Mr. Punch On Tour - LightNovelsOnl.com
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_Grim Stranger._ "_No_, sir, _no_! I decline to admit that there can be _any_ true beauty about anything _Roman_!"]
TWO LAST WORDS TO SWITZERLAND
(_By a British Tourist and Family Man_)
On Uri's lake, in Kusnacht's dell, What is the thought can almost quell Thy patriot memory, oh TELL?
_Hotel!_
Whether by blue creva.s.se we reel, Or list the avalanche's peal, What question blends with all we feel?-- _Wie Viel?_
[Ill.u.s.tration: LUSUS NATURae
_Excursion Tourist._ "Most extr'or'nary cre'char!"
_Facetious Rustic._ "Ah! that a be, measter, bred on this 'ere wery fa-arm he wor, tew!"]
MORE ENGLISH AS SHE IS WROTE.--At an hotel at Socrabaja in Java is this notice:--
"From the hours fixed for meals on no account will be deviated. For damage to furniture the proprietor will avenge himself on the person committing the same."
"TIRED NATURE."--A yawning gulf.
[Ill.u.s.tration: OUR BORES, NATIVE AND FOREIGN
"Ach! I schbeague Enklish not vell, not vell at all! Pot, py a leadle bractice, I imbrove ver kvick! Vait till I haf talk to you for a gopple of hours, and you shall see!"]
[Ill.u.s.tration: A SCENE AT THE "LUCULLUS"
_Mrs. Blunderby._ "Now, my dear Monty, let me order the luncheon ar-la-fraingsy. Ga.s.song! I wish to begin--as we always do in Paris, my dears--with some _chef-d'oeuvres_--you understand--some _chef-d'oeuvres_."
[_Emile, the waiter, is in despair. It occurs to him, however, presently that the lady probably meant "Hors d'oeuvres,"
and acts accordingly._
TO A WELSH LADY
(_Written at Clovelly_)
The reason why I leave unsung Your praises in the Cymric tongue You know, sweet Nelly; You recollect your poet's crime-- How, when he tried to sing "the time,"
He made "the place" and "loved one" rhyme, You and Dolgelly!
But now, although a shocking dunce, I've learnt, in part, the Welsh p.r.o.nunc- iation deathly.
I dream of you in this sweet spot, And for your sake I call it what Its own inhabitants do not-- That is "Clovethly"!
AT WHITBY.--_Visitor_ (_to Ancient Mariner, who has been relating his experiences to crowd of admirers_). Then do you mean to tell us that you actually reached the North Pole?
_Ancient Mariner._ No, sir; that would be a perwersion of the truth. But I seed it a-stickin' up among the ice just as plain as you can this spar, which I plants in the sand. It makes me thirsty to think of that marvellous sight, we being as it were parched wi' cold.
[_A. M.'s distress promptly relieved by audience._
THE WALKING ENGLISHWOMAN ON THE ALPS
[Ill.u.s.tration]
You who look at home so charming-- Angel, G.o.ddess, nothing less-- Do you know you're quite alarming In that dress?
Such a garb should be forbidden; Where's the grace an artist loves?
Think of dainty fingers hidden In those gloves!
Gloves! A housemaid would not wear them, Shapeless, brown and rough as sacks, Thick! And yet you often tear them With that axe!
Worst of all, unblacked, uns.h.i.+ny-- Greet them with derisive hoots-- Clumsy, huge! For feet so tiny!
Oh, those boots!
[Ill.u.s.tration: SCENE--_Verandah of Swiss Hotel_
_Brown_ (_finis.h.i.+ng very lengthy account of Alpine adventure_).
"And then, Miss Jones, then, just as dawn was breaking, I heard the voices of the guides above me, and I knew that I was saved--actually saved! My feelings, as I realised this, may be more easily imagined than described!"
_Miss Jones_ (_fervently_). "Thank Heaven!"
[_And Brown fondly imagined she was alluding to his escape_.
