Mother-in-law in particular).—"I will!"
A Wedding Favour.—A reserved first-class compartment on the London, Chatham and Dover.
AD FRATREM.
By a Remonstrative Sister.
(See "Ad Examinatorem," Punch, July 1, 1893.)
Dear Tom, you astonished me quite
With your vigorous verses last week,
It will be an unceasing delight
In future, sweet brother, to speak
Of the family poet—yourself!
Yet I feel I must bid you beware.
It may not be nice, but the word of advice
Is your favourite, "Don't lose your hair!"
Yes, I own it was rather a blow
When they brought out the merciless list,
For you primed up the Pater, I know,
With such rubbish, and just would insist
The Exam. was as hard as could be.
Ah! you painted it all at the worst,
It was hard lines on you, Thomas, not to get through,
While the "crock" of a Maud got a first.
Still, why did you rush into print
With your torrent of bitter complaint?
To do so without the least hint,
Well, brotherly, dear, it quite ain't.
'Twere wiser and better by far
To have laid all the blame on a tooth,
For whatever's the use of a lovely excuse
If not in concealing the truth?
So bottle your anger, dear boy,
Forget how to shuffle and shirk,
Find intelligent purpose and joy
In a season of honest hard work.
You'll pass when you go in again,
And eclipse in the passing poor me;
For a girl, though she can beat the whole tribe of Man,
Isn't fit, Tom, to have a degree!
THE SONG OF THE SESSION.
Air—"What shall he have that kill'd the Deer?"
What must he have who'd kill the Bill?
A leathern skin, and a stubborn will.
Brummagem's his home.
Take then no shame to name his name!
Bill-slaughtering is his little game.
He'd be its death—he swore it,
As limb from limb he tore it—
The Bill, the Bill, the lusty Bill!
Is it a thing Brum Joe can kill?
A TESTIMONIAL MANQUÉ.
(A Sketch from the Suburbs.)
The Argument—Mr. Hotspur Porpentine, a distinguished resident in the rising suburb of Jerrymere, has recently been awarded fourteen days' imprisonment, without the option of a fine, for assaulting a ticket-collector, who had offered him the indignity of requiring him to show his season-ticket at the barrier. The scene is a Second-Class Compartment, in which four of Mr. Porpentine's neighbours are discussing the affair during their return from the City.
Mr. Cockcroft (warmly). I say, Sir—and I'm sure all here will bear me out—that such a sentence was a scandalous abuse of justice. As a near neighbour, and an intimate friend of Porpentine's, I don't 'esitate to assert that he has done nothing whatever to forfeit our esteem. He's a quick-tempered man, as we're all aware, and to be asked by some meddlesome official to show his season, after travelling on the line constantly for years, and leaving it at home that morning—why—I don't blame him if he did use his umbrella!
Mr. Balch. (sympathetically). Nor I. Porpentine's a man I've always had a very 'igh respect for ever since I came into this neighbourhood. I've always found him a good feller, and a good neighbour.
Mr. Filkins (deferentially). I can't claim to be as intimate with him as some here; but, if it isn't putting myself too far forward to say so, I very cordially beg to say ditto to those sentiments.
Well, he's had a sharp lesson,—there's no denying that."
Mr. Sibbering (who has never "taken to" Porpentine). Well, he's had a sharp lesson,—there's no denying that.
Mr. Cocker. Precisely, and it occurs to me that when he—ah—returns to public life, it would be a kind thing, and a graceful thing, and a thing he would—ah—appreciate in the spirit it was intended, if we were to present him with some little token of our sympathy and unabated esteem—what do you fellers think?
Mr. Filk. A most excellent suggestion, if my friend here will allow me to say so. I, for one, shall be proud to contribute to so worthy an object.
Mr. Balch. I don't see why we shouldn't present him with an address—'ave it illuminated, and framed and glazed; sort of thing he could 'ang up and 'and down to his children after him as an heirloom, y' know.
Mr. Sibb. I don't like to throw cold water on any proposition, but if you want my opinion, I must say I see no necessity for making a public thing of it in that way.
Mr. Cocker. I'm with Sibbering there. The less fuss there is about it, the better Porpentine'll be pleased. My idea is to give him something of daily use—a useful thing, y' know.
Mr. Balch. Useful or ornamental. Why not his own portrait? There's many an artist who would do him in oils, and guarantee a likeness, frame included, for a five-pound note.
Mr. Sibb. If it's to be like Porpentine, it certainly won't be ornamental, whatever else it is.
Mr. Filk. It can't be denied that he is remarkably plain in the face. We'd