Punch (59.1870)

September 3, 1870.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

95

A SCOTCH PHILISTINE.

Tourist. " Fine Old Chubch, this ! "

Gravedigger. " 0, ay, I daubsay it micht be, if it wAz Repaired.'

BAM SBOTHAMIANA.

Mbs. Bamsbotham writes from her country cottage, "We don't -want any people
down bere to see us, aud so we remain strictly in clogs, as the French say. We
don't know any of our neighbours except, the clergyman, who is lately manied,
and is very usurious, which, you know, meaDS fond of liis wife. That's a vice on the
right, side now-a-days. There was an escape of gas here yesterday, and the man who
did the pipes caught it, I can tell you. I let him know what a blowing-up was.
'J he oilier day we went, to see an ancient, church and a nunnery. That, is, the
remains of one. The ruins were perfect. The guide pointed out to us where the
refractory was, where the nuns were fed. In the church they showed us a curious
amboney (they call it, I think, it's Greek), which is a sort of pu!pit where two people
preached at, once.

"i thought till now that Ambony was the name of a great Italian singer; but I
suppose I'm wrong, because she couldn't be the same person.

"Then there was the Ccedilier (or some such word), meaning three seats for the
priests at service, all of stone; at school I learnt that Ccedilia was placed under aj £h&}>_v.ortby thine, mslreely^tlows
French word to soften it, but, these were as hard as could be. But time changes
languages, and we may never know what we mean two sentries afier we've said it.
The apples are all ripening; the Bibtons coming on beautifully.

"Mk. and Mhs. Filmek are off to Scotland. They've gone to see theKyLESof
Bute; if they're nice people they'll stop with them some time. The doctors here
say the air is very lugubrious, and 1 suppose it is, as I've ntver been better. Good-

BLEEDING, BUT NOT BEATEN.

Ill-fated France, that bleedest sore.
From every vein, at, every pore !
O'er Belgium's frontier streaming, see
'Pne life-blood of thy industry.
The patient brains and dextrous hands
Of Germany's laborious bands,
Whom in blind rage and bitter hate,
rlhou spurnest from thy leaguered gate,—
Blood, whose out-pouring wastes thy veins
Of labouring strength, and labour's gains.
And elsewhere o'er thy frontier, Jo
Thine own sons in their thousands flow,
Bearing from warfare's scourge and spuil
The blood that should enrich ihy soil!
And while thy industry, thy land,
Lose life-blood thus, on either baud,
See other fountains, nobler still,
The streams thou gavest, freely spill!
Thy soldiers' blood, mixed witli their foe's,
Like water, on thy bosom, flows,
And flows to waste—not to renew
The Laurels, to such watering due !
O noble mother of brave sons,
'Twiit thee and me an ocean runs—
An ocean whose dissev'nng tide
Doth not more than old hates divide.
But spite of old hates, and old wars,
And wounds still rankling 'neath. iheir scars,
My heart bleeds for thee and ihy pains—
Bleeds even with thy bleeding veins'
Of industry and wealth, and, worst,
Of courage, with ill-guidance curst!
But bleeding, fainting, falling, still
Holds the indomitable will,
And seems to harden under blows,
And strengthens with thy strengthening foes.
Till thou hast never seemed so great
As now, in this thy worst, estate !
Let me not ask, in this sad hour,
What dark designs, what, lust of power,
What selfish hope to save a crown,
Or to a son to hand one down,
Spoke the irrevocable word
That bade thee draw ihy ready sword,
Hood-winked, misled, with bosom bated,
Ill-generalled, and unprepaTed ;
Nor seek to weigh, with balance fine,
The weight, of others' wrong and thine.
Whate'er thou strovest for first, I see
Thou strivest, now, for thy right to be :
Strivest to guard thy hearths and homes,
Thine altars and ancestral tombs.
For all, for which thy foes had striven,
Had thine ill-lot to them been given.
And till thou sweep lho;e foes away,
Wisely postponest the reckoning-day,
With him whose dark and desperate game
Hath brought thee to this pass of shame i
To them that so strive, in their need
Fngland, perforce, must wish God speed !
Enough of brave blood has been shed
To atone ill-will to strife misled ;
Enough of thy blood, and the foe's,

bye for the present.

A PANACEA FOB. THE WOUNDED.

Where is Dr. Newton, the Healing Medium from America ? (U.S.) He should be
at the seat of war if he is what he professes himself. A pretty kind of healing medium
he must be, if he cannot even heal wounds. All accounts of Dk. Newton, given us
by the organs of Spiritualism, represent him as possessed of a healing power conjoined
with a benevolence, which, in their combination, constitute him a Poor Man's Iriend,
worth any quantity of given, not to name bought, gallipots of the ointment so called.
If Db. Newton is half the healer and philanthropist those who believe in him make

God guide ttieir hearts such Peace to frame,
As thou mayst sign, and feel no shame,
May kindly Nature work to hide
The prints of the invaders' stride,
And springs of inborn strength restore
The lavish waste of generous gore,
Till, as the seasons roll along,
And Man's will and Heaven's grace are sirons
Good even of war the World shall win,
Theirs the great suffering, whose the s^n!

him out, he would instantly rush, to the battle-plain, and stop the effusion of blood. j gun

Ready? eh? Ready?

Fokewabned is not forearmed, or the Volunteers
would be now practising with breechloaders. Catch a
weasel asleep, and pop goes the weasel. Pop also goes
the Volunteer. He might as well go pop with a j.op-