Book: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156, Feb. 12, 1919
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156, Feb. 12, 1919
.... Much interest was aroused last evening by the production of a new
musical show, both the book and music of which have been written by
natives of this country. A strong protest has been lodged by the
United States Embassy.
.... A passenger on one of the Tube railways alleges that he entered a
train at Oxford Circus Station last evening. No confirmation is as yet
forthcoming, and the rumour must be treated with reserve.
.... The Peace Conference held a sitting yesterday and definitely
decided that the ex-Kaiser should be tried one of these days. It is
confidently stated in the inner circles of Paris that peace will
inevitably be concluded within the next ten or twelve years.
.... Dancing still holds its own as the principal amusement of the
bulk of the population. The latest dance, the Guzz-Jinx, which is
danced on the hands with the right foot placed in the mouth of one's
partner, is stated to be very graceful indeed. The correct music is
provided by a band performing entirely on hair-combs and tea-trays.
.... A reduction is promised in the price of tobacco shortly. An ounce
recently changed hands at a well-known Piccadilly shop at two hundred
and seven pounds, but the new season's prices are not expected to be
much above one hundred and fifty pounds.
A man was charged at Bow Street yesterday with endeavouring to ride
in a motor-bus on Tuesday, the 12th of the month, when his permit was
only for Thursday, the 15th of each month. He was severely cautioned
and ordered to get a new calendar.
* * * * *
[Illustration: BEFORE THE COMBAT.
_Excited Duellist._ "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
_Nervous Opponent._ "I'M PUTTING MAGIC DROPS ON MY SWORD, WHICH WILL
MAKE IT IRRESISTIBLE."
_Excited Duellist._ "BUT THAT'S NOT FAIR TO ME."
_Nervous Opponent (relieved)._ "ALL RIGHT, YOU CAN HAVE SOME AND WE'LL
CALL IT A DRAW."]
* * * * *
A VALENTINE.
Dear Lydia, long before your time,
When I was half the 'teen you own to,
Don Valentine was in his prime,
The world not yet the thing it's grown to.
The postman then with double knocks
This morning many a heart was thrilling,
And brought a shining cardboard box
With round red hearts in paper frilling.
A simpler world, and well content
With what seems small by modern measure;
And winters came and roses went,
Yet Time dulls pain as well as pleasure.
Though, with this fashion out of date,
His hand to-day weighs almost lightly
If this my war-time chocolate
Makes two dark eyes to shine more brightly.
* * * * *
HINTS FOR THE GARDEN.
To those who are about to re-establish their herbaceous borders it
will come as a welcome surprise that restrictions as to the sale of
the following foodstuffs by nurserymen have now been withdrawn:--
Stucky's _Germania_ (Lamb's Ear).
_Scolopendrium_ (Hart's Tongue).
No coupons will be required for these in future.
_Fatsia Horrida._--This is no longer grown by nurserymen, but can be
obtained at any butcher's, large quantities having recently arrived
from Greece. Smith minor, possibly a prejudiced witness, says he gets
it at school; that it is beastly and only another name for Cod Liver
Oil.
_Sambucus_ (the Elder).--A correspondent inquires if anything is
known of the younger branch of this family. On being appealed to
the Secretary of the Linnaean Society sent the following somewhat
enigmatic telegram: "Recommend CLEMENCEAU non-Papa, who may know
something of Uncle Sam."
_Hydrangea._--This hardy shrub is so called as it was originally
raised by the Ranger of Hyde Park. The American variety "radiata"
succeeds well indoors if grown on hot-water pipes.
_Pirus._--There are several varieties of this species. The best known,
however, comes from Cornwall and was raised by the late Sir W.S.
GILBERT, who introduced the Savoy cabbage. It is called the _Pirus of
Penzance_.
* * * * *
DANCING DEMOBILISED.
[It is said that demobilised officers, anxious to dance, are
finding it almost impossible to buy dress-shirts and evening
pumps.]
Now that I've been demobilised
I'm going again to dances--
I do not care with whom or where,
I'm taking any chances.
And evening dress, I've been advised,
Will never become transitional;
Yet once or twice I've been surprised
To find my khaki pals disguised
In new dress suits and old trench boots,
Which scarcely seems traditional.
I met my Colonel at a hop
Jazzing in his goloshes,
With a dress-tie pert on a cricket-shirt
That had shrunk in various washes;
And my Major was doing the Donkey-Drop
Between a couple of rippers--
Yet his pink-and-white pyjama-top
If anything seemed a shade _de trop_,
And his faultless coat hardly echoed the note
Of his worsted bedroom slippers.
But the world long since went off its chump,
And the cry of the man from France is,
"I simply refuse to let shirts and shoes
Prevent me from going to dances.
I'll take the shine out of collar and pump,
And their wearers _will_ look silly
When I once begin the Giraffe-Galump,
The Chicken-Run and the Jaguar-Jump,
The Wombat-Walk and the Buffalo-Bump,
With a chamois vest on my manly chest,
And football-boots and the smartest of suits
They can cut in Piccadilly."
* * * * *
THE GRAND TRUNK LINE.
"The following are some alternative routes which could be used by
people going home this evening from the City or West End:--
"Clapham Common.--By Elephant, trams and 'buses."--_Evening News_.
LOCAL COLOUR.
I ran upstairs after lunch to-day to see old Harris. He has the
flat over mine, you know. In addition to this Harris is an author.
Sometimes he even gets money for it.
"Doin' a bit of work to-day, Harris?" I remarked casually.
"I'm doing a little flying story," he informed me with dignity.
"Oh, yes," I agreed carelessly, then woke up and stared hard.
"Flying?" I repeated. "But what the--I mean, what do you know about
flying, anyway?"
Brutality is the only thing with Harris. He was very hurt. He gasped
and glared at me in a most annoyed manner.
"I know a pretty good lot," he announced with some asperity. "I've
talked to dozens of pilots about it and I've read books on flying--and
the newspapers--"
"And don't forget you once passed Hendon in the train too, old son,"
I soothed him. "I'd no idea you were so well up in it. Sorry I spoke.
Let's see it; may I?"
Harris picked up a couple of sheets of paper from the desk and,
coughing imposingly, proceeded to read out his masterpiece:--
"Lionel Marchant came slowly out of the hangar, drawing on his long
fur gloves and studying his maps with an intent and keen face.
"His machine, a single-seater scout of the latest type, was just being
wheeled out and now stood glistening in the bright autumn sunshine,
which danced on the shining brasswork and threw deep shadows on the
grass beneath.
"The airman swung lightly into his seat; a final word or two with his
commanding officer and he flung over the levers and gave a sharp turn
to the starting handle.
"The powerful engine in front of him woke into life deafeningly and,
waving away the mechanics holding the wings, he pressed the clutch
pedal and moved slowly forward.
"His face is very grim and determined--he throws across another lever
and the low hum of the motor changes into a deep-throated roar.
Gathering speed, he goes faster and faster--now he is in the air--now
a little speck in the sky, heading for the enemy's lines--"
"Oh, no, please," I broke in feebly. "I can't stand any more just now.
You're not seriously thinking of having this published, are you?"
As in a dream I took the manuscript from his fingers and gazed blankly
at it whilst his indignant flow of speech passed harmlessly over my
head.
"But, Harris," I said at length, with infinite compassion in my voice,
"Harris, I love you as a brother, but this really is awful--why--well,
listen here"--
"'As the second German machine came down on them in a steep dive
Lionel gave a hasty glance behind him, where the huge engine raced
madly, and shouted excitedly to his observer.
"'The latter, swinging the machine gun round sharply, took rapid aim
and pressed the trigger--'"
I stopped.
"Well?" demanded the author icily.
"No, it's too frightful," I bleated. "Harris, this _might_ conceivably
be read by a real pilot. Heaven forbid, of course! And he'd simply
hate this scout 'bus with the engine ahead to change into a 'pusher'
two-seater in six paragraphs."
Harris was routed, absolutely demoralised. "They told me to put in
lots of flying talk," he murmured abjectly, "and tons of local colour
to make it lifelike."
"Yes," I said grimly, "but this colour's too local for words."
"Of course, if you think you could do it better yourself," Harris
observed with heavy sarcasm, "well, then--"
"Certainly," I agreed heartily. "I don't mind showing _you_, Harris,
seeing you're a pal of mine. Just pass the ink and let your uncle get
to work."
Behold my effort!--
"'Orderly, what about tea?'
"'Very nearly ready, Sir.'
"'Right. Then I think a small piece of toast is indicated;' and he
proceeded to hack the loaf to pieces with great vigour.
"'Hun over somewhere, sounds like,' said a sleepy voice as the throb
of an engine was heard overhead.
"'Oh, I can't help his troubles,' observed the toast-maker airily.
'He's got no right to come at tea-time. In about half-an-hour or so I
might think about--'
"Here the telephone bell rang.
"'Now that's a splendid joke,' said his unfeeling friend as he laid
down the receiver. 'You've got to go up after that chap. They're
getting your 'bus out now, so--'
"'What!' came in disgusted tones from the fireside. 'Don't be so dam
funny. What do you mean?'
"'Not ragging, really, Bill. The C.O. said he wanted you to have a
shot at that fellow. Run like a hare. You may catch him up over Berlin
somewhere. I'll eat your toast for you.'
"'Oh, will you?' grunted the other. 'What awful rot it is! Oh, the
devil--where's my hat?' and out he plunged.
"Two minutes later he was struggling into a heavy leather coat and,
feeling thoroughly ill-used, climbed into his machine.
"The propeller was swung, emitting one hollow cough.
"'Switch off. All right, contact.'
"At the third attempt the engine remembered its manners and started up
with a jerk. A few moments to get her running smoothly, a rapid test
to see that she was 'giving her revs.' and the chocks, were waved away
from the wheels.
"Within twenty yards he was off the ground and, throttle wide open,
climbing towards the little white dot thousands of feet above.
"And all the time he was grumbling.
"'What awful rot it is! I've about as much chance of reaching the
blighter as ... Running my engine to bits as it is ... May be able to
cut him off when he's dropped his eggs.'
"Which is precisely what happened. The last gift had been thankfully
received in a ploughed field beneath and the Hun was turning for home
when the scout struggled to his level.
"The watchers on the ground saw the small machine press determinedly
towards the bigger and a faint crackle of gun-fire broke out.
"It was answered by all the guns on board the enemy craft and the
single-seater wavered undecidedly.
"Then he got his adversary fairly in his ring sight again and' risking
everything, fired burst after burst.
"All at once the big machine heeled over and dived--a flash and a
sudden sheet of flame from the engine and down dropped the raider, to
dash to pieces in the French fields three miles below.
"Ten minutes later the British machine slithered on to the ground and
switched off in front of the sheds.
"'By Jove, Bill,' said his friend, rushing up excitedly, 'that was the
best show--'
"'Not so much of it,' interposed the 'hero,' scrambling out of his
seat. 'What about my tea? Did you look after my toast for me? No,
might have known you wouldn't.'"
* * * * *
WHAT OUR POETS HAVE TO PUT UP WITH.
"They who faced the terrors of the deep, Who guarded our
snores-while we were asleep."
_Scottish Paper_.
* * * * *
"Though his career was entirely that of a public servant, he had
personality and that self-evident efficiency which mark a man out
for promotion."--_Times_.
That "though" is rather cynical.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "I SAY, TAXI, I'VE ONLY GOT ENOUGH CHANGE TO PAY THE
EXACT FARE. D'YOU MIND TAKING A CHEQUE FOR THE TIP?"]
* * * * *
RECIPROCITY.
[Discussing the unruliness of modern children, a correspondent
in the Press suggests that parents might exchange offspring for
educational purposes.]
Hector, one thought alone forbade
Your stout progenitor to squirm
Through all the months the Huns essayed
To pink his epiderm--
The thought that you, through what he'd done,
Might find a better world, my son.
Now must you do your bit for me,
For, guided by the sage's lore,
I mean to barter progeny
With Brown, the man next door,
And educate in place of you
Bertram, his brazen-lunged Yahoo.
Too long, too long have I been banned
From giving what he's been denied,
The checkings of a chiding hand,
Impartially applied,
But now he's going to get it, Hec
(Though not exactly in the neck).
Exile from your ancestral hut
At first may fill your soul with pain;
If so, this filial thought should cut
Your tears off at the main:
The hours he spends across my knee
Will mean a better world for me.
* * * * *
IT HAPPENED IN IRELAND.
"Mr. ---- held that purchased meat would be better than that
supplied by contractors, who were not saints. He knew of one
case where cattle were actually killed after they died."--_Irish
Times_.
"The following has been issued by the Sinn Fein Executive:--
"At the weekly meeting of the Executive it was unanimously
decided to appeal to the subscribers to the Mansion House
Anti-Subscription Fund."--_Irish Times_.
* * * * *
"This enabled him [Mr. Bottomley] to provide a sum sufficient to
yap the other shareholders 12. in the pound."--_Evening Paper_.
We always thought him a bit of a dog.
* * * * *
THE BLANKET ASTRAY.
Now that most of us are on the point of escaping into civil life, the
relentless department to whom the W.O. entrusted the stewardship of
Army blankets is calling us to strict account as to our dealings with
these articles.
Between us and freedom rise the accusing phantoms of blankets we
signed for and failed to return, blankets we misused as carpets,
curtains and table-cloths. The bright dawn of the new era is overcast
by their threatening shadow.
The A.A.L.R.B.G.S.--Acting-Assistant Local Recorder of Blankets
General Service, a very important Hat indeed--some time last winter
paid us a visit and went away without complaint. We had specialised
in cherishing Blankets G.S. For fear of loss or damage none had been
issued for use, and the enthusiasm of all ranks was so warm that the
men were glad to sleep without them, if only they might go and see
for themselves the full tally of blankets folded correctly to a
hair's-breadth and piled irreproachably and unapproachably in the
stores.
Then, three days ago, arrived a chit asking us to explain a curt
quotation from the report of the A.A.L.R.B.G.S., to the effect that
"_There was a blanket on the table
in the store_."
By a civilian this might be interpreted as a word of praise for our
care of the table or for the comfortable _tout ensemble_ of the
Quartermaster-Sergeant's treasure-house; but we know better. We read
it with the sensations of a householder who, after the call of a
Scotland Yard official, should be invited to explain, in an otherwise
satisfactory account of his visit, the sentence--
"_There was a corpse in the boot
cupboard_."
It suggested criticism, suspicion, disapproval. In his dilemma the
O.C. replied as follows:--
"Owing to the fact that, in view of the paper scarcity, the keeping
of Individual History Sheets for the Blankets under my command was
discontinued early in the War, I have found it difficult to collect
evidence. I beg, however, to submit the likeliest explanations that
offer.
"(1) Possibly the blanket was placed on the table, folded and
compressed beneath the weight of the various utensils, literature and
stationery necessary to the functioning of a B.Q.M.S., in order
that the correct regimental wrinkles, as laid down in the various
handbooks, might be made and maintained; the blanket to be used as a
model at lectures to young soldiers on the care of equipment.
"(2) The distance between the Main Blanket Dump and the table under
suspicion is only four feet. It is in the experience of all familiar
with conditions in the Field that blankets with long service
frequently develop extreme activity. I beg to suggest that the blanket
in question may have absented itself without leave from the main dump
and proceeded as far as the table by its own locomotive power.
"(3) About the date of the inspection the name of an N.C.O. was
submitted with a recommendation for the O.B.E., but was withdrawn on
compassionate grounds. I cannot trust my memory, but possibly the
justification of this recommendation was the N.C.O.'s zealous care of
the property of H.M. THE KING, in that he sacrificed his own blanket
for the welfare of the table." (On paper, of course, our blankets are
issued in the normal way.) "The weather at the time was inclement,
either (_a_) wet and dirty or (_b_) extremely cold. The N.C.O. was
determined that this table should be protected from the deleterious
effects of (_a_) moisture likely to result from the vicinity of the
Q.M.S., damp from out-door duties or (_b_) very low temperature, which
is known to injure such articles of furniture.
"(4) The blanket may have been known to be likely to try to escape
from custody, and have been placed conspicuously on the table so as to
be directly under the observation of the Q.M.S.
"(5) The table may have intended illegally to absent itself without
leave, and have concealed itself beneath the accused blanket in the
hope of eluding the vigilance of the sentries, disguised as a civilian
table, i.e. covered with a table-cloth. This theory is unlikely, the
table bearing an excellent character and never having been known to
attempt desertion or be in any way guilty of conduct contrary to good
order and military discipline.
"(6) The Storeman--now demobilised and dispersed--may have committed
the irregularity suggested, with the idea of increasing the amenity
of the stores during the inspection, as a humble compliment to the
A.A.L.R.B.G.S.
"(7) No. 55,442, Procter, Mary, a member of the Q.M.A.A.C., may be
correct in her statement that the article described as a 'blanket' was
not a blanket, but a rug, travelling. She says she is 'in a position
to know this,' as the article is her own property, and supports the
claim by demonstrating the presence of her initials embroidered across
one corner.
"I await your reply." And so we all do.
* * * * *
VICTRIX.
Here's a lady come to town
Puts us all to shame;
Walking in with noiseless feet,
Very light and very fleet,
Over-night she came.
Not a beauty in the land,
Though she knew no peer
Both for comeliness and grace,
But must take a second place--
The snow is here.
Never monarch wore, I swear,
Such a radiant dress;
All the whitenesses we prize
Suddenly before our eyes
Turn to dinginess.
Gone are all the shining joys
That we held so dear;
Linens, marbles, gleaming plumes
We must hide in shadowed glooms--
The snow is here.
Veil your brows, you pretty maids,
With your falling curls;
Should you venture forth to-day
Tuck your milky throats away,
Cover up your pearls.
Naught shall match your loveliness
Later in the year
(Who so foolish as to dare
Say the lily is more fair?)
But--the snow is here.
R. F.
* * * * *
A MASTER OF GROTESQUE.
The Leicester Galleries for laughter just now! For the walls of the
inner room are hung with drawings by Mr. H.M. BATEMAN, not a few of
which--such as "The Leave Wangler," and "The Man who Clung to the
Railings," and "The Infectious Hornpipe"--have already rejoiced the
readers of _Punch_.
Mr. BATEMAN'S appeal is double, for, having enjoyed his broad or
subtle farce and his keen satirical observations, one may turn to the
admiration of his technique, or _vice versa*_. He did not invent the
idea of the humorous sequence--the accumulative pictorial comedy;
CARAN D'ACHE had come before, and before CARAN D'ACHE was WILHELM
BUSCH, the German; but he has made it his own to-day. Some of his
series are irresistible. As a delineator of types, accurate beneath
the caricature, he is deadly; particularly, perhaps, when he turns his
attention to the Senior Service. But his Brigadiers and his Clubmen
are also always within an ace of being identifiable.
For anyone in the dumps Mr. Punch prescribes a speedy visit to the
Leicester Galleries.
* * * * *
OUR PLUTOCRATIC CLERGY.
"Curate wanted. L22. 2 churches. E.P."
_Church Times_.
[Illustration: _Mabel (to newly-married sister)._ "YOU DON'T MIND ME
STILL CALLING YOU 'SYBIL,' DO YOU?"]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
_(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)_
MR. JOHN GALSWORTHY is a most deceptive writer. He lures a reader on
by a display of gentleness and smoothness and moderation, and then
turns on him and makes it plain that he is really a most provocative
fellow and is engaged in matching his mind against yours. He tries
to commit you to some such statement as this: "The allegiance of the
workman in time of peace is not rendered to the State, but to himself
and his own class." Or this: "I think editors, journalists, old
gentlemen and women will be brutalised [by the War] in larger numbers
than our soldiers." Or this: "This is at once a spiritual link with
America and yet one of the great barriers to friendship between
the two peoples. We are not sure whether we are better men than
Americans." Or this: "My mind is open, and when one says that, one
generally means that it is shut." Disconcerting, very, and all to be
found in _Another Sheaf_ (HEINEMANN). Mr. GALSWORTHY'S chief object in
his little book is to arouse us to the disgrace and destruction of our
State and race if we continue to allow ourselves to be fed, not by our
own resources, but by alien corn and meat, which may so easily become
hostile corn and meat. Incidentally Mr. GALSWORTHY finds that we are
in the mass far too ugly. For instance, how few of us have chiselled
nostrils! We ought not to eat so much pure white flour.
* * * * *
On the second page of _The Secret City_ (MACMILLAN) Mr. HUGH WALPOLE
(or, to be meticulously correct, _Durward_, into whose mouth the story
is put) says that "there is no Russian alive for whom this book can
have any kind of value except as a happy example of the mistakes that
the Englishman can make about the Russian." Well, after finishing the
book, which is in some ways a sequel to _The Dark Forest_, I felt so
very disinclined to believe this statement that I consulted a Russian,
who is very much alive, and received the opinion that, if Mr. WALPOLE
has not succeeded in drawing the real average Russian, he has given us
a type whose faults and virtues sound the keynote of the situation as
it is to-day. Such an opinion is worth a thousand times more than any
judgment of mine, and I am glad of the opportunity to record it. From
a literary point of view it seems to me that Mr. WALPOLE, in allowing
_Durward_ to tell the tale, has created innumerable difficulties for
himself--difficulties which to a great extent have been cleverly
overcome, but which nevertheless make the story wobble dangerously
and once or twice threaten it with devastation. To me, however, the
interest never really flagged, for granted that one has a sympathy
with Russia one feels acutely what Mr. WALPOLE is aiming at and how
wonderfully he succeeds. It is not difficult to find faults: to
complain, for instance, that a strong man like _Semyonov_ would not
have taken such elaborate measures to get himself killed; but these
points are trivial in a book which is not to be read so much for its
story as for its idea. And the idea is great.
* * * * *
_Rollo Johnson_ was incautious enough to be born the natural son of a
peer. This fact caused just sufficient complications to keep MARY L.
PENDERED'S latest story, _The Silent Battlefield_ (CHAPMAN AND HALL),
from any threat of stagnation while she was developing the theme that
really intrigued her. This was the struggle between increasing wealth
and early-acquired Socialism as it arose in the mind of a hero working
his way up from poverty to millionairedom, a seat in the House and the
opportunity of hobnobbing with lords, suffragettes and other notables.
When I say that the two sides of the Socialist case are presented with
rather uncommon fairness you may think that is only because my own
particular creed is upheld; but really and truly I was frowning quite
as much as purring while the silent battle proceeded, and the end is
neutral enough to bring despair to all true believers. Lest you should
suppose the book all made up of election addresses I hasten to add
that, in the quiet and thoughtful way one expects of the author, the
story is a good one, the pictures of a small country town are true to
life, and the characters without exception real creatures of flesh
and blood. Remembering the puppets that so often have been made to
represent their country in a political novel, this is saying more than
a little, and if it is true that, among the ladies of the cast, one
still finds those the most attractive who have no pronounced opinions
to speak or vote about, no doubt this is just old prejudice, and,
anyway, the book is one that can be heartily commended.