قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, November 25, 1893
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
class="x-ebookmaker-pageno" title="[pg 242]"/>
WELCOME TO "JOEY!"
"HERE WE ARE AGAIN!"
SAD!
Sportsman (proud of his favourite). "Now that's a Mare I made entirely myself! Marvellously clever, I can tell you!"
Non-Sportsman (from town, startled). "Eh, what? Dear me! Wonderfully clever, certainly." (Mentally.) "Poor fellow, poor fellow! what a most extraordinary Hallucination!"
HOME RAILS.
(By a Mournful Moralist.)
Each day my heart with pity throbs;
Can sympathy refuse
The ready tears, the frequent sobs,
When reading City news?
Not long ago I daily found
That you were good and "strong"—
You gained but little, I'll be bound,
Nor kept that little long;
Yet I was happy, since it meant
That, for a blissful term,
You were so very excellent,
So "steady" and so "firm."
Prosperity brings pride to all;
You rose too high to sell.
Then—pride must always have a fall—
You lamentably fell.
Think what your altered state has cost.
Alas, you must confess
That you are ruined since you lost
Your noble steadiness!
"Unsettled" then—oh, feeble will!—
"Inactive" you were too.
There's Someone "finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do."
"Why be inactive? All should work.
Rise then, and do not seek
Good honest enterprise to shirk,
Because you're rather "weak."
Alas, what use exhorting that
Your fall you should annul?
When some remark that you are "flat,"
And others call you "dull."
At times I hoped that you would turn,
And mend your evil ways,
That you were "better," I would learn,
And "quiet" on some days.
But now your baseness fitly ends,
"Irregular"—and so
You are "neglected" by your friends,
Who all pronounce you "low."
This conduct gives me such a shock,
I wipe my streaming eyes—
I want to sell some railway stock;
I'm waiting for the rise!
The "Ultra Fashionable Dinner-hour" when Dickens wrote Martin Chuzzlewit.—It is mentioned by Montague Tigg, when that typical swindler gives Jonas Chuzzlewit an invitation to a little dinner. It was "seven." Very few have guessed it, but most correspondents have referred to the dinner-hour at Todgers's. But Todgers's was a very second-class establishment.
Somebody proposes another Dickensian query:—Scene—The wedding at Wardle's. Time—After the wedding breakfast:—"At dinner they met again, after a five-and-twenty-mile walk." Where did they breakfast, and where did they dine, and how many hours did men of Mr. Pickwick's and Mr. Tupman's build take to do a twenty-five-mile walk in?
The Golfer's Paradise.—Link-ed sweetness long drawn out.
The real Roads To Success.—Cecil Rhodes.
REX LOBENGULA.
["Rhymes are difficult things, they are stubborn things, Sir."—Fielding: Amelia.]
Lobengúla! Lobengúla!
How do you pronounce your name?
How do those who call you ruler
Your regality proclaim?
Does the stalwart Matabele
Seared with many a cruel scar,
Ere he gives his life so freely,
Hail you King Lobengulá?
Have I read in British journals,
On a 'bus en route to Holborn,
Telegrams where British Colonels
Have the cheek to call you Ló-ben?
Has your name some fearful meaning
Redolent of blood and bones,
Or am I correct in weening
It's vernacular for Jones?
Kaiser! Potentate! Dictator!
Any title that's sublime
Choose, but send us cis-equator
For your name the proper rhyme.
AFTER THE CALL.
["A further call of £5 per share has recently been made on the shareholders in one of the companies in the Balfour group."]
After the call is over,
What is there left to do,
All absolutely vanished,
Left not a single sou.
Furniture, trinkets, money,
Gone, gone, alas! are they all;
What is there left but the workhouse
After the call?
UNDER THE ROSE.
(A Story in Scenes.)
Scene XV.—The Drawing-room at Hornbeam Lodge. Time—Monday evening, about six. Althea is listlessly striking chords on the piano; Mrs. Toovey is sitting by one of the windows.
Mrs. Toovey (to herself). Where did Theophilus go last Saturday? He is either the most consummate hypocrite, or the most blameless lamb that ever breathed; and I'm sure I don't know which! But I'll find out when Charles comes. It would be almost a relief to find Pa was guilty; for, if he isn't—— But, thank goodness, he is not very likely ever to hear where I was that evening!
Althea (to herself). It couldn't really have been Mamma in that box; she has never made the slightest reference to it. I almost wish she had been there; it would have been easier to tell her. What would she say if she knew I had gone to such a place as the Eldorado?
[She drifts, half unconsciously, into the air of "The Hansom Cabman."
Mrs. Toov. What is that tune you are playing, Thea?
Alth. (flushing). N—nothing, Mamma. Only a tune I heard when I was in town. The—the boys in the street whistle
