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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 156.
JANUARY 8, 1919.
CHARIVARIA.
The mystery of the Foreign Office official who has not gone to Paris
for the Peace Conference has been cleared up. He is the caretaker.
***
"The King and Queen of Roumania," says a Paris paper, "will embark
after Christmas, orthodox style, for Western Europe." It is easy
enough to start a voyage, orthodox style; the difficulty is at the
other end.
***
The supreme command of the German Navy, says a telegram, has been
transferred to Wilhelmshaven. This looks like carelessness on the
part of the watch at Scapa Flow.
***
This year's _Who's Who_ has eighty-six more pages than that of last
year. On the other hand, since the Election quite a number of people
are not Who at all.
***
"The present rule in _Who's Who_," says _The Evening News_, "is that
the more important a man is the less space he is content to occupy."
As some of the staff of our evening Press do not occupy any space at
all in this excellent publication we leave readers to draw their own
conclusions.
***
The _Frankfuerter Zeitung_ observes that the ex-Kaiser has grown very
silent and morose. It is supposed that he has something or other on
his mind.
***
A Copenhagen message states that the Spartacus people have three
times attempted to murder Count REVENTLOW, who is said to regard
these attempts as being in the worst possible taste.
***
Once again the newspapers have been beaten. It appears that Princess
PATRICIA knew of her engagement some time before the Press announced
it to Her Royal Highness.
***
"We still believe," says the _Koelnische Zeitung_, "that in thought the
German and the Britisher are racially akin." All the same we should
not encourage the Hun to come over here with the idea of making a
spiritual home among his alleged relatives.
***
Charged with drunkenness at the Thames Police Court a man attributed
his condition to the beer habit. It is remarkable how men will cling
to any sort of excuse.
***
Woolwich Arsenal, we are informed, is turning out milk-cans. Can
nothing be done, asks a pacifist, to save our children from the
insidious grip of militarism?
***
Nottinghamshire War Committee states that rat-catchers are now
demanding four pounds a week. Diplomacy, it appears, is the only
branch of British sport that has succeeded in escaping the taint of
professionalism.
***
"Fractious mules," says a correspondent of _The Daily Mail_, "should
not be sent to the country for sale." The playful kind, on the other
hand, that bite and kick from sheer _joie de vivre_, are bound to have
a beneficial effect on the agricultural temperament.
***
A Guildford allotment-holder successfully grew new potatoes for
Christmas-day dinner. All were eaten, it appears, except one, which
was kept to show to the Christmas pudding.
***
There is no truth in the report that Mr. DANIELS, U.S. Secretary for
the Navy, has received a telegram from Mr. WILLIAM RANDOLPH HEARST,
saying, "You furnish the navy and I'll furnish the war."
***
"The Crystal Palace," says. Dean INGE, "is the embodiment of spiritual
emptiness." A determined attempt is to be made to find out what the
Crystal Palace thinks of Dean INGE.
***
Stories of an unsuccessful Candidate in the Midlands, who was heard to
admit that the voters probably preferred his opponent's personality,
must be definitely regarded as apocryphal.
***
Traditions in Scotland die hard. We gather that it is stili considered
unlucky for a red-headed burglar to cross a Scottish threshold on New
Year's Eve.
***
A man at Berne has recently confessed to a murder he committed
twenty-one years ago. This is what comes of memory-training.
***
It is reported that TROTSKY has been ordered by his doctor to take
a complete rest. He has therefore decided not to have any more
revolutions for the present. Orders however will be executed in
rotation.
***
Credit where credit is due. A woman fined at Wood Green Police Court
said her name was JOLLY and she had been having a "jollification," yet
the magistrate refrained from comment.
***
"Where was the Poet Laureate during the visit of President Wilson?"
asks a correspondent in a contemporary. We do not share this
curiosity.
***
"Foxes are to be found within an omnibus ride of Charing Cross," says
Mr. RICHARD KEARTON. Young omnibuses with plenty of bone and stamina
are the best for suburban meets.
***
Anemones, said a lecturer at the Royal Institution, will live as long
as sixty years in captivity and are very intelligent. Nevertheless we
refuse to swallow the story about their being taught to jump through a
hoop. The man who told it must have been thinking of an Egyptian king
of the same name.
***
The LORD-LIEUTENANT, it is stated on good authority, threatens that
if Sinn Fein prisoners destroy any more jails they will be rigorously
released.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _The Fare_. "I DEFY YOU!"
_The Driver_. "WHO ARE YOU?"
_The Fare_. "I AM A RETIRED TAXI-DRIVER."]
* * * * *
"Sir Eric Geddes speaks of L50,000,000,000--a sum so vast that it
could not be paid off in a century of annual payments so small as
L2,000,000,000 each."--_Yorkshire Paper_.
Our contemporary overestimates the difficulty.
* * * * *
THE VERDICT OF DEMOCRACY.
The nation's memory, then, is not so short;
It still recalls the fields we lately bled on;
And when it had to choose the likeliest sort
For clearing up the mess of Armageddon
And making all things new,
It chose the man whose courage saw it through.
Hun-lovers, pledged to Peace (the German kind),
And such as sported LENIN'S sanguine token,
Appealed to Liberty to speak her mind,
And Liberty has very frankly spoken,
Strewing around her polls
The remnants of their ungummed aureoles.
In Amerongen there is grief to-day;
I seem to hear the martyr of Potsdam say,
"Alas for SNOWDEN, gone the downward way,
And O my poor, my poor beloved RAMSAY;
I much regret the rout
That washed this couple absolutely out!"
Dreadfully, too, the heart of TROTSKY bleeds,
To match the stain upon his reeking sabre,
Which is the blood of Russia, when he reads
How BARNES, the champion knight of loyal Labour,
Downed in the Lowland lists
MACLEAN, the Red Hope of the Bolshevists.
But here is jubilation in the air
And matter made to build the jocund rhyme on,
Though in our joyance some may fail to share,
Like Mr. RUNCIMAN or Major SIMON,
That hardened warrior, he
Who won the Military O.B.E.
Already dawns for us a golden age
(Lo! with the loud "All Clear!" our paean mingles),
An era when the OUTHWAITES cease to rage
And there is respite from the prancing PRINGLES,
And absence puts a curb
On the reluctant lips of SAMUEL (HERB.).
O.S.
* * * * *
HOW TO THROW OFF AN ARTICLE.
"Do you really write?" said Sylvia, gazing at me large-eyed with
wonder. I admitted as much.
"And do they print it just as you write it?"
"Well, their hired grammarians make a few trifling alterations to
justify their existence."
"And do they pay you quite a lot?"
"Sixpence a word."
"Oo! How wonderful!"
"But not for every word," I added hastily, "only the really funny
ones."
"And they send it to you by cheques?"
"Rather. I bought a couple of pairs of socks with the last story;
even then I had something left over."
"And how do you write the stories?"
"Oh, just get an idea and go right ahead."
"How wonderful! Do you just sit down and write it straight off?"
I just--only just--pulled myself up in time as I remembered that
Sylvia was an enthusiast of twelve whose own efforts had already
caused considerable comment in the literary circles described
round the High School. I felt this entitled her to some claim on
my veracity.
"Sylvia," I cried, "I shall have to make a confession. All those
stories you have been good enough to read and occasionally smile over
are the result of a cold-blooded mechanical process--and the help of
a dictionary of synonyms."
"Oo! How wonderful! Do show me how."
"Very well. Since you are going to be a literary giantess it is well
that you should be initiated into the mysteries of producing what I
shall call the illusion of spontaneity. Now take this story here. Here
on this old envelope is THE IDEA."
"Oo! Let me see. I can't read a word."
"Of course you can't; nobody could. Rough copies are divided into
classes as follows:--
"No. 1. Those I can read, but nobody else can.
"No. 2. Those I can't read myself after two days.
"No. 3. Those my typist can read.
"This story is about a certain Brigade Major who is an inveterate
leg-puller. Some Americans are expected to be coming for instruction.
Well, before they arrive the Brigade Major has to go up to the line,
and on his way he meets a man with a very new tin hat who asks him
in a certain nasal accent we have all come to love if he has seen
anything of a party of Americans. Spotting him as a new chum, the
Brigade Major offers to show him round the line, and proceeds to pull
his leg and tells him the most preposterous nonsense. For instance,
on a shot being fired miles away he pretends they are in frightful
danger, and leads him bent double round and round trenches in the
same circle."
"What a shame!"
"Wasn't it? Well, when he gets tired he asks the American if he thinks
he has learnt anything. The American says, 'Gee, I've been out here
two years now, but I guess you've taught me a whole heap I didn't
know. I'm a Canadian tunneller, you know, and I've got to show some
Americans our work, but I guess I've had a most interesting time
with you."
"Ha! ha!"
"Well now, to put the story into its form. Here's Copy No. 1, on
this old envelope. 'Americans coming--Brigade Major sees American
looking for party--pulls his leg--pretends to being in frightful
danger--American is Canadian who has been out two years.' See? Copy
No. 2. Here we begin to till in. Describe Brigade headquarters and
previous leg-pulls of Brigade Major. Make up details of what he tells
the American--'That's a trench. That thing you fell over is a coil
of wire. This is a sunken road--we sunk it, etc., etc.' Copy No.
3, additions and details, little touches of local colour, revision
of choice of words, heart-rending erasions. And here, my child," I
concluded, bringing out the beautiful, clean, smooth typed copy--"here
is the finished work itself, light, pleasant, fluent, humorous and,
most important of all, spontaneous."
"Oo! But how awfully cold-blooded. I thought you smiled to yourself
all the time you wrote it."
"My dear girl, it takes hours. If I smiled continually all that length
of time the top of my head would come off."
"Isn't it wonderful? Fancy building it all up from jottings on an old
envelope! What's that piece of paper you took out of the typed copy?"
"Oh, that's nothing to do with the literary side of it," I said,
crumpling up the little memorandum, which said that the Editor
presented compliments and regretted that he was unable to make
use of the enclosed contribution.
* * * * *
"Mr. Henderson ... was received with a cry of 'He is not on the
map now.'"--_Times_.
It is supposed that his supporter meant to say "not on the mat"--in
reference to an incident at the close of Mr. HENDERSON'S Ministerial
career. But many a true word is said in the Press by inadvertence.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE WAR AGAINST THE PUBLIC.
PROFITEERING HEN. "NOTHING DOING AT FIVEPENCE. BUT I MIGHT PERHAPS LAY
YOU ONE FOR NINEPENCE. WHAT! YOU THOUGHT THE WAR WAS OVER? NOT _MY_
WAR."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Dear Old Lady (to returning warrior)_. "WELCOME BACK
TO BLIMEY!"]
* * * * *
A DEMOBILISATION DISASTER.
Private Randle Janvers Binderbeck and Private John Hodge (of No. 12
Platoon) both enlisted in 1914. Previously Handle wrote articles,
mostly denunciatory. He denounced the Government of the day, tight
skirts, Christian Science, scorching on scooters, the foreign policy
of Patagonia and many other things. John, on the other hand, had not
an agile brain. He worked on a farm in some incredibly primitive
capacity, and the only thing that he denounced was the quality of
the beer at the "Waggon and Horses." It certainly was bad.
In the Army Randle had no ambition except to get out of it and to
remain a private while in it. His ambition for his civil career was
tremendous. He tried to prod the placid John (his neighbour in their
hut) into an equal ambition.
"My poor Hodge," said Randle to John, "you must cultivate a soul above
manure. Does it satisfy you, as a man made in the image of God, to be
able to distinguish between a mangold and a swede? Think of the glory
of literature, the power of the writer to send forth his burning words
to millions and sway public opinion as the west wind sways the pliant
willow."
"I dunno as I'd prefer that to bird-scaring or suchlike," murmured
John.
Goaded by such beast-like placidity, Randle would forget all restraint
in trying to lash John into a worthy ambition.
It was for talking after "Lights out" that Randle and John were given
a punishment of three days' confinement to barracks. Randle, pouring
out a devastating torrent of words in the manner of a public orator,
bitterly denounced the punishment; John, who had merely snored (the
Captain said it took two to make a conversation), bore it with the
stoicism of ignorance.
Randle used to dream of Peace Day. He heard Sir DOUGLAS HAIG order his
Chief-of-Staff to summon Private Randle Janvers Binderbeck. "Release
him at once," said HAIG, in Randle's dream, "to resume his colossal
mission as leader and director of public opinion."
If John dreamed, it was of messy farmyards and draughty fields; but it
is improbable that he dreamed at all.
They both went to the War and faced the Hun. Randle thought of the
Hun only as a possible wrecker of his career, therefore as a foe of
mankind. John hardly thought of the Hun except in the course of coming
into contact with him, and then he used his bayonet with careless
zeal.
Randle steeled himself against the rough edges of soldiering. He
allowed neither the curses of corporals nor the familiarities of
second-lieutenants to affect his dreams of the future. Always, even
_sotto voce_ in the last five minutes before going over the top, he
kept before John his vision splendid.
It was thoir luck to remain together and unhurt. Then arrived the
great day when the Hun confessed defeat. Randle vainly awaited a sign
from the Commander-in-Chief.
There came, however, a moment when No. 12 Platoon was paraded at the
Company Orderly-room. Particulars were to be taken before filling up
demobilisation forms. Men were to be grouped, on paper, according to
the nation's demand for their return to civil life.
Randle Janvers Binderbeck knew this was _der Tag_. Magnanimously he
overlooked the delay and felt that HAIG might, after all, have an
excuse. John Hodge remained placid. He had long ago classed Randle's
goadings with heavies and machine-guns, as unavoidable incidents of
warfare.
Randle and John were called into the orderly-room together. By an
obvious error John was first summoned to the table.
"Well, Hodge," said the Company Sergeant-Major, "what's your job in
civil life?"
"I dunno as I got any special job," said John. "I just sort o' helped
on the farm."
"You must have a group," said the C.S.M. "What did you mostly do
before the War?"
"S' far as that do go," said John, "I were mostly a bird-scarer."
"'Bird-scarer,'" said the C.S.M. "I know there's a heading for that
somewhere. Agricultural, ain't it? 'Bird-scarer.' Ah, here we are.
'Group 1.' You'll be one of the first for release."
The Company Clerk noted the fact, and the C.S.M. called "Next man."
Randle Janvers Binderbeck stepped forward.
"What's your job, Binderbeck?" said the C.S.M.
(To ask Lord NORTHCLIFFE, "Do you sell newspapers?" To ask BOSWELL,
"Have you heard of a man named JOHNSON?" TO ask HENRY VIII, "Were you
ever married?")
The futility of the question flabbergasted Randle.
"Come on, man," said the C.S.M.
Randle made an effort. "Journalist," he said.
"'Journalist,'" said the C.S.M., "'Journalist.' Yes, I thought so.
'Group 41.' You've got a long way to go, my lad. You'd have done
better if you was a bird-scarer, like Hodge. Them's the boys the
nation wants--Group 1 boys. You sticks in the Army for another six
months' fatigue. Next man."
That was all.
John Hodge is now soberly awaiting demobilisation, and will not have
to wait long.
Randle Janvers Binderbeck is secretly consoling himself by writing the
most denunciatory articles. They will never be published, but they
afford an alternative to cocaine.
He feels that he can never again consent to sway public opinion as the
west wind, etc., in the interests of a nation which rates him forty
groups lower than an animated scarecrow.
It is the nation's own fault, Randle is blameless.
* * * * *
A NOISY SALUTE.
From a review of _The Remembered Kiss_, in _The Westminster
Gazette_:--
"It would be doing Miss Ayres an injustice to suppose that
there is only one kiss to remember in the whole of her novel,
but the one which gives its title is bestowed by a young and
handsome burglar, and received by a girl who mistook the noise
he was making for a thunders torm."
As TENNYSON says in _The Day-Dream_: "O love, thy kiss would wake the
dead!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Father (bringing son home from party)_. "WELL, OLD
CHAP, WERE THERE PLENTY OF LITTLE GIRLS FOR YOU TO DANCE WITH?"
_Son (rather proud of himself)_. "OH, THERE WERE SOME KIDS ABOUT, BUT
_I_ DANCED WITH A GIRL OF SIXTEEN--AND, BY JOVE, SHE LOOKED IT."]
* * * * *
FREAKS OF FOOD-CONTROL.
Though Mrs. Midas shows a righteous zeal
In preaching self-control at every meal,
She never in her stately home forgets
To cater freely for her precious pets.
On cheese and soup she feeds her priceless "Pekie"--
Stilton and Cheddar, Bortch and Cocky-leekie;
And Max, her shrill-voiced "Pom," politely begs
For his diurnal dole of new-laid eggs.
Semiramis, her noble Persian cat,
Threatens to grow inelegantly fat
Upon asparagus and Shaker oats,
With milk provided by two special goats.
Meanwhile her governess subsists on greens,
Canned conger-eel or cod and butter-beans,
And often in a black ungrateful mood
Envies the dogs and cat their daintier food.
* * * * *
"On one side was the naval guard of honour--splendid men from
the ships of the Dover Patrol--and on the other side a military
guard from the Garrison with the band of the Buffs waiting
to play President Wilson into England with 'The tar-spangled
Banner.'"--_Provincial Paper_.
A pretty compliment to the naval escort.
* * * * *
THE MUD LARKS.
Our Mr. MacTavish is a man with a past. He is now a cavalry subaltern
and he was once a sailor. As a soldier at sea is never anything but
an object of derision to sailors, correspondingly the mere idea of a
sailor on horseback causes the utmost merriment among soldiers.
"Sailors on horseback!"--the very words bring visions of apoplectic
mariners careering madly across sands, three to a horse, every limb
in convulsion. Why, it's one of the world's stock jokes.
The pathetic part of it is that, obeying the law of opposites, the
saddle has an irresistible and fatal attraction for the poor chaps.
They take to it on every possible and impossible occasion. You can see
them playing alleged polo at Malta, riding each other off at right
angles and employing their sticks as grappling irons. You can see them
over from the Rock whooping after Spanish foxes, bestriding their
steeds anywhere but in the appointed place.
As every proper farmer's boy has long, long thoughts of magic oceans,
spice isles and clipper ships, so I will warrant every normal Naval
officer dreams of a little place in the grass counties, a stableful
of long-tails and immortal runs with the Quorn and Pytchley.
It was thus with our Mr. MacTavish, anyhow. A stern parent and a
strong-armed crammer projected him into the Navy, and in the Navy
he remained for years bucketing about the salt seas in light and
wobbly cruisers, enforcing intricate Bait Laws off Newfoundland in
mid-winter, or playing hide-and-seek with elusive dhows on the Equator
in midsummer, but always with a vision of that little place in his
mind's eye.
His opportunity arrived with the demise of the stern parent and the
acquisition of a comfortable legacy. MacTavish sent in his papers and
stepped ashore for good. He discovered the haven of his heart's desire
in the neighbourhood of Melton, purchased a pig and a cow (which
turned out to be a bullock) to give the little place a homely air,
engaged a terrier for ratting and intercourse, and with the assistance
of some sympathetic dealers was assembling as comprehensive a
collection of curbs, spavins, sprung tendons, pin-toes, herring-guts,
ewe-necks, cow-hocks and capped elbows as could be found between the
Tweed and Tamar, when--Mynheer W. HOHENZOLLERN (as he is to-day) went
and done it.
The evening of August 4th, 1914, discovered MacTavish sitting on the
wall of his pig-sty, his happy hunting prospects shot to smithereens,
arguing the position out with the terrier. He must attend to this
war, that was clear, but need he necessarily go back to the salt sea?
Couldn't he do his bit in some other service? What about the Cavalry?
That would mean galloping about Europe on a jolly old gee, shouting
"Hurrah!" and cutlassing the foot-passengers. A merry life, combining
all the glories of fox-hunting with only twenty-five per cent. of its
safety--according to _Jorrocks_.
What about the Cavalry, then? The terrier semaphored complete
approbation with its tail stump and even the pig made enthusiastic
noises.
A month later MacTavish turned up in a Reserve Regiment of Cavalry at
the Curragh as a "young officer." The Riding-Master treated his case
as no more hopeless than anybody else's and MacTavish was making
average progress until one evening in the anteroom he favoured the
company with a few well-spiced Naval reminiscences.
Next morning the Riding-Master was convulsed with merriment at the
mere sight of him, addressed him variously as Jellicoe, Captain
Kidd and Sinbad, and, after first warning MacTavish not to imagine
he was ashore at Port Said riding the favourite in a donkey Derby,
translated all his instructions into nautical language. For instance:
"Right rein--haul the starboard yoke line; gallop--full steam ahead;
halt--cast anchor; dismount--abandon ship," and so forth, giving his
delicate and fanciful sense of humour full play and evoking roars
of laughter from the whole house. It did not take MacTavish long to
realise that, no matter what he said, he would never again be taken
seriously in that place; he was, in fact, the world's stock joke, a
sailor on horseback (Ha, ha, ha!).
He set his jaw and was determined that he would not be caught tripping
again; there should be no more reminiscences. Once clear of Ireland he
would bury his past.
All this happened years ago.
When I came back from leave the other day I asked for Albert Edward.
"He and MacTavish are up at Corpse H.Q.," said the skipper; "they're
helping the A.P.M. straighten the traffic out. By the way you'd
better trickle up there and relieve them, as they're both going on
leave in a day or so."
I trickled up to Corpse and eventually discovered Albert Edward alone,
practising the three-card trick with a view to a career after the War.
"You'll enjoy this Mess," said he, turning up "the Lady" where he
least expected her; "it's made up of Staff eccentrics--Demobilizing,
Delousing, Educational, Laundry and Burial _wallahs_--all sorts, very
interesting; you'll learn how the other half lives and all that. Oh,
that reminds me. You know poor old MacTavish's secret, don't you?"
"Of course," said I; "everybody does. Why?"
Albert Edward grinned. "Because there's another bloke here with a dark
past, only this is t'other way about; he's a bumpkin turned sailor,
Blenkinsop by name, you know, the Shropshire hackney breeders. He's
Naval Division. Ever rub against those merchants?"