Part 2

You would have liked to hear one of the Frenchmen give the name of SMITH. His tongue, surely, betrayed him. M. VAURIEN, or whatever his real name was, of course, in attempting to give the name of SMITH, gave that of SMEET or SMIS. Give the name of SMITH, indeed! A Frenchman might as well try to give the password of Shibboleth.

* * * * *

A WORKING MAN ON WORK.

AT the National Congress of Trades Societies at Nottingham, last week, a MR. GRAHAM said:--

"In his opinion it was one of the rights of a free man to cease work when he wished, either for reasonable or even unreasonable causes."

This is so exactly _Mr. Punch's_ belief that, wishing at this identical moment to cease work, for the reasonable or unreasonable cause that he feels more inclined to smoke, he knocks off, without appending any proper and moral observations to MR. GRAHAM'S _dictum_. Whether MR. GRAHAM keeps any sort of servant, and if so, whether MR. GRAHAM recognises the right in question when he wants his beer fetched, or his boots cleaned, is the only query that _Mr. Punch_ chooses to exert himself to put. But he must add that the world would go on delightfully if this rule were always acted upon; and he is glad that the Trade Societies are enlightened enough to do their best to bring on a Millennium.

* * * * *

=Suggestion to Mr. Lowe.=

LAY a heavy tax on all persons telling old jokes, making old puns. Let the tax be doubled in the case of any person attempting to pass off such old joke or pun as "a good thing he's just heard," or as "a funny thing that happened to his cousin the other day." MR. LOWE will find public-spirited men ready to hand in nearly all clubs who will voluntarily give their services, and for a moderate percentage will act as Collectors of this particular form of taxation at every dinner-party (where the name and address of the offender will be taken down), and in Society's drawing-rooms. This and a tax on photographs will bring in a handsome additional revenue for Eighteen-Seventy-Two.

* * * * *

MY HEALTH. (_Concluded._)

WE somehow turn the dinner conversation upon some peculiar way of cultivating mangel. PENDELL looks at Old RUDDOCK, and, alluding to the last speaker's remark, whatever it was, says, "Aha! that isn't the way we grow mangel in the South, is it, MR. RUDDOCK?" and therewith gives Old RUDDOCK such a humorous look, as if they had, between them, several good jokes about mangel, which, when told by Old RUDDOCK, would set the table in a roar.

I turn towards him with a propitiatory smile, as much as to say, "You see I'm ready for any of your funny stories." Old RUDDOCK glances up at me from his plate (he hasn't looked up much since the beginning of dinner), and replies, gravely and simply, "No." Whereat PENDELL almost roars with laughter, and nods at me knowingly, as if asking if RUDDOCK isn't a character. He may be. Perhaps it requires the wine to draw him out, but he hasn't, as yet, said anything funny or witty; in fact, he hasn't said anything at all. The conversation, otherwise, is general and well distributed. Topics principally local.

As far as I am concerned, it is not unlike being suddenly given a bass part in a quintette, where the other four know their music off by heart. I speak from experience, remembering how, in the instance alluded to, I came in wherever I could, with very remarkable effect, and generally at least an octave too low, leaving off with the feeling that if we had been encored (of which there wasn't, under the circumstances, the slightest possible chance), I should have come out very strong, and _quite_ in tune. As it was, I had first to find my voice, which seemed to have gone down like the mercury in a barometer on a cold day, and having succeeded in producing it, I had then to issue it in notes.

During dinner I am frequently brought into the conversation, apologetically, and appealed to out of politeness, as "probably not taking much interest in these matters."

The matters in question are usually something vexatious with regard to paupers, a political question deeply mixed up with the existence of the Yeomanry, the state of the roads in the next district, the queer temper of a neighbouring clergyman, the difficulty of dealing with Old SOMEBODY at a vestry meeting, the right of some parish authorities to bury somebody who oughtn't, or ought, to have been buried without somebody else's consent; the best mode of making a preserve, a difference of opinion as to varieties of cider, the probabilities of a marriage between TRE-SOMEONE of Tre-somewhere with POL-SOMEBODY of Pol-something else, and so forth. On consideration, I _am_ interested. For, to a reflective mind, is not all this the interior mechanism of the Great British Constitution? Of course.

The only thing that Old RUDDOCK says the whole time, is that he wouldn't keep Cochin China fowls even if they were given him.

"Wouldn't you?" exclaims PENDELL, looking slily at me and beginning to laugh, evidently in anticipation of some capital story, or a witticism from RUDDOCK. No, not another word. He is, it strikes me, reserving himself. I turn to my partner, and try to interest her in Ramsgate, Torquay, the Turkish bath, London and Paris news. She doesn't like Torquay, has never been to Ramsgate, and from what she has heard of it thinks it must be vulgar (to which I return, "O, dear no," but haven't got any proof that it isn't. I find out that she goes every season to London, and knows more about operas than I do, and finally was brought up in Paris, and generally stops there for a month yearly with her Aunt, so that I am unable to give her any information on my special subjects, and as she clearly wants to listen to some story which TREGONY of Tregivel, on the other side of her, is telling, I feel that I'd better continue my dinner silently, or draw RUDDOCK out. I try it, but RUDDOCK won't come out.

_Dessert._--TREGONY of Tregivel _does_ come out genially, without the process of drawing. He has some capital Cornish stories, with an inimitable imitation of Cornish dialect.

_Flash._--While he is telling a rather long anecdote to think of something good and new to cap it. Why not something with (also) an imitation of dialect, or brogue. I've got a very good thing about a Scotchman, but can't remember it in time.

Odd how stories slip away from you just at the moment you especially want to remember them. During a pause in the conversation I remember my story, and secure attention for it by suddenly asking PENDELL (which startles him) if "he's ever heard," &c., and of course he, politely, hasn't. Odd. Somehow, this evening I _can't_ recall the Scotch accent. I try a long speech (not usually belonging to the story) in Scotch, so as to work myself up to it, but, somehow or other, it will run into Irish. My story, therefore, takes somewhat this form. I say, "Then the Scotchman called out, 'Och, bedad'--I mean, 'Ye dinna ken'"--and so forth. Result, failure. But might tell it later, when I'm really in the humour, which I evidently am _not_ now, and yet I thought I was.

Old RUDDOCK begins to come out, not as a _raconteur_, but as an interrupter, which is a new phase of character.

For example, TREGONY commences one of his best Cornish stories, to which we are all listening attentively, something about an uncle and a nephew, and a cart.

"They went," says TREGONY, "to buy a cart"----

"A what?" says RUDDOCK, really giving his whole mind to it.

"A cart," answers TREGONY.

"O," returns RUDDOCK, "I beg pardon. Yes, well"--

"Well," resumes TREGONY, "they wanted something cheap, as they had no use for it except to get home,----"

"Get what?" asks RUDDOCK.

"Home," replies TREGONY, evidently a bit nettled.

"Oh, ah! yes," returns RUDDOCK. "Home--well?"

"Well," TREGONY continues, looking towards his opposite neighbour, so as to avoid Old RUDDOCK if possible, "the landlord of the Inn says to them, 'I'll lend you and NEVVY BILL a cart----'"

RUDDOCK'S in again with "A what?"

I can't help turning upon him, and saying, rather angrily, "A cart!" I feel inclined to add, "You old idiot." Then I say to TREGONY, encouragingly, "Yes."

"'Only' (continues TREGONY), says the Landlord, joking them, 'mind yew du bring the wheels back safe and sound.' So they promised, and then they went about the town till it was rather late and getting dark----"

"Getting _what_?" asks Old RUDDOCK. Everybody annoyed, and two persons besides myself repeat the word "dark" to him.

With these interruptions, and the consequent necessity of making it all quite clear, specially when it comes to TREGONY imitating the conversation between Uncle and Nephew, in two voices, when Old RUDDOCK perpetually wants to know "_Who_ said that," and so puzzles TREGONY that sometimes he makes the Uncle take the Nephew's voice, and _vice versâ_, and the story is getting into difficulties, when the servant enters with a message to our Host from MRS. PENDELL, which brings us to our feet, and into the drawing-room, TREGONY promising me the story quietly in a corner.

The other ladies have come. We all try to enter the drawing-room carelessly, as if the ladies weren't there, or as if we'd been engaged in some fearful conspiracy in the next room, and were hiding our consciousness of guilt under a mask of frivolity. MISS BODD, of Popthlanack, is alone at a table, turning over the pages of a photographic album. I join her.

_Careful Flash._--Take care never to offer an opinion on photographic or any other sort of portraits, unless you're quite sure of your ground.

I remark generally that I don't care about photographic portraits. Before MISS BODD can answer, I hear a rustle behind me, and a voice asks simply, "Why?"

Good gracious! _It is_--MISS STRAITHMERE! She is staying with the CLETHERS ["MR. CLETHER is here," PENDELL tells me. "He's written a work on the Moon. Quite a character----"], and as the REV. MR. CLETHER is the Rector of Penwiffle, she is not a mile from the house, and will be here every day.

Singing and playing. MISS STRAITHMERE asks me, "Why I'm so serious? Will I tell her? _Do. Why?_"

I expect RUDDOCK to sing. He doesn't. MR. CLETHER is talking to him. I join them. I am anxious to hear what MR. CLETHER'S view of the Moon is. He replies, "O, nothing particular."

"But," I urge, RUDDOCK listening, "You have made a study of astronomy, and in these days"--I slip at this moment, because I don't know exactly what I was going to say; but I rather fancy it was that "In these days the moon isn't what it was."

MR. CLETHER modestly repudiates knowing more about the moon than other people, and says that PENDELL is right about his having written a book, but he has never published it.

"_Why_?" asks MISS STRAITHMERE, joining us.

Carriages. Thank goodness!

I accompany RUDDOCK to the door. He has a gig, and a lantern, like a Guy Fawkes out for an airing.

I am still expecting a witticism, or rather a _feu de joie_ of humour and fun, like the last grand bouquet of fireworks that terminates the show at the Crystal Palace.

PENDELL (who I believe is still drawing him out) says to him, "You'll have a fine night for your drive," then looks at me and laughs, as much as to say, "_Now_ you'll hear him, _now_ it's coming. He's shy before a party, but _now_----"

RUDDOCK replies, from above, in his gig, "Yes, so it seems. Good-bye."

And away goes the vehicle, turns the corner, and disappears from view in the avenue.

PENDELL chuckles to himself. "Quite a character," I hear him murmuring. Then, after a short laugh, he exclaims almost fondly, "Old RUDDOCK! ha! ha! Rum old fellow."

And so we go in. And this has been the long-expected "Nicht wi' RUDDOCK." He hasn't said twenty words. Certainly not one worth hearing. Yet PENDELL seems perfectly satisfied with him, and years hence, I dare say, this occasion will be recounted as a night when Old RUDDOCK was at his best. After this, how about SHERIDAN?

_Next morning._--My friend, MISS STRAITHMERE, is coming at two o'clock. I find that I can leave, _viâ_ Launceston, at eleven. I am not well. I can't help it. I begin to consider, is it my nature to be ill? No, I must go up to town, and consult my Doctor.

Adieu, Penwiffle. If I stopped, I feel that in the wilds of Cornwall, out at Tintagel or at Land's End, or in a slate quarry, or down a mine, I should.... Well, I don't know but I should have to answer the question, "Why?"

My present idea is to live in London, about two miles from the British Museum. Then I can walk there every morning, and work in the library at my _Analytical History of Motion_.

If the Doctor agrees with me, and if this plan agrees with me, I shall continue it; if not, I must take to boxing, gymnastics, or other violent exercise.

* * * * *

The Doctor _does_ agree with me. He advises me to try my own prescription. In a week's time to call on him again, and go on calling on him regularly every Monday.

* * * * *

I have taken lodgings three doors from my Doctor's house. I shall make no further notes, unless, at some future time, I commence a history of a British Constitution (my own). And so, for the present, I conclude, with a quotation from SHAKSPEARE, who was, among other things, evidently a valetudinarian, and finish these papers by saying,

"The tenor of them doth but signify" "My Health." _Two Gent. of Verona._ Act iii. sc. 1.

"MY TIRESOME HAT! _SO_ KIND OF YOU, MR. MUGGLES! YOU DON'T MIND WAITING FOR ME, DO YOU?"

[_Don't he, though! He minds very much. Feels very foolish, and dreads being chaffed--particularly by some of those fellows below!_]

IN THE TEMPLE.

LORD DERBY has made a political speech of a very sensible character--"that goes without to say" in his case. He tells the Conservatives that they are to be neither apathetic nor precipitate, that they are to play a waiting game--the World to him who can Wait--and, meantime, they are to support MR. GLADSTONE against the extreme men on his own side. And, said the Earl, "political life is not to be looked at as if it were a soaped pole, with £5,000 a year, and lots of patronage at the top." The sentiment is lofty and honourable. "But," said to _Mr. Punch_ a rising lawyer, who intends to rise a good deal higher, "the deuce of it is that LORD DERBY talks from the top of a golden Pyramid about soaped poles. Hang it! I'm like _Becky Sharp_--I should find it precious easy to be patriotic with fifty thousand a year. If I didn't feel I could manage the nation for the best (though of course I could), confound it! I'd myself engage the best Premier that money could secure, and serve the country that way. But blow it, as it is, and HENRIETTA'S governor refusing to hear of me until I'm in Parliament, you see, old cuss----" "Virtue alone is happiness below," replied _Mr. Punch_ severely, as he went away to get some oysters at PROSSER'S.

* * * * *

NOTE BY A FOREIGNER.--On England's possessions the sun never sets. True; and on one of them, London, the sun never rises.

_Hospitable Host._ "DOES ANY GENTLEMAN SAY PUDDEN?"

_Precise Guest._ "NO, SIR. NO _GENTLEMAN_ SAYS _PUDDEN_."

"IF!"

(_A Channel Sketch._)

'TOTHER day I steamed from Dover To Boulogne-sur-Mer: We'd bad weather crossing over: Very sick we were.

Busy, Steward's-Mate and Steward-- "Basins!" was the cry: Ocean heaved, because it blew hard; Heaved, and so did I.

In the intervals of basin Blessed dreams were mine: FOWLER was from Ocean 'rasin' Every ill-ruled line.

Over Neptune's worst commotion Holding despot's state, He not only ruled the Ocean, But he ruled it straight!

Steady, sea ne'er so ugly, Did his craft behave; Passengers, carriaged snugly, Sweeping o'er the wave!

Not a soul from out his cushions Moved, the passage through; Padded soft against concussions, And spring-seated, too!

O, it was a blessèd vision! Blessèd all the more For that awful exhibition Betwixt shore and shore.

But when _terra-firma_ reason On that dream I fixed, At a less afflicted season, Doubt with hope was mixed.

For, I thought--Can FOWLER answer That his boats won't roll-- Grant, that, swift as a _merganser_, O'er the sea they bowl?

_If_ they roll--and who can promise That they never will?-- Little joy to JOHN BULL from his Power of sitting still.

Think of an afflicted train-full Cabined, cribbed, confined-- Rolling with the rollings painful Of that pen inclined!

Face to face, and knee to knee, sick, Retch and heave and strain, Think of a whole hundred sea-sick All along the train!

Sea-sickness in open ocean May be bad to bear, But, boxed up in a train in motion, Worse, far worse, it were!

So if FOWLER cannot promise Pitch-and-toss shall be Game of chance, far-banished from his Skimmers of the sea,

Better 'gainst our woes we gird us-- Cold, and stench, and spray-- Than in railway train you herd us, Nausea's helpless prey!

If the traveller from Dover Reached the other shore, Worser woes, than crossing over, Were for him in store.

Awfuller than the up-turn he Suffers from the tide,-- Think upon that six hours' journey On the other side!

Present woe 'gainst worse mismarriage-- Put it to the vote-- And I'll bet 'tis _contrà_ carriage, And _for_ open boat!

A BURIED ARMY.

THE _Leeds Mercury_ is such an excellent paper, that _Punch_ takes from it anything as unhesitatingly as (to use LORD LYTTON'S illustration) one takes change from an honest tradesman, without looking at or counting the coins. That journal said, the other day--

"There was a demonstration at Lausanne yesterday, in memory of the soldiers belonging to GENERAL BOURBAKI'S army who died in Switzerland, after being interred there last year."

We cannot see why there should have been a demonstration; at least, if it was a demonstration of wonder, the wonder would have been if the soldiers had survived their interment. It was Antæus, if we recollect aright, whose strength was renewed when he came in contact with the Earth, but he never went under it, at least not until Alcides had done with and for him. But is France aware that this is the way in which one of her armies was got rid of? Is this the boasted hospitality of Switzerland?

* * * * *

THE RAINBOW may be accurately described as the real NOAH'S _Arc_.

* * * * *

_Passenger._ "AND WHOSE HOUSE IS THAT ON THE TOP OF THE HILL THERE?"

_Driver of the "Red Lion" 'Bus._ "O, THAT'S MR. UMBERBROWN'S, SIR. HE'S WHAT THEY CALL A R. A."

_Passenger_ (_Amateur Artist_). "O, INDEED! AH! A MAGNIFICENT PAINTER! YOU MUST BE RATHER PROUD OF SUCH A GREAT MAN LIVING AMONGST YOU DOWN HERE!"

_Driver._ "GREAT MAN, SIR? LOR' BLESS YER, SIR, NOT A BIT OF IT! WHY, THEY ONLY KEEPS ONE MAN-SERVANT, AND HE DON'T SLEEP IN THE 'OUSE!!!"

* * * * *

THE NEW YEAR'S FINE.

(_Husband and Father sings._)

AN Income-tax increased to pay, And that assessed at higher rate! Well, we must bear it as we may, By means of thrift, my weeping Mate. We'll pinch, in clothing and in cup; Thou shalt accustomed dress resign; I'll give my GLADSTONE claret up, To meet my LOWE'S augmented fine.

What though that heavy forfeit make A small, uncertain income less? What if away the coin it take, Which I should hoard against distress? What though my earnings needs must cease As soon as I shall be no more, And may not last till my decease, But fail us both, my Wife, before?

Still, whilst we wince beneath the Screw, Put on with added stress this year, We'll think how much, because we Few Are taxed, the Many spend in Beer. Our impost we'll with joy endure, Because it seems the only plan From fiscal burdens to secure Exemption for the Working-Man.

The Working-Man who works with tools, Such tools as hammers, saws, and planes, By hand; whose numerous suffrage rules The smaller class who work by brains. Rejoice we that what we must spare, The Working-Man has got to spend. We're privileged to pay his share, Till our ability shall end.

At least when next another year, Another Budget's weight shall bring To bear on us, if we are here Still, as plucked nightingales, to sing, We've cause, another little call, At any rate, of hope to see, For payment of the needful all To set the Breakfast-Table free.

* * * * *

AMERICAN INCREDULITY.

In a speech delivered at New York on "Forefathers' Day," the REV. HENRY BEECHER, discoursing of the "Pilgrim Fathers," said:--

"That they had their faults we all know. They brought with them some of the prejudices of Europe, and had not freed themselves from notions of persecution. They believed, above all things, in the existence and power of the evil one. The devil was everywhere in their thoughts. In our modern times we have gone free from that superstition. We of New York know there is no such being."

In the early days of New England anyone who owned to being an Adiabolist would have been deemed an Atheist. But then there was no Tammany or Erie Ring. Plunder and fraud, picking and stealing, are courses from which some natures can only be restrained by the piety which firmly believes in the personality, cornute and caudal, of MILTON'S hero. "We of New York know there is no such being." Do we? We think we do, but may have flattered ourselves.

* * * * *

Printed by Joseph Smith of No. 24, Holford Square, in the Parish of St. James, Clerkenwell, in the County of Middlesex, at the Printing Offices of Messrs. Bradbury, Evans, & Co., Lombard Street, in the Precinct of Whitefriars, in the City of London, and Published by him at No. 85, Fleet Street, in the Parish of St. Bride, City of London.--SATURDAY, January 20, 1872.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

Passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_.

Passages in bold were indicated by =equal signs=.

Small caps were replaced with ALL CAPS.

Throughout the document, the OE ligature was replaced with "OE".

In the article "My Health," there is a mismatched round bracket, that starts with "(to which I return," but it is unclear where the closing bracket should go.