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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, December 2, 1893
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
rural spots in which we fondly now
Associate "three acres and a cow!"
And when success this rural venture yields,
Do for the beaches what's done for the fields!
"Invisible Trouser Stretchers."—Legs.
THE BABES ON THE TREASURY BENCH.
(With Mr. Punch's Thanks to Mr. Courtney for the Suggestion. Vide Times, Parliamentary Report, Wednesday, November 22.)
"TRANSMITTED."
Ignorant Bachelor Visitor. "Hullo, Throgmorton; what the deuce are your Twins up to with that Contrivance?"
Proud Father (of Throgmorton, Threadneedle & Co.; Telephone 123456-1/4). "Ha! There you are, my Boy—marvellous example of inherited business instinct! They're trying to Telephone to each other!"
THE BABES ON THE TREASURY BENCH.
["The leader of the Opposition had treated them to good logic, but why administer such strong meat to the babes on the Treasury bench?"—Mr. Courtney on the Parish Councils Bill.]
We have heard of the Babes in the Wood,
And the ruffians greedy and cruel,
Who (as Ingoldsby said in gay mood)
Conspired for to "give them their gruel";
But pitiful bosoms will blench
At this vision of Balfour the sinister,
To Babes on the Treasury Bench
Presuming his dose to administer!
They find Doctor Balfour, one fears,
Worse than poor Davy Copperfield's Creakle;
As awful as grim Mrs. Squeers
With her jorum of brimstone and treacle.
Ah, Courtney, how could you conceive
A picture so Mephistophelian?
Your buzzum is stone, I believe,
And your heart must be truly a steely 'un!
Sweet Babes! They seem likely to choke!
Poor Gladdy! Poor Johnnie! Poor Willy!
Arthur's "logic" is tougher than "toke,"
And much more insipid than "skilly."
Strong meat? How your irony you barb,
Your humour's as grim as the gallows.
Your dose is as drastic as rhubarb,
And almost as bitter as aloes.
Logic? For Babes? On that Bench?
You're as hard as the Poles' "whiskered pandour."
You might as well set out to drench
Your own Opposition with—candour!
The Treasury Babes may object
To prescriptions from Mill or from Whewell,
And logical draughts, I expect,
Would very soon give you your gruel.
If Courtney could physic himself,
Or Balfour and he dose each other,
How soon both would lay on the shelf
This prescription, and try quite another!
No; Reason, as party-strife goes,
As food is attractive to no men:
And Logic's a nauseous dose,
To be given—as physic—to foemen!
"What author was it," inquired Mrs. R. of a literary friend, "who wrote the line describing going to bed as 'that last infirmity of noble minds'?"
"HARK! I HEAR THE SOUND OF COACHES."
["There are still five of the road-coaches running out of London."—Daily News, Nov. 18.]
If drooping with toil, or aught else, I or
You may spring up with "Excelsior!"
As up to the box-seat one climbs,
"How pleasant," one murmurs, "'Old Times!'"
Times equally good, we'll engage,
Have others who go with "The Age."
Though outlooks to-morrow be livid,
Hold tight now a joy that is "Vivid."
"Post equitem?" Ah! his reliance,
At least, wasn't placed on "Defiance."
Rather Familiar!—It was announced in the Times that "Canon G. F. Browne will lecture at St. Paul's, in January," on "The Christian Church before the coming of Augustus." The Canon ought to have said "Sir Augustus." Of course there is only one "Augustus," i.e. our "Druriolanus."
UNDER THE ROSE.
(A Story in Scenes.)
Scene XVII.—The Drawing-room at Hornbeam Lodge. Curphew and Althea are standing at some distance from one another, in evident constraint.
Curphew (sadly). It's only what I expected, and yet—tell me this—is it entirely because of—of what you saw at the Eldorado last Saturday?
Althea. Ah, you know, then! but what does it matter now? I was mistaken—isn't that enough?
Curph. Don't judge me by what you saw of Walter Wildfire. I can do better things than that. I can make you forget him—forget that he ever existed, if only you will trust me!
Alth. (indignantly). Do you really suppose that he—that I—oh, it's too insulting! And you will do no good by disparaging him. The man who could write those songs, and sing them like that——
Curph. (wincing). Don't! I know how they must have struck you. I would have prepared you, if I could. I did try—that afternoon at the station, but I was interrupted. And now it's too late, and the harm's done. But at least you will never see Walter Wildfire again!
Alth. (exasperated). Have I ever said that I wanted to? Why will you persist in talking as if——? Once for all, I can't care for you; whatever I may have thought once, I know now that I can have no sympathy with the sort of life you lead; the pleasures you are content with would not satisfy me; I should want more than you could ever give me. We should have nothing in common—nothing——There, now do you understand?
Curph. Yes, I think I do. I suppose it's natural, and yet—don't think too hardly of me if you can help it. I might have chosen a higher walk than I did, but at least I've kept out of the mire, and now at last I see my way to——But that wouldn't interest you. There, I had better say good-bye: you won't refuse to give me your hand at parting, will you?
[As he takes her hand, Mrs. Toovey enters