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.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A STILL BIGGER "CLAIMANT."]
MY HEALTH.
(_Concluded._)
[Illustration]
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----'"