Punch (60.1871)

March i?, 1871.J PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI._m

MY HEALTH.

collecting the advice of my friends on this subject, I find it
en^ent to classify their opinions thus :—
C°D\ To walk like old boots every day for three hours.—Sympson's
' Opinion.

0 That I ought to do gymnastics every morning for an hour,
and go in for a turn with the gloves for two hours before
dinner.—Muggeeldge's Opinion.

potion of the gloves not bad, if I could find a professor
i would bind himself solemnly not to hit me on the nose. Some-
tlv in great suffering once exclaimed " All this to crush a worm ! "
Ttfhpn one feels the sort of muscular buffer coming with a deadened
•1 won what the P.R. terms the " smeller," so that you feel that
an suddenly spread (as it were) oyer your face, and your eyes
°T\erwg violently, then one feels inclined to adopt the above, and
Vl " All this to smash a nose ! "

Ind Mem. on this Subject. The punishment of the nose because the
, Q(js are fighting, is a specimen of uneven-handed justice where
the innocent suffers for the guilty.

3. To go in for the Cold Water Cure.—Viddle's Idea,
i. To get change of scene. Run about everywhere.—Flutee's
Idea, accompanied by a practical suggestion to the effect that,
if I'll pay half his expenses, he '11 travel with me anywhere.
Mem. Fxutee's not a bad fellow; and if no one else will go,
Query,'is he worth it ? "What's the proverb say? "Better to be
alone than to pay half of another fellow's travelling expenses," or
something to that effect.

5, Go and stay with Gievee in the North. He '11 be delighted
to see you.—Rjchahd's Opinion.
Richaeb is a cousin of mine, and he thought I was going to pro-
pose coming to stop with him.

Various Opinions (all unprofessional). Go in for diet.—Cut off
lunch.—Get up early.—Go to bed early.—Get up late.—
Take hot baths only.-—Take nothing but cold water.—Take
a shower-bath before dinner.—Never take a shower-bath
by any chance.—Walk before breakfast.—Never walk before
breakfast, but immediately after.—Get the morning air.—
Morning air worst thing for me : death in fact.—Never go
out until 2 p.m.—Hunt.—On no account venture to hunt.—
Take medicine every other day.—Rashest thing for me to
take any medicine: play Old Gooseberry with me.— Live
high—Live low—Walk—Lie down—Run—Jump—Shoot—
Box—Drive—Sing—Dance—Eat vegetables—Never touch
any green meat.—Take no pastry.—Take anything.—Never
touch tea or coffee.—Never touch coffee: take tea.—Never
touch either.—Take weak tea last thing at night.—Never at
night, but first thing in the morning, &c, &c, &c.
I sit in and consider the matter. I go out and consider the matter.
I am restless. I can't work. I feel depressed. Coming events
begin to cast their shadows before me, and, on deflexion, I feel sure
that I am getting fat.

What'shisname's awful words haunt me—" running to fat," just
as weeds or strawberries spread out (awful simile !) and run to seed.
It won't bear thinking of.

I've a headache. It suddenly comes on at the corner of Sackville
Street, where my friend Muleee lives. Mulfee ? Odd it never
occurred to me till this moment that Mulfee is the rising young
Practitioner of the day. I '11 consult Mulfee. He '11 advise me as
a friend and as a medical man; or, seeing that I know beforehand
Ms advice will be gratis, the characters will be amalgamated, and
he'll be my Medical Friend.

I tell him (he's delighted to see me in his little back study with a
case of the brightest surgical instruments on the table, a picture of
Professor Somebody on the wall, and a bookcase full of professional
literature) that I have not called in professionally (this will remove
all delicacy on his part and mine about a fee, and reduce the affair
! to a mere friendly visit), but just to see him, and ask him how
he is.

, Mem. Not a bad idea for getting an opinion from a doctor. Call
in and ask him how he is. Hint for conversation with doctor :—
Friend. How d Ve do P How are you ?
Doctor. Ah ! How d 'ye do ? How are you 1
Friend (seizes the opportunity for a "full and particular " and
details all his symptoms). How am I? Ah, that's it, &c.
(Here follow the complaints.)
I tell him how I am. I tell him how I have been. I tell him
now my headache has just come on, taking me at the side of the
j0se> g°lng up to the top of my head, round behind my ear, and

again to my jaw, until it seems to turn into a toothache.
J tell him that I am getting fat. I tell him that I feel generally
speaking " anyhow."

1 ou want a regular change," says Mulfee. " Go away for six
months at least."

After expressing< this opinion, he looks at his watch, says he's
rather pressed for time, will I excuse him ? rings a bell, then there's
a knock at the front door, then his mysterious man enters to ask " if
he shall show Loed Aube--"

Muxfee stops him in the middle of his indiscretion, and tells him,
" Up-stairs."

"And Lady Couet-" (his mysterious man begins again).

Once more Muxfee (who, I see, attends the aristocracy) stops him
quickly, and tells him, " back room," then looks at me, as much as
to say, You see how busy I am."

I do see how busy he is. I thank him very much, promise to
" let him see me again soon." He replies, "Do," but not heartily,
and I show myself out into the dark passage, and into the arms of
the mysterious servitor, who lets me open the front door for myself
(I'm evidently not worth half-a-crowns for future interviews, and
he sees it with a practised eye), while he ushers a lady out of the
front room into the sanctum.

There are coroneted carriages about the door. Mulfee is getting
on, and I've been taking up his time.

Mem. (in pocket-book). To ask Mtjlfee to dinner when I come
back. At present, to take his advice, and go away, for change.
Where ?

I am melancholy. As I think of going away for change, I am
depressed.

I will go and call on my Aunt. It's an odd thing that whenever
I'm depressed I always feel I should like to go and call on my Aunt
Heney (Heneletta is her full name), and I generally do.

The idea of calling on my Aunt when miserable, originated (I can
distinctly trace it) in an ancient and laudable custom of my boyhood.
The occasions of greatest depression to me when a boy were un-
doubtedly the days of my return to school, and these became to me
" times of refreshening," as a lawyer might say, because I went the
round of my relations in London, and made a collection to defray
the expenses, or, as it were, encourage the performance, of my going
back to school. I knew as well as a street musician or a country
tramp the houses that were good for anything, and also could reckon
beforehand, to a shilling, how much they were good for.

My Aunt was uniformly one sovereign. I visited her, beaming,
at half-past eleven, a.m. Commencing my tour with her, we were
delighted to see each other, she made inquiries about my progress at
school, and fetched her purse out of her wTorkbox, I, meantime,
delicately pretending not to know what was going on. Then, after
stopping there a quarter of an hour, I rose to leave, and she pressed
a sovereign into my hand, for which I used to thank her heartily
and blushingly, and giving her a ldss (as a sort of set-off), bade her
good-bye.

Thus it happens that, whenever I'm in as low sprits as I used to
be on going-back days, I always instinctively turn towards my
Aunt.

My Aunt Hene5T (or Heneietta) is of sad temperament, and
dresses (for no particular reason) something like a Lady Abbess, or,
to give a better idea of her costume, as a Lady Abbess might be if
she had a brougham, and was going out shopping in Regent Street.

"Well, my dear," she says, after hearing my statement of suf-
fering, '' I should say that quiet and repose would do all you want
for you."

I assent.

" With, of course, a thorough change of scenery."

I assent again. I fancy she contemplates making me a handsome
present (nothing like reviving good old customs), and paying my
expenses for a continental trip.

" Change of scene," she continues, meditatively, " and change of
people."

Certainly ; quite my views on the subject.

'' You should have no anxiety or trouble for some time, for in-
stance," she goes on, myself assenting to every particular; and so,

I think-" (she's adding up what she's going to "come down

with") "if you were to come down-" (ahem! the coming down

I'd expected from her) "with me to Ramsgate, you could"—in a
burst of generosity—"stay there for a fortnight or three weeks."

I am very much obliged. I accept. Ramsgate is near Dover,
Dover to Ostend, and so forth. A little diplomacy will manage it.
Diplomacy says, " Cultivate your Aunt." I will.

We go to-morrow. The party consists of my Aunt, her maid (a
nice young girl of about fifty-three), a small King Charles (retained
on the establishment for past services), and a melancholy turtle-
dove in a wicker-cage. Our united ages amount to-but no matter;

I foresee quiet, rest, and irresponsibility.

On looking over my Mems 1 find that I had set down, " Call on
Mxnsley about certain commissions in town." As I shan't have
any time to see him to-morrow, it occurs to me, after finishing my
packing, that I '11 look him up (10"30 p.m.) to-night. Minsley has
something to do with looking up old records in a State Paper Office,
and is generally considered a rising young man of strict business
habits.

I find Minsley at his Club. He has dined late with a friend, and