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    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 100, April 11, 1891
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 100, April 11, 1891
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 100, April 11, 1891
    Ebook99 pages48 minutes

    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 100, April 11, 1891

    By Various Various

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 25, 2013
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 100, April 11, 1891

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      Book preview

      Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 100, April 11, 1891 - Various Various

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 100,

      April 11, 1891, 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.net

      Title: Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 100, April 11, 1891

      Author: Various

      Release Date: August 25, 2004 [EBook #13283]

      Language: English

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

      Produced by Malcolm Farmer, William Flis, and the Online Distributed

      Proofreading Team.

      PUNCH,

      OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

      Vol. 100.

      April 11, 1891.

      MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS.

      No. XVI.—GERMFOOD.

      (By MARY MORALLY, Author of Ginbitters! Ardart, &c., &c.)

      [The MS. of this remarkable novel was tied round with scarlet ribbons, and arrived in a case which had been once used for the packing of bottles of rum, or some other potent spirit. It is dedicated in highly uncomplimentary terms to "Messieurs les Marronneurs glacés de Paris. With it came a most extraordinary letter, from which we make, without permission, the following startling extracts. Ha! Ha! likewise Fe Fo Fum. I smell blood, galloping, panting, whirling, hurling, throbbing, maddened blood. My brain is on fire, my pen is a flash of lightning. I see stars, three stars, that is to say, one of the best brands plucked from the burning. I'm going to make your flesh creep. I'll give you fits, paralytic fits, epileptic fits, and fits of hysteria, all at the same time. Have I ever been in Paris? Never. Do I know the taste of absinthe? How dare you ask me such a question? Am I a woman? Ask me another. Ugh! it's coming, the demon is upon me. I must write three murderous volumes. I must, I must! What was that shriek? and that? and that? Unhand me, snakes! Oh!!!!—M.M."]

      CHAPTER I.

      I was asleep and dreaming—dreaming dreadful, horrible, soul-shattering dreams—dreams that flung me head-first out of bed, and then flung me back into bed off the uncarpeted floor of my chamber. But I did not wake—why should I?—it was unnecessary—I wanted to dream—I had to dream and therefore I dreamt. I was walking home from a cheap restaurant in one of the poorer quarters of Paris. Poorer quarters is a nice vague term. There are many poorer quarters in a large city. This was one of them. Let that suffice to the critical pedants who clamour for accuracy and local colour. Accuracy! pah! Shall the soaring soul of a three-volumer be restrained by the debasing fetters of a grovelling exactitude? Never! I will tell you what. If I choose, I who speak to you, moi qui vous parle, the Seine shall run red with the blood of murdered priests, and there shall be a tide in it where no tide ever was before, close to Paris itself, the home of the Marrons Glacés, and into the river I shall plunge a corpse with upturned face and glassy, staring, haunting, dreadful eyes, and the tide shall turn, the tide that never was on earth, or sky, or sea, it shall turn in my second volume for one night only, and carry the corpse of my victim back, back, back under bridges innumerable, back into the heart of Paris. Dreadful, isn't it? Allons, mon ami. Qu'est-ce-qu'il-y-a. Je ne sais quoi. Mon Dieu! There's idiomatic French for you, all sprinkled out of a cayenne pepper-pot to make the local colour hot and strong. Bah! let us return to our muttons!

      CHAPTER II.

      What was that? Something yellow, and spotted—something sinuous and lithe, with crawling, catlike motion. No, no! Yes, yes!! A leopard of the forest had issued from a side-street, a cul de sac, as the frivolous sons of Paris, the Queen of Vice, call it. It was moving with me, stopping when I stopped, galloping when I galloped, turning somersaults when I

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