Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98 January 11, 1890
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98 January 11, 1890
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98 January 11, 1890
    Ebook92 pages45 minutes

    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98 January 11, 1890

    By F. C. (Francis Cowley) Burnand

    ()

    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 27, 2013
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98 January 11, 1890

    Read more from F. C. (Francis Cowley) Burnand

    Related to Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98 January 11, 1890

    Related ebooks

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      DULCE DOMUM From The Wind In The Willows

      Nov 1, 2022

      DULCE DOMUM From The Wind In The Willows
      11 min read

    • Article

      Two Poems by Joseph Brodsky

      May 12, 2020

      Two Poems by Joseph Brodsky
      7 min read

    • Article

      A Refusal To Mourn The Deaths, By Gunfire, Of Three Men In Brooklyn

      Jan 1, 2019

      And at times, didn’t the whole countrytry to break his skin?—Tim Seibles You strike your one good match to watch its bloomand jook, a swan song just before a nightwind comes to snuff it. That’s the kind of dayit’s been. Your Black & Mild, now, useles

      7 min read

    • Article

      Competition

      Sep 20, 2023

      IN COMPETITION No 297 you were invited to write a poem called Bells. Gail White concluded with a firm couplet: ‘We keep that memory with us like a shield / Against despair: the bells of Finchingfield.’ Other Essex bells inspired Christine Ratcliff. B

      2 min read

    • Article

      Competition

      Aug 25, 2021

      IN COMPETITION No 270, you were invited to write a poem called The Hall. Heather Oxley began, ‘Our halls are gateways to our outside selves.’ John Oldershaw’s narrator started in medias res: ‘“It’s the hall that sells the house!”/ Said Mr Valentine,

      2 min read

    • Article

      Tessa Castro

      Feb 9, 2022

      IN COMPETITION No 276, you were invited to write a poem called The Carpet. Dan Rubinstein told of a rock band’s drummer stopping on a tour to buy some carpet to stop his bass drum wandering. Dorothy Pope’s poem was about being ‘coventrated’, carpet-b

      2 min read

    • Article

      Roger’s PROFANISAURUS

      Aug 5, 2021

      profanisaurus@viz.co.uk aroma diffuser 1. n. A scientific device that breaks “essential oils” down into smaller molecules, dispersing them into the air for a pleasant or calming effect on the gullible. 2. n. The arsehole. Barbie’s minge sim. Somethin

      8 min read

    • Article

      Tessa Castro

      May 3, 2023

      IN COMPETITION No 292 you were invited to write a poem called The Walk. How good and numerous were your entries. Congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the bonus prize of The Chambers Dictionary going to Anthony Young. I'

      2 min read

    • Article

      John Ashbery

      Mar 15, 2019

      He could understand the things at home.—Wallace Stevens, “Things of August” Scribbled on the expansive mist, the desireof many dwindles to usand our “activities,” wholesomeor otherwise. Soon it becomes apparentthat neither they nor I have any prise o

      4 min read

    • Article

      Reginald’s Party

      Jul 10, 2022

      For the fourth time that evening, Reginald smoothed his moustache in the mirror. It was perfect. Was it? Just a touch here… Now it was perfect. Soon his guests would arrive—only a few this evening, a small coterie from the Mayfair Club, on whom he co

      27 min read

    • Article

      Tessa Castro

      Aug 24, 2022

      IN COMPETITION No 283 you were invited to write a poem called Things Fall Apart. Martin Brown wrote some close parody of Yeats, and when his shopping bag burst, ‘The best splat all the kitchen, while the walls / Are caught with passionfruit at veloci

      2 min read

    • Article

      Spell

      Apr 25, 2018

      Spell
      4 min read

    • Article

      Seven Poems

      May 1, 2022

      Seven Poems
      2 min read

    • Article

      Tessa Castro

      Jun 1, 2022

      IN COMPETITION No 280 you were invited to write a poem called Cutting. My cue was a 19th-century Norwegian painting I’d seen of a woman cutting bread. You widened it to cutting hair and grass, being cut down to size and cutting people dead in the str

      2 min read

    • Article

      Competition

      Jul 27, 2022

      IN COMPETITION NO 282 you were invited to write a poem with the title Unpacking. Basil Ransome-Davies, in a poem on the wars between sonic (pretty-sounding) and confessional poets, made me laugh with the couplet ‘Confessionals unpack their hearts, /

      2 min read

    • Article

      Roger's PROFANISAURUS

      Nov 19, 2020

      Roger's PROFANISAURUS
      8 min read

    • Article

      Odd Jobs

      Jul 19, 2017

      Odd Jobs
      3 min read

    • Article

      Roger’S PROFANISAURUS

      Aug 4, 2022

      profanisaurus@viz.co.uk air fryer 1. n. Device for making chips that won’t fur up your arteries. 2. n. A highcalorie food’s ghost exorcised from the premises of one who enjoys an unusually high-fat diet. Alan Sugar’s beard n. A straggly, threadbare f

      6 min read

    • Article

      Jan Morris

      Jun 15, 2018

      I have always rather envied the poet Ovid, who was banished from Rome by the emperor Augustus, you may remember, to a remote place called Tomis on the shores of the Black Sea. There he died, ten years later, and his exile has gone into legend and int

      17 min read

    • Article

      Bard In The Woods

      Nov 30, 2020

      Bard In The Woods
      4 min read

    • Article

      Tessa Castro

      Feb 7, 2024

      IN COMPETITION No 302 you were invited to write a poem called The Doormat. Most of your doormats were metaphorical, but instead of a Welcome doormat, Jenny Jones’s narrator concluded, ‘What I need’s a mat to shout: / “Go Away”, “Be Off”, “Keep Out”!’

      2 min read

    • Article

      FOUR POEMS for Lucie Brock-Broido

      Jul 1, 2019

      Correspondence from Madam Rachel, Purveyor of Eternal Youth, to Mister Walter Potter, Anthropomorphic Dioramist, ca. 1880 Most Splendid Immortalist: Herewith you have a letter sent by my solicitor, writtenin my final leapt year, my sliver of pound ca

      3 min read

    • Article

      Four Poems

      Sep 4, 2018

      In London. England. Who knows why?Perhaps this rumpled guyFrom central casting or a page of Dickens.He’s taking ordinary usTo haunts of the illustrious,Where even dull pulse quickens. A red felt hat’s dark fingered brim,Food-spotted vest are—him.A mo

      4 min read

    • Article

      Perfect Prose II

      May 15, 2020

      Perfect Prose II
      4 min read

    • Article

      Profanisaurus

      Jun 23, 2022

      bite off more than you can poo v. To overeat. bite the brown bullet v. To walk with tightly clenched buttocks, perhaps after biting off more than you can poo. ‘Prince Charles there, graciously and regally biting the brown bullet as he graciously and

      8 min read

    • Article

      Pastoral Pleasures

      Sep 28, 2023

      EVERY SATURDAY EVENING FOR THE BEST PART of 30 years the late broadcaster Eric Maschwitz would boom out to BBC listeners, “Once more we stop the mighty roar of London’s traffic to bring you In Town Tonight.” A kaleidoscope of colourful stories and ou

      2 min read

    • Article

      Commonplace Book

      Jun 1, 2022

      Try to praise the mutilated world. Remember June’s long days, and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine. The nettles that methodically overgrow the abandoned homesteads of exiles. —Adam Zagajewski, “Try to Praise the Mutilated World,” tr. by Clare C

      4 min read

    Reviews for Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98 January 11, 1890

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98 January 11, 1890 - F. C. (Francis Cowley) Burnand

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98

      January 11, 1890, by Various

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98 January 11, 1890

      Author: Various

      Editor: Francis Burnand

      Release Date: June 18, 2008 [EBook #25832]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH ***

      Produced by Neville Allen, Malcolm Farmer and the Online

      Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

      PUNCH,

      OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

      VOL. 98

      JANUARY 11, 1890.

      UNTILED; OR, THE MODERN ASMODEUS.

      Très volontiers, repartit le démon. Vous aimez les tableaux changeans; je veux vous contenter.

      Le Diable Boiteux,

      XVI.

      "Midnight's meridian is supposed to mark

      The bound twixt toil and slumber. Light and dark

      Mete out the lives of mortals

      In happy alternation," said my guide.

      "Six hours must fleet ere Phoebus shall set wide

      His glowing orient portals.

      "The last loud halloo at the tavern-door

      long since has driven the reckless and the poor

      From misery's only haven

      Forth on the chilling night. 'All out! All out!'

      Less sad would fall on bibulous' souls, no doubt,

      The refrain of the Raven.

      "London lies shuttered close. Law's measured beat

      Falls echoing down the shadow-chequered street;

      A distant cab-wheel clatters;

      The wastrel's drunken cry, the waif's low moan,

      Reach not the ear of tired Philistia, prone,

      Dreaming of other matters."

      The Shadow's slow subacid speech, I knew,

      Foreboded more than mirth. Downward we drew,

      Silent, and all un-noted,

      O'er sleeping Shopdom. Sleeping? Closer quest

      Might prove it one vast Valley of Unrest

      O'er which we mutely floated.

      Post-midnight peace, I said, "must fall like balm,

      After the long day's turmoil, on this calm,

      Close-clustering, lamp-lit city,"

      Peace? sighed the Shadow. "She of the white dove

      Is not less partial in her gifts than Love,

      Or Wealth, or Worldly Pity.

      "See yon close-shuttered shop! Peace broodeth there,

      You deem perchance; but look within. A lair

      Of midnight smugglers, stirring

      At the sea's signal, scarce seems more agog.

      And yet each toiler's heart lies like a log,

      Sleep each tired eye is blurring.

      "Feet scuttle, fingers fleet, pens work apace;

      A whipt-up zeal marks every pallid face;

      One voice austere, sonorous,

      Chides, threatens, sometimes curses. How they flush,

      Its victims silent, tame! That voice would hush

      A seraph-choir in chorus.

      "Strident, sardonic, stern; the harrying sound

      Lashes them like a flail the long hours round,

      Till to strained nerves 'twere sweeter

      To silence it with one fierce passionate grip,

      Than into some bland Lotos Land to slip,

      And moon out life to metre.

      "From early morn till midnight these poor slaves

      Have 'served the public;' now, when nature craves

      Rest from the strain and scurry

      Of Shopdom's servitude, they still must wake

      Some weary hours, though hands with fever shake

      And nerves are racked with worry.

      "Though the great streets are still, the shutters up,

      Gas flares within, and ere they sleep or sup

      These serfs of Competition

      Must clean, and sort and sum. There's much to do

      Behind those scenes set fair to public view

      By hucksters of position.

      "The shop-assistant's Sabbath has begun!

      His sixteen hours long Saturday has run

      Its wearing course and weary.

      The last light's out, and many an aching head

      At last, at last, seeks in a lonely bed

      A dreamland dim and dreary.

      "In roseate visions shall racked souls rejoice

      Haunted by echoes of that harrying voice?

      Nay, friend, uncounted numbers

      Of victims to commercial strain and stress,

      Seek nought more sweet than dull forgetfulness

      In the short night's scant slumbers."

      "Too sombre Spirit, hath the opening year

      No scenes of gayer hope and gentler cheer?

      Is all beneath night's

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1