Read Ebook: Punch or The London Charivari Vol. 62 January 20 1872 by Various

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"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."

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 , 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.

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 , 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.

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 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 an imitation of dialect, or brogue. I've got a very good thing about a Scotchman, but can't remember it in time.

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.

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

"A cart," answers TREGONY.

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

"Get what?" asks RUDDOCK.

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

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

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."

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.

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?"

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.

Carriages. Thank goodness!

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

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?

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?"

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.

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 . 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,

IN THE TEMPLE.

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

"IF!"

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

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 bless?d vision! Bless?d all the more For that awful exhibition Betwixt shore and shore.

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!

A BURIED ARMY.

"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 Antaeus, 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 NEW YEAR'S FINE.

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