DOI Heft:
January 5, 1861
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16867#0009
prevent Ins bereaved family from sharing in the “ compensation
money” so properly demanded from the Chinese Government. _ Mr.
Bowlby was in China on the people’s business, and lost his life
emphatically in the public service ; and the nation for whose information
he wrote, and the army whose gallantry he recorded, surely owe some
fitting tribute to his memory. However this may be, Mr. Punch, whose
love of fun is ever less than his sympathy with misfortune, and whose
laughter is sometimes close akin to tears, on his own and the public
behalf deplores this public loss, and calls on his myriad readers to hold
in kindly and in sorrowing remembrance tiie unhappy historian of the
last Chinese War.
MILITARY EDUCATION.
According to L. D., writing in the Times, the following admirable
plau of teaching the young military idea how to shoot, was adopted by
the late General Sir George Cathcart:—
“The target was an effigy (life size) of an armed soldier, cut out in wood, and
standing on a truck with gun-carriage wheels, which was dragged backwards and
forwards across an opening in the woods by means of a long rope.”
This is the way to train troops to shoot flying. In most cases where
our gallant heroes have to charge a foe, they will no doubt have an
opportunity of testing their ability to take a flying shot at the enemy.
Hatchment Wit.
Mr. Gladstone, it seems, levies his Income-Tax not only on the
living, but on those who are no longer such. The executor of a
departed gentleman publishes his complaint, that nine months Income-
Tax in advance is demanded from the estate of a party who died a
short time ago. The subject, neither financially nor socially, is one for
much levity, and Mr. Punch shows his due appreciation of it by print-
ing the grimmest joke that has ever been sent to him by an undertaker.
The respected Mute says, that it is clear a tomb stone is not a Glad-
stone. Ho! liquids to the Mute!
“Hast any Philosophy in Thee, Shepherd?”
Good Doctor Wigram (Rochestere),
At Parsons’ beards is raving:
We sadly fear that we shall hear
The Bishop’s head wants shaving.
The Little Annual.
We had intended to say something upon the subject of that elegant
little bijou annual the Post Office Directory, but as we make a point of
never reviewing a book which we have not thoroughly read through,
and as at present we have only got through the first thousand pages,
we must suspend our judgment. As far as we have gone, the work is
fascinating in style and full of indispensable information.
“OUR OWN CORRESPONDENT AT THE SEAT OF
WAR.”
THE post of Newspaper Correspondent, besides being responsible, has
become dangerous. In their published letters these gentlemen are
modestly sparing of allusion to any personal mishaps, but their hair-
breadth escapes and adventures all over the world would fill a volume.
One ready writer was all but shot as a spy during the Carlist War. Ir,
required strong intercession to save the life of another who was taken,
note-book in hand, when the Danes and Schleswig-Holsteiners were
at loggerheads. In the Russian War the letters of a third, who was
at Shumla with Omar Pasha, were nearly brought to a close by half
a dozen Bashi-Bazouks,—these gentry assailing him with hatchets
and muskets for his unwarrantable interference when they were steal-
ing his straw. Special Correspondents of the Times were cooped up in
Silistria and in Kars, and endured all the privations and perils of those
memorable sieges. At Kalafat a troop of Cossacks made a swoop upon
the Correspondent of the Daily News, who escaped only by his free use
of whip and spur. The Correspondent of the Morning Chronicle was
nearly frozen to death in travelling from Erzeroum to Kars. Mr.
Woods was saved by a miracle from going to the bottom during that
fearful November storm in the Black Sea, but happily survived to
sketch the Atlantic cruise of the Agamemnon, and to describe in
brilliant word-painting a great international visit. Mr. W. H. Russell
must bear a charmed life, for after bronchial attacks and dysentery,
induced by Crimean cold and exposure—after being nearly sabred by
mutineer Sowars in India, lamed by the kick of a horse, and struck
down by a coup de soleil—he still wields every week in the midst of us
his graceful, genial pen. Later still, Count Arrivabene, the Italian
Correspondent of the Daily News, who could not resist the temptation
of joining in a cavalry charge, was taken prisoner by the Neapolitans,
and only restored to his friends when they had given him up for dead.
Prceteritorum periculorum dulcis est memoria, as in the Latin grammar
it is written.
But other writers at the seat of war have not been so fortunate.
Poor Mr. Tucker, on the staff of the Illustrated London News, carried
by his ardour into the thickest of the fight, was shot through the head
before Capua. The last and saddest episode in this eventful chronicle
is the fate of Mr. Bowlby, the Special Correspondent of the Times in
China. The loss of such a man at such a time, and in such a way, is
irreparable. Through his eyes all England hoped to see the battles
that were fought and the heroism that was displayed by her sons in
the East : through him we hoped to get our first photograph of Pekin,
our first impressions of its palaces and people, our first glimpse of the
Imperial Court, with its thronging Mandarins and Princes. How
eagerly should we have read his description of the Summer Palace,
with its glittering fountains, its miles of terraces, its wondrous
gardens, and the more than barbaric luxury and glitter within! How
vigorously he would have recounted the sack and burning of this
fanciful and costly structure! What a life-picture we should have had
of the Ratification scene at the Boards of Ceremonies! But this was
not to be; and just as his tale was awaited here with the greatest
expectation, and had aroused the greatest interest, the narrator was
struck cruelly down. We hope that no considerations of red-tape will
VOL. ■£U.
i
money” so properly demanded from the Chinese Government. _ Mr.
Bowlby was in China on the people’s business, and lost his life
emphatically in the public service ; and the nation for whose information
he wrote, and the army whose gallantry he recorded, surely owe some
fitting tribute to his memory. However this may be, Mr. Punch, whose
love of fun is ever less than his sympathy with misfortune, and whose
laughter is sometimes close akin to tears, on his own and the public
behalf deplores this public loss, and calls on his myriad readers to hold
in kindly and in sorrowing remembrance tiie unhappy historian of the
last Chinese War.
MILITARY EDUCATION.
According to L. D., writing in the Times, the following admirable
plau of teaching the young military idea how to shoot, was adopted by
the late General Sir George Cathcart:—
“The target was an effigy (life size) of an armed soldier, cut out in wood, and
standing on a truck with gun-carriage wheels, which was dragged backwards and
forwards across an opening in the woods by means of a long rope.”
This is the way to train troops to shoot flying. In most cases where
our gallant heroes have to charge a foe, they will no doubt have an
opportunity of testing their ability to take a flying shot at the enemy.
Hatchment Wit.
Mr. Gladstone, it seems, levies his Income-Tax not only on the
living, but on those who are no longer such. The executor of a
departed gentleman publishes his complaint, that nine months Income-
Tax in advance is demanded from the estate of a party who died a
short time ago. The subject, neither financially nor socially, is one for
much levity, and Mr. Punch shows his due appreciation of it by print-
ing the grimmest joke that has ever been sent to him by an undertaker.
The respected Mute says, that it is clear a tomb stone is not a Glad-
stone. Ho! liquids to the Mute!
“Hast any Philosophy in Thee, Shepherd?”
Good Doctor Wigram (Rochestere),
At Parsons’ beards is raving:
We sadly fear that we shall hear
The Bishop’s head wants shaving.
The Little Annual.
We had intended to say something upon the subject of that elegant
little bijou annual the Post Office Directory, but as we make a point of
never reviewing a book which we have not thoroughly read through,
and as at present we have only got through the first thousand pages,
we must suspend our judgment. As far as we have gone, the work is
fascinating in style and full of indispensable information.
“OUR OWN CORRESPONDENT AT THE SEAT OF
WAR.”
THE post of Newspaper Correspondent, besides being responsible, has
become dangerous. In their published letters these gentlemen are
modestly sparing of allusion to any personal mishaps, but their hair-
breadth escapes and adventures all over the world would fill a volume.
One ready writer was all but shot as a spy during the Carlist War. Ir,
required strong intercession to save the life of another who was taken,
note-book in hand, when the Danes and Schleswig-Holsteiners were
at loggerheads. In the Russian War the letters of a third, who was
at Shumla with Omar Pasha, were nearly brought to a close by half
a dozen Bashi-Bazouks,—these gentry assailing him with hatchets
and muskets for his unwarrantable interference when they were steal-
ing his straw. Special Correspondents of the Times were cooped up in
Silistria and in Kars, and endured all the privations and perils of those
memorable sieges. At Kalafat a troop of Cossacks made a swoop upon
the Correspondent of the Daily News, who escaped only by his free use
of whip and spur. The Correspondent of the Morning Chronicle was
nearly frozen to death in travelling from Erzeroum to Kars. Mr.
Woods was saved by a miracle from going to the bottom during that
fearful November storm in the Black Sea, but happily survived to
sketch the Atlantic cruise of the Agamemnon, and to describe in
brilliant word-painting a great international visit. Mr. W. H. Russell
must bear a charmed life, for after bronchial attacks and dysentery,
induced by Crimean cold and exposure—after being nearly sabred by
mutineer Sowars in India, lamed by the kick of a horse, and struck
down by a coup de soleil—he still wields every week in the midst of us
his graceful, genial pen. Later still, Count Arrivabene, the Italian
Correspondent of the Daily News, who could not resist the temptation
of joining in a cavalry charge, was taken prisoner by the Neapolitans,
and only restored to his friends when they had given him up for dead.
Prceteritorum periculorum dulcis est memoria, as in the Latin grammar
it is written.
But other writers at the seat of war have not been so fortunate.
Poor Mr. Tucker, on the staff of the Illustrated London News, carried
by his ardour into the thickest of the fight, was shot through the head
before Capua. The last and saddest episode in this eventful chronicle
is the fate of Mr. Bowlby, the Special Correspondent of the Times in
China. The loss of such a man at such a time, and in such a way, is
irreparable. Through his eyes all England hoped to see the battles
that were fought and the heroism that was displayed by her sons in
the East : through him we hoped to get our first photograph of Pekin,
our first impressions of its palaces and people, our first glimpse of the
Imperial Court, with its thronging Mandarins and Princes. How
eagerly should we have read his description of the Summer Palace,
with its glittering fountains, its miles of terraces, its wondrous
gardens, and the more than barbaric luxury and glitter within! How
vigorously he would have recounted the sack and burning of this
fanciful and costly structure! What a life-picture we should have had
of the Ratification scene at the Boards of Ceremonies! But this was
not to be; and just as his tale was awaited here with the greatest
expectation, and had aroused the greatest interest, the narrator was
struck cruelly down. We hope that no considerations of red-tape will
VOL. ■£U.
i