DOI Heft:
April 9, 1864
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16873#0152
144
PUNCH OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[April 9, 1864.
DEMORALISING EFFECT OF THE REVIEW.
Ardent Volunteer {to Anxious Wife). “ Glorious day we ’ye had, Jenny. My
DEAR, IT WAS SO LIKE THE REAL THING, THAT I DECLARE SEVERAL TIMES I WAS
QUITE SORRY I HAD NOT GOT BaLL CARTRIDGE ! !”
THEATRICAL INTELLIGENCE.
(iOr rather the want of it.)
We instance the following as a good specimen of unintentional gaucherie:—
“Mr. Fechter, while playing in Bel Bemonio, injured his arm through, some complication
with his sword hilt. The piece having been under-studied, Mr. Jordan at once assumed the
character of Angelo in this emergency. The injury is not serious.”
What injury? The injury of Mr. Jordan playing Mr.Fechter’s part? If
so, we can assure our blundering contemporary that the injury, far from being
“ serious,” was so slight as not to have been noticed by the public in the least.
We cannot accuse Public Opinion, from whom we are quoting, of quizzing, for
it is generally so staid, and solemn, and soberly collected; but if it cannot quiz
with better taste, it had better abandon the habit altogether for the future. It is
only adding insult to “injury” to attempt to turn into ridicule a deserving
actor, who had zealously taken up the part of a brother-player who had met
with a severe accident. Fie, fie, Public Opinion.
LADIES WHO ARE THE MOST PRESENTABLE IN AMERICA.
Here is a paragraph that carries its own acceptable weight with it:—-
“ It is stated, that some ladies in the Southern Confederacy are sending their plate to the
Treasury as a free offering to their country to relieve the pressure on the currency.”
The Confederates, whilst they bless the above fair donors,. may congratulate
themselves that their cause is not so black as the soi-disant friends of the slave
would wish to paint it. The “ plate ” thus freely given, is a consoling illustration
of the saying, that there is “ no cloud so dark but what has its silver lining.” Ladies
must be patriots indeed, who so disinterestedly give their “ services ” to their
suffering country. We have heard of kingdoms being conquered with gold.
Why then should not the South win its independence by means of silver ? Should
the Confederates ever be victorious, they will be citizens, no longer of the American,
but the Argentine, Republic. Out of compliment to the sacrifice of their zealous
countrywomen, they ought then to change tne name of the Mississippi to that of the
River Plate.
PUNCH.
UPON THE EXPRESS TRAIN OF THE MICHIGAN RAILWAY.
February, 1864. Midnight. Mercury at zero.
Wiiat in this far benighted West,
Brings comfort to my lonely breast,
And gives my life its sweetest zest ?
My Punch.
The ragged boy who brought the news,
Offered me much from which to choose,
Times, Tribune, Herald, I refuse,
My Punch.
But buy with well-worn postage-stamps,
Which Chase upon his green-backs vamps.
And read, by dim Petroleum lamps,
My Punch.
Within the carriage, sickly white,
Were men from Chicamanga’s fight.
My eyes were moistened by the sight,
My Punch.
“ Discharged from hospital,” they sigh,
“ Where yet a thousand sufferers lie,
And coming home at last.” To die!
My Punch.
For those sad faces homeward-turned,
Their short-lived pensions fully earned,
How many mothers’ hearts had yearned!
My Punch.
’Twas scarce a twelvemonth since, I know,
When eager crowds beheld them go.
Their youthful faces all a-glow.
My Punch.
And now all twisted by the cramps,
Which wrung them, ’mid the noxious damps,
Of fenny bivouacks and camps,
My Punch.
Bright were those eyes, now bleared and dim,
Lithe was each crutch-supported limb.
Merry were once those spectres grim,
My Punch.
What contrast between now and then !
Their mothers scarce would know again
Those mournful, feeble, dying men,
My Punch.
One speechless on his pallet lay,
They take him forth, “ His home,” they say,
A wretched hamlet by the way,
My Punch.
My wandering fancy sadly bore
My vision to the half-ope’d door,
The tearful clasp—I saw no more.
My Punch.
Oh, fearful reign of greed and hate!
Oh Nation, haughty and elate,
Writing in blood its dreadful fate !
My Punch.
It haunts me, this repulsive theme.
With gory phantasies, which seem
The nightmares of a troubled dream,
My Punch.
For through the surface gloze, so thin.
One sees the Carnival of Sin.
The devil’s dice they play. Who win ?
My Punch.
The train is stopped by drifting snows.
An inn is reached, but no repose
Exhausted hungry nature knows,
My Punch.
There I am forced to sit up late,
Amid the chewing crowds I hate,
Who patiently expectorate.
My Punch.
The whistle sounds, ere I depart,
I clasp thee to my aching heart,
Bahn for the Exile’s keenest smart!
My Punch.
I
I
PUNCH OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[April 9, 1864.
DEMORALISING EFFECT OF THE REVIEW.
Ardent Volunteer {to Anxious Wife). “ Glorious day we ’ye had, Jenny. My
DEAR, IT WAS SO LIKE THE REAL THING, THAT I DECLARE SEVERAL TIMES I WAS
QUITE SORRY I HAD NOT GOT BaLL CARTRIDGE ! !”
THEATRICAL INTELLIGENCE.
(iOr rather the want of it.)
We instance the following as a good specimen of unintentional gaucherie:—
“Mr. Fechter, while playing in Bel Bemonio, injured his arm through, some complication
with his sword hilt. The piece having been under-studied, Mr. Jordan at once assumed the
character of Angelo in this emergency. The injury is not serious.”
What injury? The injury of Mr. Jordan playing Mr.Fechter’s part? If
so, we can assure our blundering contemporary that the injury, far from being
“ serious,” was so slight as not to have been noticed by the public in the least.
We cannot accuse Public Opinion, from whom we are quoting, of quizzing, for
it is generally so staid, and solemn, and soberly collected; but if it cannot quiz
with better taste, it had better abandon the habit altogether for the future. It is
only adding insult to “injury” to attempt to turn into ridicule a deserving
actor, who had zealously taken up the part of a brother-player who had met
with a severe accident. Fie, fie, Public Opinion.
LADIES WHO ARE THE MOST PRESENTABLE IN AMERICA.
Here is a paragraph that carries its own acceptable weight with it:—-
“ It is stated, that some ladies in the Southern Confederacy are sending their plate to the
Treasury as a free offering to their country to relieve the pressure on the currency.”
The Confederates, whilst they bless the above fair donors,. may congratulate
themselves that their cause is not so black as the soi-disant friends of the slave
would wish to paint it. The “ plate ” thus freely given, is a consoling illustration
of the saying, that there is “ no cloud so dark but what has its silver lining.” Ladies
must be patriots indeed, who so disinterestedly give their “ services ” to their
suffering country. We have heard of kingdoms being conquered with gold.
Why then should not the South win its independence by means of silver ? Should
the Confederates ever be victorious, they will be citizens, no longer of the American,
but the Argentine, Republic. Out of compliment to the sacrifice of their zealous
countrywomen, they ought then to change tne name of the Mississippi to that of the
River Plate.
PUNCH.
UPON THE EXPRESS TRAIN OF THE MICHIGAN RAILWAY.
February, 1864. Midnight. Mercury at zero.
Wiiat in this far benighted West,
Brings comfort to my lonely breast,
And gives my life its sweetest zest ?
My Punch.
The ragged boy who brought the news,
Offered me much from which to choose,
Times, Tribune, Herald, I refuse,
My Punch.
But buy with well-worn postage-stamps,
Which Chase upon his green-backs vamps.
And read, by dim Petroleum lamps,
My Punch.
Within the carriage, sickly white,
Were men from Chicamanga’s fight.
My eyes were moistened by the sight,
My Punch.
“ Discharged from hospital,” they sigh,
“ Where yet a thousand sufferers lie,
And coming home at last.” To die!
My Punch.
For those sad faces homeward-turned,
Their short-lived pensions fully earned,
How many mothers’ hearts had yearned!
My Punch.
’Twas scarce a twelvemonth since, I know,
When eager crowds beheld them go.
Their youthful faces all a-glow.
My Punch.
And now all twisted by the cramps,
Which wrung them, ’mid the noxious damps,
Of fenny bivouacks and camps,
My Punch.
Bright were those eyes, now bleared and dim,
Lithe was each crutch-supported limb.
Merry were once those spectres grim,
My Punch.
What contrast between now and then !
Their mothers scarce would know again
Those mournful, feeble, dying men,
My Punch.
One speechless on his pallet lay,
They take him forth, “ His home,” they say,
A wretched hamlet by the way,
My Punch.
My wandering fancy sadly bore
My vision to the half-ope’d door,
The tearful clasp—I saw no more.
My Punch.
Oh, fearful reign of greed and hate!
Oh Nation, haughty and elate,
Writing in blood its dreadful fate !
My Punch.
It haunts me, this repulsive theme.
With gory phantasies, which seem
The nightmares of a troubled dream,
My Punch.
For through the surface gloze, so thin.
One sees the Carnival of Sin.
The devil’s dice they play. Who win ?
My Punch.
The train is stopped by drifting snows.
An inn is reached, but no repose
Exhausted hungry nature knows,
My Punch.
There I am forced to sit up late,
Amid the chewing crowds I hate,
Who patiently expectorate.
My Punch.
The whistle sounds, ere I depart,
I clasp thee to my aching heart,
Bahn for the Exile’s keenest smart!
My Punch.
I
I