PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 146.

January 28, 1914.

CHARIVARIA.

Lord Howard de Walden is starting a movement with the admirable object of reinvigorating the drama in Wales by forming a travelling troupe of first-rate actors. It is rumoured that an option has already been obtained on a native comedian who is at present a member of the Cabinet.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer received last week a deputation of the Men of Kent in order to hear their views in support of the preservation of the custom of gavelkind; and many persons, we believe, were surprised to hear that it is a custom and not a disease.

Mr. Ramsay MacDonald, in a speech at Dundee last week, described Mr. Churchill as the worst Liberal First Lord of the Admiralty that had ever occupied the position. It is reported that the right honourable gentleman is having a large number of copies of this statement printed off as a testimonial.

"The Labour organ, The Evening Chronicle," says a Johannesburg telegram, "appeared to-day with the leader column blank." The leaders were, of course, all in gaol.

In addition to Sir Ernest Shackleton's little party an Austrian expedition to the Antarctic is also being organised. Such persons as were intending to go to these regions in the hope of finding quiet and rest there would do well to hesitate, for it looks as if they may be rather overcrowded.

"The American Ambassador," we read last week, "is confined to his room at the Embassy owing to a cold." Colds, we know, are nasty catching things, but we consider it shows cowardice on the part of the staff to have, apparently, locked their chief in his room.

The Duke of Atholl celebrated his jubilee as head of the house of Stewart-Murray last week. In these days to have remained a Duke for so long as fifty years shows no little grit.

"A Farnham resident," a contemporary informs us, "was badly stung by a wasp last week." At this time of year these insects are apt to sting badly, but in the summer they do it quite well.

The Roman Temple which has occupied a prominent position in the grounds of the Crystal Palace during the last three years is to be removed to Bath, and re-erected there. To the grave regret of the élite of Sydenham, an attempt to get Kew to take over the large glass house has failed.

A little while ago, at the Palladium, there was a Moore and Burgess revival. It has evidently been discovered that there is a taste for this sort of entertainment, for it is now announced that Mr. Oscar Asche will produce this year a play by Sir Rider Haggard in which the popular actor and his wife will appear as Zulus.

Joseph, we read, is to be produced at Covent Garden next week. Apparently Sir Herbert Tree's friend has now parted from his Brethren.

A lady in the front of the first circle at Drury Lane, The Express tells us, laughed so heartily the other day in the paper-hanging scene that her artificial teeth fell out and dropped into the stalls. This accentuates the importance of having one's teeth plainly marked with one's name and address.

Mr. Fred Burlingham, who recently descended into the heart of Vesuvius, has written a book entitled "How to become an Alpinist." The idea is good. One likes to learn how to cool oneself after a visit to a crater.

A little girl of our acquaintance has given the most vivid description of a cold that we have yet heard. "Well, Phyllis," we said, "how goes it to-day?" "Horrid," came the answer. "Have to make myself breathe."

"For the first time for forty years," The Daily Mail tells us, "a wild swan, supposed to have flown across the North Sea, has been shot in the marshes of the Isle of Sheppey." It does not say much for the marksmanship of the local sportsmen that this poor creature should have been shot at all those years without being hit.

We learn from The Tailor and Cutter that a garment of double fabric, with india-rubber balls inside to absorb the shock, has been designed for motorists by a Budapest tailor. But surely it is rather the pedestrian who needs this armour?

Mr. W. McDougall declared in a lecture at the Royal Institution last week that the cranial capacity of the savage was equal to that of the average Oxford undergraduate. Cambridge has suspected this for years.

First Urchin. "See, 'err, a Aireoplane!"

Second Urchin. "Where?"

First Urchin. "See, There—that Loose Bit."

"A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea."

"Hitherto more or less content with a wet sea and a flowing sail...."

"Times" Literary Supplement.

It would be terrible if The Times disapproved of the sea being wet.

"Multiply Your Income by 3.

£152 x 3 = £375

Think what you could do if you had three times the income you have now."

Advt. in "Church Times."

Sums perhaps.

"Mr. R. G. Knowles, the famous comedian, is now out of danger, and, acting on his doctor's orders, will start on Thursday for a trip to the Argentine, He will be back in London before the end of Barch."

Liverpool Daily Post.

Without that biserable cold, we hope.

Our Picturesque Language.

Extract from Japanese letter:—

"Our markets do not improve yet but as I working hard as twice than last year our business do not much decay than other person, which I am glad."

We share this gentleman's joy.

A COCKAIGNE OF DREAMS.

Based on Sir Aston Webb's recent vision of what London might be like in a hundred years' time.

Thanks to a gift of piercing sight

(Not far removed from that of Moses),

Beyond the secular veil of night

I see a City crowned with light,

A London redolent of roses.

I note an air of morning prime,

As used by bards for their afflatus,

Recovered from the spacious time

Ere yet a triple coat of grime

Had blocked our breathing-apparatus.

Swept clean of smuts and chimney-stacks

Each roof becomes a blooming garden,

And there, reclining on its backs,

All day the jocund public slacks

As in the thymy glades of Arden.

On Thames's bosom, crystal-clear,

Glad urchins bob about like bladders;

The fly is cast from Wapping pier,

And over the Pool's pellucid weir

Salmon go leaping up their ladders.

I dream how Covent's gritty bowers

(By leave of Mallaby's line) shall wear a

Fat smile to greet the sunnier hours

For joy of battles fought with flowers,

As it might be in Bordighera.

New Bond Streets on the Surrey side

Shall flaunt their gems and rare chinchillas

To swell the local mummer's pride,

And every bridge shall span the tide

With Arcadies of Aston villas.

I see, in fact, old London rise

From smokeless ashes, like a Phœnix,

To moral planes where Beauty lies

And Electricity supplies

The motive power of pure Hygienics.

But not in our time (hush, my heart!);

A score of lustres will have fleeted

Before the Ministry of Art,

Though it should make an early start,

Can hope to see the thing completed.

Meanwhile this London is my place.

Sad though her dirt, as I admit, is,

I love the dear unconscious grace

That shines beneath her sooty face

Better than all your well-groomed cities.

O. S.

"A Belgian Princess and Her Creditors.

'Le Soir' (Brussels) announces that the creditors of Princess Louise will receive the sum of 4,172 millions of francs, and consequently the legal proceedings before the Court of Appeal will not take place."

Pall Mall Gazette.

Such a paltry sum to make a fuss about! But, as usual, we hide our real feelings behind this flippant mask. Reading between the lines we confess to strange apprehensions. Why has the Princess so gravely exceeded her dress allowance? Has she, on behalf of her beloved country, been collecting war-ships? Has she 50 or 60 Dreadnoughts up her sleeve to upset the balance of naval power on "the day"? We make the German Chancellor a present of these disturbing reflections.

HIS SON'S FATHER.

In at least one of our daily newspapers the attention of the public was recently drawn to a brilliant young orator, Anthony Asquith by name, who began a series of lectures at Antibes before influential audiences. The first two of the series dealt with aviation and music respectively. We understand that the titles of the remainder of the series will include "Physical Culture," "The Limitations of Radium," "The Place of Theosophy in Metaphysics," and "The Proper Education of the Child."

We learn from a correspondent that this gifted gentleman (who, by the way, is still quite young, being, well on the bright side of his teens) is a member of a highly-respected London family resident within a stone's throw of Whitehall.

After a career full of promise at Oxford, Master Anthony Asquith's father was called to the Bar; and although he no longer follows the profession of barrister (in which, by the way, he rose to the distinction of King's Counsel), he is not forgotten by many of his old colleagues in Lincoln's Inn. It was at one time common knowledge that he would certainly have been made a judge had he only remained active in his profession. He has devoted the last few years, however, to political work, which has always had a particular attraction for him. As a man of sound judgment and ready acumen, Mr. Anthony Asquith's father is much honoured in the councils of his own party; he is also a very effective speaker, and is sure of a large and appreciative audience whenever he addresses a meeting, whether it be in London or elsewhere.

We venture to predict that the world will hear further of the man whom the remarkable performance of his youthful son has established within the public eye.

THE NEW "AGONY COLUMN."

A forecast of "Servants Wanted" advertisements, by Mr. Punch's own Steno-Volapuker. With acknowledgements to "The Daily Mail."

Ck-Gen, 9-90, £145, rsng £50 yrly, fam 2 (poss mre), no bsmt, stps, wndws, boots, wsbg. R.S.V.P. Mrs. Bolt, Laurel Villa, Lee Green, S.E.

Ck, any age, any wage, 3 fam (wrttn gntee furthr arrvls immed disposed of) no stairs, spats, fncy socks, knves, frks, spoons. Exclnt matrimnal prosps. The Vicarage, Great Outery.

Ck, marrd or sing, if marrd husb can shro 1st flr suite, beaut furn, pri bth rm, sth asp, telephne, mo 'bus psses dr, ex cellar kept. Mrs. Bland, "Nil Desperandum," Muswell Hill, N.

Gen, bright, yng (under 75), £180, pens aftr 6 mnths servce, free costumes, taxis, theatr tics, rail fres, week-ends sunny sth cst (best hotls). Interv Carlt Grill Rm, 8 morrow, eve dress op, will intro husb to engd applcnt, aftwds to Hippo. Mrs. St. John Vernour, Stewkley Mans., W.

Gen, age op, no fam (loathe fams), no early dins, late dins, or hot dins. Wages half emplyrs inc (Chart Accts cert), evry wk-end off, lib breakges (best china only), charm neighbd, young soc, exc golf clb, amatr theatrels (leadg prts guarntd), Cindrlla dnce Twn Hll twee ninthly, ann hoi Deauville, all exes pd, pre-historic ckng only, no veg, caps, aprons, restrictns. Lchkey, long gard, summr hse. Mrs. Rex Jones, The Awnings, Bourne End (Pic pal 3 min).

Imbecile, as Gen, £18, 9 fam (last census), honest, wllng, ohlg, early risr, pin ck, fond hse wk, chldrn, one eve mthly. Mrs. Spero, The Warren, Stickham-in-Clay, Bucks.

THE TRUST CLINCH.

President Wilson. "BREAK AWAY THERE, GENTLEMEN!"

[In his Message to Congress upon legislation regarding Trusts, President Wilson advocated "the effectual prohibition of interlocking" amongst great industrial and financial corporations.]

SCALE OF IMPORTANCE IN THE PRODUCTION OF A MODERN REVUE.

Costumier. Principal Actress. Comedian. Producer. Scene Painter. Composer. Authors.

MUSIC AND MILLINERY.

The luminous suggestion that ladies attending the forthcoming performances of Parsifal should wear mantillas instead of aigrettes is almost the first serious attempt to bring the arts of music and dress into a true and fitting relation. We are therefore not in the least surprised to learn that a movement is on foot to promote sumptuary legislation to secure this end as part and parcel of Mr. Lloyd George's far-reaching programme of social reform. Pending the realisation of these schemes the Editor of Music for the Million has had the happy thought of interviewing a number of distinguished musicians, whose views may be summarised herewith.

Sir Henry Wood said that conductors and orchestral players were extraordinarily sensitive to sartorial influences. Unfortunately the force of tradition was so strong that he found it impossible to indulge his tastes. It was de rigueur to conduct in either a frock or an evening coat, but if he had his own way he would vary his garb for every composer. For example, he would like to wear a harlequin's dress for Strauss, a full-bottomed wig and ruffles for Bach, Haydn and Gluck, a red tie and a cap of Liberty for Schönberg, and the uniform of a Cossack of the Ukraine for Tchaikovsky. Instead of which the utmost liberty that he was allowed was a butterfly tie. He thought that members of the orchestra ought to be permitted to consult their individual tastes in dress. Certain restrictions would of course be needed. Thus, uniforms were all very well for dance and restaurant bands, but he would not like to see the Queen's Hall Symphony Orchestra competing with Blue Bessarabians or Pink Alsatians.

Herr Kubelik declared that a violin virtuoso could never play his best by daylight. Artificial light, full evening dress and diamonds were indispensable in an audience. You would not play bravura music to people in morning costume; it was like drinking champagne out of a teacup.

Mr. Algernon Ashton said that as the highest form of musical composition was a Funeral March he was in favour of making black obligatory for all persons who attended high-class symphonic concerts. The kaleidoscopic colours affected by modern women of fashion distracted serious artists and sometimes made them play wrong notes. An exception might perhaps be allowed in favour of dark purple, because of its association with mourning, but the glaring colour schemes now in vogue were to be deprecated as prejudicial to solemnity. It pained him to see music reduced to the menial position of the handmaid of levity.

Professor Bantock said that he was entirely in favour of establishing an equation between music and the costume of those who performed or listened to it. For instance, he felt that his Omar Kháyyám would make a far deeper impression if the audience were all clad in Persian garb. The same need for local colour would be felt in the case of his new Siberian symphony, though he admitted that it would be a little trying if the work was performed in the dog days. The expense was perhaps a consideration, but people could always afford to purchase a costume for a fancy ball, and why not for a Symphony concert?

Madame Clara Butt said that she found the timbre of her voice was affected by the costumes of the audience. She strongly condemned the practice followed by some ladies of fashion of bringing their Pekinese dogs with them to concerts. It showed disrespect to the performers and involved cruelty to animals, since the Pekinese only appreciated the Chinese five-note scale and detested European harmonies.

Cabinet and Admiralty.

Another Disclaimer.

A correspondent writes:—"There is no reason to believe that the Cabinet will remit to the Board of Admiralty the report of the Land Committee appointed by Mr. Lloyd George with a view to securing the views of the Sea Lords, as possessing a wide knowledge of naval affairs, on this aspect of the Government's policy."

"The men demand, roughly, an increase of 1d. a ton."—Daily Chronicle.

Perhaps if they asked politely they might get it.

SILVER LININGS.

"We want some more coal," said Celia suddenly at breakfast.

"Sorry," I said, engrossed in my paper, and I passed her the marmalade.

"More coal," she repeated.

I pushed across the toast.

Celia sighed and held up her hand.

"Please may I speak to you a moment?" she said, trying to snap her fingers. "Good; I've caught his eye. "We want——"

"I'm awfully sorry. What is it?"

"We want some more coal. Never mind this once whether Inman beat Hobbs or not. Just help me."

"Celia, you've been reading the paper," I said in surprise. "I thought you only read the feuill—the serial story. How did you know Inman was playing Hobbs?"

"Well, Poulton or Carpentier or whoever it is. Look here, we're out of coal. What shall I do?"

"That's easy. Order some more. What do you do when you're out of nutmegs?"

"It depends if the nutmeg-porters are striking."

"Striking! Good heavens, I never thought about that." I glanced hastily down the headlines of my paper. "Celia, this is serious. I shall have to think about this seriously. Will you order a fire in the library? I shall retire to the library and think this over."

"You can retire to the library, but you can't have a fire there. There's only just enough for the kitchen for two days."

"Then come and chaperon me in the kitchen. Don't leave me alone with Jane. You and I and Jane will assemble round the oven and discuss the matter. B-r-r-r. It's cold."

"Not the kitchen. I'll assemble with you round the electric light somewhere. Come on."

We went into the library and rallied round a wax vesta. It was a terribly cold morning.

"I can't think like this," I said, after fifteen seconds' reflection. "I'm going to the office. There's a fire there, anyway."

"You wouldn't like a nice secretary," said Celia timidly, "or an office-girl, or somebody to lick the stamps?"

"I should never do any work if you came," I said, looking at her thoughtfully. "Do come."

"No, I shall be all right. I've got shopping to do this morning, and I'm going out to lunch, and I can pay some calls afterwards."

"Right. And you might find out what other people are doing, the people you call on. And—er—if you should be left alone in the drawing-room a moment ... and the coal-box is at all adjacent.... You'll have your muff with you, you see, and——Well, I leave that to you. Do what you can."

I had a good day at the office and have never been so loth to leave. I always felt I should get to like my work some time. I arrived home again about six. Celia was a trifle later, and I met her on the mat as she came in.

"Any luck?" I asked eagerly, feeling in her muff. "Dash it, Celia, there are nothing but hands here. Do you mean to say you didn't pick up anything at all?"

"Only information," she said, leading the way into the drawing-room. "Hallo, what's this? A fire!"

"A small involuntary contribution from the office. I brought it home under my hat. Well, what's the news?"

"That if we want any coal we shall have to fetch it ourselves. And we can get it in small amounts from greengrocers. Why greengrocers, I don't know."

"I suppose they have to have fires to force the cabbages. But what about the striking coal-porters? If you do their job, won't they picket you or pick-axe you or something?"

"Oh, of course, I should hate to go alone. But I shall be all right if you come with me."

Celia's faith in me is very touching. I am not quite so confident about myself. No doubt I could protect her easily against five or six great brawny hulking porters ... armed with coal-hammers ... but I am seriously doubtful whether a dozen or so, aided with a little luck, mightn't get the better of me.

"Don't let us be rash," I said thoughtfully. "Don't let us infuriate them."

"You aren't afraid of a striker?" asked Celia in amazement.

"Of an ordinary striker, no. In a strike of bank-clerks, or—or chess-players, or professional skeletons, I should be a lion among the blacklegs; but there is something about the very word coal-porter which——You know, I really think this is a case where the British Army might help us. We have been very good to it."

The British Army, I should explain, has been walking out with Jane lately. When we go away for week-ends we let the British Army drop in to supper. Luckily it neither smokes nor drinks nor takes any great interest in books. It is a great relief, on your week-ends in the country, to know that the British Army is dropping in to supper, when otherwise you might only have suspected it. I may say that we are rather hoping to get a position in the Army Recruiting film on the strength of this hospitality.

"Let the British Army go," I said. "We've been very kind to him."

"I fancy Jane has left the service. I don't know why."

"Probably they quarrelled because she gave him caviare two nights running," I said. "Well, I suppose I shall have to go. But it will be no place for women. To-morrow after-noon I will sally forth alone to do it. But," I added, "I shall probably return with two coal-porters clinging round my neck. Order tea for three."

Next evening, after a warm and busy day at the office, I put on my top-hat and tail coat and went out. If there was any accident I was determined to be described in the papers as "the body of a well-dressed man." To go down to history as "the body of a shabbily-dressed individual" would be too depressing. Beautifully clothed, I jumped into a taxi and drove to Celia's greengrocer. Celia herself was keeping warm by paying still more calls.

"I want," I said nervously, "a hundredweight of coal and a cauliflower." This was my own idea. I intended to place the cauliflower on the top of a sack, and so to deceive any too-inquisitive coal-porter. "No, no," I should say, "not coal; nice cauliflowers for Sunday's dinner."

"Can't deliver the coal," said the greengrocer.

"I'm going to take it with me," I explained.

He went round to a yard at the back. I motioned my taxi along and followed him at the head of three small boys who had never seen a top-hat and a cauliflower so close together. We got the sack into position.

"Come, come," I said to the driver, "haven't you ever seen a dressing-case before? Give us a hand with it or I shall miss my train and be late for dinner."

He grinned and gave a hand. I paid the greengrocer, pressed the cauliflower into the hand of the smallest boy, and drove off....

It was absurdly easy.

There was no gore at all.

"There!" I said to Celia when she came back. "And when that's done I'll get you some more."

"Hooray! And yet," she went on, "I'm almost sorry. You see, I was working off my calls so nicely, and you'd been having some quite busy days at the office, hadn't you?"

A. A. M.

This is not a cloak-room but the lounge of a fashionable London hotel.

OLYMPIC TALENT.

A topical fantasy suggested by the decay of our athletic prowess and the apparent apathy of the nation as to the fate that may befall it in the international contest of 1916.

My England, so the chance has fled!

Olympian years to come shall knot not

The athlete's guerdon for thy head

But crown the wigs of Serbs and what not.

There were who sought thy shame to shield

From men that mocked the sea-kings' fibres

By opening funds, but these appealed

To singularly few subscribers.

"A trifling hundred thou.," they wrote,

"To ease the joints and stiffening sockets."

The public acted like a goat,

They kept the cash inside their pockets.

So mused I sadly; and since new

Sensations oft from grief can jerk us

I went to see the "Wonder Zoo,"

Herr Hagenbeck's surprising circus.

There where the Model Homes were built

That left some while ago the bard bored

I watched the Nubian lions wilt

In imitation lairs of cardboard.

And sudden, whilst I saw them roll—

Those monster cats—beyond their ha-ha,

A solace came into my soul,

I murmured sotto voce, "Aha!

"If but yon sunken fence were filled,

So that these grim-faced brutes might cross it,

Are there no athletes here undrilled,

Veiled by their adipose deposit?

"In slothful ease Britannia shirks;

But haply, near these sundering ditches,

Some mute inglorious miler lurks

Under a morning coat and breeches.

"Oh, if the gulf were bridged! What late,

What all undreamed-of hurdle-winners

Might blossom from a natural hate

Of forming parts of feline dinners?

"Yes, even I, the motley fool,

Starting from scratch and willy nilly

Might prove it needs no Yankee school

To knock the level hundred silly.

"The gymnast's art should all be mine

As, clambering from the scene of pillage,

I roosted safe in yon red pine

(Left over from the Russian village).

"Ay, and if all old tales are wrong

And lions climb—from that asylum

I should come out extremely, strong,

Using my brolly for a pilum."

Evoe.

THE INDOMITABLES.

There is trouble ahead for some of our Peers.

I have just come across three fore-warnings of it.

The first was in the train. A fat man was telling his grievance to a thin man.

"I'll stick at nothing," he said. "I mean to see this through. The idea! Why, we've only been in the house seven weeks. Remember that. Remember also that gas is half-a-crown a thousand. And understand that we're most economical; we're always turning the lights down, my wife and I. Now then; in spite of this the rascals want me to pay on sixty thousand feet! It's preposterous. We couldn't have got through so much if we had never let a burner or a stove go out day or night. And we're economical! What do you say to that?"

The thin man said that he had never heard anything so infamous in his life.

"But I'm going to fight it, I can tell you," said the fat man. "Oh yes. If necessary I'll take it to the House of Lords."

"Quite right," said the thin man, picking up his paper.

The second case was late at night, in the corner of a restaurant. Two men were talking near me and I heard most of it.

"It was like this," said one, who might have been a journalist from the look of him, to the other, whom I could not exactly place, but fancied he was perhaps remotely connected with music. He yawned rather more than I should have liked had I been the narrator. "It was like this. There were eight of us to dinner and five of us had old brandy at two bob a go. Only five. The first lot was poured out by the waiter, so there can be no trouble over that; that's ten bob. Then three or four of us had another go. Do you see?"

The musician came back to earth and said that he saw.

"Very well. Even supposing that we did overpour a little, we didn't have more than ten portions altogether. That I can swear to. Yet what do you think the bill said? 'Liqueurs, two pounds.' Think of it!"

The musician woke up and made the motions of a man thinking of it and finding it the limit.

"Of course I refused to pay," the journalist went on.

"Of course," said the musician.

"And now we're fighting it. But I don't care if it breaks me, I'll resist it. If necessary I'll take it to the House of Lords."

The third case happened only this morning. I met in the street an artist friend.

"Hullo," I said, "I don't often see you out and about at this hour when there's so little decent daylight."

"No," he said, "it's an awful bore, but I've got to see a lawyer. The fact is I'm in for litigation."

"You?" I cried.

"Yes, me. It's dead against my nature, I know, but this is serious. In the public interest a fellow must do something unpleasant now and then."

"What is it?" I asked, drawing him towards a comfortable resort where cordials against this appalling weather were obtainable.

"The fact is," he said, "my wife's been poisoned."

"Poisoned!"

"I don't mean in the Borgia way. Not any Catherine de Medici tricks. No, merely in a London restaurant. Out shopping the other day she had lunch in one of those West End places and she's been ill ever since. A dish of curry. Well, I'm going to have those people's blood, and incidentally some money too, I hope."

"I wish you joy of the experience," I said.

"I know all about that," he replied dismally; "but it's got to be done. And I'm going through with it."

"You'll stick at nothing?" I said.

"Nothing," he replied. "If necessary—"

"I know," I said.

"What?"

"If necessary you'll take it to the House of Lords."

"Yes; but how did you know?"

"I guessed it," I replied; "but you'll be horribly congested there."