PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 156.
June 25, 1919.
CHARIVARIA.
A man has written to the papers offering to buy five thousand pounds of
Joy Loan if the Government will get him a case of whisky. The simple
fellow does not seem to realise that if the Government had anything as
valuable as a case of whisky it would not have to raise a loan.
***
The successful trans-Atlantic flight and the large number of
public-houses in Galway threaten to make prohibition in U.S.A. nothing
less than a farce.
***
Smoking, says a Church paper, is on the increase among boys. Boys will
be girls these days.
***
Smoking and bad language seem to go together, says Professor GILBERT
MURRAY. In the case of some cheap cigars we have often seen them going
together.
***
A bazaar has been held in Dublin for the purpose of securing a fresh
stock of wild animals for the Zoological Gardens. It is not believed,
however, that the popularity of Sinn Fein can be seriously challenged.
***
"Serbia," says an Italian news agency, "is purchasing large quantities
of war material and aeroplanes." It is feared, however, that these
elaborate Peace preparations may yet turn out to be premature.
***
Two German machine guns, it is stated, have been placed in a provincial
library. Even this, it is thought, will not prevent Mr. H.G. WELLS from
doing what he conceives to be his duty.
***
Labour unrest is reported from Spitzbergen. There is also a rumour that
the Greenlanders are demanding the nationalization of blubber and a
180-day year.
***
There is said to be some talk at Washington of the House of
Representatives inviting President WILSON to visit America shortly.
***
A Chicago Girls' Club has decided that its members shall have nothing to
do with young men. It is certainly getting to be an effeminate habit.
***
_The Daily Mail_ has presented a golden slipper for the actress with the
smallest feet. The slipper, we understand, is quite new and has never
been used on anybody.
***
An American gentleman is about to offer for sale his corkscrew, or would
exchange for something useful.
***
A very mean theft is reported from West Ealing. Not content with
stealing the loose silver a burglar is reported to have stolen the
muzzle from off the watch-dog.
***
The New Cross Fire Brigade have been awarded a Challenge Cup for the
quickest work. This brigade is now open to book a few orders for fires
during August, when they have several open dates.
***
We understand that a couple of young cheeses were kidnapped from a
Crouch Hill warehouse last week.
***
It is a surprising fact, says a contemporary, that when LENIN was born
his parents were practically penniless. The greater mystery is that his
parents decided to keep him.
***
A statistical expert has estimated that if all the questions asked by
Mr. SMILLIE at the Coal Commission's sittings were placed one before the
other they would lead to nowhere.
***
Over one hundred posters illustrating the danger of house-flies have
been exhibited in the Enfield district. It is doubtful whether this will
have the desired effect, for it is well known that flies cannot read.
***
The price of a first-class interment, says a contemporary, has risen
from £3 18s 0d. to £5 15s. 0d. The result is that many people
have decided to try to do without one this year.
***
The arrival in England of a rare mosquito is reported by the
South-Eastern Union of Scientific Societies. It seems that the insect
had worked its passage to the British Museum. We think that a sharper
look-out should be kept on mosquitoes arriving at our ports.
***
A painful episode is reported from Yarmouth. It appears that a visitor,
desirous of taking home a souvenir of his holiday, thoughtlessly filled
a bottle with sea water at low tide, with the result that just before
high tide the bottle burst, inflicting serious injuries on the
passengers in the railway carriage in which he was travelling.
***
Out of nine applicants for the post of Language Master at a well-known
Public school, eight were proficient in at least five languages.
However, as the ninth man proved to be an ex-Sergeant-Major, the eight
immediately retired in his favour.
***
We now hear that the question regarding the possession of
Kladizatiffagtaliofatoffka, in Poland, which has caused so much of the
delay at the Peace Conference, has been satisfactorily settled. The four
Big Powers are to have a couple of syllables each and the remaining
three will be raffled for.
***
On account of the large number of robberies of safes that have taken
place in London during the last few weeks it is possible that an effort
will shortly be made to do away with these cumbersome articles in order
to stamp out the epidemic.
***
The bacteriologist of the Oyster Merchants' and Planters' Association
claims to have discovered a means of purifying polluted mussels. To
ascertain if a mussel requires to be purified examine the whites of its
eyes.
***
Newspapers have appeared again in Buenos Ayres. No other troubles are
anticipated.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "I'VE CALLED TO SEE IF YOU COULD MAKE A MINATURE OF ME."]
* * * * *
AMERICA AND SINN FEIN.
[Being a Republican's apology for the recent anti-British agitation
in the States.]
Oh, never let it mar the mutual love,
That now unites us eye to eye,
If, superficially, we seem to shove
Our fingers in your Irish pie--
An action which, if you should so behave,
Would make old MONROE wriggle in his grave.
How loath we are by nature to intrude
In things outside our own concern
Is witnessed by the European feud
In which we lately took a turn;
Ere WILSON'S mind was fixed to see you through it,
For years he wondered if he ought to do it.
And, when for Ireland's good we intervene
In matters patently remote,
You must not count our loyalty less keen--
We simply want the Irish vote;
'Tis an election stunt, this lion-baiting,
Designed for local Kelts who need placating.
So, when our Yankee delegates rehearse
Their tale of Erin's bitter woe,
Of crimes, almost too bad to quote in Erse,
Committed by the Saxon foe,
Please understand why our apparent bias is
In favour of these nimble Ananiases.
And also why, for Ireland's dear, dear sake
(Meaning of course "Ourselves Alone"),
A lot of us would gladly let her take
Our WILSON for her very own,
To worship, like a god inside a tin fane,
As WOODROW ONE, First President of Sinn Fein.
O. S.
* * * * *
GOING TO THE BANK.
She thought she had got a bargain. It was only marked "20/-," and would
have been double the price at any of the West-end places. So she whipped
out her Japanese note-case, paid for it, and carried it off like a
whirlwind lest the shopman should find he had made a mistake.
But it was she who had made a mistake, and she broke the news to me at
breakfast on the following morning.
Two of her one-pound notes (or, to be exact, _my_ one pound notes) must
have stuck together. She had paid the West-end price after all.
Then, instead of blaming her own carelessness, as I should have done,
what must she do but attack Mr. LLOYD GEORGE?
"It's all his fault, this horrid dirty paper-money... Spreading
infection wherever it goes!"
It devolved upon me to defend the Government, which I did with some
heat, drawing forth another one-pound note casually, as though I were
made of them, and flourishing it in my hand.
"And anyway," I argued, "Mr. LLOYD GEORGE is not to blame. The note does
not bear his signature, but that of Sir JOHN BRADBURY. And a fine bold
signature it is--why, it's dirt-cheap for the lesson in handwriting
alone."
She did not appreciate that, because hers is a small scrabbed writing.
But I continued mercilessly--
"I bet he doesn't bite _his_ lips when he's signing his name."
"Extremely bad writing, I should call it," she retorted. "Look, you
cannot tell where the '_u_' ends and the '_r_' begins."
"But aside from that," I resumed (I was very proud of this expression,
having picked it up from President WILSON)--"aside from that, turn the
note over, feast your eyes on the picture of the Houses of Parliament.
It too is thrown in for nothing. This at least ought to appeal to you,
with your enthusiasm for Gothic architecture."
If looks could annihilate, that would have been my last boiled egg.
"You think yourself very clever," she said, "and you are supposed to
understand all about money matters. Surely you know of a bank where I
can take these wretched notes and get gold instead, the good old English
gold that was worth its face-value all the world over?"
I did not know she could be so eloquent. I rose and went to the window.
It was a noble morning.
"Yes," I said after a little reflection, "put on your best hat and
collect your paper-money. But try and pack it all into the kit-bag if
you possibly can." (She winced a little.) "I know a bank where you will
be able to get all the gold you want...."
* * * * *
Shoulder to shoulder we fought the good fight for the motor-bus.
"Two to the Bank," I gasped.
But it was at Charing Cross station I made her descend. She looked
extraordinarily mystified, and I explained that the Bank's country
branches are the only ones where gold is still to be had.
* * * * *
She and an empty milk-can and I were all that got out at the little
station in the hills. However, a cuckoo introduced himself boldly by
name. He seemed so near he might have been in the booking-office. But
the booking-office was deserted.
"There can't possibly be a bank in this out-of-the-world place," she
protested.
"Patience," I replied, leading her down a steep path between high thick
hedges to a small gateway. Through this we went, and I heard her draw in
her breath.
From our feet, as it seemed, up to the blue sky itself, one golden
glowing bank of buttercups and cowslips... and cowslips. It was almost
like trying to gaze at the noonday sun.
"There," I crowed, "you will be able to get all the gold you want. Did I
not say, 'I know a bank'?"
She did a curious thing. She put her arms round my neck and kissed me.
"Dear old Mr. Sententious," said she, "did you think you could take _me_
in? I knew my _Midsummer Night's Dream_ by heart while you were still
discovering 'THE-HOG-IS-IN-THE-PIT'!" And she sang quite softly:--
"I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips--"
Though I was very angry at the way she had deceived me, I must admit
that her voice was not unpleasing.
* * * * *
IN A GOOD CAUSE.
The National Baby Week Council, which for many years has done admirable
work in promoting the Welfare of Infancy and Motherhood, is to hold its
annual "Week" from July 1st to 7th. Among other London celebrations a
Conference will be held at Kingsway Hall, under the Presidency of Dr.
ADDISON, on the Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. Applications for
admission (one guinea, to include proofs of papers to be read and a
copy of the Report; or ten shillings, without printed matter) should
be addressed to Miss HALFORD, Secretary, National Association for the
Prevention of Infant Mortality, 4 and 5 Tavistock Square, W.C.1.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A REDRESS REHEARSAL.
OUR MR. MONTAGU _(practising on dummy)._ "THE LATEST LINE IN WESTERN
HEAD-WEAR, SIR, AND, IF YOU WILL ALLOW ME TO SAY SO, VERY BECOMING TO
YOU. THANK YOU, SIR, AND THE NEXT ARTICLE?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Son of the House (after being introduced to professor of
mathematics)._ "NOW WHAT SHALL I TALK TO YOU ABOUT?"]
* * * * *
A TANGLED TRIANGLE.
The Pâtisserie Delarue et Salon de Consommations is situated just on the
edge of Europe. Being a place of extreme military importance I dare not
indicate its position with greater exactitude, but may go so far as to
say that it can be found by stepping off the boat, crossing the bridge
and then inquiring of the Military Police. Its importance is due to the
quality of its _crème éclairs_, which attract the gilded Staff in such
large numbers that the interior is usually suffused like an Eastern
sunset with a rich glow of red tabs and gilt braid. Within its walls
junior subalterns, now, alas, a rapidly diminishing species, dally
with insidious ices until their immature moustaches are pendulous with
lemon-flavoured icicles and their hair is whitened with sugared rime.
There it was that Frederick discovered Percival feebly and mournfully
pecking at a vanilla ice.
"Greeting, old Spartan," said he. "Training for the Murman coast?"
"Would that I were!" replied Percival. "I'm refrigerating my sorrows.
I've tried to drown them, but they float; so I'm by way of freezing them
under."
"Poor Perce!" murmured Frederick. "I suppose it's Cox again?"
"_Au contraire_, I'm _his_ sorrow. My present trouble is that I've got
to find a wife."
"Nothin' easier, old thing. Your photo in the illustrated papers, with
appropriate letterpress--"
"You misunderstand me," interrupted Percival. "It's someone else's wife
I've got to find. _Écoutez_. Teddy Roker has got permission for his wife
to visit him out here. He's expecting her by this afternoon's boat and
has got a billet fixed up all right, but he's been suddenly rushed away
on a court-martial case, so he's asked me to meet her, and I've never
seen her before."
"But didn't he give you the specifications--kind of descriptive return?"
"That's just it!" groaned Percival. "He was only married last leave, and
his description goes like a Shakspearean sonnet. I gather that I've got
to look out for a combination of _Titania_, GLADYS COOPER and HELEN OF
TROY. I tried to nail him down to externals, but he only went off into
another rhapsody.
"'What does she wear?' I asked.
"'Wear?' said he dreamily. 'Oh! beautifully draped garments nebulous as
summer clouds and filmy as gossamer webs. Nothing really definite.'
"'That sounds probable enough, as the present fashions go,'" said I.
"Seems to me," said Frederick, "that this is a case to refer to higher
authority. The sleuth-hound instinct of one Frederick is indicated.
Having absorbed the available data I will e'en amble round myself to
assist you."
"There speaks my stout-hearted haricot!" said Percival. "But be
careful. Teddy won't like it if he gets the wrong wife. He made a point
of that. So in case we miss each other your instructions are briefly
these: you will meet what you honestly think to be Mrs. Roker outside
the Customs House, explain Teddy's absence, take her to his rooms at 10
_bis_, Rue Dufay, make her comfortable and report to me here at 6.15."
Punctually at 6.15 they met again in the Pâtisserie Delarue. Both were
radiant.
"'Tis done!" said Percival proudly; "and without the assistance of the
puissant Frederick. At 5.0 o'clock I was outside the Customs House and
saw her looking round with an anxious eye. 'Mrs. Roker, I believe?' said
I. She confessed right away, so I rattled her off in a cab to 10 _bis_,
Rue Dufay, and left her there nibblin' biscuits and drinkin' tea as
happy as a flapper."
"Percival," replied Frederick slowly, "for sheer imbecility you have
surpassed yourself. I myself met Mrs. Roker outside the Customs House
at 5.30, being detained _en route_. I took her to 10 _bis_, Rue Dufay,
where at the present moment she is partaking of coffee and chocolate
caramels. Shortly, no doubt, she will discover the spurious female that
you have decoyed thither and the First Act of a triangle drama will be
rung up."
"By Jazz," exclaimed Percival, "I'd stake my gratuity on the genuineness
of my Mrs. Roker. She knows Teddy's favourite breakfast food."
"No," said Frederick decidedly, "mine is the only authentic article. All
others are imitations. She knows dearest Edward's size in gloves."
"Well, we can't both be right."
"Did Teddy say anything about expecting _two_ wives?" asked Frederick
hopefully.
"Idiot!" said Percival. "As I see the situation, one of us--presumably
you--will presently be the central figure in a court-martial or police
court on a charge of abducting an innocent female. The remaining reels
in the film will be devoted to Teddy chasing you with a 5·9 howitzer
for jeopardizing his connubial happiness. But these unhappy concluding
incidents may be averted if you return the wrongful lady to her rightful
owner before Teddy gets back. So we'll take the necessary action
immediately."
"But which one are we going to discard if they both claim to be the
genuine Mrs. R.? Hadn't we better wait for Teddy? He'd be almost sure to
be able to decide."
"You make me tired. It's got to be settled before he comes back."
It was a brace of dejected subalterns that wended their way to 10 _bis_,
Rue Dufay. Percival knocked at the door of the drawing-room and in
response to an invitation they entered. A pretty and extremely composed
young lady greeted them.
"_My_ wife!" said Percival and Frederick simultaneously.
"Excuse me," said the lady with dignity; "the only husband I possess at
present is Mr. Roker."
"What I mean to say is," explained Percival lamely, "that you are the
wife of Mr. Roker that I met at the Customs--I mean, Mr. Roker's wife
that--"
"Me too!" broke in Frederick.
"Well, that's easily explained," said the lady, addressing Percival.
"After you had kindly escorted me here I suddenly remembered that I had
left my keys at the Customs House. Feeling confident of finding my way
about I returned for them. On emerging I was claimed by your fascinating
friend who is at this moment engaged in winding up his monocle
[Frederick guiltily stowed it away in his fob pocket]. He seemed so
delighted at having discovered me that I hadn't the heart to explain
that I'd been found before. Of course I'm excessively grateful to both
of you--Oh, here's dear old Teddy at last!"
During the scene of rapturous greeting that followed Frederick showed
that he indeed had his moments of inspiration.
"What about a vanilla ice at the Pâtisserie Delarue, old bean?" said he
to Percival.
And, unnoticed by the happy couple, they stole silently away.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Lady who has been handed the card of wife of new
baronet-profiteer)._ "ER--LET ME SEE. DO I KNOW LADY HOGGINS?"
_Butler_. "YOUR LADYSHIP HAS NOT RECEIVED HER SINCE THE CREATION."]
* * * * *
"Surplus Government Property for sale:--Brass Islets."--_Disposal
Board "Surplus" Magazine_.
But why is the geographical position of this alluring archipelago not
given? Is it for enemy reasons?
* * * * *
[Illustration: FORCE OF HABIT--THE SCRUM HALF.]
* * * * *
THE NEED OF OUR TIMES.
["The modern world is badly in need of a Pindar. Alone of the poets,
Pindar could do justice to the exploits of the day."--_The Times._]
"We're badly in need of a Pindar"
To fan in these tropical days
Our stock of emotional tinder
With gusts of tempestuous praise;
To foster the flame, not to check it
Or let it die suddenly down,
In honour of HAWKER and BECKETT,
Of ALCOCK and BROWN.
We do not require a CATULLUS
(We've MASEFIELD and WAUGH and SASSOON)
Nor pastoral pipers to lull us
To rest with a sedative tune;
But the worship of beer and of Bacchus
In verses familiar and free
Might win for a latter-day FLACCUS
A Knighthood (B.E.).
Bland VIRGIL'S beyond resurrection;
The voice of the moment is harsh;
The nightingale's golden perfection
Offends the young ravens of MARSH;
ARISTOPHANES, grossly facetious,
Is but a "compulsory" god,
And HOMER as well as LUCRETIUS
Too frequently nod.
There's scope for the truculent passion
Of JUVENAL'S masculine muse
To flagellate folly and fashion
In dress and in manners and views;
But we've plenty of prophets and poets;
We've few who are sober and sane;
We don't want another DE BLOWITZ;
We want a DELANE.
* * * * *
"BETTER BEER ON THE HORIZON."
_Daily Express_.
A beer in the hand is worth ten on the horizon.
* * * * *
A TUBE NIGHTMARE.
Have you ever dreamed a dream of a terrible tube journey, in which every
one of the appalling things which might happen does actually occur? I
dreamed one last night.
The journey began with a disaster. On reaching the booking-office window
I could not find any money, and it was only when the waiting crowd
behind me, which had mounted to hundreds, was becoming offensively
hostile that I succeeded in producing a five-pound note.
The booking-clerk took her own time to count out the change, and on
leaving the window I found four policemen struggling to keep back an
infuriated mob of people, all shrieking imprecations and asking for my
blood.
There was but one thing for it--to get to a train before this angry
horde could secure its tickets; so I made a wild dash for the
moving-staircase, shedding Bradburys _en route_ like a paper-chase.
As I rushed past the ticket-puncher she made a vicious lunge at my
out-stretched hand with an enormous pair of pincers, missing the ticket
and partially amputating my thumb.
As I have always expected to do, but have never yet done, I missed
my footing at the top of the escalator, and my desire to outstrip my
enemies was realised beyond my wildest hopes as I crashed, by a series
of petrifying somersaults, down the entire flight, to be belched forth
like a sausage from a machine at the bottom.
Tattered, torn and in unspeakable agony I picked myself up and found my
steering-gear so damaged that I could only move sideways, crab-fashion,
and in this manner I crawled on to the platform just as a train was
beginning its exit.
I make a leap for it. The gates crash to! Am I inside them or out?
Neither. I am pinned there with the first half of my body struggling
inside the car while the second half protrudes over the fast-receding
platform.
I remember how in my agony it flashed across my mind that I would never
again slay a wasp with my fork.
I must have been pulled into the car just in time to stop the tunnel
(which is a dreadfully close fit) from bisecting me, for the next thing
I remember was being dropped into a corner seat and severely admonished
by the guard for getting into the train whilst it was in motion.
I was now a quivering and shapeless mass; nobody pitied me, nobody
helped me, so loathsome a spectacle did I present.
Of course the train passed my station, and at the next I was thrown out
like a mail-bag, to be trodden on by massed formations of travellers
fighting to enter and leave the car by the same door at the same time.
When the multitudes had dispersed and I was alone, by superhuman efforts
I contrived to wriggle on my stomach to the foot of the ascending
stairway, but not having sufficient strength to wriggle off on arrival
at the top, my long-dreaded horror of being sucked under the barrier,
where moving stairways disappear, was realised.
By now immune to pain, I regarded the next process (akin to being passed
through a mangle) as child's play. To my amazement, after a few minutes
amongst giant cog-wheels, I again found the light on the down-going
staircase, which precipitated me to the spot from which I had started.
Having thrice performed this revolution, by which time I was as flat as
a pancake, I was eventually scraped off by a porter and upbraided for
joy-riding.
Finding that those rebukes left me unmoved, for I was practically
lifeless, certainly boneless, and, to their horror, ticketless, they
folded me up and put me in a drawer pending the arrival of the police.
I was still there when the dream mercifully stopped.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Motor Cyclist_. "WHY THE DEUCE DON'T YOU DRIVE ON THE
PROPER SIDE OF THE ROAD?"]
* * * * *
BIRD-LORE.
II.--PEACOCKS.
Peacocks sweep the fairies' rooms;
They use their folded tails for brooms;
But fairy dust is brighter far
Than any mortal colours are;
And all about their tails it clings
In strange designs of rounds and rings;
And that is why they strut about
And proudly spread their feathers out.
R.F.
* * * * *
"Wanted.--Good stage electrician. No good stage electrician."--_The
Stage_.
There ought to be no difficulty in finding the latter.
* * * * *
CROSS COUNTRY.
A Commander in the Senior Service is the man who gets things done; and
long experience has formulated for him a golden rule: "If you want to
get things done you must _see_ them done." This laudable maxim
applies in a lesser degree to all his subordinates, right down to the
newly-joined boy, who can't very well help seeing _some_ things done,
unless he makes a habit of working with his eyes shut--a practice which
does not appeal particularly to P.O.'s.
The Commander of His Majesty's Battleship _Ermyntrude_ is far from being
an exception to the rule; he is a martyr to it. So are his officers. In
their enthusiasm they have let the rule run riot. You will soon see that
for yourself.
The idea germinated in the practical head of the gunner. It pushed its
way into the upper air under the plain cap of the A.P. It budded under
the (slighted tilted) head-dress of Number One, and blossomed forth into
a full-blown project under the gilded oak-leaves that thatch the Bloke.
He said, "The ship's company will run across country."
The ship's company girded up its loins and awaited further orders.
The course was decided upon. It ran from the signalling station on the
south of the island straight to the town on the north. There was no
possibility of making a mistake, because you could see the semaphore
from anywhere, and you would know when you got to the town because the
road stopped there. The various divisions of the ship were to compete
against each other. If you came in first you were to be given a ticket
numbered "one"; if second, a ticket numbered "two," and so on; and the
division which had the smallest total of pips at the end would be the
winner.
At 8.15 the ship's pinnace landed the gunner on the town jetty at the
north end of the island. He had come to deal with the competitors when
they arrived at the winning-post. He had brought with him the bo'sun and
the carpenter, his own mate, the bo'sun's mate and the carpenter's
mate, four P.O.'s, the sergeant of Marines, a few leading stokers and
half-a-dozen hands; fifty fathoms of hawser-laid four-inch white rope;
six stout stakes (ash); bags, canvas, twelve (one to collect the tickets
earned by each division); and one thousand eight hundred tickets,
numbered from one to one thousand eight hundred. (There were only six
hundred and fifty runners, but it is well to be on the safe side.)
He dug his stakes into the ground in a V-shaped formation just beyond
the place where the road ended and almost opposite the first cottage.
Further north he posted his canvas bags, which he fixed at a convenient
height above the ground by depending them from the necks of his
subordinates. He then rigged his rope around the stakes in such a way
that the runners, entering the wide end of the V, would be shepherded
one by one through a narrow aperture at the bottom, thus avoiding all
suspicion of overcrowding in giving out the tickets. He explained his
plan of campaign to his party and took up his post at the foot of the V.
Scarcely had he done so when the A.P. appeared upon the scene. He had
brought with him a few friends--a couple of subs, two or three senior
snotties and the Captain's secretary, a brace of stewards with the
luncheon baskets, and the cutter's crew, who carried between them two
large trellis-work screens which the carpenter had knocked up for him.
He passed the time of day with the gunner, marched fifty yards further
down towards the starting-point and had his screens deposited in the
middle of the road, in such a way that several could enter one end of
the enclosure they formed, but only one at a time could go out at the
other; this, he explained, would enable the men to pass the winning-post
in single file. He then lit a cigarette and took his stand at the narrow
end, producing from his pocket seven hundred and fifty neat red tickets
(numbered from one to seven hundred and fifty) which the chief writer
had made out for him the night before.
At 8.45 Number One arrived. To help him he had brought a couple of
watch-keepers, a surgeon, three engineers, a naval instructor and the
captain of Marines. He only paused to borrow one side of the gunner's V
and all but forty of the A.P.'s tickets, and passed on down the road.
When he had reached a suitable point about a hundred yards south of the
A.P. he had the purloined rope stretched slantwise, in such a way that
the only means of passing it was a little passage a yard wide between
the rope and the ditch on the right of the road. A little nearer still
to the starting-point he had a large placard erected with the words
"Keep to the Right" painted on it.
Punctually at 9.0 the Commander arrived with a piece of string and the
P.M.O. They took up their stand one on each side of the road opposite
the placard. The Bloke produced a small gold pencil, but, as he had
forgotten to bring any paper, he commandeered the placard and began
feverishly to write down all the numbers he could think of from one to
six hundred and fifty.
You are no doubt anxiously awaiting the arrival of the Owner at 9.15.
Well, I'm afraid I must disappoint you. Still, although he did not come
in person, yet he made his presence felt, as every good skipper should.
At 9.15, as the ship's company were lining up for the start by the
semaphore, he made the signal from the ship:--
"Sailing at 13.30. Return immediately."
* * * * *
SONGS OF SIMLA.
V.--PELITI'S.
I troll you no song that will hinder you long,
I pen you no ponderous treatise,
The theme that I sing is a gossamer thing
As light as the cakes at PELITI'S.
Grey roofs mid the pines and a heaven that shines
As blue as the water where Crete is,
The malachite green of a misty ravine,
That's the balcony view at PELITI'S.
There are mortals, may be, who abominate tea
(One's poison another man's meat is),
Who shy at the touch of a crumpet--for such
There is music and love at PELITI'S.
See that G.S.O.2 with the lady in blue;
Has she noticed where one of his feet is,
Or the issue that hangs on the plate of meringues
Which he buys her each day at PELITI'S?
Here the rulers of Ind, from the Salween to Sind,
Take their ices and wafers (MCVITIE'S)
And elaborate schemes over chocolate creams
At five-o'clock tea at PELITI'S.
And I think, when we die and the wraiths of us fly
To that peace which depends not on treaties,
The joys which we find will but serve to remind
Of the hours that we spent at PELITI'S.
J.M.S.
* * * * *
"Thomas ---- was fined £5 £at £Oswestry yesterday for selling goods
to a German prisoner.
The chairman said defendant had sold goods to the value of 11s,
1-1/2d. Where the German had got that large sum of money from was
quite a mystery."--_Daily Paper_.
It seems pretty evident from the report that there was a good deal of
money about somewhere.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "I'M TOLD SHE'S ALWAYS WRITING TO HER DRESSMAKER ABOUT
NEW FROCKS."
"I SUPPOSE SHE ENCLOSED A STAMPED AND ADDRESSED ENVELOPE FOR THAT ONE."]
* * * * *
A CRUSADER.
One hears sometimes of pure altruists, but on analysing their purity an
alloy is perceptible. Although their work is for others, an element of
personal gratification is present.
Personal gratification or self-indulgence is of course inevitable; as it
can even enter into grief and pain; but now and then it is reduced to a
minimum: as, I hold, in the latest activities for her fellow-creatures
in which my friend Mrs. Delta has embarked.
During the War Mrs. Delta was indefatigable (I am not often sure of
my words, but I use this without a tremor of misgiving) in promoting
charities and collecting money to sustain them. At no time of day was
it safe to meet her, for you had to stand and deliver. There were no
privations due to the War which she was not out to mollify or remove,
and her ingenuity in discovering worthy objects was uncanny.
As, however, War was raging and most people are, underneath, kinder than
not, she escaped very severe criticism and amassed some good round
sums. And, since all her various Funds had committees and meetings and
minutes, Mrs. Delta, although that may have been only the least among
her motives, was the recipient of certain expressions of gratitude.
Organised charity cannot elude votes of thanks.
But that Mrs. Delta likes work for work's sake, apart altogether from
honeyed praises, is now beyond question, for the campaign she has just
inaugurated is unlikely to yield them.
"You must," she said to me yesterday, "give me something for my new
scheme."
"I hope I shall have enough strength of mind not to; but what is it?"
"You have noticed in what a dreadful state so many of the shop windows
in London now are?" she asked.
"The iniquitous prices of the goods?"
"Oh, no; I didn't mean that. I mean the dropped letters. Where they have
glass letters stuck on, you know, and some have gone. Surely you must
have noticed?"
"Yes, of course," I replied; "but I thought the shop-keepers were too
lazy or careless to bother. The War has increased carelessness, you
know."
"No, it isn't that," she said. "The poor fellows are so understaffed and
overworked that they can't find time. My idea is to raise a fund so
that it can be done for them. My heart aches. Only this morning I saw a
barber's with ASH AND RUSH UP on it; and a confectioner's"--she referred
to her notebook--"with ICE REAMS, and an undertaker's with PINKING ONE
ERE."
"What is pinking?" I asked. "I always wanted to know."
"And," she continued, again consulting her book, "a tobacconist's with
BEST OLDEN VIRGIN , and a dentist's with PA LESS EXTRACTION. Something
really must be done. Don't you agree?"
I murmured that there were other abuses that were possibly more in need
of immediate redress, but Mrs. Delta again turned to her book.
"And a dairyman with FAMILIES UP LIE , and a stationer's with LUE LACK
INK. Isn't it distressing?--and so bad for growing children to see so
much slovenliness. And what can foreigners think of us? The Americans,
for instance, who are always so spick and span, and--"
The means of rescue came to me in the shape, of a vast monster on
wheels, bright with yellow and scarlet, thundering over the road.
"That's my bus," I said, and ran.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Father (to troublesome small boy_). "NOW LOOK HERE,
TONY. I SHAN'T WARN YOU AGAIN. THE VERY _NEXT_ TIME YOU MISBEHAVE YOU
GO _STRAIGHT_ UPSTAIRS TO BED."
_Small Sister_. "AND THAT'S _THAT_. ISN'T IT, DADDY?"]
* * * * *
THOSE DRESSES.
_(Being a Midsummer Night's Dream, or thereabouts.)_
More gay than day and plumier
Than Birds of Paradise,
It was no Court Costumier
That made them look so nice;
No milliners nor drapers
On mortal business terms
Of those sweet modes were shapers,
Though several evening papers
Mention the actual firms.
But fairies wove that raiment
Of starshine and of flowers;
They asked no better payment,
They craved no shorter hours;
With eglantine and lilies
They worked a June night long,
And that is just where "Phyllis"
In "Ascot frocks and frillies"
Goes absolutely wrong.
'Neath beech-tree and 'neath cedar,
In rings of moonlit green....
What bilge, you say, good reader?
My very dear old bean,
Think of the state of Prices,
Think of the slump in Trade,
Turn to the Paris Crisis,
Ponder the cost of ices
And buns and gingerade.
New War-loans shriek for money;
All work is at an end;
It seems extremely funny
There's any cash to spend;
Yet still the tide of laces,
The foam of fluff and silk
Comes round in cardboard cases
To lots of people's places
As punctual as the milk.
While, sworn to get revenge in,
And waiting at the door,
That grim three-handed engine
Prepares to strike once more,
Who built these gowns we mutely
Admire on lawn and lea?
Who bought them (think acutely),
With England absolutely
As broke as she can be?
Therefore I say the fabric
Was wrought of faery woof,
Not made in walls of drab brick
Nor won with mortal oof;
Delicate, dream-like, pretty
As sunshine after rain,
Worn by Miss Hodgson ("Kitty")--
It seems a dreadful pity
She spilled the iced champagne.
Therefore I say that, toiling
With wild white roses' bloom--
No printers' vats a-boiling
Nor labour of the loom--
With fern and foxglove chalice
On tiny feet or wings
Titania's elves made sallies,
And that's how Lady Alice
Had on those lovely things.
EVOE.
* * * * *
A HAPPY THOUGHT.
"When the blessing had been pronounced and the bridal pair were
kneeling at the altar Dame Nellie Melba, wearing a blue dress and
hat, crept from the side chapel to the choir and to the joy of the
audience sang the pathetic 'Ave Maria' that Desdemona sings in the
last act of Verdi's _Othello_ when she feels her predestined doom
approaching."--"_Evening Standard" on a Society wedding_.
* * * * *
"Mr. Bottomley objects to By Jingo."
_Daily Paper_.
Yet in one or another of his "powerful" articles we seem to have seen
something like "Damn the Kaiser" and "To Hell with Hindenburg."
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE PHILANDERER.
SINN FEIN. "BE MINE."
PRESIDENT WILSON. "I DO HOPE I HAVEN'T GIVEN YOU TOO MUCH
ENCOURAGEMENT--BUT I CAN NEVER BE MORE THAN A BROTHER TO YOU."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _First Australian_. "'OO's YER SWELL PAL,
DIGGER?"
_Second Ditto_. "I DUNNO HIS NAME, BUT I REMEMBER HIS FACE. I GIVE HIM A
BIT OF BACON JUST OUTSIDE ST. QUENTIN."]
* * * * *
WHY DRAG IN MRS. SIDDONS?
DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Nothing annoys me more than the assumption that
wit, learning, fancy, etc., were the monopoly of the past. For
example, a correspondent of one of our leading dailies has
been trotting out Mrs. SIDDONS' use of blank verse in familiar
conversation, and quoting from LOCKHART:--
"John Kemble's most familiar table-talk often flowed into blank
verse; and so indeed did his sister's [Mrs. Siddons']. Scott (who
was a capital mimic) often repeated her tragic exclamation to a
foot-boy during a dinner at Ashestiel--
'You 've brought me water, boy,--I asked for beer!'
Another time, dining with a Provost of Edinburgh, she ejaculated, in
answer to her host's apology for his _pièce de résistance_--
'Beef cannot be too salt for me, my lord.'"
This is all very well, but just as good blank verse is commonly used by
eminent men and women to-day; indeed some of them excel in impromptu
rhymes. Thus in Mr. HAROLD WESTMORELAND'S interesting volume,
_Eavesdroppings_, there is this charming story of the first meeting
of Madame CLARA BUTT and Miss CARRIE TUBB. They were introduced at a
garden-party at Fulham, and Mr. WESTMORELAND overheard the memorable
quatrain in which Madame CLARA BUTT greeted her sister-artist:--
"In our names we 're alike
But in minstrelsy--ah no!
For I'm a contralto
And you're a soprano."
To the same veracious chronicler I am indebted for a specimen of the
impromptus which Lord READING frequently throws off, to the delight of
his friends. Mr. WESTMORELAND was having a pair of boots tried on at
a famous Jermyn Street bootmaker's when Lord BEADING was undergoing a
similar ordeal, and electrified the courteous assistant by observing:--
"The right-foot boot to me seems rather tight;
The left, _per contra_, feels exactly right."
But perhaps the finest exponent of the art is a famous General, whose
_obiter dicta_ in verse are innumerable. I have only space to quote one,
spoken to a soldier with whom he had shaken hands:--
"You are the proudest man in France,
Or at any rate in Flanders,
For you've shaken hands, in a great advance,
With the greatest of Corps Commanders."
Surely in the light of these examples, which might be indefinitely
multiplied, there is no need for the present to fear comparison with the
past in the sphere of conversational verse?
I am, dear Mr. Punch,
Yours faithfully,
NOSTRI TEMPORIS LAUDATOR.
* * * * *
CULTURE IN THE STY.
"Yorkshire Pork Pies, possessing character and individuality, 5 lb.
Price, 15s.--_Daily Express_.
* * * * *
"COLUMBUS OF THE AIR.
Captain Alcock's Story of his Great Atlantic Flight."--_Dublin
Evening Telegraph_.
Would not Vimy-bus be better?
* * * * *
Slough Verdict: _Dulce est de-Cippenham in loco_.
* * * * *
AT THE PLAY.
"THE CINDERELLA MAN."
The importation of theatrical sweet-stuff from America is of course a
growing industry. The latest consignment, _The Cinderella Man_, first
arrived in this country in the form of a novel, and the difficulty it
offered was that the struggling hero, _Anthony Quintard_, whose fate
depended, in the absence of common-sense, on his winning a ten thousand
dollar prize for an opera libretto, seemed to me, from samples of his
work exhibited, to be an unlikely competitor. But I must say that when
at the play I saw our Mr. NARES in his garret sucking at his pipe in
that masterful manner and modifying what might so easily have been a too
sticky situation with a charmingly light touch, I began to think better
of _Anthony's_ chances and therefore necessarily of Mr. EDWARD CHILDS
CARPENTER'S general idea. For the author obviously may claim the credit
of this reading, even if I harbour an obstinate private suspicion that
it was only by a very deliberate and steadfast determination on the
part of Mr. NARES as hero and Mr. HOLMAN CLARK as matchmaker that this
particular reading prevailed.
Mr. CARPENTER doesn't believe in mystifications. He explains everything
with the completest candour in his first Act, from which you gather that
a millionaire's daughter, returning from Paris to the immense stuffy New
York mansion, is desperately lonely, and has also cut herself free from
an unsatisfactory affair of the heart; that a young poet, a friend
of the millionaire's sentimental lawyer, is also lonely, living like
_Cinderella_ (isn't this wrong?) in an attic next-door, proud as poor;
that another friend of the millionaire has offered a prize for a
libretto. Having thus put the rabbit, the bird-cage and the flowerpot
into the hat in front of you he proceeds in a leisurely manner to take
them out again.
The young millionairess, posing as a poor "companion," visits the
starveling poet _viâ_ the snow-covered roof and the attic window,
bringing food, stoves, coverlets, wool to mend his socks and ideas to
mend his opera. Naturally here were opportunities of unlimited business,
during which _Marjorie_ (Miss RENÉE KELLY) looked perfectly sweet, as I
heard more than one ardent young lady declare to approving lieutenants.
Miss KELLY has indeed all the air of a heroine of honeyed romance. In
particular she played one episode, the trying over of a new song, in
a winningly natural manner. I found the way in which she flapped her
eyelids a subject of puzzled study. I have not observed that maidens in
real life indulge in these calisthenics. This is perhaps as well; they
are evidently very deadly. Within a fortnight of their being brought
into action poet _Quintard_ is in the _Kamerad_ stage. Not _Anne
Whitfield_ herself exhibits more explicitly the urgency of the life
force, the will to wed.
Mr. OWEN NARES, who has a following more than sufficient to justify his
recent assumption of management, gave a very attractive and indeed,
within the limits imposed by the piece, a distinguished performance
as the proud and hungry poet. An extreme naturalness of pose and
intonation, without over-stresses or affectations, characterised this
agreeable study. Mr. HOLMAN CLARK, that finished actor in the bland
manner, very adroitly, as I have hinted, settled the mood of the piece
and made the good appear the better line and the ordinary line good. Mr.
SYDNEY VALENTINE had a Valentine part ready made. It would take more
than an indisposition, which he pluckily ignored, to put him off his
stroke. Mr. TOM REYNOLDS was effective as a maudlin serving-man who
had once butled a real gentleman and could never forget it. Miss ANNIE
ESMOND gave a depressingly clever rendering of a quite unbelievably
appalling landlady.
[Illustration: A Fairy Godmother (Miss RENÉE KELLY) reduced to tears by
the unsusceptibility of her Godchild (MR. OWEN NARES).]
Altogether a pleasant wholesome evening's entertainment. Young men and
maidens of our day needn't hesitate to take their parents.
"ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGONS."
There is much more of the substance of wit and truth in Mr. EDEN
PHILLPOTTS' "Devon comedy" at the Kingsway. The _St. George_ of the
title is not the Cappadocian, but that somewhat irreverent Father in
God, _St. George Loftus_, Bishop of Exeter; the dragons are two quite
unsuitable suitors for the hands of _Monica_ and _Eva_ (daughters of
his dull old friend, _Lord Sampford_), who don't believe in class
distinctions. _Monica's_ young man is the son of a yeoman farmer,
personable, certainly, on horseback and of a blood older than the
_Sampfords'_, but an essential resilient, and altogether impossible when
playing the concertina or after mixing his drinks (or both). _Eva's_
follower is a brilliant raw young man from Glasgow, recently ordained,
with professional ambitions as pronounced as his accent.
The parents try the now exploded method of direct opposition. _St.
George's_ weapons are smooth words and a heart chokefull of guile. Does
his god-daughter _Monica_ want to elope with her yeoman? By all means
let love have his sacred way. But his lordship will contrive in the
_rôle_ of a strayed and bogged fisherman to be at Stonelands Farm before
the young couple arrive _en route_ for London and the registry-office,
and he will see to it that _Monica_ learns what the daily life of a
working farmer is like, and what the beer (or bad champagne for festal
occasions) and rabbit pie in the kitchen; with sudden frank explanations
as to the imminence of the crisis in the interesting condition of
_Snowdrop_ the Alderney; what, too, is the Stonelands' notion of music
and the dance, with Teddy's braying concertina and cousin Unity's
quavering treble and the ragged bass and candid speech of old _Caunter_,
the head man.... So much for _Monica_.
And _Eva_ thinks she wants to tie herself to this crude Glaswegian.
Well, here it will be best to insinuate to the young man how unfortunate
it is that the vacant chaplaincy to the Bishop of Exeter is designed
for a celibate, and to the young woman that to marry so brilliant (and
ingenuous) a youth is to hang a millstone round his neck. For, after
all, muses the prelate, revealing dreadful depths of low cunning and
perfidy, it's easier to change a chaplain than a husband.
A thoroughly amusing affair. Of course Mr. PHILLPOTTS shirks his
problem, _Teddy Copplestone_ need not have been a bounder (the odds
indeed were against it), nor need his cigars, his champagne or his music
have been so bad. But then we should have missed a diverting piece of
fun and have been saddled with a solemn problem-play unsuited to the
(alleged) gaiety of the hour.
The general level of the playing was high, and, after a somewhat nervous
opening (and perhaps just a few affectations of the fourth-wall school),
the piece swung into a pleasant rhythm.
Mr. ERNEST THESIGER interprets with consummate ability Mr. PHILLPOTTS'
amusing and original creation, this puss-in-gaiters Machiavelli, _St.
George Exon_. Miss LILLAH MCCARTHY (_Monica_), in the familiar _rôle_ of
beauty in revolt, had an easy task, which she fulfilled very agreeably.
Miss ALBANESI (_Eva_) put brains and fire and (not at all a negligible
gift of the gods) precise enunciation into her work. Mr. FEWLASS
LLEWELLYN and Miss MARY BROUGH were quite delightful as old
_Copplestone_ and his wife. Mr. CLAUDE KING as _Teddy Copplestone_ had
perhaps the most difficult task, a part that by no means played itself,
but needed a sustained skill, duly forthcoming. But I think the
performance that pleased me most was that of Miss EVELYN WALSH HALL, a
name new to me, in the small part of _Unity Copplestone_, played with a
directness and sincerity which was quite distinguished.
Let me add that the flapping of eyelids (to which I have referred in my
remarks on _The Cinderella Man_) is here also a feature. One member
of the cast (of my own sex, too) gave a display of virtuosity in this
_genre_ which was technically superb.
Two insignificant details of management caused me some amusement.
The solemn clang of a gong presaging doom as dire as OEDIPUS'S (and
incidentally inaudible to cigarette smokers in the foyer) gives notice
of the resumption of the play, while at the end of the Acts the curtain
flutters up and down at a feverish pace as if the idea was to get in as
many "calls" as possible before the applause stops. Are we as guileless
as all that, I wonder? And, anyway, no such manoeuvre was necessary. The
applause was hearty, the laughter spontaneous, and anybody who cares for
plays made and played with brains should go and see this engaging piece.
T.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Taxi-driver._ "WHERE ARE WE ALL OFF TO?"]
* * * * *
THE SPREAD OF DEMOCRACY.
"The Earl of Loudoun, whose English seat it is, possesses eight
jeerages."--_Field_.
* * * * *
ANOTHER IMPENDING APOLOGY.