DOI issue:
August 18, 1866
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16878#0083
August 18, 1866.J
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
75
HAPPY THOUGHTS.
( Collected in Happy Hays)
urprising ! I couldn’t
get that man in
a punt out of my
head, so I found
in my note-book
a few mems
about fishing. It
it there recorded
as a—
Happy Thought,
that I would
stop in a small
house near a
running stream
for a few days,
on my road to
the Feudal
Castle, which is,
I hear, to let.
There is a mea-
dow between my
lodging and the
river. It is a fish-
ing village, and |
the natives gene-1
rally wear high
boots, so as to
be ready to go
into the water
in pursuit of
their favourite
amusement and
business at any
hour. I believe
they sleep in
their boots.
First Morning,
after breakfast.—Put on my landlord's big boots and walk in the
meadow. Man in a small boat fishing; ask him civilly what he’s
doing. He answers, without taking his eye off his hook, and being
disturbed, he answers gruffly, “ Dibbling for chub.”
I watched him dibbling. Dibbling appears to consist in sitting still
in a boat and holding a rod with the line not touching the water. A
fish to be caught by dibbling must be a fool, as he has to come four
inches nearly out of the water in order to get at the bait. Luxurious
fish they must be too! epicures of fish, for the bait is a bumble, or
humble, bee. The moral effect on a Dibbler is to make him uncommonly
sulky. All the villagers dibble, and are all more or less sulky.
Find of First Hour of watching the man dibbling for Chub.—Man
never spoke; no fish. He is still dibbling.
End of Second Hour.—T have been watching him ; one chub came
to the surface. He wasn’t to be dibbled; man still dibbling.
End of Third Hour.—I fancy I’ve been asleep ; the man faded away
from me gradually. I am awake, and he is still dibbling for chub.
End of Fourth Hour.—I begin to feel hungry. I ask him if he’s
going to leave off for luncheon; he shakes his head once, and goes
on dibbling. Much dibbling would soon fill Hanwell.
Fifth Hour.—I have had luncheon and sherry; I come down the
meadow in the landlord’s boots. Man still dibbling ; no chub. I think
I will amuse him with a joke, which I have prepared at luncheon. I
say, jocosely, “What the dibble are you doing ? ” He answers, with-
out taking his eye away from his line, “ I ’ll punch your ’ed, if you
ain’t quiet.” I try to explain that it was only a joke, and beg him not
to be angry. He says, “ I’ll let you know if I’m angry or notbut he
goes on dibbling, and I say no more.
Eighth Hour.—I have been asleep again; it is getting damp. Man
still dibbling. I ask him politely if there is any chance of catching a
chub to-day. He says, “Not while you sit there chattering.” Where-
upon I rise (which is more than the fish do) and wish him a very good
night. At ten o’clock I notice him in the clear moonlight still dibbling.
Up and down the stream there are dibblers. To-morrow I shall dibble.
To-morrow.—I am divided between two suggestions. A man inte-
rested in me as far as letting his boat out goes, says, “ Go out a dibbling
for chub ? ” The landlord, disinterested, says, “ Sniggle.” I ask,
“ Sniggle for chub ? ” He pities me, and answers, “No, sniggle for
eels.” So, I am divided : dibbling for chubb, or sniggling for eels : that
is the question. The man with a boat settles it, like a Solomon.
“Dibble,” says he, “by day : sniggle,” says he, “ by night.” That’s
his idea of life. It gives me an idea for a song. The fisherman’s chant:—
Oh ! the Fisherman is a happy wight!
He dibbles by day, and he sniggles by night.
He trolls for fish, and he trolls his lay—
He sniggles by night, and he dibbles by day.
Oh, who so merry as he !
On the river or the sea!
Sniggling
Wriggling
Eels, and higgling
Over the price
Of a nice
Slice
Of fish, twice
As much as it ought to be.
Let me request Mu. Arthur Sullivan to put a little old English
music to this, and if he ’ll bring a piano on board the gallant punt, I ’ll
sing it for him, anywhere he likes to mention, on the river Thames.
Oh, the Fisherman is a happy man !
He dibbles and sniggles, and fills his can !
With a sharpen’d hook and a sharper eye,
He sniggles and dibbles for what comes by.
Oh, who so merry as he !
On the river or the sea!
Dibbling
Nibbling
Chub, and quibbling
Over the price
Of a nice
Slice
Of fish, twice
As much as it ought to be.
They tell me chub are good eating, when caught by dibbling. The
village children are all fed upon it; in fact, I guessed as much, from
noting their chubby faces. (N.B. Nobody, here, sees a joke. I try
some jokes on the landlord. I tried the song on the landlord ; he liked
it very much, and demanded it three times. N.B. I’ve since found
out that he’s a trifle deaf in one ear, and the other has got no notion
of tune. He was under the impression that I had been singing God
Save the Queen)
Third Hay.—In bed: having been out all yesterday dibbling, and all
night sniggling. Caught nothing, except (the landlord knows this
joke and always laughs at it) a violent cold. I have no books, and no
papers. I shall compose my epitaph:—■
“ Here lies a Sniggler and a Hibbler.
Hooked it at last.”
Then a few lines on a Shakespearian model might come in—
To sniggle or to dibble, that’s the question !
Whether to bait a hook with worm or bumble,
Or take up arms of any sea, some trouble
To fish, and then home send ’em. To fly—to whip—
To moor and tie my boat up by the end
To any wooden post, or natural rock
We may be near to, on a Preservation
Devoutly to be fished. To fly—to whip—
To whip ! perchance two bream;—and there’s the chub !
The Doctor has just come in to say my head must be kept cool. He
allows me to write this note, and then I must take a soporific. Fare-
well, a long farewell, to ail my dibbling and sniggling ! Good night.
Postscriptum. I re-open my dairy (that’s rather fanny, because I
mean “diary”) to say that I’ve been able to go out in the garden in
a Bath chair. I asked what I could do to amuse myself for an hour in
the Bath chair. The landlord said, “ Dabble for trout.” What extra-
ordinary lives these people lead! The Boots was out all last night,
sniggling. Whether he was successful or not, I do not know, as he
was discharged on his return.
Six Years Before, at the Olympic.
Mr. Punch, who forgets nothing, begs to compliment Mr. John
Oxenford on a couple of prophetic lines from his pen. They were
first uttered by Mrs. Emden, on the 26th December, 1860, in Timour
the Tartar:—
“ For he who goes, though seemingly in clover,
Too oft to Ovekend, ends in going over."
A CHOP AT THE CHURCH.
The Irish Church is certainly done for now. On the episcopal
throne of Meath, Lord Derby has seated a Butcher. Is the Cathedral
dedicated to St. Mary Axe ?
Tu" United States.—England and America.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
75
HAPPY THOUGHTS.
( Collected in Happy Hays)
urprising ! I couldn’t
get that man in
a punt out of my
head, so I found
in my note-book
a few mems
about fishing. It
it there recorded
as a—
Happy Thought,
that I would
stop in a small
house near a
running stream
for a few days,
on my road to
the Feudal
Castle, which is,
I hear, to let.
There is a mea-
dow between my
lodging and the
river. It is a fish-
ing village, and |
the natives gene-1
rally wear high
boots, so as to
be ready to go
into the water
in pursuit of
their favourite
amusement and
business at any
hour. I believe
they sleep in
their boots.
First Morning,
after breakfast.—Put on my landlord's big boots and walk in the
meadow. Man in a small boat fishing; ask him civilly what he’s
doing. He answers, without taking his eye off his hook, and being
disturbed, he answers gruffly, “ Dibbling for chub.”
I watched him dibbling. Dibbling appears to consist in sitting still
in a boat and holding a rod with the line not touching the water. A
fish to be caught by dibbling must be a fool, as he has to come four
inches nearly out of the water in order to get at the bait. Luxurious
fish they must be too! epicures of fish, for the bait is a bumble, or
humble, bee. The moral effect on a Dibbler is to make him uncommonly
sulky. All the villagers dibble, and are all more or less sulky.
Find of First Hour of watching the man dibbling for Chub.—Man
never spoke; no fish. He is still dibbling.
End of Second Hour.—T have been watching him ; one chub came
to the surface. He wasn’t to be dibbled; man still dibbling.
End of Third Hour.—I fancy I’ve been asleep ; the man faded away
from me gradually. I am awake, and he is still dibbling for chub.
End of Fourth Hour.—I begin to feel hungry. I ask him if he’s
going to leave off for luncheon; he shakes his head once, and goes
on dibbling. Much dibbling would soon fill Hanwell.
Fifth Hour.—I have had luncheon and sherry; I come down the
meadow in the landlord’s boots. Man still dibbling ; no chub. I think
I will amuse him with a joke, which I have prepared at luncheon. I
say, jocosely, “What the dibble are you doing ? ” He answers, with-
out taking his eye away from his line, “ I ’ll punch your ’ed, if you
ain’t quiet.” I try to explain that it was only a joke, and beg him not
to be angry. He says, “ I’ll let you know if I’m angry or notbut he
goes on dibbling, and I say no more.
Eighth Hour.—I have been asleep again; it is getting damp. Man
still dibbling. I ask him politely if there is any chance of catching a
chub to-day. He says, “Not while you sit there chattering.” Where-
upon I rise (which is more than the fish do) and wish him a very good
night. At ten o’clock I notice him in the clear moonlight still dibbling.
Up and down the stream there are dibblers. To-morrow I shall dibble.
To-morrow.—I am divided between two suggestions. A man inte-
rested in me as far as letting his boat out goes, says, “ Go out a dibbling
for chub ? ” The landlord, disinterested, says, “ Sniggle.” I ask,
“ Sniggle for chub ? ” He pities me, and answers, “No, sniggle for
eels.” So, I am divided : dibbling for chubb, or sniggling for eels : that
is the question. The man with a boat settles it, like a Solomon.
“Dibble,” says he, “by day : sniggle,” says he, “ by night.” That’s
his idea of life. It gives me an idea for a song. The fisherman’s chant:—
Oh ! the Fisherman is a happy wight!
He dibbles by day, and he sniggles by night.
He trolls for fish, and he trolls his lay—
He sniggles by night, and he dibbles by day.
Oh, who so merry as he !
On the river or the sea!
Sniggling
Wriggling
Eels, and higgling
Over the price
Of a nice
Slice
Of fish, twice
As much as it ought to be.
Let me request Mu. Arthur Sullivan to put a little old English
music to this, and if he ’ll bring a piano on board the gallant punt, I ’ll
sing it for him, anywhere he likes to mention, on the river Thames.
Oh, the Fisherman is a happy man !
He dibbles and sniggles, and fills his can !
With a sharpen’d hook and a sharper eye,
He sniggles and dibbles for what comes by.
Oh, who so merry as he !
On the river or the sea!
Dibbling
Nibbling
Chub, and quibbling
Over the price
Of a nice
Slice
Of fish, twice
As much as it ought to be.
They tell me chub are good eating, when caught by dibbling. The
village children are all fed upon it; in fact, I guessed as much, from
noting their chubby faces. (N.B. Nobody, here, sees a joke. I try
some jokes on the landlord. I tried the song on the landlord ; he liked
it very much, and demanded it three times. N.B. I’ve since found
out that he’s a trifle deaf in one ear, and the other has got no notion
of tune. He was under the impression that I had been singing God
Save the Queen)
Third Hay.—In bed: having been out all yesterday dibbling, and all
night sniggling. Caught nothing, except (the landlord knows this
joke and always laughs at it) a violent cold. I have no books, and no
papers. I shall compose my epitaph:—■
“ Here lies a Sniggler and a Hibbler.
Hooked it at last.”
Then a few lines on a Shakespearian model might come in—
To sniggle or to dibble, that’s the question !
Whether to bait a hook with worm or bumble,
Or take up arms of any sea, some trouble
To fish, and then home send ’em. To fly—to whip—
To moor and tie my boat up by the end
To any wooden post, or natural rock
We may be near to, on a Preservation
Devoutly to be fished. To fly—to whip—
To whip ! perchance two bream;—and there’s the chub !
The Doctor has just come in to say my head must be kept cool. He
allows me to write this note, and then I must take a soporific. Fare-
well, a long farewell, to ail my dibbling and sniggling ! Good night.
Postscriptum. I re-open my dairy (that’s rather fanny, because I
mean “diary”) to say that I’ve been able to go out in the garden in
a Bath chair. I asked what I could do to amuse myself for an hour in
the Bath chair. The landlord said, “ Dabble for trout.” What extra-
ordinary lives these people lead! The Boots was out all last night,
sniggling. Whether he was successful or not, I do not know, as he
was discharged on his return.
Six Years Before, at the Olympic.
Mr. Punch, who forgets nothing, begs to compliment Mr. John
Oxenford on a couple of prophetic lines from his pen. They were
first uttered by Mrs. Emden, on the 26th December, 1860, in Timour
the Tartar:—
“ For he who goes, though seemingly in clover,
Too oft to Ovekend, ends in going over."
A CHOP AT THE CHURCH.
The Irish Church is certainly done for now. On the episcopal
throne of Meath, Lord Derby has seated a Butcher. Is the Cathedral
dedicated to St. Mary Axe ?
Tu" United States.—England and America.