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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 108, January 19, 1895

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‏اللغة: English
Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 108, January 19, 1895

Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 108, January 19, 1895

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 108, January 19, 1895.
edited by Sir Francis Burnand


TALL TALES OF SPORT AND ADVENTURE.

(By Mr. Punch's own Short Story-teller.)

I.—THE PINK HIPPOPOTAMUS.

The island of Seringapatam is without exaggeration one of the fairest jewels in the imperial diadem of our world-wide possessions. Embosomed in the blue and sparkling wavelets of the Pacific Ocean, breathed upon by the spicy breezes that waft their intoxicating perfumes through endless groves of gigantic acacias, feathery fern trees, and gorgeously coloured Indian acanthoids; studded with the glittering domes of a profusion of jasper palaces beside which the trumpery splendours of Windsor or Versailles are but as dust, and guarded by the loyal devotion of an ancient warrior race noted not less for the supreme beauty of its women than for the matchless courage and endurance of its men, the Kingdom of Seringapatam offered during a period of more than one hundred years a stubborn resistance even to the arms of the all-conquering Britons. So great indeed, was the respect extorted from the victors by the vanquished that when, owing to the marvellous strategy of my old friend Major-General Sir Bonamy Battlehorn, K.C.B., K.C.M.G., the island was finally subdued, it was agreed that in all but their acknowledgment of a British Suzerainty and the payment of an annual tribute of fifteen hundred gold lakhs, the proud islanders were to maintain their independence and to continue those forms of government which long tradition had invested in their eyes with all the sanctity of a religion.

I had been present with my dear father at the great battle of the Dead Marshes by which the fortunes of the islanders were finally shattered. Never shall I forget the glow of exultant gratitude with which towards the end of the day gallant old Sir Bonamy came cantering towards me on his elephant. "Thank you, thank you a thousand times, my dear Orlando," said the glorious veteran as he approached me; "it was that last charge of yours at the head of your magnificent Thundershakers that has converted defeat into victory, and assured Westminster Abbey to the bones of Bonamy Battlehorn. All that is now necessary," he continued, rising in his stirrups and waving his sword, "is that you should complete the work that you have begun. Dost see that battery of fifty guns still served by the haughty remnants of the Seringapatamese bombardiers? Let them be captured, and nothing will stand between us and the Diamond City of the Ranee."

I needed no further incitement. Gathering round me the few Thundershakers who had escaped unscathed, I bade the standard-bearer unfurl the flag of the brigade. In another moment we were upon them. Cutting, slashing, piercing, parrying, trampling, crushing, we dashed into the midst of the foe. Far over the field of carnage sounded our war-cry, the famous "Higher up Bayswater!" which was to our horses as the prick of spur. In vain the doughty bombardiers belaboured us; in vain did they answer with the awful shout of "Benkcitibenk," which none hitherto had been able to withstand. The work was hot, but in less than three minutes the battery was ours, and the broken host of the Ranee was streaming in full flight down the slopes from which so lately they had dealt death amongst the English army. In another moment we had limbered up—two men to each gun, except the largest, which was assigned to me as the chief of the band—and helter skelter down the hill we went, and so, with shouting and with laughter, deposited our spoils at the feet of the British General.

I do not recount this incident in order to magnify my own exploits. My deeds themselves are my best record, those deeds which a factious majority in successive Parliaments has, to its everlasting shame, refused to recognise, but which not even the voice of malice, always busy in the task of depreciating genuine achievement, can rob of one particle of their brilliant and immortal lustre. But the fight is indissolubly connected with the stirring story which I have here set out to relate, and for this reason alone have I mentioned it. During the brief struggle round the guns I became momentarily separated from the main body of my men. Seizing the opportunity, and noticing, too, that in the previous melée I had been unhorsed, two gigantic artillerymen made at me. My sword was broken, my revolver was empty! What was I to do? But little time for reflection was left to me. With savage shouts the two dusky Titans sprang upon me. I gave myself up for lost, shut my eyes, thought of my poor mother, saw in a flash my happy country home, the thatched roofs of the cottages, the grey old church, the babbling stream, the village school, the little shop where my infant mouth had first become acquainted with the succulent bull's-eye—in short, I went through all the symptoms that are understood to accompany the imminence of a violent death. Suddenly, however, the desire to live awoke once more. The smaller of my two foes had outstripped his companion. He was just about to seize me, when, lowering my head, which was encased in a spiked helmet, I bounded at him. Fair and full I caught him, and so terrific was the force engendered by my spring and the foeman's rush, that not the spike alone, but the helmet and the head too, pierced him through and through.

'Fair and full I caught him.'

"Fair and full I caught him."

Down on his back he fell crashing, bearing me with him as he went over and fixing the spike firmly in the earth, pinned like some huge beetle by a human pin. As my legs flew up they encountered the second giant, and, winding round his chest, crushed every vestige of life out of him and flung his mangled body full twenty yards to the rear. I had escaped, but my position was still uncomfortably awkward. By this time, however, the rout was complete, and four of my men, by dint of tremendous exertions, succeeded in extricating me from my curious entanglement. My pinned foeman turned out to be the Ranee's brother, Hadju Thar Meebhoy. We bore him back with us to camp, where, marvellous to relate, after a prolonged illness, he eventually recovered.

Of course he has never been quite the same man since. He has to be careful about his diet, but with the childlike simplicity of an Oriental he finds a constant pleasure in opening and shutting the little aluminium doors which our dear old surgeon, Toby O'Grady, constructed to replace the Khan's stomach and the small of his back. I came to be great friends with him and it was through him that I gained the knowledge which prompted the adventure I am now about to relate.

(To be continued.)


A WORD ABOUT THE ST. HENRY JAMES'S THEATRE.

There is something in a name, especially when it happens to be the title of a play. At the St. James's, Mr. Alexander's latest venture has been Guy Domville, by the American novelist Henry James, who if he knew as much about play-writing as he does about novel-writing would probably be in the first flight of dramatists; and he would not have chosen so hopeless a name for his hero and for his play as Guy Domville. For the anti-James jokers would delight in finding that Guy could be "guy'd," and to say as to "Domville" that "a first night audience 'vill dom' the play." For all that, if

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