Book: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 159, November 10, 1920
V >>
Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 159, November 10, 1920
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 159.
November 10th, 1920.
CHARIVARIA.
Now that the Presidential elections are over it is hoped that
any Irish-Americans who joined the Sinn Fein murder-gang for
electioneering purposes will go home again.
* * *
Owing to pressure on space, due among other things to the American
election, the net sale controversy in one of our contemporaries was
held over on Wednesday last. We are quite sure that neither Senator
HARDING nor Mr. COX was aware of his responsibility in the matter.
* * *
Lord HOWARD DE WALDEN says, "I would rather trust a crossing-sweeper
with an appreciation of music than a man who comes from a public
school." We agree. The former is much more likely to have been a
professional musician in his time.
* * *
The mystery of the Scottish golf club that was recently inundated with
applications for membership is now explained. It appears that a caddy
refused a tip of sixpence offered him by one of the less affluent
members, and the story somehow leaked out.
* * *
At one Hallowe'en dinner held in London the haggis was ten minutes
late. It is said that it had had trouble with a dog on the way and had
come off second best.
* * *
The man who was heard last week to say that he had no idea that Mrs.
ASQUITH had published a book of memoirs has now, on the advice of his
friends, consented to see a doctor.
* * *
The clergy of Grays, in Essex, are advocating the abolition of Sunday
funerals. It is said that quite a number of strict Sabbatarians have a
rooted objection to being buried on the Sabbath.
* * *
According to an evening paper hawthorn buds have been plucked at
Hornsey. We don't care.
* * *
A Liberal Independent writes to ask if the Mr. LLOYD GEORGE, who has
been elected Lord Rector of Edinburgh University, is the well-known
Prime Minister of that name.
* * *
A firm of music publishers have produced what they describe as a
three-quarter one-step. It will soon be impossible to go to a dance
without being accompanied by a professional arithmetician.
* * *
It seems that high prices have even put an end to the chicken that
used to cross the road.
* * *
"Only through poverty," says Mr. MAURICE HEWLETT, "will England
thrive." As a result of this statement we understand that several
profiteers have decided to get down to it once again.
* * *
A Japanese arrested at Hull was found to have seven revolvers and two
thousand rounds of ammunition on him. It was pointed out to him that
the War was over long ago.
* * *
A contemporary refers to a romance which ended in marriage. Alas! how
often this happens.
* * *
The United States Government has decided to recognise the present
Mexican Government. Mexican bandits say they had better take a good
look at them while there is yet time.
* * *
A Prohibitionist asserts that Scotland will be dry in five years. Our
own feeling is that these end-of-the-world prognostications should be
prohibited by law.
* * *
An Oxford professor has made himself the subject of a series of
experiments on the effects of alcohol. Several college professors of
America quite readily admit that they never thought of that one.
* * *
A correspondent writes to a contemporary to say that he wears a hat
exactly like _The Daily Mail_ hat, and that he purchased it long
before _The Daily Mail_ was started. The audacity of some people in
thinking that anything happened before _The Daily Mail_ started is
simply appalling.
* * *
Three stars have recently been discovered by an American. No, no; not
those stars, but stars in the heavens.
* * *
"Whilst returning to camp one night I walked right into a herd of
elephants," states a well-known explorer in his memoirs. We have
always maintained that all wild animals above the size of a rabbit
should carry two head-lights and one rear-light whilst travelling
after dark.
* * *
A small island was advertised for sale last week. Just the sort of
thing for a bad sailor to take with him when crossing the Channel on a
rough day.
* * *
"Everyone knows," a writer in _The Daily Mail_ declares, "that
electric light in the poultry-house results in more eggs." There may
be more of them but they never have the real actinic taste of the
natural egg.
* * *
An American inventor has devised a scheme for lassoing enemy
submarines. This is a decided improvement on the method of just
sticking a pin into them as they whizz by.
* * *
Since the talk of Prohibition in Scotland, we are informed that one
concert singer began the chorus of the famous Scottish ballad by
singing "O ye'll tak the dry road."
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Mrs. Jones_. "YOU'D SEE IN THE PAPERS, JOHN, ABOUT THE
AGITATION IN FAVOUR OF THE WIFE GOVERNING THE HOME."
_Mr. Jones_. "WELL, CARRY ON, DEAR."]
* * * * *
From an article on "Bullies at the Bar":--
"He who had read his 'Pickwick'--and who has not?--will never
forget the trial scene where poor, innocent Mr. Pickwick is as
wax in the hands of the cross-examiner."
_Provincial Paper_.
We regret to say that, in our edition, _Mr. Serjeant Snubbin_ omitted
to put his client in the witness-box, and consequently _Mr. Serjeant
Buzfuz_ never had a chance of showing what he could do with him.
* * * * *
=BEFORE THE CENOTAPH.=
NOVEMBER 11TH, 1920.
Not with dark pomp of death we keep their day,
Theirs who have passed beyond the sight of men,
O'er whom the autumn strews its gold again,
And the grey sky bends to an earth as grey;
But we who live are silent even as they
While the world's heart marks one deep throb; and then,
Touched by the gleam of suns beyond our ken,
The Stone of Honour crowns the trodden way.
Above the people whom they died to save
Their shrine of sleep is set; abideth there
No dust corruptible, nought that death may have;
But from remembrance of the days that were
Rises proud sorrow in a resistless wave
That breaks upon the empty sepulchre.
D. M. S.
* * * * *
=OUR INVINCIBLE NAVY.=
PRIZE-MONEY.
The really intriguing thing about Naval prize-money is the fact that
no one knows exactly where it comes from. You don't win it by any
definite act of superlative daring--I mean to say, you don't have to
creep out under cover of darkness and return in the morning with an
enemy battleship in tow to qualify for a modicum of this mysterious
treasure. You just proceed serenely on your lawful occasions,
confident in the knowledge that incredible sums of prize-money
are piling themselves up for your ultimate benefit. I suppose the
authorities understand all about it; nobody else does. One just lets
it pile. It is a most gratifying thought.
During the more or less stormy times of the First Great War, we of the
Navy were always able to buttress our resolution with golden hopes
of a future opulence denied to our less fortunate comrades in the
trenches. Whenever the struggle was going particularly badly
for us--when, for instance, a well-earned shore-leave had been
unexpectedly jammed or a tin of condensed milk had overturned into
somebody's sea-boot--we used to console each other with cheerful
reminders of this accumulating fruit of our endeavours. "Think of the
prize-money, my boy," we used to exclaim; "meditate upon the jingling
millions that will be yours when the dreary vigil is ended;" and as
by magic the unseemly mutterings of wrath would give place to purrs
of pleasurable anticipation. Even we of the R.N.V.R., mere temporary
face-fringes, as it were, which the razor of peace was soon to remove
from the war-time visage of the Service--even we fell under the spell.
"Fourteen million pounds!" we would gurgle, hugging ourselves with joy
in the darkness of the night-watches.
In the months immediately following demobilisation I was frequently
stimulated by glittering visions of vast wealth presently to be
showered upon me from the swelling coffers of a grateful Admiralty.
During periods of more or less temporary financial embarrassment
I would mention these expectations to my tailor and other restless
tradespeople of my acquaintance. "Fourteen millions--prize-money, you
know," I would say confidentially; "may come in at any time now." I
found this had a soothing effect upon them.
As the seasons rolled by, however; as summer and winter ran their
appointed courses and again the primrose pranked the lea unaccompanied
by any signs of vernal activity on the part of the Paymaster-in-Chief,
these visions of mine became less insistent. I was at length obliged
to confess that another youthful illusion was fading; prize-money
began to take its place in my mind along with the sea-serpent and
similar figures of marine mythology. I was frankly hurt; I ceased even
to raise my hat when passing the Admiralty Offices on the top of a
bus.
That was a month or two ago; everything is all right again now. I once
more experience the old pleasing thrill of emotion when riding down
Whitehall. I have come to see how ungracious my recent attitude was.
A chance meeting with Bunbury, late sub-Loot R.N.V.R. and a sometime
shipmate of mine--Bunbury and I had squandered our valour recklessly
together aboard the Tyne drifters in the great days when Bellona wore
bell-bottoms--sufficed to bring me head-to-wind.
In the course of conversation I referred to the non-fulfilment of our
early dreams; I spoke rather bitterly.
"And there are fourteen millions somewhere belonging to us," I
concluded mutinously.
Bunbury regarded me with pained surprise. "Really, old sea-dog," he
said, "this won't do. Never let the engine-oil of discontent leak into
the rum-cask of loyal memories, you know. Now listen to me. Two years
ago you and I wore the wavy gold braid of a valiant life; we surged
along irresistibly in the wake of NELSON; we kept the watch assigned.
Does not your bosom very nearly burst with pride to call those days to
mind? It does. What then? Has it never once occurred to you that the
last remaining link between us and the stirring past is this very
prize-money you are so eager to soil with the grimy clutch of avarice?
Don't you realize that this alone exists to keep our memory green in
the minds of our old leaders at Whitehall? Picture the scene as it is.
Someone mentions the word 'prize-money.' Immediately the Lords of
the Admiralty reach for their record files and begin turning over
the pages. They come upon the names of John Augustus Plimsoll--
yourself--and Horatio Bunbury--me. 'Ah,' they exclaim fondly, 'two of
our old gunroom veterans--when shall we look upon their like again?'
Then they get up and go out to lunch.
"A month or so later the same thing occurs; once more our names leap
out from the type-written page. 'Brave boys,' they murmur, 'gallant
lads! What should we have done without them in the dark days? They
shall have their prize-money this very--why, bless my soul, if it
isn't one o'clock!'
"Surely," pursued Bunbury earnestly, "you appreciate the fine
sentimental value of this one last tie? As long as our prize-money is
in the keeping of the Service we can still think of it with intimate
regard; we can still call ourselves BEATTY'S boys and hide our blushes
when the people sing 'Rule, Britannia.' You must see that this is the
only large-hearted way of looking at the matter."
"Bunbury, old sailor," I said, swallowing a lump in my throat, "you
have done me good; you have made me feel ashamed of myself."
* * * * *
There can be no doubt that Bunbury is right. I am so convinced of it
that when next my tailor inquires anxiously what steps are being taken
for the distribution of prize-money I shall put the matter to him just
as Bunbury put it to me. He is certain to understand.
* * * * *
=Commercial Candour.=
"The newest fashions are now being displayed in ----'s new
dress salons, so that it is an easy matter to select an entire
winter outfit with the minimum of ease."--_Evening Paper_.
* * * * *
"Sir Harry Johnston's 'The Gay Donkeys' has passed its fifth
edition in London."--_Australian Magazine_.
A clear case for the S.P.C.A. (Society for the Prevention of Cruelty
to Authors).
* * * * *
[Illustration: ENCOURAGE HOME INDUSTRIES.
LORD ROBERT CECIL. "I TRUST THAT AFTER ALL WE MAY SECURE AT LEAST YOUR
QUALIFIED SUPPORT FOR OUR LEAGUE OF NATIONS?"
U.S.A. PRESIDENT-ELECT: "WHY, WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH OURS?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Stout Gentleman (overhearing political discussion)_.
"LOOK HERE, MY GOOD FELLOW--I'VE BEEN LISTENING TO YOUR ARGUMENTS; AND
LET ME TELL YOU WE'RE ALL IN THE SAME BOAT."
_Politician_. "LUMME, GUV'NOR, YOU'D BETTER COME IN THE MIDDLE OF IT
THEN."]
* * * * *
=UNAUTHENTIC IMPRESSIONS.=
I think the time has come for me to follow the example of so many
other people and offer to the world a few pen pictures of prominent
statesmen of the day. I shall not call them "Shaving Papers from
Downing Street," nor adopt the pseudonym of "The Man with the Hot
Water (or the Morning Tea)," nor shall I roundly assert that I have
been the private secretary, the doctor, the dentist or the washerwoman
of the great men of whom I speak. Nevertheless I have sources of
information which I do not mean to disclose, except to say that heavy
persons who sit down carelessly on sofas may unknowingly inflict
considerable pain, through the sharp ends of broken springs, on those
beneath.
I shall begin naturally with Mr. LLOYD GEORGE.
There is probably no statesman of whom such widely different estimates
have been formed as the present Prime Minister of Great Britain. I
have heard him compared with THEMISTOCLES, with MACCHIAVELLI, with
MIRABEAU (I think it was MIRABEAU, but it may have been one of those
other people beginning with "M" in French history. Almost everybody in
French history began with an "M," like the things that were drawn by
the three little girls in the well), and even with the younger PITT.
I have heard him spoken of as a charlatan, as a chameleon, as a
chatterbox, and, by a man who had hoped that the KAISER would be
hanged in Piccadilly Circus, as a chouser. Almost all of these
estimates are thoroughly fallacious. Let us take, for instance,
MACCHIAVELLI. It was the declared opinion of MACCHIAVELLI that for the
establishment and maintenance of authority all means may be resorted
to and that the worst and most treacherous acts of the ruler, however
unlawful in themselves, are justified by the wickedness and treachery
of the governed. Has Mr. LLOYD GEORGE ever said this? He may have
thought it, of course, but has he ever said it? No. When one considers
that besides this dictum MACCHIAVELLI wrote seven books on the art
of war, a highly improper comedy, a life of CASTRUCCIO CASTRACANI
(unfinished, and can you wonder?), and was very naturally put to the
torture in 1513, it will be seen how hopelessly the parallel with Mr.
LLOYD GEORGE breaks down.
Let us turn then to the younger PITT. I have read somewhere of the
younger PITT that he cared more for power than for measures, and
was ready to sacrifice great causes with which he had sincerely
sympathised rather than raise an opposition that might imperil his
ascendency. That is just the kind of nasty and long-winded thing that
anybody might say about anybody. It was by disregarding this kind of
criticism that the younger PITT kept on being younger. But apart from
this, does Mr. LLOYD GEORGE quote HORACE in the House? Never, thank
goodness. How many times did WILLIAM PITT cross the English Channel?
Only once in his whole life. That settles it.
The predominant note--I may almost say the keynote--of the PRIME
MINISTER'S character is rather a personal magnetism such as has never
been exercised by any statesman before or after. When he rises to
speak in the House all eyes are riveted on him as though with a
vice until he has finished speaking. Even when he has finished they
sometimes have to be removed by the Serjeant-at-Arms with a chisel.
His speeches have the moral fervour and intensity of one of the Minor
Prophets--NAHUM or AMOS, in the opinion of some critics, though I
personally incline to MALACHI or HABAKKUK. This personal magnetism
which Mr. LLOYD GEORGE radiates in the House he radiates no less in
10, Downing Street, where a special radiatorium has been added to the
breakfast-room to radiate it. Imagine an April morning, a kingfisher
on a woody stream, poplar-leaves in the wind, a shower of sugar shaken
suddenly from a sifter, and you have the man.
It has been said that Mr. LLOYD GEORGE has quarrelled with some of
his nearest friends; but this again is a thing that might happen to
anybody. Mr. LLOYD GEORGE may have had certain slight differences of
opinion with Lord NORTHCLIFFE, but what about HENRY VIII. and WOLSEY?
and HENRY V. and _Falstaff_? and HENRY II. and THOMAS A BECKET?
Talking of THOMAS A BECKET, rather a curious story has been told to
me, which I give for what it is worth. It is stated that some time ago
Mr. LLOYD GEORGE was so enraged by attacks in a certain section of the
Press that he shouted suddenly, after breakfast one morning in Downing
Street, "Will no one rid me of this turbulent scribe?" Whereupon
four knights in his secretarial retinue drew their swords and set out
immediately for Printing House Square. Fortunately there happened to
be a breakdown on the Metropolitan Railway that day, so that nothing
untoward occurred.
I sometimes think that if one can imagine the eloquence of SAVONAROLA
blended with the wiliness of ULYSSES and grafted on to the strength
and firmness of OLIVER CROMWELL, we have the best historical parallel
for Mr. LLOYD GEORGE. It ought to be remembered that the grandfather
of OLIVER CROMWELL came from Wales and that the PROTECTOR is somewhere
described as "Oliver Cromwell _alias_ Williams." Something of that old
power of dispensing with stupid Parliamentary opinion seems to have
descended to our present PRIME MINISTER. There is one difference,
however. OLIVER CROMWELL'S famous advice to his followers was to trust
in Divine Providence "and keep your powder dry." Mr. LLOYD GEORGE puts
his powder in jam.
K.
* * * * *
=Our Patient Fishermen.=
"Mr. ----, jun., had another salmon on the Finavon Water.
This is the second he has secured since the flood."--_Scotch
Paper_.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "DON'T TURN YOUR 'EAD AWAY, MY LORD. WHY, DURIN' THE
WAR IT WAS ALL 'MA, MA, 'AVE YOU ANY MATCHES?'"]
* * * * *
=NEW RHYMES FOR OLD CHILDREN.=
THE WHALE.
_AIR._--_"The Tarpaulin Jacket."_
The whale has a beautiful figure,
Which he makes every effort to spoil,
For he knows if he gets a bit bigger
He increases the output of oil.
That is why he insists upon swathing
His person with layers of fat.
You have seen a financier bathing?
Well, the whale is a little like that.
At heart he's as mild as a pigeon
And extremely attached to his wife,
But getting mixed up with religion
Has ruined the animal's life.
For in spite of his tact and discretion
There is fixed in the popular mind
A wholly mistaken impression
That the whale is abrupt and unkind.
And it's simply because of the prophet
Who got into a ship for Tarshish
But was thrown (very properly) off it
And swallowed alive by "a fish."
Now I should not, of course, have contested
The material truth of the tale
If the prophet himself had suggested
That the creature at fault was a whale.
But the prophet had no such suspicion,
And that is convincing because
He was constantly in a position
To see what the miscreant was.
And this is what punctures the bubble,
As JONAH, no doubt, was aware:
"A _fish_" was the cause of the trouble,
But the whale is a _mammal_. So there!
A. P. H.
* * * * *
=THE LIGHT FANTASTIC.=
"Dancers are born, not made," said John.
"_Some_ are born dancers," corrected Cecilia, "others achieve
dancing."
"Well, I'm not going to have it thrust on me any way," retorted John.
"I never have liked dancing and I never shall. I haven't danced for
years and years and I don't intend to. I don't know any of these
new-fangled dances and I don't want to."
"Don't be so obstinate," said Cecilia. "What you want doesn't matter.
You've got to learn, so you may as well give way decently. Come along
now, I'll play for you, and Margery will show you the steps."
"If Margery attempts to show me the steps I shall show her the door.
I won't be bullied in my own house. Why don't you make your brother
dance, if somebody must?" said John, waving his arm at me.
"Come on, Alan," said Margery; "we can't waste our time on him. Come
and show him how it's done."
"My dear little sister," I said sweetly, "I should simply love it, but
the fact is--I can't."
"Can't," echoed Margery. "Why not?"
"I hate to mention these things," I explained, "but the fact is I
took part in a war that has been on recently, and I have a bad hip,
honourable legacy of same."
"Oh, Alan," said Margery, "how can you? Your hip's absolutely fit, you
know it is. You haven't mentioned it for months."
"My dear Margery," I said, drawing myself up, "I hope your brother
knows how to suffer in silence. But if you suppose that because I
don't complain--Great heavens, child, sometimes in the long silent
watches of the night--"
"Well, how about, tennis, then?" said Margery. "You've been playing
all this summer, you know you have."
"All what summer?" I asked.
"That's a good one," said John; "I bet she can't answer that."
"Don't quibble," said Margery.
"Don't squabble," said Cecilia.
"Yes, stop squibbling," said John.
"I'm not quabbling," said I.
John and I leaned against each other and laughed helplessly.
"When you have finished," said Cecilia with a cold eye, "perhaps you
will decide which of you is going to have the first lesson."
"Good heavens," said John tragically, "haven't they forgotten the
dancing yet?"
"We may as well give way, John," I said; "we shall get no peace until
we do."
"I suppose not," said John dismally "Very well, then, you're her
brother you shall have first go."
He waved me politely to Margery.
"Not at all," I said quickly "Brothers-in-law first in our
family--always."
"Could we both come together?" asked John.
"No, you can't," said Margery.
"Then we must toss for it," said John, producing a coin.
"Tails," I called.
"Tails it is," said John, walking across the room to Margery.
And the lesson commenced.
* * * * *
"_Chassee_ to the right, _chassee_ to the left, two steps forward, two
steps backward, twinkle each way--"
"Five shillings on Twinkle, please," I interrupted.
Margery stopped and looked at me.
"You keep quiet, Alan," shouted Cecilia, cheerfully banging the piano.
"I shall never learn," said John miserably from the middle of the
room, "not in a thousand years."
"Yes, you will," encouraged Margery. "Just listen. _Chassee_ to the
right, _chassee_ to the left, two steps forward, two steps back,
twinkle each way--"
"Take away the number you first thought of," I suggested, "and the
answer's the Louisiana Glide."
"To finish up," said Margery, "we grasp each other firmly, prance
round, two bars...."
"That sounds a bit better," said John.
" ... then waltz four bars," continued Margery, "and that's all. Come
on, now."
They came on....
"Good," said Margery as they finished up; "he's doing it splendidly,
Cecilia."
John beamed complacently.
"I got through that last bit rather well," he said; "'pon my word,
there's more in this dancing than I thought. I quite enjoyed that
twinkling business."
"Have another one," I suggested.
"Don't mind if I do," said John. "May I have the pleasure?" with a
courtly bow to Margery.
They re-commenced.
"That's right," said Margery; "now two forward."
"I must have a natural genius for dancing," said John, conversing
easily; "I seem to ... Do we twinkle next?"
"Yes," said Margery.
"I seem to fall into it naturally."
"Look out!" shrieked Margery.
I don't know exactly what happened; I rather think John got his gears
mixed up in the twinkling business. At any rate, one of his feet shot
up in the air, he made a wild grab at nothing and tripped heavily
backwards into the hearth. The piano was drowned in general uproar.
John arose with difficulty from the ashes and addressed himself
haughtily to Cecilia.
"I can understand that these two," he said, waving a black but
contemptuous hand at Margery and myself, "should scream with delight.
Their whole conception of humour is bound up with banana-skins and
orange-peel. But may I ask why _you_ should have hysterics because
your husband has fallen into the fireplace?"