DOI Heft:
September 13, 1873
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16937#0113
September 13, 1873.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
101
ANECDOTE OF THE “ PILGRIMAGE.”
Mr. O'Finnigan. ‘ ‘ My dear, I ’ye been Thinking that while you and
the Children are at Folkestone, I could so easily—that is, it would be
an act of Duty on my part to Join in this great Manifestation of—
Repintance—at Paray-le-Monial. You recollect what Father O’Shaver
said on Sunday about-”
Mrs. O’F. (a good Catholic, too, but wide awake). “ I dare say. But the
Archbishop observed that * the Church of Oireland, faithful, firm,
INFLEXIBLE, INVINCIBLE, DOESN’T NEED NO PRAYERS.’ So YE’LL JUST STOP
with thf, Children and me ! ” [And-he stopped. \
A GOOD SOUND CONCESSION.
{Ritualist “ Confessor ” sings.)
As I shrove a daughter confiding,
In my robe penitential equipped,
I got such a precious good hiding !
I was so extremely well whipped!
Her husband came home before dinner,
Too early ; for what did he see ?
He caught me confessing a sinner,
His wife on her knees before me.
If I at her feet had been kneeling
(Which Holy Saint Martin forbid)
He could not have shown fiercer feeling,
And beaten me more than he did.
No doubt he expected to find me !
A dog-whip the Pagan had got.
And he twisted its thong round behind me,
And gave it to me, hot and hot.
The lash, when I thought he had ended,
I grasped with devotion, and kissed,
On my shoulders again it descended,
And I begged that he would not desist.
“ You humbug ! ” he cried, as he scourged me,
“You shain-priest, impostor, and quack! ”
Of pride while the chastisement purged me,
I thankfully bore every whack.
0 discipline! 0 castigation
How welcome, though sharp to the touch !
0 exquisite mortification
It hurt, but I liked it so much!
More pleasure with pain, too, he gave me,
When he kicked me down-stairs to the door,
And said, from his house as he drave me,
“ Let me not catch you here any more.”
Confessor, who got flagellation,
I a sainted Confessor should be ;
The first since the sad Reformation.
But who is to canonize me ?
QUESTION OF CONSANGUINITY.
If a man marry a Ballet-dancer, may it not be said
that all the children she may present him with will have
a Step-mother ?
REASONS WHY LONDON IS SO EMPTY.
Because nobody who is anybody can dream of staying in it, now
that everybody is away.
Because we are all afraid of what dear Mrs. Grundy would
whisper to her friends, if we chose to please ourselves and stay at
home to do so.
Because the children, bless them ! have been looking sadly pale,
and must have change of air, at least, so their Mamma says.
Because we have a lot of shabby, faded dresses, which will do so
nicely for a tour upon the Continent.
Because the landlord says our house has to be painted.
Because some country relatives, who we can’t abide, have written
to invite themselves for a quiet autumn visit.
Because we have all gone mad to get some grouse-shooting.
Because a rich old uncle has just left us a small legacy, too trifling
to invest, but just enough to pay for a little trip to Paris.
Because we keep a yacht, and must go once a year to keep the
crew from mutiny.
Because London gets so stuffy in the Autumn, don’t you know,
and (excepting some three millions) really nobody can breathe in it.
Because, like geese, we are gregarious, and birds of a feather are
bound to go and flock together.
Because our tailor has been bothering us about his little account,
and perhaps he may forget it if we go out of town a bit.
Because there’s nobody at the Club, except that awful bore, old
Snorter, and we are afraid of being button-holed, and made to dine
with him en tete-d-tete.
Because Mary, or Matilda, or Miranda, has gone to the sea-side,
and we can’t resist the hope of meeting her by moonlight on the
sands ; or, at any rate, of seeing her with her beautiful back hair
down.
Because our Doctor has commanded us to try some German baths,
to cure that ache in our big toe, which has perplexed us ever since
our last big dinner in the City.
Because we really must economise a bit, and we hear that we can
live en prince upon the Continent for about half what it costs us to
buy butcher’s meat in London.
Because the Crackxetons are gone to Ryde, and we really can’t
exist without our usual daily intercourse with our old friends the
Crackxetons. .
Because our wife has vowed that, if we don’t take her abroad this
year, she will invite her dear Mamma to keep her company during
the dull season.
And finally—Because all the organ-grinders have ^one to the sea-
side, and we are so fond of music that we must go after them.
Pilgrims’ Fare.
In an account of “ the English Pilgrimage ” it is stated that the
Pilgrims about to start arrived at the Victoria Station soon after five
in the morning, when, “of course, at this early hour the refresh-
ment buffets were not open, and some disappointment was generally
expressed in consequence.” The Pilgrims of the olden time, instead
of being disappointed at encountering a like deficiency, would pro-
bably have accepted it as a welcome fast.
; The Deserted Village.”—London in September.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
101
ANECDOTE OF THE “ PILGRIMAGE.”
Mr. O'Finnigan. ‘ ‘ My dear, I ’ye been Thinking that while you and
the Children are at Folkestone, I could so easily—that is, it would be
an act of Duty on my part to Join in this great Manifestation of—
Repintance—at Paray-le-Monial. You recollect what Father O’Shaver
said on Sunday about-”
Mrs. O’F. (a good Catholic, too, but wide awake). “ I dare say. But the
Archbishop observed that * the Church of Oireland, faithful, firm,
INFLEXIBLE, INVINCIBLE, DOESN’T NEED NO PRAYERS.’ So YE’LL JUST STOP
with thf, Children and me ! ” [And-he stopped. \
A GOOD SOUND CONCESSION.
{Ritualist “ Confessor ” sings.)
As I shrove a daughter confiding,
In my robe penitential equipped,
I got such a precious good hiding !
I was so extremely well whipped!
Her husband came home before dinner,
Too early ; for what did he see ?
He caught me confessing a sinner,
His wife on her knees before me.
If I at her feet had been kneeling
(Which Holy Saint Martin forbid)
He could not have shown fiercer feeling,
And beaten me more than he did.
No doubt he expected to find me !
A dog-whip the Pagan had got.
And he twisted its thong round behind me,
And gave it to me, hot and hot.
The lash, when I thought he had ended,
I grasped with devotion, and kissed,
On my shoulders again it descended,
And I begged that he would not desist.
“ You humbug ! ” he cried, as he scourged me,
“You shain-priest, impostor, and quack! ”
Of pride while the chastisement purged me,
I thankfully bore every whack.
0 discipline! 0 castigation
How welcome, though sharp to the touch !
0 exquisite mortification
It hurt, but I liked it so much!
More pleasure with pain, too, he gave me,
When he kicked me down-stairs to the door,
And said, from his house as he drave me,
“ Let me not catch you here any more.”
Confessor, who got flagellation,
I a sainted Confessor should be ;
The first since the sad Reformation.
But who is to canonize me ?
QUESTION OF CONSANGUINITY.
If a man marry a Ballet-dancer, may it not be said
that all the children she may present him with will have
a Step-mother ?
REASONS WHY LONDON IS SO EMPTY.
Because nobody who is anybody can dream of staying in it, now
that everybody is away.
Because we are all afraid of what dear Mrs. Grundy would
whisper to her friends, if we chose to please ourselves and stay at
home to do so.
Because the children, bless them ! have been looking sadly pale,
and must have change of air, at least, so their Mamma says.
Because we have a lot of shabby, faded dresses, which will do so
nicely for a tour upon the Continent.
Because the landlord says our house has to be painted.
Because some country relatives, who we can’t abide, have written
to invite themselves for a quiet autumn visit.
Because we have all gone mad to get some grouse-shooting.
Because a rich old uncle has just left us a small legacy, too trifling
to invest, but just enough to pay for a little trip to Paris.
Because we keep a yacht, and must go once a year to keep the
crew from mutiny.
Because London gets so stuffy in the Autumn, don’t you know,
and (excepting some three millions) really nobody can breathe in it.
Because, like geese, we are gregarious, and birds of a feather are
bound to go and flock together.
Because our tailor has been bothering us about his little account,
and perhaps he may forget it if we go out of town a bit.
Because there’s nobody at the Club, except that awful bore, old
Snorter, and we are afraid of being button-holed, and made to dine
with him en tete-d-tete.
Because Mary, or Matilda, or Miranda, has gone to the sea-side,
and we can’t resist the hope of meeting her by moonlight on the
sands ; or, at any rate, of seeing her with her beautiful back hair
down.
Because our Doctor has commanded us to try some German baths,
to cure that ache in our big toe, which has perplexed us ever since
our last big dinner in the City.
Because we really must economise a bit, and we hear that we can
live en prince upon the Continent for about half what it costs us to
buy butcher’s meat in London.
Because the Crackxetons are gone to Ryde, and we really can’t
exist without our usual daily intercourse with our old friends the
Crackxetons. .
Because our wife has vowed that, if we don’t take her abroad this
year, she will invite her dear Mamma to keep her company during
the dull season.
And finally—Because all the organ-grinders have ^one to the sea-
side, and we are so fond of music that we must go after them.
Pilgrims’ Fare.
In an account of “ the English Pilgrimage ” it is stated that the
Pilgrims about to start arrived at the Victoria Station soon after five
in the morning, when, “of course, at this early hour the refresh-
ment buffets were not open, and some disappointment was generally
expressed in consequence.” The Pilgrims of the olden time, instead
of being disappointed at encountering a like deficiency, would pro-
bably have accepted it as a welcome fast.
; The Deserted Village.”—London in September.