Book: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156, March 12, 1919
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156, March 12, 1919
_He_. "VERY LIKELY. HE TALKS IN MINE."]
* * * * *
THE SPACE PROBLEM.
The sad queues shiver in the drains
And do not get upon the bus;
Men battle round successive trains,
And each is yet more populous;
Twelve times a week I pay the fare,
But know not when I last sat down;
It almost looks as if there were
Too many people in the town.
I know not where they all may dwell;
I know my lease is up in May;
I know I said, "Oh, very well,
I'll take a house down Dorking way;"
I scoured the spacious countryside,
I found no residence to spare,
And it is not to be denied
There are too many people there.
They say the birth-rate's sadly low;
They say the death-rate tends to soar;
So how we manage I don't know
To go on growing more and more;
Let statistology prefer
To think the race is nice and small,
But how do all these crowds occur,
And who the dickens are they all?
Where do they come from? Where on earth
In olden days did they reside,
When there was really lots of birth
And hardly anybody died?
Where had this multitude its lair?
Some pleasant spot, I make no doubt;
I only wish they'd go back there
And leave me room to move about;
And leave some little house for me
In any shire, in any town,
Or, otherwise, myself must flee
And build a dug-out in a down;
If none may settle on the land,
Yet might one settle underground
(Provided people understand
They must not come and dig all round).
There will I dwell (alone) till death
And soothe my crowd-corroded soul;
And, when I breathe my latest breath,
Let no man move me from my hole;
Let but a little earth be cast,
And someone write above the tomb:
"_Here had the poet peace at last;
Here only had he elbow-room._"
A.P.H.
* * * * *
THE SWEET-SHOP.
It was a mean street somewhere in the wilderness of Fulham. How I
got there I don't exactly know; all that I am clear about is that I
was trying, on insufficient data, to make a short cut. Twilight was
falling, there was a slight drizzle of rain and I told myself that I
had stumbled on the drabbest bit of all London.
Here and there, breaking the monotony of dark house-fronts, were
little isolated shops, which gave a touch of colour to the drabness. I
paused before one of them, through whose small and dim window a light
shed a melancholy beam upon the pavement. Nothing seemed to be sold
there, for the window was occupied by empty glass jars, bearing
such labels as "peppermint rock," "pear drops" and "bull's-eyes."
Apparently the shop had sold out.
I was on the point of turning away when I noticed that someone was
moving about inside, and presently an ancient dame began to take
certain jars from the window and fill them with sweets from boxes on
the counter. Evidently a new stock had just arrived. Then I remembered
that sweets had been "freed."
A little girl stopped beside me, stared through the window and
then ran off at top speed. Within a couple of minutes half-a-dozen
youngsters were peering into the shop, and a pair of them marched in,
consulting earnestly as they went. The news spread; more children
arrived. I distributed a largesse of pennies which gave me a
popularity I have never achieved before. The street seemed to take on
a different aspect. I almost liked it.
* * * * *
AN OLD DOG.
There can be no doubt about it. Not merely is Soo-ti getting to be an
old dog, but he has already got there. He _is_ an old dog. Yet the
change in the case of this beloved little Pekinese has been so gradual
that until it was accomplished few of us noticed it. Yesterday, as
it seemed, Soo-ti was a young dog, capable of holding his own for
frolics and spirits with any Pekinese that ever owned the crown of
the road and refused to stir from it though all the hooters of Europe
endeavoured to blast him off it. To-day he is still a challenger of
motor-cars; but he hurls his defiance with less assurance and has been
seen to retire before the advance of a motor-bicycle.
Moreover, there are other signs of what his master calls, let us hope
with accuracy, a _cruda viridisque senectus_. Quite a short time ago
his muzzle, like the rest of him, was as black as ebony. Now he wears
a pair of thick white moustachios, which are comparable only with
those worn by that great chieftain, Monsieur le Marechal JOFFRE.
In another way too our little dog gives proof that his years are
advancing. He used to welcome ecstatically the moment of the
_promenade_; not that he intended thus to show any deference to the
humans who were inviting him to take a walk, but that he thought it
was a fine manly thing to do, and one that might bring about that
fight of his against a neighbouring and detested deer-hound to which
he looked forward as to one of his unachieved pleasures. He therefore
fell not more than one hundred yards behind his accompanists, and when
this was pointed out to him made a very creditable effort to hurry up
and rejoin. Now, however, when taken for a duty-walk, he still barks
a little at the outset, but thereafter begins at once to lag, and is
found in an armchair when the party returns. It is vain to remind
him that in the old days he was called the little black feather for
the lightness of his gait when puffed along by the gusts of a fierce
nor'-easter. Here is one of the complimentary stanzas that were
lavished upon him by his young mistress:--
"Attend to your duty,
My brave little Soo-ti,
There isn't much sun in the sky:
But we've sported together
In all kinds of weather,
My little black feather and I."
It would be quite useless to lure him out with verse, and plain prose
is equally ineffective when once he has made up his mind that he
doesn't mean to move.
One more sign of old age there is, which I may briefly describe. He is
always much agitated when his mistress packs her boxes to depart to an
institution for higher education of which she is a member. While this
is going forward, Soo-ti will not stir from her room except it be to
couch in the passage outside. Thence he re-transfers himself to her
room, and has been known, when the chief box is full of garments, to
leap into it, to pad round in a circle three times, and to sink down
with a sigh of satisfaction on what was once a very artistic bit of
packing. I do not say that this trick is entirely due to old age.
Nearly all dogs do it. Only there was on the last occasion a special
anxiety, and a more than usual persistence and querulousness which
seemed to say, "Don't go too far away, and come back soon, so that
we may meet again before my eyes grow dim and my ears lose their
keenness."
* * * * *
"In future all unmarried men and women having an income of $1,000
will be taxed by the city. Married men will not be taxed unless
their income is over $1,500,000."--_Canadian Gazette_.
The poor fellows must have some compensation.
* * * * *
THE TEST OF FRIENDSHIP.
["C.K.S.," in _The Sphere_, describing his numerous visits to
GEORGE MEREDITH at Box Hill, tells us that in no real sense can
he claim to have been an intimate friend; "but then," he adds, "I
always make the test of intimate friendship when people call one
another by their Christian names."]
The use of Christian names, says "C.K.S."
Is intimacy's truest test; but "George,"
When he was down at Dorking, (as you guess)
Stuck quite inextricably in his gorge;
And to the end he never got beyond
The Mister, though a faithful friend and fond.
How sad to think this barrier was never
Demolished, broken down and swept away,
But still remained to sunder and to sever
Two of the choicest spirits of our day!
For MEREDITH, though radiant, genial, kind,
On this one point showed an inclement mind.
The case was simplified in days of eld;
HOMER, for instance, had no Christian name,
And an Athenian bookman, if impelled
To visit him at Chios, when he came
Across the blind old poet and beach-comber,
Addressed him probably _tout court_ as HOMER.
PYTHAGORAS was never Jack or Jim--
Names all unknown in ages pre-Socratic;
And SHORTER could not have accosted him
By _sobriquets_ endearing or ecstatic;
It would have certainly provoked a scene,
For instance, to have hailed him as "Old bean."
Then at the "Mermaid," had he been invited
As an illustrious brother of the quill,
Would "C.K.S.," I wonder, have delighted
To honour WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE as "Old Bill,"
And in the small uproarious hours A.M.
Have been in turn acclaimed as "Bully CLEM"?
Perchance; who knows? The mystery is sealed;
Hypothesis, though plausible, is vain;
What might have been can never be revealed,
But one momentous fact at least is plain:
We know from an authoritative quarter
That MEREDITH was never "George" to SHORTER.
* * * * *
THE TWOPENNY EGG.
The daily press informs us that we are "in sight of the twopenny egg."
On making inquiries we learn that this phenomenon will be invisible
at Greenwich, but may be viewed from the North of Scotland, a region
happily less inaccessible than many to which scientific expeditions
have in the past been made. At the time of writing opinions differ as
to the best point for observation, but it is probable that the island
of Foula, in the Shetland group, will be chosen.
* * * * *
"Masters and men are visibly strained by the crisis. They all
know that they are sitting on a volcano. The prelude is all
icy suspicion."--_Mr. JAMES DOUGLAS in "The Star"._
It won't be the volcano's fault if the ice doesn't get melted.
* * * * *
"The complainant was ascending the staircase of the club when he
met the defendant, who, speaking of Lemberg, said Lemberg belonged
to Russia. Complainant replied: 'No, it is in Poland; it cannot
belong to Russia,' when the defendant struck him with some sharp
instrument on the top of the head, and the stars had not yet
completely healed."--_Evening Paper_.
The constellation referred to must, we think, have been the Great
Bear.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE DOPED LION. A STORY OF ANCIENT ROME.]
* * * * *
THE GAME OF THE TELEPHONE.
True sportsmen will regret Mr. ILLINGWORTH'S statement, made recently
in the House, when he said, "I have every expectation that the
[telephone] service will improve."
By "improve" he no doubt meant that when we ring up a number in future
we shall simply get it; that people who want us will be able to get
us, and so on. It is a dismal prospect.
I only hope the improvement will be delayed until I get my own back. I
have been playing rather a bad line lately, and only this morning lost
a set by one game to two.
* * * * *
The operator won the first game before I could get into my stride.
She rang me up three times in five minutes, and each time put me on
to nobody. This was a very bad start, and I determined that I must
at least give her a game. So the third time I held on, mechanically
knocking the semi-circular ring arrangement up and down. There is
always a chance that your signal may be working, and it annoys the
operator. But she beat me by a swift stroke.
"What number do you want?" she asked cynically. I said, "Well played,
Sir--Madam!" Then she rubbed it in with a parting shot: "Sorry you
have been terroubled," she said, and cut me off. Love--one.
* * * * *
"Hullo!" I said, when my bell rang the next time.
"Put me through to Extension 8, please."
The only thing to do with this sort of shot is to return it safely.
"Sorry, old chap," I said, "I haven't got one."
"Haven't _what_?" he said.
"Got one."
"One what?"
"Extension."
Then he became annoyed and shouted, "Aren't you the War Office?"
"No," I answered, "I am not the War Office."
"Aren't you the War Off--"
But I clapped on my receiver. In fact I clapped it on so violently
that I thought I had silenced the thing for good and all.
A series of tugging ineffective clicks on the part of my bell decided
me to investigate. This move on my part was to win me the game.
I took off my receiver and listened. No answer. I banged the rigging.
No answer. I banged and thumped.
"Yes, yes," she said rather peevishly, "I am attending to you as
quickly as I can. What number do you want?"
"Well," I explained, "as a matter of fact I don't want a number.
I only wondered if my line was all right. Sorry you have been
terroubled," and I cut her off. One--all.
* * * * *
The third and last game started briskly. In the course of the first
ten minutes I was rung up and asked if I was--
1. The Timber Control.
2. Mr. Awl or All.
3. The Timber Control (again).
4. The London Diocesan Church Schools. (At this point I rather lost my
head and answered, "D---- the London Diocesan Church Schools.")
My impiety offended the Bishop (I assume it was a Bishop), and he,
rather unfairly, must have incited the gods to take sides against me.
In a lucid interval, while I was doing a call of my own, the operator,
without giving me any warning, switched me on to the supervisor. This
must have been an inspiration from Olympus. However I was equal to the
emergency; nay, took advantage of it. Experience has taught me that it
is always best to talk to the person you get, whether you want that
person or not. So I explained to the supervisor that I was a busy man,
although the rumour which ascribed to my shoulders the War Office, the
Timber Control and the L.D.C.S. was, at the moment, unfounded.
She played up magnificently; took my number, my name, my address, the
date, the time of the day, how many times I had been rung up, whom by
and when, and was going to ask me the date of my birth and whether I
was married or single, when I protested. Then she calmed down and said
she would have my line seen to.
The game seemed to be going well; but again I was beaten by a swift
stroke. My bell rang.
"Telephone Engineering Department speaking," it said. "We have
received a report that your line is out of order. We are sending a
man and hope he will finish the job before luncheon."
This was the end, as anyone knows who has ever got into the clutches:
of the Telephone Engineering Department.
"Please," I said (my spirit was quite broken)--"please, for God's
sake, don't send a man. Not this morning at any rate. Put it off,
there's a good fellow."
"But I thought there was something wrong--"
"Oh, no, not at all. It's a hideous mistake. My line never behaved
better in its life. It's a positive joy to me."
I have it on Mr. BALFOUR'S authority that all truth cannot be told at
all times. But I had lost the set.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE THIRST FOR EDUCATION.
_Mother_. "Wot's all this 'ubbub goin' on indoors?"
_Daughter_. "Baby's bin and licked 'Erbert's 'ome lessons orf 'is
slate."]
* * * * *
"On Friday, March 7th, Messrs. ----, on the instructions of
the executors of the late Mr. ----, are selling by auction in
pneumonia and acute influenzal pneu-built cottages situate in
Chapel Street."--_Provincial Paper_.
Personally we were not bidding.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Staff Officer (accustomed to staff-car pace)._ "HERE,
CABBY--LET ME OUT. I'D RATHER WALK."
_Antique Jehu (who thinks he has to do with a "shell-shock" case)._
"IT'S ALL RIGHT, SIR. I'M GOING VERY CAREFUL."
_S.O._ "I KNOW. BUT I'M SO AFRAID OF SOMETHING RUNNING INTO US FROM
BEHIND."]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(_BY MR. PUNCH'S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERKS._)
When a story bears the attractive title of _The House of Courage_
(DUCKWORTH); when it begins in the Spring of 1914 with a number of
pleasantly prosperous people whose faith in the continuance of this
prosperity is frequently emphasised ("as if they had a contract with
God Almighty" is how an observant character phrases it); and when,
in the first chapter, the hero has an encounter with two Germans in
a Soho restaurant--well, it requires no great guessing to tell what
will happen before we are through with it. And, in fact, Mrs. VICTOR
RICKARD'S latest is yet another war-story; though with this novelty,
that the hero's experiences of service are almost entirely gained in a
German prison-camp. As perhaps I need not say, both divisions of the
tale are admirably written. It is hardly the author's fault that the
earlier half, with its pictures of a genial hunting society in County
Cork, is distinctly more entertaining than the scenes of boredom
and brutality at Crefeld, well-conveyed as these are and almost
over-realistic and convincing. Inevitably too the scheme is one of
incident rather than character. One has never any very serious doubt
that in the long run the hero, _Kennedy_, will marry the girl of his
choice, despite the fact of her engagement to the clearly unworthy
_Harrington_. But as part of the long run was from Crefeld to the
Dutch frontier, over every obstacle that you can imagine (and a few
more, including an admirable thrill almost on the post), one is left
with the comfortable feeling that the prize was well earned. You will
rightly judge that most of _The House of Courage_ is rather more
frankly sensational than Mrs. RICKARD'S previous war-work; but it
remains an excellent yarn.
* * * * *
When _Esme Hillier_, possessed by _The Imp_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON),
was only ten, in a fit of annoyance she pushed the hero (to whom she
had had no previous introduction) into the sea. I have some sympathy
with her energetic protest, for a Highland Chieftain even at the
age of sixteen should know better than to row about in an open boat
kissing a young lady. _Esme_, a pained spectator, showed her public
spirit by punishing his bad form, but in the act she sealed her own
fate, for after this it was inevitable that they should ultimately
marry each other, the girl of the kissing episode notwithstanding. The
immediate incentive to their union, which was by the Scotch method,
was that _Esme_ had applied mustard-plasters to a Cabinet Minister's
person by affixing them to his dress-suit, and _Tourntourq_, the
Chieftain, had nobly attempted to bear the blame. Though married
in haste they did not wait for leisure before they repented, but
commenced quarrelling at once, until _Esme_, in order to test his love
and that of an admirer who was helping to complicate matters, "bobbed"
her hair and threw the severed tresses at her husband. After this they
separated. Presently the War came, and the admirer, who was really
quite a nice person, was killed, and _Tourntourq_, who was apparently
a lunatic, though that is not stated in so many words, was blinded.
It seems quite superfluous to add that _Tourntourq_ wins the V.C. and
recovers both sight and wife in the last chapter; but there are such
good patches in the book that I cannot help hoping that some day
WILSON MACNAIR will try her hand (I feel it is _her_ hand) at another,
which I shall really believe in all through.
* * * * *
Of late our costume-romancers have become strangely unprolific. So I
was the more pleased to find Mrs. ALICE WILSON FOX bravely keeping the
old flag flying with a story bearing the gallant title, _Too Near the
Throne_ (S.P.C.K.). I daresay its name may enable you to give a fairly
shrewd guess at its plot. This is an agreeable affair of a maid,
reputed Catholic heir to the English Crown, and used as pretext for an
abortive rising against KING JAMES I. You can see that in practised
hands (as here) and decorated with a pretty trimming of sentiment,
abductions, witch-finding and other appropriate accessories,
this furnishes a theme rich in romance. Perhaps I was a thought
disappointed that more was not made of the actual conspiracy, and
that, having started "too near the throne," the tale subsequently gave
it so wide a berth. But this is no great fault. I can witness that
Mrs. WILSON FOX has at least one essential quality of the historical
novelist in her appreciation of picturesque raiment. Almost indeed she
emulates those jewelled paragraphs in which the creator of _Windsor
Castle_ would fill half a chapter with a riot of sartorial
coruscations. As a birthday present, say for an appreciative niece, I
can think of few volumes whose welcome would be better assured.
* * * * *
Mr. JOHN MASEFIELD has brought together in _St. George and the Dragon_
(HEINEMANN) a speech "given" by him in New York on last St. George's
Day, and a lecture on The War and the Future which he delivered up
and down America from January to August of last year. Since then
many things have happened. But nothing has happened that can make Mr.
MASEFIELD other than proud of the part he has played in explaining and
glorifying his country's cause and commending it to the hearts and
minds of all good Americans. I confess that when I took up the book
and read the first few lines I was afraid that Mr. MASEFIELD had
yielded to the temptation of delivering his speech in poetical prose
of a faintly Biblical character, as thus: "Friends, for a long time
I did not know what to say to you in this my second speaking here. I
could fill a speech with thanks and praise--thanks for the kindness
and welcome which have met me up and down this land wherever I have
gone, and praise for the great national effort which I have seen in so
many places and felt everywhere." Mr. MASEFIELD however soon abandoned
this manner and made the rest of his way in a good solid pedestrian
style. But he did not disdain to go so far in flattery of the
Americans, his audience, as to use the word "gotten" for the past
tense of the verb "to get."
* * * * *
There can be few Irishmen who look at their England with such
affectionate eyes as Lord DUNSANY. _Tales of War_ (FISHER UNWIN) is
full of this sweet theme. The first of the tales is a fine story of
the Daleswood men who, cut off from their supports and worried because
there would be none left in their native village to carry on the
Daleswood breed, were for sending out their youngest boy to surrender.
But, deciding that that wasn't good Daleswood form, they (for their
last hours, as they thought) fell to recalling the familiar beauties
of their old home and to cutting in the Picardy chalk the roll of
their names for remembrance. You get it again, that calling-up of
the home memories, when, in another marooned party, the Sargeant that
was keeper begins with a vision of sausages and mashed and goes on
to the birds and beasts and flowers and soft noises of English woods
at night. And in a half-dozen other sketches. And it is good to find
an Irishman and a poet to say things which stick on our embarrassed
tongues. Lord DUNSANY has a happy trick of compressing a great deal
into a little space, and his vignettes, sketched in with a conscious
art, should find a place on our shelves among the war records which
our children are to read.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT.
_War Profiteer_. "Stow that row, 'Orace. 'Ow did _I_ know yer wanted
a toy?"]
* * * * *
"When the wife of President Wilson was in London she spent
hours shopping in Regent Street and other quaint sections of
London."--_Daily Gleaner_.
Regent Street _will_ be pleased.
* * * * *
"Captain Hayes, of the Olympic, in receiving a loving cut from
Halifax citizens, described how the Olympic sank the U-boat 103, a
few months ago. The liner cut through the submarine without losing
a single revolution of the propellers."--_Australian Paper_.
One good cut deserves another.
* * * * *
THE INFLUENZA-MASK.
"Shall I," he cried, "who made the Hun skedaddle
And caused the _Wacht an Rhein_ to lose its job,
Taught Johnny Turk the use of boot and saddle
And fetched out FERDINANDO for a blob--
Shall I allow each little grinning urchin
To move me from my purpose? Shall I shrink
For fear of idle Rumour wagging her chin?
No, no! I do _not_ think.
"My high emprise may set the suburbs hooting
And lay me under Balham's local curse;
There be--I know it--those in Upper Tooting
Would lynch the prophet and insult his hearse;
But when my feet have kicked this mortal bucket
Millions will bless me!--more I cannot ask;
So, John, distract me not! Jemima, chuck it!
And, Jane, bring forth the mask!"