قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 108, May 4th, 1895
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Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 108, May 4th, 1895
Bede, a novelette, to be known as King Solomon's Mines, and a story to be y'clept Treasure Island. May I add that I have also some pantomimes and eccentric ballets nearly ready that will be christened, when completed,—Esmond, The Virginians, The Newcomes, Philip, and last, but not least, Pendennis.
P.S.—I am thinking of adopting as a nom de plume the signature of "William Makepeace Thackeray."
HIS FAVOURITE SUBJECT.
Imperial Artist. "Wish I could have got it done in time for the Royal Academy. Sure to have been accepted."
[ *** The Emperor of Germany has recently painted a sea-piece.]
HIS FAVOURITE SUBJECT.
Distinguished Amateur soliloquiseth:—
There!!! Egotistic ways are my abhorrence;
But if this masterpiece were only hung
In the Uffizi Gallery at Florence,
Where Leighton, like a god, ambrosial, young,
And Millais, in immortal manhood, stand,
Self-limned, for admiration of posterity,
I fancy that this work of my right hand
Would quite eclipse mere Genius, whose temerity
In challenging comparison with Birth
Is really getting something unendurable.
Aha! It moves me to sardonic mirth!
To dream of my position as securable
By mere Bismarckian brain!!! Now, as the god,
I come out admirably. Form and stature,
The threatening eye, and the earth-shaking nod,
All, all to me are simply second nature.
Globe-trampling foot, and hand that grips the bolt,—
Aye, and the lyre when I would play Apollo—
Are mine! Will low-born Genius dare revolt,
Or where I lead Greatness decline to follow?
Absurd! I hardly know in what great guise
To paint my greatness! I have sung of Ægir,
But he was but a sea-god, and his size
And strength compared with mine were small and meagre.
I am a Joint-stock Deity, as 'twere,
Olympus in a nutshell, Neptune, Mars,
The Cloud-Compeller and the Sungod fair.
Here I'm pure Jove. And yet somehow it jars
Upon my spirit to be so restricted
To one immortal guise, however grand.
Hah! Gods by their own pencils thus depicted
Would make a New Valhalla e'en my hand
Need not disdain to add to. If Narcissus
Had been a painter, now! There is no stream,
Though clear as my own Rhine or the Ilissus,
Could do me justice. I must paint my dream
Of my Supernal Self. A mere reflection
From Nature's mirror would but mar my beauty.
No; I must limn myself for the inspection
Of men and gods; it is a simple duty.
This does not satisfy me. And it is
Too late, I fear, for Grandmamma's R.A.
Besides, those English journalists might quiz
Even Imperial Art. They've their own way
Too much by far in that ill-ordered isle,
Those cheeky critic-fellows. Let me catch
A Teuton quill-driver who'll dare to smile
Upon a masterpiece he cannot match!!!
[Left touching it up.
Literary.
A book is announced entitled Irish Humour through English Glasses. It will be followed, we hope, by a companion volume, entitled English (ill) Humour through Irish (Whisky) Glasses.
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
Messrs. Blackwood are issuing a standard edition of the works of George Eliot. Adam Bede, of course, comes first, admirably printed in dainty volumes of blue and gold. Glancing over the work brings back to the memory of my Baronite a certain schoolboy who, instead of going home to dinner, used to spend the interval in the reading-room of a free library, literally dining off Adam Bede, then just out. It will be interesting to observe how far the public of to-day, more especially the young men and maidens who read novels, will take to George Eliot. In this new standard edition opportunity, alike in respect of charm and cheapness, is made alluring.
The Curse of Intellect is an unattractive title, suggestive rather of a series of essays on the melancholy lives of certain geniuses than of the weird tale—for such it is—of a Man-Monkey. This story, published by Messrs. Blackwood, and written by Machiavelli Colin Clout, is a modern version of Frankenstein, the distinction being that, whereas Frankenstein constructed his own monster, the hero of this romance, one Reuben Power, finds a monster ready to hand in a kind of "Mr. Gorilla," whom he educates to speak a strange language, also to read, write, and think in excellent English. This Converted Ape kills his maker, and then considerately puts an end to his own miserable existence; he does not, however, possess a soul (Frankenstein's Monster was also deficient in this respect). "For O it is such a 'norrible tale;" and, except to those who occasionally enjoy "a 'norrible tale," this cannot be recommended by
BLIND ALLEY-GORIES.
By Dunno Währiar.
(Translated from the original Lappish by Mr. Punch's own Hyperborean Enthusiast.)
No. III.—A Socratic Experiment.
The other day I went out for a walk. My thoughts circled round my head like bees in a bonnet, and detached themselves slowly from the loose white honeycomb of my brain to mirror themselves in my soul, as is usual with me on such occasions. And, somewhere round the corner, a voice lurked calling out remarks—what I knew not, only that they were of a highly personal character. The people I met stared at me, and I stared at them, for I had a presentiment that they were talking about me, but I took no notice of them—beyond informing them that they were cowards and blowflies, and requesting to be informed why they enclosed their dirty interiors in glass. For I am Young Garnaway, and when I take a walk, I generally exchange amenities of this kind with any persons I happen to meet.
At the Market Place, my friend the Tallow-chandler sat inside his shop, dozing under a pale canopy of farthing dips.
"Answer me a question," I begged of him.
