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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 93, October 15th 1887
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اللغة: English
Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 93, October 15th 1887
الصفحة رقم: 1
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOLUME 93, October 15th 1887.
edited by Sir Francis Burnand.
'ARRY ON OCHRE
Dear Charlie,
Hoctober, my 'arty, and 'Arry, wus luck! 's back in town, Where it's all gitting messy and misty; the boollyvard trees is all brown, Them as ain't gone as yaller as mustard. I do 'ate the Autumn, dear boy, When a feller 'as spent his last quid, and there's nothink to do or enjoy.
Cut it spicy, old man, by the briny, I did, and no error. That Loo Was a rattler to keep up the pace whilst a bloke 'ad a brown left to blue. Cleared me out a rare bat, I can tell yer; no Savings Bank lay about her. Yah!—Women is precious like cats, ony jest while you strokes 'em they purr.
Lor', to think wot a butterfly beauty I was when I started, old pal! Natty cane, and a weed like a hoop-stick, and now!—oh, well, jigger that gal! Cut me slap in the Strand ony yesterday, Charlie, so 'elp me, she did. Well, of sech a false baggage as Loo is, yours truly is jolly well rid.
Wot a thing this yer Ochre is, Charlie! The yaller god rules us all round. Parsons patter of poverty's pleasures! I tell yer they ain't to be found. If you 'aven't the ha'pence you're nothink; bang out of it, slap up a tree. That's a moral, as every man as is not a mere mug must agree.
They talks of "the Masses and Classes,"—old Collars is red on that rot!— There is ony two classes, old pal, them as 'as it and them as 'as not. The Ochre, I mean, mate, the spondulicks, call the dashed stuff wot you please. It's the Lucre as makes Life worth livin', without it things ain't wuth a sneeze.
O Charlie, I wish I'd got millions! I ought to be rich, and no kid. I feel I wos made for it, Charlie. To watch every bloomin' arf quid, Like a pup at a rat 'ole is beastly. Some stingy 'uns carn't go the pace, But I know I should turn out a flyer, and so ought to be in the race.
Oh, it ain't every juggins, I tell yer, who's built for the bullion, dear boy! You must know the snide game that's called "Grab," you must know what it means to "enjoy." Neither one without tother's much use, but the true Ochre Kings are the chaps As can squeeze millions out of "the Masses." They win in life's game, mate, by laps.
That's jest wot "the Masses" is made for; them asses I calls 'em, old man, Same letters, same thing, dontcher know. Yus, Socierty's built on this plan. Many littles makes lots, that's the maxim; and he is the snide 'un, no doubt, Who can squeeze his lot out of the littles of half the poor mugs who're about.
Twig, Charlie, old twister? Yer sweaters, yer Giant Purviders, and such Is all on that lay. Many buds, and one big bloated Bee, that's the touch! Wy, if bees was as many as blossoms, or blossoms as few as the bees, Him as nicked a whole hive to hisself would find dashed little honey to squeeze.
The honey—or money—wants massing, that's jest wot the Masses can do— And the "Classes," my boy, are the picked 'uns, as know 'ow to put on the screw. That's the doctrine of "Dannel the Dosser," a broken-down toff, as I know; And if Dannel ain't right, I'm a Dutchman. That's ow yer big money-piles grow.
Rum party the Dosser is, Charlie—I can't make him out, mate, not quite. Laps beer, when he can, like a bricky, though brandy's his mark. His delight Is to patter to me about Swelldom, Socierty, wot he calls gammon— That's Ochre, dear boy, dontcher know. I suppose arf his gab is sheer mammon.
He eyes me in sech a rum style, Charlie, sort of arf smile and arf sneer, Though he owns I'm a Dasher right down to the ground—when he's well on the beer. A pot and a pipe always dror him, and I'm always game to stand Sam, For his patter's A1, and I pump 'im,—a lay as he stands like a lamb.
"You ought to be rich, my young Cloten!" sez he. It's a part of his game To call me nicknames out of Shakspeare, and so on; but "Wot's in a name?" "My brain and your 'eart now together, would make a rare Dives," says "Dosser." I don't always know wot he means, and I doubt if he does, poor old josser!
'Owsomever, the Ochre's my toppic. Some jugginses talk about "Thrift," Penny Savings' Bank bosh, and that stuff. Wouldn't 'ave their dashed brains at a gift.
Save, hay,—out of two quid a week! No, it doesn't fetch me in that shape. You must swag in this world to get rich; if yer carn't, it's no bottles to scrape.
Save, hay,—out of two quid a week! No, it doesn't fetch me in that shape. You must swag in this world to get rich; if yer carn't, it's no bottles to scrape.
The Turf or the Stock Exchange, Charlie, would suit me, I'd trust to my luck, And my leariness, not to get plucked like that silly young Ailesbury duck, Wot's life without sport? Wy, like billiards without e'er a bet or a fluke, And that's wy I'd be a Swell Bookie—that is if I carn't be a Dook.
In fact if I 'ad my own chice, I should jest like to double the part, As I fancy a few on 'em do. Oh, Jemimer! jest give me a start. With a 'undered or two, and the Ochre I'd pile 'twould take waggons to carry. The world loses larks, mate, you bet, when among the stone-brokers is
'Arry.
Turning To the Left.—At a recent meeting of the Court of Common Council (in the teeth of a strong opposition of some of the members of the Board) it was decided to exclude strangers and the Press during a part of the proceedings. The matter under secret consideration, it is said, was the appointment by the Recorder of the