Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 105, November 18, 1893

Name: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 105, November 18, 1893
Author: Various

by Various

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Language: en251 downloads on Project Gutenberg

Subjects

English wit and humor -- Periodicals

In: Punch·Humour·British Literature

Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #39424.

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SCENE--_Editor's Room of "The Mental Mirror of the Universe."_ TIME--_An hour before publication._ Editor and Chief-Sub. discovered in consultation.

Editor. Dear me, Mr. PAYSTE, this is very annoying! Debate on Africa in the House to-night, and our leader-writer has sent in no copy! Why did you not communicate with me?

Chief-Sub. Well, Sir, as you were dining with the Duke, I did not like to disturb you, especially as I had arranged matters. I have got some one else to knock off the article.

Ed. Very good, and where does it come from?

Chief-Sub. I turned on the mentophone and found Lord MACAULAY disengaged.

Ed. Of course he writes smartly enough, but I should have thought he was scarcely sufficiently well-up in the subject.

Chief-Sub. So he said, Sir: so we applied to Sir WALTER RALEIGH, who has sent in a good column.

Ed. His English, I am afraid, is a trifle old-fashioned.

Chief Sub. Well, yes, Sir; a little. But I gave it to one of our subs. who has made black letter a study, and between them they have turned out a very decent leader. Sorry to say the wire has broken down between London and the seat of the war, so we have no despatches.

Ed. Distinctly annoying! However, I think I can put myself in communication with our special. (Takes a pen in his right hand, and commences writing.) Well, what next?

Chief Sub. But shall I not disturb you?

Ed. Not at all; my right hand is in sympathy with LONGBOW, so I need not pay any attention to what he is sending us until he gets to the end of his copy. Everything else right?

Chief Sub. I think I may venture to say "Yes," Sir. Mrs. COVERS, who does our reviews, has neglected to send in her stuff, but I have used the mentophone again in that case. Put on CHARLES LAMB. And I think that's all, save, as there is a letter about the authorship of Hamlet, I have got WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE to answer it himself. And now, Sir, I would suggest that, as we are rather full up this evening, you might conclude that dispatch as quickly as possible.

Ed. My hand has just done writing. (Gives copy to Chief Sub.) Anything worth a line for the bill?

Chief Sub. (after perusal). Well, yes, Sir. I find there has been a battle, so we may as well give that.

Ed. Everything right now?

Chief Sub. Everything, Sir.

Ed. Well, now you can send down the paper to press as soon as you please. (Exit Chief Sub. to carry out directions.) Dear me! It really simplifies matters considerably when waves of thought will do as well as the electric telegraph.

[_The Curtain falls upon the_ Editor's very natural reflection.

Oh, smooth and smiling! I have loved thee well! Hymned thee, and heard thee; lived beneath thy spell; For years thy life-giving ozone have bless'd, That makes loose garments tighter round the chest. Paced in the dark thy sounding margent white, And voiced my rapture in the boisterous night, Striking the lurking coastguard with affright.

Now on my barque--ah, no! no barque be mine! On the new packet of the Angler Line, I learn, too late, when fairly out at sea, How well they speak who speak not well of thee Implacable, inscrutable Emirs Mock not the captured foe of bloodstained years As thou hast mock'd one who ne'er did thee wrong, Save in the venial fault of unexpressive song. Or canst thou this unmeasured vengeance take, Remembering some childish duck-and-drake, Forgotten long, and never done in spite? How could it harm thy navy-rending might, Thou, whose huge waves in wanton affluence bang Their heads against the rocks, in mid-air hang, Up the sheer cliffs clamber with foamy claws, And backward plunge again, with mad applause Of all the turbulent, tumultuous press That hurl themselves to spray in wantonness? Prone, but unconquered, I have roll'd to leeward, Soothed by the merciless mercy of the steward. How can I stand when hardest steel and teak Play a vertiginous game of hide-and-seek? All is a-swing and dipping and a-roll. Oh, vain material creed! Th' informing soul! Proves well its immateriality, Defying thus the tortures of the sea, That force all else to helpless surrender; For aught but very Spirit would prefer To seek at once the illimitable inane, Than cognisant of anguish thus remain The tenant of a desolated shrine, A bare clay cabin, like this frame of mine. Oh, rich saloons! Oh, rooms of wretched state! The pomp and glory of you all I hate! Ye fulsome diving dados, would ye were Extinct as your vocabular congener! Place me where errant icebergs, anchored deep By chains of frost, a darkling vigil keep, Fixed in the pole's impenetrable wall, Dead to the warmer ocean's roving call! Far from this liquid way that heaves and rolls, This world-long switchback, bounded by the poles, This path of pain, whose undulations cease Only in that palæocrystic peace! Nay, what is this? How steady! Here we are! Field breezes mingle with the oil and tar, And with a shudder I behold anear The solid weed-hung timbers of the pier. Perfidious sea! I'll trust thee never more, And mock thy fury safely from the shore.

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