DOI Heft:
October 22, 1859
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16864#0174
October 22, 1859.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
1&3
INVIDA iETAS.
“ IIuUo / Old Feller, this climate doesn’t seem to suit you ; you had better
ijo to Madeira, it don’t rain there, and you ’ll suit the climate.”
IMAGINARY CONVERSATION.
Pope Perugia. King Bombalino.
“ The Pope is about to have an interview with the Kino of Naples.”—Journal
cles Debats.
The Pope. Evil times indeed, your Majesty, evil times. Even this
Tokay, priceless and matchless as it is, seems scarcely so good as in
other da\ s.
The King. My lamented father had the honour—as I learn by a
memorandum in his Hours—of sending some few bottles to meet your
Holiness on a certain return to Home in April, 1850. Was it then that
the flavour was so agreeable to your Holiness ?
The Pope. Ah! The wine was welcome—more so, perhaps, than a
few French friends who did me the kindness to taste it. But this is a
world of misery, sorrow, and wretchedness, and was intended to be so,
as is affectingly observed by that Irish Archbishop whose barbarous
name ever escapes me. To your health, my son, and may you tread in
the footsteps of that beatified saint, your father.
The King. That I may be worthy to do so—handpassihus cequh '
The Pope (smiles). So! We know other Latin than our prayers?
Nay, do not look ashamed, my son; it is not of heathen writers that I
would have you beware. Mantuan literature is harmless enough, would
that I could say as much of that of Paris.
The King. My confessor does not object to French novels, your
Holiness, and they go exceedingly well with a cigar.
The Pope. I have every confidence in that good man’s discretion and
piety; and fiction, which is but parable, is a recognised form even of
religious instruction. It was against journals and political writings
that- I meant to caution you.
The King. I never permit myself to be bored, your Holiness, if I can
help it.
my son. For an anointed sovereign owes it to
his brain in perfect order, and ready for emer-
or irritated mind is therefore a sin. And now,
have you to tell me of your power and will to aid
the Church against the brigands of liberty ?
The King. I have given tiie subject, your Holiness, as was my duty,
the most profound and earnest consideration.
The Pope. Not, I am sure, dear son, forgetting to ask counsel where
Kinars are especially privileged to ask it ?
Ihe King. Of course I consulted my confessor, your Holiness.
The Pope. And the result was, that you were inspired with wisdom,
my dear son, and led to see the one course that is open to a true
Catholic and good son of the Church.
The King. Can your Holiness doubt it ? I humbly hope that the
plan which we have devised will be found calculated in the most
The Pope. Bight,
Providence to keep
gencies—a fatigued
what pleasant news
eminent degree to secure the interests of the Church, and the safety of
her Head.
The Pope. My good son. I would that I had a Golden Bose in my
carpet-bag for you, but it shall be yours—meantime here (taking out
an ivory box) is one of the corns of the blessed Saint Adiposa, on
account.
The King. Cor meum Icetat. (Crosses himself, and puts the corn into
his gold fusee-box).
The Pope. And now, and now, tell me. What is our scheme?
Bless you!
The King. Beatus sum. Your Holiness is doubtless acquainted with
the statistics of the Two Sicilies?
The Pope. Of course I know everything, but tell me, nevertheless.
The King. When our army is on a peace footing—•
The Pope. Which, mi fili, it never ought to be. Is this a world of
peace ? Non pacem, sed ensem. I am sure that your Majesty’s confessor
has not forgotten those words.
The King. I will make a point of asking him. Meantime, youi
Holiness, I was about to say that when our army is on a peace footing,
it numbers about 56,000 thousand men. When on a war footing, it
has considerably over 100,000 men.
The Pope. Bless them! Baise them, and send them at Garibaldi.
The King. Might I be permitted to unfold our scheme, your Holiness—
The Pope. Perge, perge. But w'e old men are impatient, and I long
to know the earliest day when your gallant troops will be launched
against that bloody and devouring boar who is rooting up the vines of
Fcelesia, and trampling her precious grapes under his hoofs of Satan.
The King. My first duty is to the Church, your Holiness.
The Pope. Bight, my noble son, right; and therefore arise and slay
her enemies. (Pubs his hands ) The Bomagna shall be even as
Perugia, yea, and ten times more. I chastised Perugia with whips,
but you, my Behoboam, shall chastise the whole Bomagna with
scorpions.
The King (aside). What’s a Behoboam, and what does the excited
old party mean by his scorpions ? What a beestly idea! (To his Guest)
lour Holiness, 1 have now to submit to you that the dominions to
which I have been left heir by that adorable saint, my father, comprise
twenty-four thousand five hundred and sixty-three square Italian
miles.
The Pope. I hope your brave soldiers will kill exactly that number
of rebels. It will be a good standard to aim at. If they go a little
beyond it, we will ensure their forgiveness at the hands of the saints.
The King. This is wiihout computing the island tenitory, which,
added, will make thirty-two thousand, five hundred and thirty square
miles.
The Pope. A much better number, my dear son, a much better num-
ber to keep in the minds of your noble generals. Kill that number,
my dear son, and the day you send me the certificate of their deaths,
I will send you the left eyelid of Saint Onisephorus. I swear it. Kill
’em all, my son.
The King. Now, it has occurred to me, your Holiness, and to my
confessor, and to the Commander-in-Chief of my army, and to all who
have a voice in the matter, that, our first duty being to the Church—
The Pope. Yes, yes, you said that. Use not vain repetitions—get
on, my son.
The King. It is above all things necessary to keep a safe and secure
refuge for the Head of the Church, against the time when, his French
guards being removed, his own children hasten to expel him from
his own home. Therefore, your Holiness, and considering that
100,000 men are not a soul too many to take care of the Sicilies, our
scheme is, in order to fulfil our duty, which—
The Pope. You are impertinent, my son.
The King. Heaven forbid! Our scheme is to keep our soldiers for
the defence of our own dominions, should they be attacked. Then,
should men of Belial assail your Holiness, there is a refuge —-
The Pope (rising, and in a rage). You are an eternal humbug, my
son, and a fool, and an ass, and a heretic, and a beast. Give me back
my corn—give me back my corn ! Satan has got hold of you, give me
back my corn, I say ! My carriage ! Instantly! You t he son ot King
Ferdinand, whom the wicked called Bomba—you! Vaderetre. Ai;
idiot, a clown, an unredeemable blockhead ! Golden Bose—a thistle
would be more in your way, my son. And you’ve made t he holy corn
smell of your cursed tobacco ! By the Eleven Thousand Virgins, 1
have nine minds to — nunquam mens. My carriage! Gurr—you
swine! _ [Kxit.
King. Tanteene animis ccelestibus irce?—what’s the opera to-night?
THE READER IS REQUESTED NOT TO LAUGH.
When is a man out of date ?—When he’s a iceak back!!!—Baron
Bramwell.
The Schoolmaster’s Paternal Advice—“ The world, my Son,
is but a large co]iy-book, and I need not point out to you with what
very little wisdom it is ruled.”
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
1&3
INVIDA iETAS.
“ IIuUo / Old Feller, this climate doesn’t seem to suit you ; you had better
ijo to Madeira, it don’t rain there, and you ’ll suit the climate.”
IMAGINARY CONVERSATION.
Pope Perugia. King Bombalino.
“ The Pope is about to have an interview with the Kino of Naples.”—Journal
cles Debats.
The Pope. Evil times indeed, your Majesty, evil times. Even this
Tokay, priceless and matchless as it is, seems scarcely so good as in
other da\ s.
The King. My lamented father had the honour—as I learn by a
memorandum in his Hours—of sending some few bottles to meet your
Holiness on a certain return to Home in April, 1850. Was it then that
the flavour was so agreeable to your Holiness ?
The Pope. Ah! The wine was welcome—more so, perhaps, than a
few French friends who did me the kindness to taste it. But this is a
world of misery, sorrow, and wretchedness, and was intended to be so,
as is affectingly observed by that Irish Archbishop whose barbarous
name ever escapes me. To your health, my son, and may you tread in
the footsteps of that beatified saint, your father.
The King. That I may be worthy to do so—handpassihus cequh '
The Pope (smiles). So! We know other Latin than our prayers?
Nay, do not look ashamed, my son; it is not of heathen writers that I
would have you beware. Mantuan literature is harmless enough, would
that I could say as much of that of Paris.
The King. My confessor does not object to French novels, your
Holiness, and they go exceedingly well with a cigar.
The Pope. I have every confidence in that good man’s discretion and
piety; and fiction, which is but parable, is a recognised form even of
religious instruction. It was against journals and political writings
that- I meant to caution you.
The King. I never permit myself to be bored, your Holiness, if I can
help it.
my son. For an anointed sovereign owes it to
his brain in perfect order, and ready for emer-
or irritated mind is therefore a sin. And now,
have you to tell me of your power and will to aid
the Church against the brigands of liberty ?
The King. I have given tiie subject, your Holiness, as was my duty,
the most profound and earnest consideration.
The Pope. Not, I am sure, dear son, forgetting to ask counsel where
Kinars are especially privileged to ask it ?
Ihe King. Of course I consulted my confessor, your Holiness.
The Pope. And the result was, that you were inspired with wisdom,
my dear son, and led to see the one course that is open to a true
Catholic and good son of the Church.
The King. Can your Holiness doubt it ? I humbly hope that the
plan which we have devised will be found calculated in the most
The Pope. Bight,
Providence to keep
gencies—a fatigued
what pleasant news
eminent degree to secure the interests of the Church, and the safety of
her Head.
The Pope. My good son. I would that I had a Golden Bose in my
carpet-bag for you, but it shall be yours—meantime here (taking out
an ivory box) is one of the corns of the blessed Saint Adiposa, on
account.
The King. Cor meum Icetat. (Crosses himself, and puts the corn into
his gold fusee-box).
The Pope. And now, and now, tell me. What is our scheme?
Bless you!
The King. Beatus sum. Your Holiness is doubtless acquainted with
the statistics of the Two Sicilies?
The Pope. Of course I know everything, but tell me, nevertheless.
The King. When our army is on a peace footing—•
The Pope. Which, mi fili, it never ought to be. Is this a world of
peace ? Non pacem, sed ensem. I am sure that your Majesty’s confessor
has not forgotten those words.
The King. I will make a point of asking him. Meantime, youi
Holiness, I was about to say that when our army is on a peace footing,
it numbers about 56,000 thousand men. When on a war footing, it
has considerably over 100,000 men.
The Pope. Bless them! Baise them, and send them at Garibaldi.
The King. Might I be permitted to unfold our scheme, your Holiness—
The Pope. Perge, perge. But w'e old men are impatient, and I long
to know the earliest day when your gallant troops will be launched
against that bloody and devouring boar who is rooting up the vines of
Fcelesia, and trampling her precious grapes under his hoofs of Satan.
The King. My first duty is to the Church, your Holiness.
The Pope. Bight, my noble son, right; and therefore arise and slay
her enemies. (Pubs his hands ) The Bomagna shall be even as
Perugia, yea, and ten times more. I chastised Perugia with whips,
but you, my Behoboam, shall chastise the whole Bomagna with
scorpions.
The King (aside). What’s a Behoboam, and what does the excited
old party mean by his scorpions ? What a beestly idea! (To his Guest)
lour Holiness, 1 have now to submit to you that the dominions to
which I have been left heir by that adorable saint, my father, comprise
twenty-four thousand five hundred and sixty-three square Italian
miles.
The Pope. I hope your brave soldiers will kill exactly that number
of rebels. It will be a good standard to aim at. If they go a little
beyond it, we will ensure their forgiveness at the hands of the saints.
The King. This is wiihout computing the island tenitory, which,
added, will make thirty-two thousand, five hundred and thirty square
miles.
The Pope. A much better number, my dear son, a much better num-
ber to keep in the minds of your noble generals. Kill that number,
my dear son, and the day you send me the certificate of their deaths,
I will send you the left eyelid of Saint Onisephorus. I swear it. Kill
’em all, my son.
The King. Now, it has occurred to me, your Holiness, and to my
confessor, and to the Commander-in-Chief of my army, and to all who
have a voice in the matter, that, our first duty being to the Church—
The Pope. Yes, yes, you said that. Use not vain repetitions—get
on, my son.
The King. It is above all things necessary to keep a safe and secure
refuge for the Head of the Church, against the time when, his French
guards being removed, his own children hasten to expel him from
his own home. Therefore, your Holiness, and considering that
100,000 men are not a soul too many to take care of the Sicilies, our
scheme is, in order to fulfil our duty, which—
The Pope. You are impertinent, my son.
The King. Heaven forbid! Our scheme is to keep our soldiers for
the defence of our own dominions, should they be attacked. Then,
should men of Belial assail your Holiness, there is a refuge —-
The Pope (rising, and in a rage). You are an eternal humbug, my
son, and a fool, and an ass, and a heretic, and a beast. Give me back
my corn—give me back my corn ! Satan has got hold of you, give me
back my corn, I say ! My carriage ! Instantly! You t he son ot King
Ferdinand, whom the wicked called Bomba—you! Vaderetre. Ai;
idiot, a clown, an unredeemable blockhead ! Golden Bose—a thistle
would be more in your way, my son. And you’ve made t he holy corn
smell of your cursed tobacco ! By the Eleven Thousand Virgins, 1
have nine minds to — nunquam mens. My carriage! Gurr—you
swine! _ [Kxit.
King. Tanteene animis ccelestibus irce?—what’s the opera to-night?
THE READER IS REQUESTED NOT TO LAUGH.
When is a man out of date ?—When he’s a iceak back!!!—Baron
Bramwell.
The Schoolmaster’s Paternal Advice—“ The world, my Son,
is but a large co]iy-book, and I need not point out to you with what
very little wisdom it is ruled.”