Punch, Volumes 44-45

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Punch Publications Limited, 1863 - Caricatures and cartoons

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Page 124 - From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay, That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day; For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly warflame spread, High on St. Michael's Mount it shone: it shone on Beachy Head. Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire, Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire.
Page 171 - tis no matter; Honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on ? how then ? Can honour set to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound ? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery then ? No. What is honour? A word. What is in that word, honour? What is that honour? Air. A trim reckoning ! — Who hath it? He that died o
Page 95 - Not yet, not yet to interfere does England see occasion, But treats our good commissioner with coolness and evasion; Such coolness in the premises, that really 'tis refrigerant To think that two long years ago she called us a belligerent. But, further, Downing- street is dumb, the premier deaf to reason, As deaf as is the Morning...
Page 201 - When heaven is opening on my sightless eyes, When airs from paradise refresh my brow, The earth in darkness lies. In a purer clime, My being fills with rapture — waves of thought Roll in upon my spirit — strains sublime Break over me unsought. Give me now my lyre ! I feel the stirrings of a gift divine ; Within my bosom glows unearthly fire, Lit by no skill of mine.
Page 159 - You can meet this figure in the street, and live, and even smile at the recollection. But conceive of her in a ball-room, with the bare, brawny arms that she invariably displays there, and all the other corresponding development, such as is beautiful in the maiden blossom, but a spectacle to howl at in such an over-blown cabbage-rose as this.
Page 95 - Of course we claim the shining fame of glorious Stonewall Jackson, Who typifies the English race, a sterling Anglo-Saxon; To bravest song his deeds belong, to Clio and Melpomene" . . . (And why not for a British stream demand the Chickahominy ?) "But for the cause in which he fell we cannot lift a finger. 'Tis idle on the question any longer here to linger; 'Tis true the South has freely bled, her sorrows are Homeric, oh ! Her case is like to his of old who journeyed unto Jericho — • "The thieves...
Page 159 - She has an awful ponderosity of frame, not pulpy, like the looser development of our few fat women, but massive with solid beef and streaky tallow ; so that (though struggling manfully against the idea) you inevitably think of her as made up of steaks and sirloins.
Page 95 - Pam ! hast ever read what's writ in Holy Pages, How blessed the peace-makers are, God's children of the ages ? Perhaps you think the promise sweet was nothing but a platitude, 'Tis clear that you have no concern in that divine beatitude. But "hear! hear! hear!
Page 95 - em fight, till both are brought to hopeless desolation, Till wolves troop round the cottage door, in one and t'other nation, Till, worn and broken down, the South shall prove no more refractory, And rust eats up the silent looms of every Yankee factory — "Till bursts no more the cotton boll o'er...
Page 42 - Liturgy, to keep the mean between the two extremes, of too much stiffness in refusing, and of too much easiness in admitting any variation from it.

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