DOI Heft:
April 7, 1860
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16865#0145
April 7, I860.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
*37
Host. “ I say, my hoy, shall we join Ladies in Drawing-Room ? ”
Guest. “ I sh’inlcsho.”
Host. “ Can you say, ‘ The scenery 's truly rural ’bout here ? ’ ”
Guest. “ Sc-Scenery tooraloorcd.”
Host. “ All right, come along ! ”
A GOOD GOTH WANTED.
What queer people there are in life! This is not a new reflection; but, plaguing
although it be, when one takes the Times up, one can hardly avoid making it.
Who are the odd people who advertise their wants, and who the odder people are
by whom those wants are ministered, are questions we despair of ever seeing
answered, and which therefore it is clearly a waste of space to put. As a sample
of what strange requirements are announced, and what curious people are invited
to supply them, we take the following at random from a lot of curiosities with
which our advertising literature has been recently repiete:— '
a First-rate GOTHIC ASSISTANT and DESIGNER, temporarily.
If suitable, a portion of his time would be engaged for.—Apply to X. D., Deacon's News
(Rooms, 154, Leadenhall Street.
WANTED,
* V If suitabl
We thought we had heard long since of the Last of the Goths, but it seems _we
■were mistaken. There are some of them still extant. Whether this advertise-
ment will bring them from their hiding-places, and what tests will be tried to
prove they are “ first-rate,” are points on which our readers, if they please, may
speculate; but we, who never speculate, cannot lend them any help. We only
hope that the “ designs ” for which a Goth’s aid is required are not designs on
John Bull’s pocket for some temporary trumpery, which, like the Monster Statue,
is sure to become permanent. We are inclined to frame this hope from the
knowledge of what Goths our public architects have been, and the fear lest some
new pepper-box calamity befal us.
POSTSCRIPT TO “POEMS BEFORE
CONGRESS.”
Mr. Punch presents his best compliments to Mrs.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning (of whose genius there
is not a more devoted and discriminating worshipper than
himself), and having just read her Poems before Congress,
and specially her outpour of womanly gratitude for the
supposed good conduct of their friend L. N., Mr. P. will
not trouble Mrs. B. to send him over the Postscript which
he knows that, on becoming acquainted with the truth, she
must be composing. He lias done it himself, for her, and
hastens to publish it.
XX.
Stop! Ho! I bar !
I’ve been going a little too fast,
I thought the Imperial Star
Was blazing too brightly to last.
And now it goes out with a smell.
What, does that Sworder of Edom
Come driving a piece of trade.
And selling Italian freedom
By the yard instead of the blade ?
Hanging at France’s waist
The sun-red tops of my Alps,
As a savage’s girdle is graced
By a row of his crimson scalps.
Ah me! Well, well!
Must I then rank him, perforce, a cur,
Him I had deemed a brave hound;
And in the rich blood of Corsica
Still must the puddle be found ?
Marching his soldiers come. Such is
Terrible end of my hopes,
After enfranchising Duchies,
Scaring the Last of the Popes,
Now he goes stealing the Slopes,
Emperor
Evermore.
Ay ! I beg to retract
All I’ve said in his vaunt,
I wasn’t aware of the fact
With which the Governments taunt
The Nephew of Him of the Rock.
And I own I did not remember.
Mid Italy’s joy and halloo.
That second grim day of December,
Stamping him eminent Do.
Nor the oaths that he trampled through :
Trampled with feet that grew redder
With Mars’s murderous sign,
Like the foot of the vintage treader
When grapes are bleeding to wine.
I retract it, every line.
Stop crowing, thou humbugging Cock.
Ye have right, I affirm, to be scowling.
Sons of old England free:
I joy in thy grunting and growling,
Lion that sits by the Sea.
You knew him better than I did,
That mystic and Sphynxlike talker,
He ought to be jolly well hided
For his vows that have turned out Walker.
Look to your shore, or some day on its
Soil, without telescopes,
You ’ll see half a million of bayonets :
Windsor has also its Slopes.
Emperor
Evermore.
A BOLD EXPERIMENT.
Mr. Wilson has imposed an Income-Tax upon India,
have been crushed indeed !
The mutiny appears to
The Savoyards and other Sweeps of Europe.
The old French cry of “A n’y aphis dc Pyrenees” was
true only for a short time. Louis Napoleon might by
his present occupation of Savoy, cry out with almost equal
justice, “A rCy a plus P Alpes” but how long will the
cry last ? As the Pyrenees are still in existence, let us
hope that the Alps will soon rise to a sense of their present
degraded position, and regain the proud eminence they
have hitherto maintained in Europe.
Vol. 33.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
*37
Host. “ I say, my hoy, shall we join Ladies in Drawing-Room ? ”
Guest. “ I sh’inlcsho.”
Host. “ Can you say, ‘ The scenery 's truly rural ’bout here ? ’ ”
Guest. “ Sc-Scenery tooraloorcd.”
Host. “ All right, come along ! ”
A GOOD GOTH WANTED.
What queer people there are in life! This is not a new reflection; but, plaguing
although it be, when one takes the Times up, one can hardly avoid making it.
Who are the odd people who advertise their wants, and who the odder people are
by whom those wants are ministered, are questions we despair of ever seeing
answered, and which therefore it is clearly a waste of space to put. As a sample
of what strange requirements are announced, and what curious people are invited
to supply them, we take the following at random from a lot of curiosities with
which our advertising literature has been recently repiete:— '
a First-rate GOTHIC ASSISTANT and DESIGNER, temporarily.
If suitable, a portion of his time would be engaged for.—Apply to X. D., Deacon's News
(Rooms, 154, Leadenhall Street.
WANTED,
* V If suitabl
We thought we had heard long since of the Last of the Goths, but it seems _we
■were mistaken. There are some of them still extant. Whether this advertise-
ment will bring them from their hiding-places, and what tests will be tried to
prove they are “ first-rate,” are points on which our readers, if they please, may
speculate; but we, who never speculate, cannot lend them any help. We only
hope that the “ designs ” for which a Goth’s aid is required are not designs on
John Bull’s pocket for some temporary trumpery, which, like the Monster Statue,
is sure to become permanent. We are inclined to frame this hope from the
knowledge of what Goths our public architects have been, and the fear lest some
new pepper-box calamity befal us.
POSTSCRIPT TO “POEMS BEFORE
CONGRESS.”
Mr. Punch presents his best compliments to Mrs.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning (of whose genius there
is not a more devoted and discriminating worshipper than
himself), and having just read her Poems before Congress,
and specially her outpour of womanly gratitude for the
supposed good conduct of their friend L. N., Mr. P. will
not trouble Mrs. B. to send him over the Postscript which
he knows that, on becoming acquainted with the truth, she
must be composing. He lias done it himself, for her, and
hastens to publish it.
XX.
Stop! Ho! I bar !
I’ve been going a little too fast,
I thought the Imperial Star
Was blazing too brightly to last.
And now it goes out with a smell.
What, does that Sworder of Edom
Come driving a piece of trade.
And selling Italian freedom
By the yard instead of the blade ?
Hanging at France’s waist
The sun-red tops of my Alps,
As a savage’s girdle is graced
By a row of his crimson scalps.
Ah me! Well, well!
Must I then rank him, perforce, a cur,
Him I had deemed a brave hound;
And in the rich blood of Corsica
Still must the puddle be found ?
Marching his soldiers come. Such is
Terrible end of my hopes,
After enfranchising Duchies,
Scaring the Last of the Popes,
Now he goes stealing the Slopes,
Emperor
Evermore.
Ay ! I beg to retract
All I’ve said in his vaunt,
I wasn’t aware of the fact
With which the Governments taunt
The Nephew of Him of the Rock.
And I own I did not remember.
Mid Italy’s joy and halloo.
That second grim day of December,
Stamping him eminent Do.
Nor the oaths that he trampled through :
Trampled with feet that grew redder
With Mars’s murderous sign,
Like the foot of the vintage treader
When grapes are bleeding to wine.
I retract it, every line.
Stop crowing, thou humbugging Cock.
Ye have right, I affirm, to be scowling.
Sons of old England free:
I joy in thy grunting and growling,
Lion that sits by the Sea.
You knew him better than I did,
That mystic and Sphynxlike talker,
He ought to be jolly well hided
For his vows that have turned out Walker.
Look to your shore, or some day on its
Soil, without telescopes,
You ’ll see half a million of bayonets :
Windsor has also its Slopes.
Emperor
Evermore.
A BOLD EXPERIMENT.
Mr. Wilson has imposed an Income-Tax upon India,
have been crushed indeed !
The mutiny appears to
The Savoyards and other Sweeps of Europe.
The old French cry of “A n’y aphis dc Pyrenees” was
true only for a short time. Louis Napoleon might by
his present occupation of Savoy, cry out with almost equal
justice, “A rCy a plus P Alpes” but how long will the
cry last ? As the Pyrenees are still in existence, let us
hope that the Alps will soon rise to a sense of their present
degraded position, and regain the proud eminence they
have hitherto maintained in Europe.
Vol. 33.