DOI issue:
April 20, 1861
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16867#0175
April 20, 1861.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
167
IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO LEARN WHO OUR GREAT MEN ARE!
ometime lately, at a
meeting at Bodmin,
Mr. Wyld imparted
the following: secret
to his constituents,
who must have been
rather taken by sur-
prise with it:—
“During' the Session of
that Parliament, there
was an arduous struggle
going on in the Peninsula
of Italy, and a man whom
he was proud to call his
friend — Garibaldi — was
struggling to emancipate
his country, and to confer
freedom upon some 20
millions of people ; he
(Mr. Wyld) had humbly
assisted him during the
earlier part of the year,
and he went out to see
what assistance he could
render him at a later
period of the year.”
Taking Mr. Wyld
as a favourable speci-
men, we should sa.v
that Garibaldi would
be better pleased to
meet many of his
avowed enemies than
several of his so-called
friends. Might we
venture to inquire
what was the nature
of the assistance that
was humbly given by
Mr. Wyld to his
“friend?” We hope
it was not in presenting him with a map of Italy, or in drawing out for him the plan of
his future campaign, or in favouring the Italian liberator with his particular views on
English politics.
We shall always think of Mr. Wyld as “The M.P. for Bodmin and the Friend of
Garibaldi.” Now if our modern Atlas, who supports on his back the Great Globe,
including Bodmin, and not forgetting Italy, is really anxious to prove himself the “friend”
he represents himself to be, the wisest thing he can do is never to associate his name with
that of Garibaldi; for it is no mark of friendship to attempt to bring your friend into
disrespect, even though that friend may be as strong as the Washington of Italy to stand
any amount of ridicule. We regret that Mr. Wyld never thought, the moment he had
returned from his Italian campaign, of having a large engraving drawn of himself giving
instructions to Garibaldi in geography, pointing out to him the several paths of glory,
with an oustretched mappemonde as big as Leicester Square before them. The absence of the
above has been a national loss—a double national loss, we may say, for Italy must grieve
over it not less than England—and, byway of humble reparation, will Mr. Wyld kindly
promise us, the next time an Italian debate is brought forward, to address the House in a
red shirt?—and if he would only interlard his speech with a few Italian phrases, such as
corpo di Baccho, or Pescator dell'onda, and the like, we think the success would be certain.
We make this request in the name of his “friend,” whom he is bound to assist in every way
that he can.
In the meantime, we wish Mr. Wyld, instead of running down into Italy, and bothering
Garibaldi, would attend a little more to Leicester Square, and make some small endeavour
to keep the filthy place clean and tolerably respectable, for in the present state it would be a
disgrace to the dirtiest metropolis in Europe. It is nothing better than a Great World of dirt
and rubbish. Why don’t the ungrateful inhabitants present him with a broom ?
He has proved his fighting breed.
And would prove his breed again.
And who has strength to bar
Italy’s Dogs of War?
In front, pent, fierce and foul.
Behind their walls of stone.
The Austrian ban-dogs growl,
Late baffled of their bone.
Licking their yet green wounds.
Nursing old grudges warm,
The gaunt and grisly hounds.
Hot for the quarry, swarm—
And hungry dogs they are.
Those Austrian Dogs of War!
But ware your rearward foes,
Where on the Theiss’s plain
In spite of recent blows,
And unforgotten pain,
The Magyar dogs are trooping.
Defying slip and scourge •
Teeth set and sterns undrooping,
Pesthward like waves they surge.
Nor least fierce the Magyar
’Mong Europe’s Dogs of War.
Neath Savoy’s snowy Alp,
On the pleasant banks of Rhone,
Hark! the French dogs they yelp!
Well Europe knows the tone !
Friends for the moment’s friend,
Foes for the moment’s foe—
So there’s battle at its end,
What odds the road they go ?
With a ribbon and a star
You lead French Dogs of War.
And see the Sick Man lying
Almost in mortal swound;
The bed where he is dying
With his own pack girt round—
The Pariah dogs of Bosnia,
The Rouman wolf-dogs grim.
Mouth their master ere lie’s dead.
And claim, each hound, his limb.
Carrion to rend and inar
Befits such Dogs of War.
And the Danish dogs are baring
Their tushes sharp though smab,
While the German mastiff’s swearing
To eat them, bones and all:
E’en the ill-used Polish turnspit
That so long the buffets bore
Of the giant Russian bear-hound,
Has shown its teeth once more—
As if Sirius his star
Had fired all Dogs of War !
Ringed in with gathering growls.
Fierce fangs on every hand,
’Mid defiant snarls aud scowls,
See Britain’s bull-dog stand.
Not couchant, as the wont
Is of the placid brute ;
But legs set firm in front,
With muzzle clenched and mute.
Ware all—who tempt too far
That peaceful Dog of War!
‘ CRY HAVOC, AND LET LOOSE THE DOGS OE WAR ! ”
They are straining in the slips—
Ion may feel their sulph’rous breath,
As it steams from throats and lips
That parch and pant for Death.
You may hear their muffled bay.
As against the leash they hang.
And churn and toss away,
The foam about the fang.
They need no voice to tarre*
Them on, these Dogs of War !
Again—again—again—!
Is it a single sound,
By Echo’s doubling strain,
Repeated all around ?
Has East as well as West,
Has North as well as South,
Its own erected crest,
Hoarse throat and fanged mouth ?
I see them, near and far,
Those threatening dogs of War ?
Where Po runs, brimming over
His green and grassy mound.
Fierce bursting from his cover,
See Italy’s young hound—
Spite of tethers that impede.
And hands that would restrain.
* Tarre : to set on dog's.—Shakspeare.
Pretty Pigs.
The Pope, in his petticoats and white satin
shoes, may be looked upon as somewhat of a
female. There is another point of resemblance
between his Holiness and the ladies. Both, on
certain subjects, are alike deaf to reason. The
obstinacy of the Pontiff relates to Faith, the pig-
headedness of the fair sex regards Fashion. He
will not concede secular Government nor sur-
render young Mortara; they refuse to give up
Crinoline. To the demand of justice, common
sense, and expediency, the Pope replies Non
possumus; and when implored to relinquish a
dangerous, inconvenient, and ridiculous mode of
dress, so say the ladies.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
167
IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO LEARN WHO OUR GREAT MEN ARE!
ometime lately, at a
meeting at Bodmin,
Mr. Wyld imparted
the following: secret
to his constituents,
who must have been
rather taken by sur-
prise with it:—
“During' the Session of
that Parliament, there
was an arduous struggle
going on in the Peninsula
of Italy, and a man whom
he was proud to call his
friend — Garibaldi — was
struggling to emancipate
his country, and to confer
freedom upon some 20
millions of people ; he
(Mr. Wyld) had humbly
assisted him during the
earlier part of the year,
and he went out to see
what assistance he could
render him at a later
period of the year.”
Taking Mr. Wyld
as a favourable speci-
men, we should sa.v
that Garibaldi would
be better pleased to
meet many of his
avowed enemies than
several of his so-called
friends. Might we
venture to inquire
what was the nature
of the assistance that
was humbly given by
Mr. Wyld to his
“friend?” We hope
it was not in presenting him with a map of Italy, or in drawing out for him the plan of
his future campaign, or in favouring the Italian liberator with his particular views on
English politics.
We shall always think of Mr. Wyld as “The M.P. for Bodmin and the Friend of
Garibaldi.” Now if our modern Atlas, who supports on his back the Great Globe,
including Bodmin, and not forgetting Italy, is really anxious to prove himself the “friend”
he represents himself to be, the wisest thing he can do is never to associate his name with
that of Garibaldi; for it is no mark of friendship to attempt to bring your friend into
disrespect, even though that friend may be as strong as the Washington of Italy to stand
any amount of ridicule. We regret that Mr. Wyld never thought, the moment he had
returned from his Italian campaign, of having a large engraving drawn of himself giving
instructions to Garibaldi in geography, pointing out to him the several paths of glory,
with an oustretched mappemonde as big as Leicester Square before them. The absence of the
above has been a national loss—a double national loss, we may say, for Italy must grieve
over it not less than England—and, byway of humble reparation, will Mr. Wyld kindly
promise us, the next time an Italian debate is brought forward, to address the House in a
red shirt?—and if he would only interlard his speech with a few Italian phrases, such as
corpo di Baccho, or Pescator dell'onda, and the like, we think the success would be certain.
We make this request in the name of his “friend,” whom he is bound to assist in every way
that he can.
In the meantime, we wish Mr. Wyld, instead of running down into Italy, and bothering
Garibaldi, would attend a little more to Leicester Square, and make some small endeavour
to keep the filthy place clean and tolerably respectable, for in the present state it would be a
disgrace to the dirtiest metropolis in Europe. It is nothing better than a Great World of dirt
and rubbish. Why don’t the ungrateful inhabitants present him with a broom ?
He has proved his fighting breed.
And would prove his breed again.
And who has strength to bar
Italy’s Dogs of War?
In front, pent, fierce and foul.
Behind their walls of stone.
The Austrian ban-dogs growl,
Late baffled of their bone.
Licking their yet green wounds.
Nursing old grudges warm,
The gaunt and grisly hounds.
Hot for the quarry, swarm—
And hungry dogs they are.
Those Austrian Dogs of War!
But ware your rearward foes,
Where on the Theiss’s plain
In spite of recent blows,
And unforgotten pain,
The Magyar dogs are trooping.
Defying slip and scourge •
Teeth set and sterns undrooping,
Pesthward like waves they surge.
Nor least fierce the Magyar
’Mong Europe’s Dogs of War.
Neath Savoy’s snowy Alp,
On the pleasant banks of Rhone,
Hark! the French dogs they yelp!
Well Europe knows the tone !
Friends for the moment’s friend,
Foes for the moment’s foe—
So there’s battle at its end,
What odds the road they go ?
With a ribbon and a star
You lead French Dogs of War.
And see the Sick Man lying
Almost in mortal swound;
The bed where he is dying
With his own pack girt round—
The Pariah dogs of Bosnia,
The Rouman wolf-dogs grim.
Mouth their master ere lie’s dead.
And claim, each hound, his limb.
Carrion to rend and inar
Befits such Dogs of War.
And the Danish dogs are baring
Their tushes sharp though smab,
While the German mastiff’s swearing
To eat them, bones and all:
E’en the ill-used Polish turnspit
That so long the buffets bore
Of the giant Russian bear-hound,
Has shown its teeth once more—
As if Sirius his star
Had fired all Dogs of War !
Ringed in with gathering growls.
Fierce fangs on every hand,
’Mid defiant snarls aud scowls,
See Britain’s bull-dog stand.
Not couchant, as the wont
Is of the placid brute ;
But legs set firm in front,
With muzzle clenched and mute.
Ware all—who tempt too far
That peaceful Dog of War!
‘ CRY HAVOC, AND LET LOOSE THE DOGS OE WAR ! ”
They are straining in the slips—
Ion may feel their sulph’rous breath,
As it steams from throats and lips
That parch and pant for Death.
You may hear their muffled bay.
As against the leash they hang.
And churn and toss away,
The foam about the fang.
They need no voice to tarre*
Them on, these Dogs of War !
Again—again—again—!
Is it a single sound,
By Echo’s doubling strain,
Repeated all around ?
Has East as well as West,
Has North as well as South,
Its own erected crest,
Hoarse throat and fanged mouth ?
I see them, near and far,
Those threatening dogs of War ?
Where Po runs, brimming over
His green and grassy mound.
Fierce bursting from his cover,
See Italy’s young hound—
Spite of tethers that impede.
And hands that would restrain.
* Tarre : to set on dog's.—Shakspeare.
Pretty Pigs.
The Pope, in his petticoats and white satin
shoes, may be looked upon as somewhat of a
female. There is another point of resemblance
between his Holiness and the ladies. Both, on
certain subjects, are alike deaf to reason. The
obstinacy of the Pontiff relates to Faith, the pig-
headedness of the fair sex regards Fashion. He
will not concede secular Government nor sur-
render young Mortara; they refuse to give up
Crinoline. To the demand of justice, common
sense, and expediency, the Pope replies Non
possumus; and when implored to relinquish a
dangerous, inconvenient, and ridiculous mode of
dress, so say the ladies.