You are here

قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari Volume 107, December 1, 1894

تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"

‏اللغة: English
Punch, or the London Charivari
Volume 107, December 1, 1894

Punch, or the London Charivari Volume 107, December 1, 1894

تقييمك:
0
No votes yet
المؤلف:
دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
الصفحة رقم: 1


PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 107.


December 1, 1894.


ICHABOD.

As over London Bridge I went A constable I spied: His head upon his breast was bent, Against the parapet he leant, He gazed upon the stream intent, And as I passed he sighed.
"What ails thee, officer?" I cried In sympathetic tone. "What sorrow in thy soul is bred? Nay, never shake thy mournful head, But tell me of thy woes instead— Thou shalt not weep alone."
He eyed me for a moment's space In half-suspicious doubt; But reading not a single trace Of aught but pity in my face, He told me of his hapless case And poured his sorrows out.
"Time was, not many months ago"— His voice began to quiver— "When, in a stately march and slow, The tide of traffic used to flow In floods as full as that below"— He pointed to the river.
"From early dawn to dewy night It still blocked up the way: The creaking wain, the hansom light, The gaudy bus, in colours bright, The gilded coach, the buggy slight, And e'en the donkey-shay.
"Amid the throng I took my stand, I watched them come and go. Anon the serried lines I scanned, Anon I raised a warning hand, And lo! at my supreme command The flood forgot to flow!
"The bus, the cab, the coach, the fly, Were motionless and still. In all the crowds that passed me by Was no one of degree so high That dared my sovereignty defy, Or disobey my will.
"The hansom hasting on her way Paused when she heard my call. The coster checked his donkey-shay, The gartered lord his prancing bay— All, all were subject to my sway, My word was law to all.
"Alas! alas! 'tis thus no more! Gone is my pride and power! Where thousands passed in days of yore Across the bridge, we've scarce a score, For now the tides of traffic pour Round by the busy Tower.
"And I am left to mourn alone The glories that are fled. None heed me now—alas! not one! My life is lived! my day is done! Othello's occupation's gone— Ah! would that I were dead!"
He ceased. The manly voice broke down. I could no longer stay, But, as I hurried off to town, I pressed upon him half-a-crown, And joyed to see the hopeless frown Die for a while away.


Two Men Talking

THE ADVANTAGE OF HIGHER EDUCATION.

Eton Boy (who has come to see his Brother at Harrow). "I say, these Floods are stunning! We're all sent home, Four Weeks before the time!"
Harrow Boy (gloomily)."I wish to goodness the Gov'nor had sent me to Eton. We're up on a beastly Hill here, an' no chance of any Floods!"


"The Raiders."—Sure as our Raiders know, just one hundred and nine persons, suspected of resorting to the Albert Club, in Bolt Court, Fleet Street, for the purposes of betting,—much as their betters do elsewhere,—were arrested by the police and walked off to Bridewell. Ominous names for the locality! As they weren't sufficiently "fleet" to run away they couldn't "bolt," and so were all "caught!"

 


NOMINIS UMBRA.

What's this? Discoloured, left by chance Within this dusty letter-rack— Dear me! The programme of a dance Which I took part in ten years back! "The Towers, Rigden," at that date The Denvers' house. Sir Charles has flitted Since then to some secluded State Where creditors are not admitted.
There's not, observe, a single blank; Behold what energy was mine Ten years ago! I used to rank A waltz as something quite divine; All night its mazes I pursued— At least (this statement more precise is) With but a pleasing interlude For mild flirtation, "cup," and ices.
And then, my partners—twice, I see, I danced with Florence Smith, who's wed Sir Crœsus since, and "Ethel V."— Ah, poor Miss Vivian, yes—she's dead. "Miss Johnson"—I remember her! She told me man was quite demented, A Sarah-Grand-Philosopher Before "New Women" were invented.
And others follow. Though I'm sure I'm fairly certain as to them, Here is a mystic signature, For who, in wonder's name, was "M."? I danced with her four times! My word, What said her chaperon judicial? "May"? "Mary"? "Muriel"? It's absurd, I cannot construe that initial!
I wonder, vaguely, where we met, And how it was we came to part, And whether I have left her yet A permanently-injured heart; Well, faded programme, you may go, To tear you up at once were better; But yet—I'd greatly like to know The meaning of that mystic letter!

Parliamentary Aspiration.

(By Jeremy Micawber Diddler.)
Of the (£)300, grant but

Pages