Punch (71.1876)

July 29, 1876.J

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

45

THE SILENT HOUR!'

"When shall you come Home, Mummy darling?"
" Not till the Middle of the Night, my Love ! "

" Not till the Middle of the Night/—when the Clocks Strike Nothing ?"

HAPPY THOUGHTS.

Stopping on the Way—But Going to Ireland for all that.

Tim Mahony has failed me : it occurs to me to give up Ireland altogether.

I am meditating on this while debating on the question of lunching at a restaurant's close at
hand, when to me enters—the only other Irishman of my acquaintance at present in town.
He replies to my intimation about going to Ireland, with, " Arrh! yer sowl! wouldn't I like
to be wid ye ! " which he gives with a marvellous imitation of some peculiar Irish dialect, and
then relapsing into the most ordinary English, without the slightest suspicion of a brogue, he
informs me that though he has property in Ireland, he doesn't like to live over there, for
fear of being shot at. I assure him (not knowing anything at all about it) that they (who-
ever "they ' may be) wouldn't shoot at him. Whereupon he adopts the brogue again—(I
note that generally an Irishman, in England, makes a burlesque imitation of his own
countrymen a special point of humour)—just to give a piquancy to his reply. "Begorr,"
says he, "'tisn't being shot at I'm afraid of; it's being hit, is the throuble. D'ye mind,"
he continues, " the story of the Agent writing over to the Landlord, in England, and telling
Mm that while collecting the rents he was going in bodily fear of his life ?'

Happy Thought.—As I can't absolutely
assert that I do not know this story—
because I never yet met him without his
bringing it in, somehow—I say, "Go on!
You 've always got something good." Which
is true; as this story is good: and he has
always got this story. Q. E. D.

He goes on, still continuing his imitation
of a brogue :—

" Well, Sorr, the Landlord wrote back to
him, and said, ' My dear Misther Dela-
ney, ye may just tell my tenanthry, that
if, by shooting you, they think they'll
intimidate me, they're mightily mis-
taken.' "

And taking advantage of my laugh, my
friend, Forde Macktnnon, shakes my hand,
wishes me bon voyage, steps into a hansom,
and makes a telling exit.

When he is well out of sight, it occurs to
me that I ought to have asked him for in-
troductions, or for some informatioiL" about
Ireland.

Happy Thought.—To compile a book of
What I Ought to have Said.

This leads to melancholy reflections. It
means lost opportunities. (I stand by a
lamp-post near the large restaurant's, and
think in a mooning kind of way, having
wandered away from Ireland altogether—)
If when I was with Alice—or Kate—or
Bertha . . . (what a pretty girl that is
coming out of the restaurant) ... I had
only said what I ought to have said, instead
of sitting still, staring ... (I wonder if
I've met her before—I seem to know her
face) . . . and losing my presence of mind
. . . (She seems to recognise me. She is
very pretty. I rather fancy she is a cousin
of mine whom I haven't seen for years . . .)

Happy Thought.—To go up and ask her
if she is a cousin of mine whom I haven't
seen for years.

. . . Let me see—what opportunities—
yes, that was what I was thinking about
. . . (I am sure I notice in her a family
resemblance . . . about the eyes . . . She
is going to cross, and it is dangerous for a
Lady to attempt crossing alone. She hesi-
tates. If I could be of any assistance-I

hesitate. It's a very warm day. I wish I
had bought a new pair of gloves. I fancy
my boots, too, are defective.). . . Ah! . . .
Odd! I am sigbing . . . what does this
mean ? It would make a subject for an
Essay "On Unexplained Sighs — their
Origin and Probable Meaning". . . (She
looks round as though she were afraid of
crossing alone, and were expecting some
one—me ?—to help her. . . . Heavens !
what an unchivalnc age we live in! . .) it is
a very warm day . . . yet I regret not
having on light gloves, bright boots, and a
new hat. . .

Again she looks round, nervously, be-
seechingly ... I wonder if she is a cousin ?
. . . Shall I flourish my stick, wave back
the cabs, carts, and omnibuses, and take
her under my protection across the road
. . . Shall I ? . . . One can never lose by
politeness—and this is the merest elementary
duty ... I settle myself, as it were, to my
work . . . Take a pull at my gloves, arrange
my hat (which has somehow got to the back
of my head), give a gymnastic dig at my tie
(which has somehow "rucked up"), and
make one step towards ...

" I'm sorry you so long vaiting to have
keep," says a light-haired, fluffy-looking
man, of apparently German extraction,
stepping out of the restaurant's. (How
on earth such a pretty English girl could
have chosen such a plain, stupid-looking
foreigner—with blue spectacles, too! . .
But one never can have any sympathy with
the man on these occasions) . . . and she