DOI Heft:
February 16, 1867
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16879#0077
70
[February 16, 1867.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
INTELLIGENT PET.
IGNATIUS TO HIS OWL.
Bird of the cloister aud the church.
Who, with my shoulder for thy perch.
My vigils lone art wont to share.
Men say we make a pretty pair.
Some smile at us—and others scowl;
My Owl!
Oft have I seen, at close of day,
A chant intoning on my way,
One of thy race, on silent wing
Float by—and sometimes heard it sing,
My Bird, beloved beyond all fowl;
My Owl!
In darksome hole thou lov’st to dwell,
As would that I could in a cell.
All, there how happy I should be
To muse and meditate with thee,
Rejoicing in a frock and cowl,
My Owl
Against thee was the charge preferred
That thou wast an uncleanly oird P
So they ’d abuse a Saint, whose shirt
Of hair they deemed the worse for dirt—
No wonder that they called thee foul,
My Owl!
And cried they fie on thee, because
It was thy hap to break a vase,
Wherein, when day succeeded nmht,
Thou didst take refuge from the light?
My Pet, no matter. Let them howl;
My Owl!
0 thou, of all the feathered quire,
Whose melody I most admire,
Come, in a miserere blend
Thy voice with mine, and we’ll transcend
The cats that on the housetop prowl;
My Owl!
“ Ma, dear, what do they Play the Organ so Loud for, when ‘ Church
is over ? Is it to Wake us up ? ”
Electoral Reform’s four Rocks a-head. — Nob,
Snob, Mob, and Nimble Bob.
HAPPY THOUGHTS.
{Seaside Interval.)
Happy Thought.—Sunday afternoon: walk on the parade. Wonder
how the pleasure-boatmen get a living in the winter. Apparently by
talking together in groups, with their hands in their pockets, and
smoking pipes without any tobacco.
Everyone looks very bright and blooming, and everyone is making
the most of the dry weather, as if they were trying to get the best of a
time-bargain with the fresh sea-air. What a nuisance wind is—what a
nuisance a hat is.
Happy Thought.—My wideawake.
Milburd won’t walk with me “ while l’ve got that thing on,” he says.
I won’t give in, so we pass one another, idiotically, on the parade.
Think I see the Mackenzies coming—pretty girls : wish I’d got on
my bat. They bow and look astonished : walk up the Parade. See
Mr. and Mrs. Breemer; they recognise me. Walk down, see the
Mackenzies for the second time. Don’t know whether to bow again,
or not: they smile. I smile : I wonder what we mean ? Hope they ’ll
go off the Parade this time. Walk up—see the Breemers coming.
How very awkward this is : can’t bow again—will look another way.
I do, until I come quite up to them, and. then, turning suddenly, am
flustered. Mr. Breemer nods, and I nod, but don’t know whether
to take off my hat this time to Mrs. Breemer; I wish these things
were settled by law. Wepasson. Walk down: the Mackenzies again.
Happy Thought.—Turn before they come up.
I do so, won’t they think it rude ? Can’t help it, it’s done; and
here are the Breemers. I nodded last time, what shall I do this ?
Wink jocosely ? no sense in that, they ’ll set me down for a buffoon.
Happy Thought.—Sit down with my face to the sea.
Wonder whether the Breemers have gone—and the Mackenzies.
Look cautiously round. Enjoyment is out of the question with the
Breemers and Mackenzies perpetually meeting one. I feel as if
they were saying every time they see me, “Here’s Thingummy again,
don’t take any notice of him,” and if you once think yourself shunned
you can’t enjoy anything. I feel that I’m spoiling the Breemers’
and Mackenzies’ day at Brighton, and they must feel that they are
interfering with my enjoyment.
Happy Thought.—The Pariah at Brighton.
Rain settles the question—back to hotel. What shall I do ? What
can I do ? * * * Rain. * * *
Happy Thought.—'Writs letters. Think to whom I haven’t written
for ages : great opportunity. Write to some relations whom I haven’t
spoken to for years, and ask how they’ve been this long time, and why
they never write. They ’ll like the attention. * * *
By the way, Milburd isn’t much of a companion. He comes in and
says he’s been chatting with the Tetheringtons, and couldn’t get
away. When he’s been away for any time he always excuses himself
by saying he’d been “chatting.” He wishes I wouldn’t wear that ^
old-fashioned wideawake. “ The Tetheringtons noticed it,” lie *
tells me; also, that “everyone was remarking it.” I ask him
quietly, “Who’s everyone?” and he answers, “Oh, lots of people. ’
I tell him that I am above that sort of thing, and do not care for
the world. I ask him “ If he told them 1 was a friend of his ? ”
He answers that he did, but added, “that I was slightly cracked.”
I am annoyed. I shan’t go anywhere with Milburd again. After
dinner Milburd goes away to “chat” with the Tetheringtons
again, and I read all the weekly papers through, including the
advertisements.
Bed-room.—In the next room on my left to me is a whistling gentle
man. In the room above me is a stamping gentleman ; and somewhere
about, perhaps the next room on my right, is a declaiming gentleman.
At night the declaiming gentleman has a good turn of it, while the
stamping gentleman only walks about a quarter of a mile over my head.
The declaiming gentleman is very impressive for nearly an hour, when
he subsides all at once and utterly, as if in the middle of a speech he
had been suddenly knocked on the head, and put into bed speechless.
The whistling gentleman has the morning to himself. He wakes
himself with a whistle, he whistles himself (operatically) out of bed.
He whistles, spasmodically, amid splashings. He whistles a waltz
while brushing his hair violently : I hear the brushes. He whistles a
polka in gasps, from which I conclude he is pulling on tight boots.
He whistles and jingles things together sounding like half-crowns and
[February 16, 1867.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
INTELLIGENT PET.
IGNATIUS TO HIS OWL.
Bird of the cloister aud the church.
Who, with my shoulder for thy perch.
My vigils lone art wont to share.
Men say we make a pretty pair.
Some smile at us—and others scowl;
My Owl!
Oft have I seen, at close of day,
A chant intoning on my way,
One of thy race, on silent wing
Float by—and sometimes heard it sing,
My Bird, beloved beyond all fowl;
My Owl!
In darksome hole thou lov’st to dwell,
As would that I could in a cell.
All, there how happy I should be
To muse and meditate with thee,
Rejoicing in a frock and cowl,
My Owl
Against thee was the charge preferred
That thou wast an uncleanly oird P
So they ’d abuse a Saint, whose shirt
Of hair they deemed the worse for dirt—
No wonder that they called thee foul,
My Owl!
And cried they fie on thee, because
It was thy hap to break a vase,
Wherein, when day succeeded nmht,
Thou didst take refuge from the light?
My Pet, no matter. Let them howl;
My Owl!
0 thou, of all the feathered quire,
Whose melody I most admire,
Come, in a miserere blend
Thy voice with mine, and we’ll transcend
The cats that on the housetop prowl;
My Owl!
“ Ma, dear, what do they Play the Organ so Loud for, when ‘ Church
is over ? Is it to Wake us up ? ”
Electoral Reform’s four Rocks a-head. — Nob,
Snob, Mob, and Nimble Bob.
HAPPY THOUGHTS.
{Seaside Interval.)
Happy Thought.—Sunday afternoon: walk on the parade. Wonder
how the pleasure-boatmen get a living in the winter. Apparently by
talking together in groups, with their hands in their pockets, and
smoking pipes without any tobacco.
Everyone looks very bright and blooming, and everyone is making
the most of the dry weather, as if they were trying to get the best of a
time-bargain with the fresh sea-air. What a nuisance wind is—what a
nuisance a hat is.
Happy Thought.—My wideawake.
Milburd won’t walk with me “ while l’ve got that thing on,” he says.
I won’t give in, so we pass one another, idiotically, on the parade.
Think I see the Mackenzies coming—pretty girls : wish I’d got on
my bat. They bow and look astonished : walk up the Parade. See
Mr. and Mrs. Breemer; they recognise me. Walk down, see the
Mackenzies for the second time. Don’t know whether to bow again,
or not: they smile. I smile : I wonder what we mean ? Hope they ’ll
go off the Parade this time. Walk up—see the Breemers coming.
How very awkward this is : can’t bow again—will look another way.
I do, until I come quite up to them, and. then, turning suddenly, am
flustered. Mr. Breemer nods, and I nod, but don’t know whether
to take off my hat this time to Mrs. Breemer; I wish these things
were settled by law. Wepasson. Walk down: the Mackenzies again.
Happy Thought.—Turn before they come up.
I do so, won’t they think it rude ? Can’t help it, it’s done; and
here are the Breemers. I nodded last time, what shall I do this ?
Wink jocosely ? no sense in that, they ’ll set me down for a buffoon.
Happy Thought.—Sit down with my face to the sea.
Wonder whether the Breemers have gone—and the Mackenzies.
Look cautiously round. Enjoyment is out of the question with the
Breemers and Mackenzies perpetually meeting one. I feel as if
they were saying every time they see me, “Here’s Thingummy again,
don’t take any notice of him,” and if you once think yourself shunned
you can’t enjoy anything. I feel that I’m spoiling the Breemers’
and Mackenzies’ day at Brighton, and they must feel that they are
interfering with my enjoyment.
Happy Thought.—The Pariah at Brighton.
Rain settles the question—back to hotel. What shall I do ? What
can I do ? * * * Rain. * * *
Happy Thought.—'Writs letters. Think to whom I haven’t written
for ages : great opportunity. Write to some relations whom I haven’t
spoken to for years, and ask how they’ve been this long time, and why
they never write. They ’ll like the attention. * * *
By the way, Milburd isn’t much of a companion. He comes in and
says he’s been chatting with the Tetheringtons, and couldn’t get
away. When he’s been away for any time he always excuses himself
by saying he’d been “chatting.” He wishes I wouldn’t wear that ^
old-fashioned wideawake. “ The Tetheringtons noticed it,” lie *
tells me; also, that “everyone was remarking it.” I ask him
quietly, “Who’s everyone?” and he answers, “Oh, lots of people. ’
I tell him that I am above that sort of thing, and do not care for
the world. I ask him “ If he told them 1 was a friend of his ? ”
He answers that he did, but added, “that I was slightly cracked.”
I am annoyed. I shan’t go anywhere with Milburd again. After
dinner Milburd goes away to “chat” with the Tetheringtons
again, and I read all the weekly papers through, including the
advertisements.
Bed-room.—In the next room on my left to me is a whistling gentle
man. In the room above me is a stamping gentleman ; and somewhere
about, perhaps the next room on my right, is a declaiming gentleman.
At night the declaiming gentleman has a good turn of it, while the
stamping gentleman only walks about a quarter of a mile over my head.
The declaiming gentleman is very impressive for nearly an hour, when
he subsides all at once and utterly, as if in the middle of a speech he
had been suddenly knocked on the head, and put into bed speechless.
The whistling gentleman has the morning to himself. He wakes
himself with a whistle, he whistles himself (operatically) out of bed.
He whistles, spasmodically, amid splashings. He whistles a waltz
while brushing his hair violently : I hear the brushes. He whistles a
polka in gasps, from which I conclude he is pulling on tight boots.
He whistles and jingles things together sounding like half-crowns and