Our ears have rung with the noisy frothiness of
those who have bought their fellow-men as beasts in the market-place, and
found their reward in the sycophancy of a degraded constituency, or the
patronage of a venal ministry--no matter of what creed, for party
_must_ destroy patriotism.
The noble in his robes and coronet--the beadle in his gaudy livery of
scarlet, and purple, and gold--the dignitary in the fulness of his
pomp--the demagogue in the triumph of his hollowness--these and other
visual and oral cheats by which mankind are cajoled, have passed in review
before us, conjured up by the magic wand of PUNCH.
How we envy his philosophy, when SHALLA-BA-LA, that demon with the bell,
besets him at every turn, almost teasing the sap out of him! The moment
that his tormentor quits the scene, PUNCH seems to forget the existence of
his annoyance, and, carolling the mellifluous numbers of _Jim Crow_,
or some other strain of equal beauty, makes the most of the present,
regardless of the past or future; and when SHALLA-BA-LA renews his
persecutions, PUNCH boldly faces his enemy, and ultimately becomes the
victor.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25