DOI issue:
September 6, 1862
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16870#0108
September 6, 1862.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 101
A HARPOON FOR WALES.
We are informed by the journals that circulate on the frontier of the
district called Wales, that there is going to be held somewhere in the
Principality a gathering, which is called in the barbarous language of
Wales an “Eisteddfod,” or assemblage of Welsh Bards, as they call
themselves. This is a nuisance of an ordinary character; but the
special meeting, in question is to be very large, indeed larger than has
been ever held in Wales. We think we read that between six and seven
hundred of the abominable Bards, who help to keep up what a Welsh
Gentleman in the House of Commons had the sense and manliness to call
the Curse of Wales, namely, the Welsh Language, are to meet at this
Eisteddfod. This is well. We shall have a suggestion to make upon
the subject presently, in the mean time we should like English readers
to have a notion of the kind of bosh which these Bards emit. We read
in the Oswestry Advertiser, which works well for the cause of civilisa-
tion by giving much prominence to the absurdities of the Cambrians,
that a lot of Bards, mixing up Bardery with the Dissenting Interest,
held an Eisteddfod in a Congregational Chapel at Bala. The Bards
with a sweet adherence to the lofty impartiality of the poetic character,
addressed themselves to a glorification of a sectarian demonstration.
As citizens they had a perfect right, of course, to sing at a Dissenting
tea-party or any other gathering, but a Bard, a Bard striking his harp
and hymning Mr. Miall and the Anti-Church-rate Association ! There
was a Dissenting minister in the chair, who was quite justified in
availing himself of whatever capital was to be made out of the Bards ;
and after an address about the Bicentenary, he “called upon the Bards
to repeat their poetic effusions.” “Which,” says the report, furnished
we presume by a Welshman, “ was complied with by Eos Wyn and
Rhisiart Ddu.” This latter gentleman may be some relative of
Roderick or some other Doo, but we are not favoured with his lyric.
Divers Bards followed, and one got ten shillings for the best
“englynion” to “Corwen and Bala Railway.” We have of course no
idea, and desire to have none, as to the meaning of the word
“ englynion; ” but it may be something in the way of compliment, and,
at all events, a Welsh poem is fittingly and naturally addressed to
Sleepers. But later in the day the following Bards repeated some
poetry. Dyfnwal Tegid, Duel Moelwyn, Eos Wyn, and J. Evans,
Castell. The last Bard has put, his Welsh ideas into English, and here
they are—
“ What is the distant murmur,
Falling as from the skies,
What is the voice that bids us
Children of Cambria arise ;
What is the bidding that echoes
From ages long gone by,
What is that voice which calls us,
Rise to conquer or die.
’Tis the voice of your fathers long dead,
Calling from the depth of the graves,
Yc children of Cambria arise,
Defy them to call you their slaves ;
We do our fathers, we rise,
Hark, hark, to that echoing cry !
We are up like our fathers of yore,
We are up to conquer or die.
Where are those that bid us be slaves,
While we stand on the earth of the free,
In the souna of wild Tegid’s waves
Where murmur Trywem and Dee ;
Our hearts are as free as the breeze
That bid Tegid’s wild waves arise,
Then where is the man that would bid us
Be slaves, ’neath the freeman’s skies ;
We scorn your sways, we can despise your terrors,
There take your chains, pray keep them for your errors.”
Now wbat does Bard Castell mean by all this ? As for the murmur
tumbling out of the skies and requesting the Welsh to get out of bed,
we have no objection to that or any other poetic image. But when the
Welsh are out of bed, and we will add dressed, what are they to do ?
Open their shops and sweep the same, and proceed with the ordinary
business of life. Certainly not. They are to “Conquer or die.”
Conquer what ? Their obstinacy and ignorance, or the difficulties of the
English language, either of which operations would much tend to the
improvement of the Welshman. “ Or die.” Never say die, Bard
Castell. What do you want to die for? Live to drink many a draught
of muddy ale, three days old, and sputter much more Welsh. But, go
on, Castell. ’Tis the voice of your dead fathers, calling out of their
graves. Why, you old humbug, you said just now that the sound came
out of the sky. That won’t do, Castell, unless your respected fathers
were ventriloquists. And what do they say? “ Arise.” What, again.
Ah, they know your habits, and won’t believe you get out of bed at the
first call. Well, and having arisen, what? “Defy them to call you
their slaves.” Defy whom ? Your fathers ? That is the only gram-
matical construction of the passage. But if not your fathers, whom ?
Who’s them? Nobody else is mentioned. Do you mean the Euglish,
you traitor ! If so, make over your Welsh wig, harp, pound and a half of
cheese, and all other your personal estate and effects, to some trustee
for your next of kin, as we intend to get Sir William Atherton,
Attorney-General, to have you executed, notwithstanding his Dissenting
principles being akin to yours. He will hang you as soon as not, and
therefore, if you don’t mean the English by “ them,” you had better
telegraph to him to say so. But on you go. “We do our fathers, we
rise.” Ha! ha! No, you unfilial Bard, you don’t do your fathers.
They are too wide-awake old Welsh buffers to be done by their cater-
wauling progeny. Not you, but you are trying to do our fathers, and
their children, into a belief that you are real Bards when you are no
better than bellmen. And you have the assurance to answer that you
“are up—to conquer.” Bards, we are up—to snuff; Welsh snuff, bards;
and you are humbugs, we tell you. Ah, you have slipped out of the
noose, and Atherton is cheated of his victim.
“ Where are those that bid us be slaves,
While we stand on the earth of the free?"
And echo answers that she has not the least idea. Nor have we, nor
have you. Therefore it is quite safe to go on bothering with a repeti-
tion of the same insane question, Castell. Who’s “ Tegid,” Castell ?
—we know what’s turgid, Castell. And now for your finish. “ We
scorn your sways.” Whose sways ? Have you taken heart for another
shy at England? Do you scorn our sways, Cambrian? Ha! “We
can despise your terrors.” But we have no terrors, Castell, except
terrors of hearing canticles like those you chant in the Congregational
chapel. Terrors, indeed! But you only wanted a rhyme to errors, and
we won’t be hard upon you, for Mr. Punch himself has had his difficulties
in that walk. You wanted to make a bang in your last line, and you
majestically exclaim, “ There take your chains ! ” But what chains,
Castell? Those of the Menai bridge? Thank you, but they serve to
aid in the civilisation of Wales. We do not know any other chains
which England has imposed upon you, except the brass watch-chains,
gilded, which we fear some of our Houndsditch fellow-Christians occa-
sionally induce you, late on market or fair-day, to purchase for the decora-
tion of your splendid Sabbath waistcoats. Bosh, Castell! You mean
“Take your change.” That, said respectfully is more becoming the mouth
of a decent little Welsh shopkeeper. But we come to your final epigram.
“Pray keep them for your errors.” Eh? We are to chain up our
errors. That is really a bold and striking image, which redeems the
whole Ode. Are we to put collars round their necks ?—you might
mention that in your next. Come, we forgive you all your nonsense
for the sake of that splendid idea—the chaining up errors, and request-
ing them to lie down quietly, and not bark at the Congregational Bards.
Bravo, Castell !
This, ladies and gentlemen, is the sort of stuff which Welsh Bards
offer at the Eisteddfod. Cadwallon is no more, but there is Mr.
Griffiths. Modred is defunct, but there is Mr. Jones, and brave
what-do-you-call-him sleeps upon his craggy bed, but Mr. Thomas is
awake and sputtering. They call themselves Bards, and the ridiculous
humbug is kept up, they being as much Bards as any of the lean-legged
parties who attire themselves as Foresters are akin to Rohm Hood.
Hundreds of them are going to meet somewhere—we will find out
where, and,
Oh, if it please your Majesty, Queen Yictoria, if you would be so
kind as to recollect that you are descended from that excellent Sovereign,
Edward the First. If your Majesty would recall an amiable trait
in his character, and emulate it—there are several regiments at Chester—
and Mr. Punch will, after the little operation, write an Ode that shall
entirely extinguish that of Gray.
[Our Contributor has some sense in him, and bas shown a little of it in the above
article, but our own private opinion is that his atrabiliousness has been excited by
two bills, presented to him at two Welsh Hotels, possibly to be named hereafter.
He sends us the bills, a request for a cheque, and the above contribution. If he
thinks that the latter is an equivalent for the amount he requires, he will find out
his mistake on returning to town ; but we wiU “let him have his dream to-day.”—
Ed. Punch.]
SOMETHING SUPERFLUOUS.
Mr. Punch perceives in the papers of this week a Loudon advertise-
ment beginning “First Cousins Wanted.” What extraordinarily
lonely man can have put this in. At the end of a season in which every
house in London has had more first cousins and second cousins and
third cousins in it than any non-insane architect would have declared it
possible to cram into the existing arrangements, a man deliberately
advertises for First Cousins. We fear he must be a bad man and of
kin to the Islington Cannibal against whom we had to warn a young
lady last week, and we recommend his affectionate cousins to keep out,
of his way, especially if they stand in his light in the family pedigree.
Nobody in this International September can be advertising for cousins
for any good purpose._
Notions of the Beautiful.
Scene—A Nobleman's Country House.
First Housemaid. You ’ve seen the young Lord ? I forget his name-
who arrived this morning. Don’t you think he’s very good looking ?
Second Housemaid. Certainly—he’s even beautiful! But Susan, dear
only think ! wouldn’t he look handsome in livery !
Yol. 43.
P
A HARPOON FOR WALES.
We are informed by the journals that circulate on the frontier of the
district called Wales, that there is going to be held somewhere in the
Principality a gathering, which is called in the barbarous language of
Wales an “Eisteddfod,” or assemblage of Welsh Bards, as they call
themselves. This is a nuisance of an ordinary character; but the
special meeting, in question is to be very large, indeed larger than has
been ever held in Wales. We think we read that between six and seven
hundred of the abominable Bards, who help to keep up what a Welsh
Gentleman in the House of Commons had the sense and manliness to call
the Curse of Wales, namely, the Welsh Language, are to meet at this
Eisteddfod. This is well. We shall have a suggestion to make upon
the subject presently, in the mean time we should like English readers
to have a notion of the kind of bosh which these Bards emit. We read
in the Oswestry Advertiser, which works well for the cause of civilisa-
tion by giving much prominence to the absurdities of the Cambrians,
that a lot of Bards, mixing up Bardery with the Dissenting Interest,
held an Eisteddfod in a Congregational Chapel at Bala. The Bards
with a sweet adherence to the lofty impartiality of the poetic character,
addressed themselves to a glorification of a sectarian demonstration.
As citizens they had a perfect right, of course, to sing at a Dissenting
tea-party or any other gathering, but a Bard, a Bard striking his harp
and hymning Mr. Miall and the Anti-Church-rate Association ! There
was a Dissenting minister in the chair, who was quite justified in
availing himself of whatever capital was to be made out of the Bards ;
and after an address about the Bicentenary, he “called upon the Bards
to repeat their poetic effusions.” “Which,” says the report, furnished
we presume by a Welshman, “ was complied with by Eos Wyn and
Rhisiart Ddu.” This latter gentleman may be some relative of
Roderick or some other Doo, but we are not favoured with his lyric.
Divers Bards followed, and one got ten shillings for the best
“englynion” to “Corwen and Bala Railway.” We have of course no
idea, and desire to have none, as to the meaning of the word
“ englynion; ” but it may be something in the way of compliment, and,
at all events, a Welsh poem is fittingly and naturally addressed to
Sleepers. But later in the day the following Bards repeated some
poetry. Dyfnwal Tegid, Duel Moelwyn, Eos Wyn, and J. Evans,
Castell. The last Bard has put, his Welsh ideas into English, and here
they are—
“ What is the distant murmur,
Falling as from the skies,
What is the voice that bids us
Children of Cambria arise ;
What is the bidding that echoes
From ages long gone by,
What is that voice which calls us,
Rise to conquer or die.
’Tis the voice of your fathers long dead,
Calling from the depth of the graves,
Yc children of Cambria arise,
Defy them to call you their slaves ;
We do our fathers, we rise,
Hark, hark, to that echoing cry !
We are up like our fathers of yore,
We are up to conquer or die.
Where are those that bid us be slaves,
While we stand on the earth of the free,
In the souna of wild Tegid’s waves
Where murmur Trywem and Dee ;
Our hearts are as free as the breeze
That bid Tegid’s wild waves arise,
Then where is the man that would bid us
Be slaves, ’neath the freeman’s skies ;
We scorn your sways, we can despise your terrors,
There take your chains, pray keep them for your errors.”
Now wbat does Bard Castell mean by all this ? As for the murmur
tumbling out of the skies and requesting the Welsh to get out of bed,
we have no objection to that or any other poetic image. But when the
Welsh are out of bed, and we will add dressed, what are they to do ?
Open their shops and sweep the same, and proceed with the ordinary
business of life. Certainly not. They are to “Conquer or die.”
Conquer what ? Their obstinacy and ignorance, or the difficulties of the
English language, either of which operations would much tend to the
improvement of the Welshman. “ Or die.” Never say die, Bard
Castell. What do you want to die for? Live to drink many a draught
of muddy ale, three days old, and sputter much more Welsh. But, go
on, Castell. ’Tis the voice of your dead fathers, calling out of their
graves. Why, you old humbug, you said just now that the sound came
out of the sky. That won’t do, Castell, unless your respected fathers
were ventriloquists. And what do they say? “ Arise.” What, again.
Ah, they know your habits, and won’t believe you get out of bed at the
first call. Well, and having arisen, what? “Defy them to call you
their slaves.” Defy whom ? Your fathers ? That is the only gram-
matical construction of the passage. But if not your fathers, whom ?
Who’s them? Nobody else is mentioned. Do you mean the Euglish,
you traitor ! If so, make over your Welsh wig, harp, pound and a half of
cheese, and all other your personal estate and effects, to some trustee
for your next of kin, as we intend to get Sir William Atherton,
Attorney-General, to have you executed, notwithstanding his Dissenting
principles being akin to yours. He will hang you as soon as not, and
therefore, if you don’t mean the English by “ them,” you had better
telegraph to him to say so. But on you go. “We do our fathers, we
rise.” Ha! ha! No, you unfilial Bard, you don’t do your fathers.
They are too wide-awake old Welsh buffers to be done by their cater-
wauling progeny. Not you, but you are trying to do our fathers, and
their children, into a belief that you are real Bards when you are no
better than bellmen. And you have the assurance to answer that you
“are up—to conquer.” Bards, we are up—to snuff; Welsh snuff, bards;
and you are humbugs, we tell you. Ah, you have slipped out of the
noose, and Atherton is cheated of his victim.
“ Where are those that bid us be slaves,
While we stand on the earth of the free?"
And echo answers that she has not the least idea. Nor have we, nor
have you. Therefore it is quite safe to go on bothering with a repeti-
tion of the same insane question, Castell. Who’s “ Tegid,” Castell ?
—we know what’s turgid, Castell. And now for your finish. “ We
scorn your sways.” Whose sways ? Have you taken heart for another
shy at England? Do you scorn our sways, Cambrian? Ha! “We
can despise your terrors.” But we have no terrors, Castell, except
terrors of hearing canticles like those you chant in the Congregational
chapel. Terrors, indeed! But you only wanted a rhyme to errors, and
we won’t be hard upon you, for Mr. Punch himself has had his difficulties
in that walk. You wanted to make a bang in your last line, and you
majestically exclaim, “ There take your chains ! ” But what chains,
Castell? Those of the Menai bridge? Thank you, but they serve to
aid in the civilisation of Wales. We do not know any other chains
which England has imposed upon you, except the brass watch-chains,
gilded, which we fear some of our Houndsditch fellow-Christians occa-
sionally induce you, late on market or fair-day, to purchase for the decora-
tion of your splendid Sabbath waistcoats. Bosh, Castell! You mean
“Take your change.” That, said respectfully is more becoming the mouth
of a decent little Welsh shopkeeper. But we come to your final epigram.
“Pray keep them for your errors.” Eh? We are to chain up our
errors. That is really a bold and striking image, which redeems the
whole Ode. Are we to put collars round their necks ?—you might
mention that in your next. Come, we forgive you all your nonsense
for the sake of that splendid idea—the chaining up errors, and request-
ing them to lie down quietly, and not bark at the Congregational Bards.
Bravo, Castell !
This, ladies and gentlemen, is the sort of stuff which Welsh Bards
offer at the Eisteddfod. Cadwallon is no more, but there is Mr.
Griffiths. Modred is defunct, but there is Mr. Jones, and brave
what-do-you-call-him sleeps upon his craggy bed, but Mr. Thomas is
awake and sputtering. They call themselves Bards, and the ridiculous
humbug is kept up, they being as much Bards as any of the lean-legged
parties who attire themselves as Foresters are akin to Rohm Hood.
Hundreds of them are going to meet somewhere—we will find out
where, and,
Oh, if it please your Majesty, Queen Yictoria, if you would be so
kind as to recollect that you are descended from that excellent Sovereign,
Edward the First. If your Majesty would recall an amiable trait
in his character, and emulate it—there are several regiments at Chester—
and Mr. Punch will, after the little operation, write an Ode that shall
entirely extinguish that of Gray.
[Our Contributor has some sense in him, and bas shown a little of it in the above
article, but our own private opinion is that his atrabiliousness has been excited by
two bills, presented to him at two Welsh Hotels, possibly to be named hereafter.
He sends us the bills, a request for a cheque, and the above contribution. If he
thinks that the latter is an equivalent for the amount he requires, he will find out
his mistake on returning to town ; but we wiU “let him have his dream to-day.”—
Ed. Punch.]
SOMETHING SUPERFLUOUS.
Mr. Punch perceives in the papers of this week a Loudon advertise-
ment beginning “First Cousins Wanted.” What extraordinarily
lonely man can have put this in. At the end of a season in which every
house in London has had more first cousins and second cousins and
third cousins in it than any non-insane architect would have declared it
possible to cram into the existing arrangements, a man deliberately
advertises for First Cousins. We fear he must be a bad man and of
kin to the Islington Cannibal against whom we had to warn a young
lady last week, and we recommend his affectionate cousins to keep out,
of his way, especially if they stand in his light in the family pedigree.
Nobody in this International September can be advertising for cousins
for any good purpose._
Notions of the Beautiful.
Scene—A Nobleman's Country House.
First Housemaid. You ’ve seen the young Lord ? I forget his name-
who arrived this morning. Don’t you think he’s very good looking ?
Second Housemaid. Certainly—he’s even beautiful! But Susan, dear
only think ! wouldn’t he look handsome in livery !
Yol. 43.
P