قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 108, April 27, 1895
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Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 108, April 27, 1895
sleep.
"I fancy I must have dropped off to sleep.""I am he who has broken through the conventions of the well-constructed drama. When we lived at Drontheim, Bernick's gander was stolen by tinkers. I am the original eld, and also the child who instructs the grandmotherly critic in the art of sucking problematic eggs; but I, too, am a master-builder of magnificent bathos."
And again time passed—a second or an hour. I wondered whether he had come to stay the night.
"Read, I am called 'dramatic'; acted, I am called 'impossible.'"
With that the cock crew. The stranger had flown before I had an opportunity of asking him his name or asking him to look in again some evening.
I was rather sorry, for he seemed to have a flow of agreeable small talk, though it was perhaps a little egotistic.
THE WOULD-BE SOLDIER'S VADE MECUM.
Question. Why did you become a member of a Volunteer corps?
Answer. With the intention of strengthening our national defences.
Q. Then you think such a proceeding patriotic?
A. Not only patriotic, but necessary.
Q. You probably have some recollection of the French collapse in 1870-71?
A. Yes; but I have been chiefly influenced by considerations of a mathematical character.
Q. Make your meaning plainer.
A. I mean that it stands to reason that as only a small percentage of our people are trained to arms, and ninety-six per cent of our neighbours are converted into soldiers, the latter, in the case of a quarrel with us, would have the upper hand.
Q. And you think a quarrel entailing the arbitration of the sword might be sprung upon us at any moment?
A. Precisely; that is entirely my opinion.
Q. And, consequently, you take a serious view of Volunteering?
A. Assuredly, or I would not give up most of my leisure time to master drill in all its branches.
Q. Do you obtain any social advantages by wearing the uniform of a Volunteer?
A. No; on the contrary, the grade of a private in the long run causes considerable expense; and the commission of an officer is inseparable from large expenditure and a loss of self-respect.
Q. Why is the holding of a commission of a Volunteer officer "inseparable from a loss of self-respect"?
A. Because, in the general estimation, the holder of a commission in the Volunteers is worthy of ridicule, pity, or contempt.
Q. Can you give the reason for this impression?
A. It is probable that it has been created by the consideration that a Volunteer officer is chaffed by his friends, sneered at by his enemies, and mulcted of much money by his comrades.
Q. Then a Volunteer officer or private usually joins the force from the most patriotic of motives?
A. Certainly. Nine-tenths of the rank and file and their commanding officers wish to qualify as soldiers capable of repelling a foreign invasion.
Q. And this being so, they do not wish to spend three or four days of training in practising "marches past" and other manœuvres of a more or less ornamental character?
A. Quite so; not even when the practice terminates with a review in a royal park, and a salute performed to the strains of the National Anthem.
Q. Nor do the Volunteers desire to be made into a raree show?
A. Not even to make a cockney Bank Holiday.
Q. And if you are told that this is the sort of thing that the Volunteers want, what do you reply?
A. Nonsense.
Q. And if it were added that more serious work would be unpopular, what would be your suggestion?
A. Try and see.
Mem. for Vetoists.—It is the question of "tied" houses which makes the compensation question so knotty.
RAILWAY BALLADS.
I.—THE EXPRESS TRAIN.
A gruesome tale I tell of the
West-Eastern Railway Companee.
"Its virtues few, its faults a score"—
(I quote the view held heretofore).
The chief among its faults, you see,
Is sad unpunctualitee.
Now, gentles all, list what befel
Augustus Hall, of Camberwell.
The Fates were stern, the world unkind;
And this, I learn, unhinged his mind.
Che sarà, sarà! Think how sad!
His evil star it drove him mad!
"If life has no more joy to give,"
Quoth he, "I'll go and cease to live.
Nor yet delay an hour to dine,
But straightway lay me on the line.
"The train now due will end distress—
So haste thee, Two o'clock Express!"
With that he'd gone, nor stayed to snack;
But climbed upon the railway-track.
He waited now two hours—not less;
And yet, I vow, came no express!
And he had nought his pangs to ease.
He wished he'd brought some bread and cheese.
He had to fast. He fain would sup.
The hours flew past. He sate him up.
"'Tis strangely late. I should not mind—
I'd gladly wait—if I had dined.
"If I'd a joint that I could carve,
I'd strain a point; but here to starve!!
May I be hung if e'er I see
Such gross unpunctualitee!
"No gentleman can now depend
On any plan to plan his end."
Twelve hours or more he waited thus.
"A train?" he swore; "an omnibus!
"It tarries yet all through the night,
And helps to whet my appetite!"
His hunger grew inside his chest;
With nought to chew, he was—non est.
Two days pass by, and then we find
The train draw nigh, three days behind!
Directors sigh, deplore, and frown;
And fine the driver half-a-crown.
"But had I been on time," Jack said,
"Hall's death, I ween, were on my head."
"Quite true, good Jack! Our conscience pricks.
We hand you back your two-and-six!"
Envoi.
Now that is all I have to tell
Of Mr. Hall, of Camberwell.
THESE DULL TIMES.
Lady Gushton (always so agreeable). "And the magnificent Pictures you had here last
