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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 108, February 9, 1895
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Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 108, February 9, 1895
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Volume 108, February 9, 1895.
edited by Sir Francis Burnand
TO LUCENDA.
(Who had made "Copy" of Me.)
The bright September when we met
My prospects were not over healthy,
Though you were, I do not forget,
Extremely wealthy.
I know not why it chanced to be,
But this I recollect most clearly—
It never once occurred to me
To love you dearly.
'Twas not your fault, so do not vex
Yourself, for I admired your beauty,
Since admiration of your sex
Is Man's Whole Duty.
And thus it came to be our lot
To part without a sign or token;
I went upon my way, but not
The least heart-broken.
My "fatal pride" does not object
At your fair hands to be made verse on;
But p'raps next time you will select—
Some other person!
Unanswerable.—The Archbishop of Canterbury, speaking at Folkestone last week, said that "The Disestablishment Bill does not need any answering: it answers itself." An' it please your Grace, if it does "answer," and answers its purpose, what more can be required of this Bill or any other?
The New Weather Proverb.—It never rains—but it snows!
BRAVE GIRL!
Millicent (from the country). "Now, Mabel! let's make a Dash!!"
QUEER QUERIES.
Freezing the Vertebræ.—I am in the last stage of bronchitis, complicated with pneumonia, influenza, and asthma, and a friend has advised me to try the new French cure of applying ice to the spine. Will some obliging physician tell me whether he considers such a course safe? None but a recognised specialist need trouble to reply; and if he does so, I shall have the satisfaction of feeling that I have saved his fee, as well as my own life. My boy advises me to go skating, and "I shall be sure then to have my back applied to the ice," which he says is the same thing as applying ice to my back. But is it? A nephew who is staying in the house also kindly offers to "shy hard snow-balls at my spine," if that would help me in any way. It is a pity that the newspaper (from which I derived this medical hint) was not clear as to details; for instance, when I have applied the ice, what is to prevent its melting and trickling all over me?
Meteorological Moralising.
'Tis an ill-wind which blows nobody good,
And one man's meat another's poison is.
What is disaster to one man or mood,
Is to another mood or man "good biz."
What to your dramatist means love's labour's lost,
Your would-be skater craves—"a perfect frost!"
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
By the publication of The Play Actress (S. R. Crockett) Mr. Fisher Unwin fully maintains the success attained by his Autonym Library. My Baronite is least attracted by the scenes which possibly pleased the author most—those in which he describes life in the purlieus of London theatres. Mr. Crockett is much more at home in Galloway, and with the people who sparsely populate it. The opening chapter, describing Sabbath day in the Kirk of the Hill is in his best style, as are others describing the Great Preacher's tender caring for his little grand-daughter. The Play Actress is just the sort of thing to buy at a bookstall on starting for a journey. It will be felt to be a matter of regret if the journey isn't quite long enough to finish it at a sitting.
In The Worst Woman in London ("and other stories," a subtitle craftily suppressed on the outside of the book by F. C. Philips) the author gives us a number of capital detached stories of a most irritating abruptness. Almost every one of these stories is a novel thrown away; that is, every story is in itself the germ of what might have been a good novel. They are little more than "jottings for plottings." Yet, to be read with a pipe or small cigar, they just suffice to wile away time and obviate conversation. They are dedicated to Mr. Walter Herries Pollock, who has on more than one occasion shown himself an adept at real good short stories—not merely as plots, but genuinely complete in themselves and full of humour—and from whom the Baron expects something more in the same line, or, rather, on the same lines.
The Baron de B.-W.
A MODERN ECLOGUE.
Scene—A Crowded Thoroughfare. Enter Strephon and Phyllis on bicycles, at the rate of fifteen miles an hour.
Strephon.
We care not, Phyllis, my own, to-day,
For walking in Kensington Park,
To flirt in the old conventional way,
And saunter home in the dark.
Nay, pleasanter far it is to "scorch"—
To hear your silvery bell,
While the answering squeak of my horn may speak
For the fact that I love you well!
Both.
Oh, isn't it sweet to clear the street,
While elderly persons frown!
"Now, stoopid, look out!" we pleasantly shout,
And bang goes a gentleman down!
Phyllis.
Strephon, I love you, I confess,
For who could fail to admire
The humorous way you spoil a dress
And ruin a girl's attire?
To see you silently creep along,
And then with a burst of speed
Spread liberal dirt on the feminine skirt
Is a sight for the gods, indeed!
Both.
Oh, isn't it glee to do it, and see
The lady-pedestrian flinch,
With jubilant rush to scatter the slush
And miss her foot by an inch!
Strephon.
I frightened those horses, I'm much afraid,—
The excellent coachman's riled!
Phyllis.
And I've demolished a nursery-maid,
And certainly hurt a child!
Strephon.
I made that stately dowager jump,
She leapt to one side, and puffed!
Phyllis.