You are here
قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, November 4th 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, November 4th 1893
edited by Sir Francis Burnand
SELF-HELP.
Monday.—Am sick of paying all these doctor's bills. Have just seen an advertisement of The Domestic Doctor, a Dictionary of Medicine, issued in monthly parts. The very thing for a man like me, somewhat delicate. Hasten to secure Part I. Shall now be able to doctor myself and save all fees. Delightful! To celebrate emancipation ask Jones and Robinson to dinner at club. No need for economy now. Jolly good dinner. That club port is excellent.
Tuesday.—Feel rather seedy. Pain in head. No appetite. Just the time to make use of Domestic Doctor. Capital book. Hullo! Well, I'll be hanged! Never thought of that. The beastly thing's alphabetical, and only gets to "Chilblain." No good to look out "Headache." Ah, perhaps "Ache." No go. "Appetite?" But appetite isn't a disease, except in men like Banting. Absolutely no use whatever. Still, will not be conquered. Shall get another part in a month. Until then take great care only to have complaints up to Ch. Can always fall back on Chilblain. Take it easy, with B. and S. in moderate doses when required, and begin to feel better.
Wednesday.—Just cut my finger. Feel somewhat nervous. Remember vaguely that lock-jaw often follows a wound on the hand. Ha! My dictionary. "Cuts." Ah, no. "Cuts" come after "Chilblain." They will be in Part II. Bandage wound, and prepare for the worst. Sit with mouth wide open as best attitude for approaching lockjaw. Can then at least be fed. If, however, it really comes, shall be dead before Part VII. of the Dictionary is out. Anyhow, will not send for a doctor.
Thursday.—Hooray! Finger and jaw both well. Somehow left boot feels uncommonly tight. Can't walk at all. That fool Phust has made this pair too narrow. Feels as though there were something on my toe. By Jove, so there is! Where's the Dictionary? Chilblain? Can't be a chilblain this mild weather. Of course not; it's a corn. Look out "Corn." Oh, hang it, just too far! But, bright idea, perhaps it's a bunion. Look out "Bunion." Hullo, what's this? "Bunion, see Corn." Well, of all the confounded——Positively can't walk till next month. Lie on sofa under open window to get as much air as possible. Fall asleep. Heavy shower comes on. Get quite wet.
Friday.—Sneezing like mad, and coughing. Blow my cough! Blow my nose! No good looking out "Cold" or "Cough" in Dictionary, unless—of course "Catarrh." Seize my priceless treasure, and read, "Catarrh, Latin catarrhus, from Greek"—oh, hang the derivation!—"an affection of the mucous membrane, commonly called a cold. See Cold." Foiled again! Must do what I can with domestic remedies till Part II. comes out. Fires, hot grog, hot bath, hot gruel, lots of blankets. Nearly suffocated.
Saturday.—Very much worse. Awful cough. Sit close to fire wrapped in thick dressing-gown. Jones looks in. "Hullo, old man," he says, "what's wrong? Seedy?" I choke out some answer. "Why don't you send for the doctor?" In my indignation nearly burst my head with coughing. At last show him Dictionary, and write on scrap of paper, "Can you suggest some complaint like mine beginning with A or B, or C up to Ch?" Impetuous fellow, Jones. Starts off wildly—"Influenza, Pneumonia, Pleurisy, Diphtheria, Sore Throat, Inflammation of the Lungs——" Then I manage to stop him, and to gasp, "Up to C." "No difficulty about that," says he. "Cold. Cough——" I shake my head feebly. "Well, then, Bronchitis." Of course. The very thing. Look it out. "Bronchitis, from Greek"—blow the derivation!—"inflammation of the membrane of the bronchia. This serious disease requires skilled attention. Keep the patient warm, and send at once for a medical man." What a miserable swindle, when I hoped to save all doctor's fees! Was warm before. Simply boiling with indignation now. Pass the book to Jones in speechless disgust. "Quite right too," he remarks; "just what I said. Capital book! I'll send the doctor as I go home." And so he does, in spite of my protests. Doctor comes and lays his head on my chest. Then he says, cheerfully, "Only a little cough. You'll be all right to-morrow. What's that you say? Bronchitis? Bosh!"
Horsey Party. "Aw—I want your Table d'Oat Dinner!"
A LAWYER'S CHORTLE.
(A long way after "The Throstle.")
Vacation is over, vacation is over,
I know it, I know it, I know it.
Back to the Strand again, home to the Courts again,
Come counsel and clients to go it.
Welcome awaits you, High Court of Justice,
Thousands will flock to you daily.
"You, you, you, you." Is it then for you,
That we forget the Old Bailey?
Jostling and squeezing and struggling and shoving,
What else were the Courts ever made for?
The Courts 'twixt the Temple and grey Lincoln's Inn,
They're not yet entirely paid for!
Now till next year, all of us cry,
We'll say (for a fee) what we're bidden.
Vacation is over, is over, hurrah!
And all past sorrow is hidden.
The Pickwickian Examination Paper.—Pickwickian students are well to the front. The first answer to our question in last week's number was sent from Maidstone. Fitting that it should come from Dickens's favourite county, Kent. Yes. The only mention of champagne in Pickwick is when Mr. Tupman drank a bottle of it after an exhilarating quadrille.
DAMON OUT OF DATE.
Here is the lovely summer going by,
And we know nought about it, you and I,
Being so far away
One from the other; yet to outward eye
We both are summer gay.
And people talk; although no pulses stir
However much I laugh and dance with her,
My temporary fate;
And you, perhaps as carelessly, prefer
That one your will to wait,
Who, the dance over, from his strict embrace
Gallantly frees you, mops his sun-tanned face,
And asks in accents low
Whether you'd like an ice, or what, in case
You breathe a doubtful "No."
Oh, the striped awning and the fairy lamp,
The cool night fragrance, the insidious damp,
And, more insidious still,
The sweet effrontery of the beardless scamp
Who babbles at his will.
Here, by the sea, which in the darkness sings,
On the free breeze I give my fancy wings,
And in a sudden shrine
Your image throned appears, while the wind swings
Its sea-incense divine.
Breathless I worship in the waiting night
The sparkling eyes, that sometimes seem all light,
The cheek so purely pale,
The sacred breast, than