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قراءة كتاب Punch, or The London Charivari, Vol. 62, January 20, 1872
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Punch, or The London Charivari, Vol. 62, January 20, 1872
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 62.
January 20, 1872.
COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON.
Fond Parent. "I hope you will be very Careful, Mr. Stimpson. I have always been accustomed to Cut their Hair myself."
Mr. Stimpson. "So I should have Thought, Madam!"
CASE OF REAL DISTRESS.
We do not covet the post of Prime Minister, nor yet that of Lord Chancellor, especially if, when Parliament re-assembles, a recent judicial appointment should be sharply discussed. We can think of the choice of a new Speaker without discontent with our own lowly lot, and at the present time envy of the Lord Chief Justice of the Common Pleas is not the predominant feeling in our breasts. But of all places, posts, offices, appointments, and dignities within the reach of an Englishman, the one which excites in us the least desire is that of "Examiner of Plays."
Who, with a heart, can resist feelings of the deepest commiseration, the most profound pity for the sufferings of another, when he hears that in twelve short years it has been the unhappy lot of the present Examiner to read one thousand eight hundred dramatic pieces—one thousand eight hundred tragedies, comedies, melodramas, farces, pantomimes, burlesques, and extravaganzas? There are labours which no salary can remunerate, services which no fees can requite.
A DISTINGUISHED "FRIEND."
"In consideration of a costly present which Mr. Joseph Pease, of South-end, Darlington, has made to the Spanish nation, the young King of that country has conferred upon him the Grand Cross of a Spanish order, and Mr. Pease, who is a Quaker, has agreed to accept the distinction."—Echo.
A Quaker a Grand Cross! We should as soon have expected to be introduced to a Quaker Field Marshal. Henceforth the sensation of surprise must be numbered amongst the lost feelings. Nothing now can move us more. Not the sun rising in the west, not the spectacle of an Irish Roman Catholic Bishop teaching in a Protestant Sunday school, not a Teetotal Lord Mayor, not the appointment of Mr. Tomline as Master of the Mint, or Sir Charles Dilke as Lord-Lieutenant of Middlesex, not the total abolition of the Income Tax, not the conversion of Mr. Whalley and Mr. Newdegate to Popery, not the purification of the streets,—no, not even the bestowal of the Grand Cross of our own Order of the Bath on some Englishman eminent in Art, Literature, or Science!
HOME-RULE.
Has Repeal, that in 'Forty was folly,
Grown sense in Eighteen-seventy-two?
Will the walls that defied Big Dan's volley,
Be by Butt's brass two-pounder split through?
Has Paddy, that still has craved ruling
And rulers, in wrong as in right,
Of a sudden out-grown schools and schooling,
And shot to Self-Government's height?
And was it but bottomless boasting,
With a point from Hibernian wit,—
That there ne'er yet was Irishman roasting,
But an Irishman's hand turned the spit?
Is it John that across the Atlantic
Stamps Pat Order's foe ever known;
And declares him a nuisance gigantic,
Till Yankee Home-Rule ousts his own?
Must hist'ry, as writ all untruly,
Like Hebrew, be read in reverse,
That, since Strong-Bow, shows Ireland unruly,
With lawlessness cursed as chief curse?
When the best of the race for home-ruling
Are those that Home-Rule most distrust;
As convinced that to trust Irish "tooling,"
Will bring Erin's car in the dust.
Home-Rule! 'Tis a compound sonorous,
Fine phrase on a green flag to fly;
But take stock of the stuff that's before us—
And who shall the Home-Rule supply?
Is't your own Irish Lords, Irish Commons,
Who adorned College Green long ago?
But to London would rather hear summons,
Than in Dublin be tied by the toe:
For the Greenest of all, the best brother
Of Pat in John Bull can discern;
And to cool English air from the smother
Of your factions, is thankful to turn.
Is't the Lawyers, who look for preferment,
Praise, pence, and distinction, o'er sea;
And when they have ris'n by your ferment,
Will be glad your close corking to see?
Is't your National Papers—press-razors,
Produced not to shave, but to sell—
Whose scribes might seem genuine blazers,
Did not conjurors spit fire as well?
Is't your Priests, with the gag and the blinders,
Which Church would fain use to tame Law:
Their pincers, for law-reason's grinders,
Their scissors, for lay-reason's claw?
Is't your Peasants, in feuds and in factions
Stark mad, for a nothing or name:
In their lodges, at murder's black pactions,
Or from a dyke-back taking aim?
In short, gauging all ranks and classes—
Those who are, or will be, by the ears—
The units, as well as the masses,
Lawyers, traders, priests, press, peasants, peers—
All ages, from seventy to twenty,
All shades, from deep knave to born fool—
I find means of "Home Mis-rule" in plenty,
But where are the means of "Home Rule"?
A Coming Retirement.
The Speaker's Commentary is already favourably known. We anticipate a very favourable commentary on the Speaker, when Parliament re-assembles.
"Donne's Satires."—Pantomimes without political jokes.
OUR POCKET-BOOK AGAIN.
eally, greatness has its multifold inconvenience. Falstaff wished that his name