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PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 146

May 20, 1914.

CHARIVARIA.

It is comforting to know that we need not yet despair of human nature. Even the most abandoned politician may have one redeeming quality. For example, The Express tells us that Mr. Winston Churchill is a reader of The Express.

It is reported to be the intention of General Botha to visit this country in June or July, and the Labour Party here are said to be already taking steps with a view to having him deported as an undesirable.

If Mr. Henry Chaplin has been correctly reported he is even more of a reactionary than most of his opponents imagined. In the course of the debate on the Sunday Closing Bill he is said to have delivered himself as follows:—"Drunkenness is diminishing, and I say Thank God; long may it continue." The pious ejaculation would seem to be an expression of gratitude for the joys of inebriety.

"Does the nightingale really boycott the land of Llewelyn and Mr. Lloyd George—and why?" asks an anxious inquirer in a contemporary. If it is so we suspect the reason is a fear on the part of the bird that the Chancellor may get to know of the rich quality of his notes and tax him out of existence.

Mr. George Storey has been elected a Royal Academician. This will surprise no one. Burlington House has always favoured the Storey picture. And as regards Mr. H. S. Tuke, who was promoted at the same time, his serial tale, "Three Boys and a Boat," has now been running for quite a number of years.

"English," says Mr. Balfour, "is abominably difficult." But Erse is worse.

Despatched at Teddington twenty-three years ago a postcard has just been delivered at Walton-on-Thames. The postal authorities trust that the publication of this fact will induce people to exercise a little patience when they do not receive correspondence which they expect, instead of at once jumping to the conclusion that it has been lost.

As a consequence of recent outrages at the Royal Academy the Council is reported to be testing "unbreakable glass." No doubt the Indestructible Paint Company is also circularising artists.

A man walking across St. Paul's Churchyard gave a remarkable exhibition of presence of mind one day last week. He was knocked down under a motor-omnibus, but managed so to arrange himself that the wheels passed clear of him. Cinema operators will be obliged if he will give them due notice of any intention to repeat the turn.

"The London General Omnibus Company advertises itself, so why shouldn't we?" said the L.C.C. Tramways—so they had a nice little collision on the Embankment last week.

At the second annual celebration of "Mothers' Day" at the London Central Y.M.C.A., an eloquent address was delivered by the secretary of the association, Mr. Virgo. The thought that, in spite of his name, this gentleman, try as he might, could never become a mother is said to have raised a lump in the throat of many a member of the audience.

We are glad to hear that "Hospital Egg Week" has been a success. We find it difficult, however, to believe one account, which states that sufficient new-laid eggs have been contributed to last the whole year.

"If Adam had lived till now," says Mr. Snowden, "and had worked hard at honest labour the whole time, and had been a thrifty man withal, he would not have had an income like some of those enjoyed to-day." Mr. Snowden is apparently presuming that Adam's wife would have lived as long as her husband.

At his examination in bankruptcy a Clacton monumental mason attributed his failure to the healthfulness of the neighborhood. Suggested motto for Clacton funeral artists: "Si monumentum requiris—go elsewhere."

Among probable forthcoming improvements at the Zoological Gardens is the provision of a band on Sunday. But one great difficulty, we imagine, will be to persuade the laughing hyena and certain other rowdy animals not to take part in the performances.

The didactic drama is with us again, and this time we are to be taught to feel affection for the unpopular. Love Cheats is the hortatory title of a play to be produced by Miss Horniman's company next month.

Mr. Margam Jones has written a volume entitled Angels in Wales. Nonconformists, we presume.

THE NEW DRESS.

BAD LANGUAGE.

"BAD LANGUAGE.
From Sir Herbert Tree.
To the Editor of The Daily Mail."
We hope the Editor replied suitably.

"WHO FEARS TO SPEAK OF"—NINETEEN-SIX?

[Thoughts on "a Bill for the Better (sic) Government of Ireland."]

There was an Isle all green and fair

Where milk and whisky used to flow,

Where, thanks to lavish legislators,

The pious cult of pigs and taters.

Filled with content the balmy air—

Eight little years ago!

Distressful she had been, a land

Of kine curtailed and burning ricks,

Until we others oped our purses

To rectify her feudal curses

And freed the soil with generous hand—

Prior to nineteen-six.

Though still the casual moonlight raid

Occurred at seasons, just for joy,

New brands of owners, fat and thriving,

Had lost their use for cattle-driving,

And agitation's artful aid,

Pined for its old employ.

Then came the Liberals in and eyed

This land where Peace had poised her wings;

And "O!" said they, "how sad a smutch on

Our clean United Kingdom's 'scutcheon!

It is our duty to provide

A Better State of Things."

Eight years ago! And now we see

The dogs of war about to bay;

The Bill for Ruling Ireland Better

(Strangely enough) has so upset her

That pretty soon there ought to be

The Devlin's self to pay.

So, when the general atmosphere

Becomes opaque with flying bricks,

And those who ran the Home Rule movement

Bid me applaud this marked improvement,

From pure politeness I shall fear

To speak of nineteen-six.

O. S.

BUSINESSFRIENDSHIP.

Have you heard from —— this year? Mine came last night. Of course (to keep it among ourselves) I am not going to say who —— is beyond mentioning (for the purpose of handy reference) that he appears to have been christened Josef and that the capital from which he writes (or alleges that he writes) is associable with a high standard of musical comedy. His communication is very much underlined, very profuse of the mark of exclamation in quite unnecessary places (until, indeed, the sign begins to assume an absolutely satirical value), and very ornate with little amputated hands, all pointing out the short cut to illimitable wealth. Now you understand.

The envelope was addressed, as Josef himself assures me that his future communications will be, "in the most discreet manner," and yet....

"Put it into the waste-paper basket, my dear," I said to Philippa, who had brought it in with some curiosity. "We need not open it. It is only Josef offering us another fortune." Need I say that she at once opened it?

My address, according to Josef, had been given to him "by a mutual businessfriend." This threw me into a contemplation. Who could it be? Spraggs had certainly toured the capitals of Central Europe last autumn, but he never mentioned Josef on his return. Harris? Well, one would scarcely call Harris a businessfriend. Filmer? No, Filmer is too selfish, I fear, to do me so good a turn. Ah, of course! Kelly, dear old burly rubicund Kelly, with his unfailing memory for an address and his delightfully abbreviated style. And he goes everywhere too: the very man. I can almost hear him saying it: "Then there's Johnson, my staunch old businessfriend Johnson, whom I can trace right back as far as my impressions of 1912; mustn't leave him out. I think I can—yes, I have it: John Fdk. Johnson, 72, Chestnut Av., Mayfield Pk., S.W. You've got that?" Josef has it.

Josef, it appears, possesses a few tickets, and I gather that for some reason he does not require all of them himself. Naturally he turns to the friend of our mutual businessfriend. Will I participate in the distribution of "many, many million within five months?" The first prize is one—but perhaps I had better express it as Josef loves to do. The first prize is

The chance, he goes on to say, is "without any risk worth mentioning." Still, he does mention it. He mentions it quite explicitly so that there shall be no mistake. The risk is as follows:—

"All tickets forwarded (paid for) belong to the customer," I am assured, "from the moment of dispatch and play, of course, on his account."

I fancy I see what Josef means, but I don't think that the expression, "play, of course, on his account," is altogether well chosen. I think it might have been phrased more felicitously.

You will not be surprised to know that Josef's interest, stimulated by our mutual businessfriend, goes beyond my mere personality. He reminds me—Philippa is quite affected by this—that there are others. "The astonishing advantages ... must induce to serious consideration anyone who is looking after his own welfare, and that of those near and dear to him as well."—Yet Josef can be almost stern when there is occasion, and he tersely warns me that it is a chance which "probably never will be offered to you again!"

Ah, well.

I suppose that I shall give a miss as usual. It isn't that I doubt a single word of Josef's splendid optimism on my behalf. It isn't that I really mind the always, to me, inexplicable fact that every second ticket is guaranteed to draw a prize, while the lowest prize is double the amount charged for the ticket. It isn't (altogether) that I distrust Philippa's rosy presentiment. I think it is the concluding paragraph that settles it. I read:—

Will you become
A Millionaire?

Fill out this Order-Form and send it to me by return of post with the necessary remittance!

That last and entirely superfluous note of exclamation seems only to be adequately vocalised as a chuckle. And as I listen it does not seem to be myself that is laughing.

Mr. Lloyd George is already using his influence with the new War Minister. In the Army Orders for March, 1914, we read:—

"Paragraph 555, line 4. For '4d.' substitute '9d.'"

THE CONCERT OF SOUTH AMERICA.

The Mediators. "PARDON, MADAM, BUT YOU HAVE HAD A LOT OF EXPERIENCE OF THIS KIND OF THING. HOW DO YOU DO IT?"

Europa. "OH, WE JUST TALK AND TALK—AND THEN TALK!"

First Player (encouragingly)."Bad luck! Well tried!"
Second Player (petulantly)."I didn't try for anything."

THE PIERCING OF THE VEIL.

"I think," says Dr. Lynch in The Daily Chronicle, "that a man leaves some trace of himself in every sentence that he writes. What then of works so extensive as Shakspeare's? Certainly we should see him through and through if we only knew how to look."

We do know how to look, and we have done so with results that can hardly fail to astonish the reader. It has long been known, for instance, that Shakspeare was a good man of business, but until our researches no one had realised quite how good. His theatre had to pay, and he knew as well as any modern manager how to make it do so. That he realised, for instance, the attractions of American dance tunes is evident from his reference to "rags to split the ears of the groundlings" (Hamlet, Act III., Scene 2).

Apart from his business Shakspeare had private ambitions. We all know that he applied for a grant of arms, but few are aware that he also stood for Parliament, and, like many another, regretted the expense after it was incurred. "Almost all," he says feelingly, "repent in their election" (Coriolanus, Act II., Scene 3). His exact political views are still uncertain, but, at any rate, we may be sure that he disapproved of the Lords, for he boldly announced the fact in the Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act V., Scene 4, where he says, "One house, one mutual happiness."

But these are serious matters. What of his hours of ease? That he golfed there can now be no manner of doubt. In The Tempest, Act IV., Scene 1, he refers to the "short grassed green," and in Hamlet, Act II., Scene 2, he earns our respect by the simple statement, "I went round," without any tedious details. Possibly the "thousand marks in links" in the first part of Henry IV., Act III., Scene 3, explains this reticence, but, at any rate, he occasionally found one whom he fancied he could beat; witness his remark in Twelfth Night, Act II., Scene 3, "Sir Toby, I must be round with you."

And, golf over, he liked his pipe and his glass. The "smoke and lukewarm water" mentioned in Timon of Athens, Act III., Scene 6, only needs the addition of a dash of whisky to make an evening any of us might enjoy; and his words in Anthony and Cleopatra, Act I., Scene 2, "We bring forth weeds when our quick minds are still," will find an echo in many a chest. In this connection it might be noted that he took an occasional holiday in France. That at least seems a reasonable assumption when so keen a smoker cries, as he does in The Merchant of Venice, Act III., Scene 1, "I have another bad match."

A VAGRANT.

The humble bee

No skep has he,

No twisted, straw-thatched dome,

A ferny crest

Provides his nest,

The mowing-grass his home.

The crook-beaked shrike

His back may spike

And pierce him with a thorn;

The humble bee

A tramp is he

And there is none to mourn.

O'er bank and brook,

In wooded nook,

He wanders at his whim,

Lives as he can,

Owes naught to man,

And man owes naught to him.

No hive receives

The sweets he gives,

No flowers for him are sown,

Yet wild and gay

He hums his way,

A nomad on his own.

THE SUFFERER.

Having engaged a sleeping-berth I naturally hurried, coin in hand, to the conductor, as all wise travellers do (usually to their discomfiture), to see if I could be accommodated with a compartment to myself and be guaranteed against invasion.

The carriage was full.

I then sought my compartment, to learn the worst as to my position, whether above or below the necessarily offensive person who was to be my companion.

He was already there, and we exchanged the hard implacable glare that is reserved among the English for the other fellow in a wagon-lit compartment.

When I discovered that to him had fallen the dreaded upper berth I relaxed a little, and later we were full of courtesies to each other—renunciations of hat-pegs, racks and so forth, and charming mutual concessions as to the light, which I controlled from below—so that by morning we were so friendly that he deemed me a fit recipient of his Great Paris Grievance.

This grievance, which he considered that everyone should know about, bears upon the prevalence of spurious coins in the so-called Gay City and the tendency of Parisians to work them off on foreigners. As he says, a more inhospitable course one cannot conceive. Foreigners in Paris should be treated as guests, and just now, with all this Entente talk, the English especially. But no. It is the English who are the first victims of the possessor of obsolete francs, two-franc and five-franc pieces guiltless of their country's silver and ten-franc pieces into whose composition no gold has entered.

He had been in Paris but an hour or so when—but let me tell the story as my travelling companion told it to me.

"I don't know what your experience in Paris has been," he said, "but I have been victimised right and left."

He was now getting up while I lay at comparative ease in my berth and watched his difficulties in the congested room and thought what horrid vests he wore.

"I had been in Paris but a few hours," he continued, "when it was necessary to pay a cabman. I handed him a franc. He examined it, laughed and returned it. I handed him another. He went through the same performance. Having found some good money to get rid of him, I sat down outside a café to try and remember where I had received the change in which these useless coins had been inserted. During a week in Paris much of my time was spent in that way."

He sighed and drew on his trousers. His braces were red.

"I showed the bad francs to a waiter," he went on, "and he, like the cabman, laughed. In fact, next to an undressed woman, there is no stroke of wit so certain of Parisian mirth as a bad coin. The first thought of everyone to whom I showed my collection was to be amused." His face blackened with rage. "This cheerful callousness in a matter involving a total want of principle and straight-dealing as between man and man," he said, "denotes to what a point of cynicism the Parisians have attained."

I agreed with him.

"The waiter," he continued, "went through my money and pointed out what was good and what either bad or out of currency. He called other waiters to enjoy the joke. It seemed that in about four hours I had acquired three bad francs, one bad two-franc piece and two bad five-franc pieces. I put them away in another pocket and got fresh change from him, which, as I subsequently discovered, contained one obsolete five-franc piece and two discredited francs. And so it went on. I was a continual target for them."

Here he began to wash, and the story was interrupted.

When he re-emerged I asked him why he didn't always examine his change.

"It's very difficult to remember to do so," he said, "and, besides, I am not an expert. Anyway, it got worse and worse, and when a bad gold piece came along I realised that I must do something so I wrote to the Chief of the Police."

"In French?" I asked.

"No, in English—the language of honesty. I told him my own experiences. I said that other English people whom I had met had testified to similar trouble; and I put it to him that as a matter of civic pride—esprit de pays—he should do his utmost to cleanse Paris of this evil. I added that in my opinion the waiters were the worst offenders."

"Have you had a reply?" I asked.

"Not yet," he said, and having completed his toilet he made room for me.

I thought about him a good deal and sympathised not a little, for he seemed a good sort of fellow and might possibly have had his calculations as to expenditure considerably upset by his adventures. It certainly was a shame!

Later, meeting him in the restaurant-car I asked him to show me his store of bad money. I wanted to see for myself what those coins were like.

"I haven't got them," he said.

"You sent them to the Chief of the Police with your letter, I suppose?" I said.

"No, I didn't," he replied. "The fact is—well—as a matter of fact I managed to work them all off again."

"At the beginning of the season good bowling performances are not unusual—batsmen get themselves out so easily—but Barratt's bowling yesterday was better than his figures.... Five times yesterday he broke right across the wicket from leg, but none of those magnificent balls got wickets, perhaps because it was too early in the season."—Times.

The beginning of the season seems rather a tricky time.

"Death of Collar: Cobham Stud's severe loss."—Yorkshire Post.

The converse of this accident occurred to us the other day, when our Whitefriars collar lost its stud.

"Richard I.... at once began to prepare the third crusade. In 1190 he started, and reached Acre in June, 1911."

"Everyman" Encyclopædia.

Thus missing King George Vth's Coronation.

Customer. "This is a beautiful chop, waiter, the best you've ever—— "

Waiter. "Yes, an' I won't 'arf cop nothing. That was the boss's chop what I've giv you in mistake."

VANDALISM.

The new proposals with regard to the water supply of the City of Glasgow are causing, we are not surprised to learn, the utmost fury and consternation throughout Scotland. Criticism has concentrated especially upon two points: the imminent risk of submerging Robert the Bruce's Stone and, of course, the danger of tampering in however slight a degree with the birthplace of Rob Roy. The passive resistance movement has already assumed such proportions that one enterprising publisher feels justified in announcing a new cheap edition of the "Waverley Novels," illustrated from local photographs.

There is, of course, another side to the question. As far as the stone goes it is contended:—

(1) That no one knows why it should have belonged to Robert the Bruce, where he got it or what he did with it when he had it.

(2) That the fact of its being under water would not impair its value in any way and at the same time would give an historical flavour to every glass of mitigated whisky thereafter drunk in the City of Glasgow.

(3) That it could very easily be shifted a bit up the hill if it is desired to keep it dry, and a small permanent umbrella erected over it.

With regard to Rob Roy's birthplace the contention is that it is practically impossible to construct a new reservoir in these days anywhere north of the Tweed which will not interfere in some way with one or other of the places where Rob Roy was born.

It is not only Scotchmen, however, who have been touched to the quick by this irreverent and thoughtless proposal. The whole literary profession is up in arms. A memorial is being prepared to be presented to the Prime Minister, under the heading, "Hands off Rob Roy!" Mr. Punch himself has not been idle in the matter. He has spent the last week in eliciting the opinions of some of our leading writers on this vital question.

Mr. William de Morgan (in a charming, if rather discursive, letter of 32,000 words) demands legislation. "Who knows," he asks, "to what lengths this modern craze for water supplies may go? It is even possible that, within a century, attempts may be made to submerge that delightful little cottage in the county of Essex where Ghost met Ghost."

Mr. Bernard Shaw, interviewed on his doorstep, derided the action of the Glasgow Corporation. No amount of water, he told our representative, could have the least effect in making our modern cities less beastly than they were. For his part, however, he was taking no risks. He had that morning arranged for the erection of a spiked iron fence twenty feet high round the (supposed) birthplace of Eliza Doolittle.

Mr. Arnold Bennett writes:—"I have every sympathy with the widespread indignation of my fellow-authors, but personally I am not very closely concerned. My position is secure: no one is likely to tamper with the Five Towns in an attempt to improve their washing facilities."

"Might I suggest to the learned pundits of the House of Lords, if it is not too late," writes Mrs. Florence Barclay, "that a writer who, in his day, enjoyed such a circulation as that of Sir Walter Scott—this is, of course, fundamentally a question of circulation—is not to be treated in this cavalier fashion? For oneself, whatever fate may be in store for the precious local associations of one's past work, it is fortunately possible to make the future secure. I am laying the scene of my new romance, of which the fifth chapter is almost completed, on the top of an inaccessible hill."

Mr. H. G. Wells points out that there is no particular need in his case to take action. He hopes that by the day when the conditions in time and space of his latest novel come into being every household in the country will be supplied with its own water by a process of filtered absorption from the atmosphere.

It is anticipated that something definite will be done by the special committee of the Authors Society which has been appointed with the view of extending the law of copyright so as to secure the author's undoubted property in his local associations.

BILLET DOUX.

Monday's breakfast is never a jovial affair. One always has the feeling that something dreadful has happened or is going to happen. Thus, three days ago I had with a light heart handed over my practice to a locum and my books to an accountant, telling the one to look up my bad patients and the other to look up my bad debts, while I went away to end the week with the Wrefords. Twelve hours ago it had seemed that I should never know such happiness in this world again as I had found with them, and here we all were on Monday morning with everything changed, Mrs. Wreford sulking in bed and Wreford displaying a polite but firm hatred of me and all the world. In this case my feeling was that something dreadful was happening.

"Mornin', Wreford," said I, as I took my place at table.

"Mornin', Everall," he grunted, barely looking up from his letters, and that seemed to end the dialogue. When, however, one's host is also one's most valuable patient, there is call for a special effort. He had all the correspondence, I had none; in an emergency this suggested itself as a matter of comment.

"To me," I said chattily, "things seem to be just as badly managed at the Post Office as they were in Samuel's time."

"Was there a post office in those days?" he asked, without noticeable enthusiasm.

"The Samuel Herbert," I explained, and that again seemed to end it.

After a pause, "However," I said kindly, "you enjoy your letters and I will find what consolation and company I can in a poached egg."

"Enjoy?" asked Wreford. "But you are being sarcastic, no doubt."

"Only panel doctors can afford to be that," I murmured.

Wreford's first letter appeared to pain him, and he looked at me sternly, as if the evils of this life were all my fault. Then he unbent a little.

"Tell me, Everall," said he, "have you enjoyed your little visit to us?"

The question took me by surprise but it was, at any rate, one to be answered in the affirmative.

"And you are proportionately grateful?" he pursued.

I protested, somewhat lamely, that I most certainly was.

"Gratitude, it seems," said he, "may express itself in the most odd manner."

"Mine," I replied stiffly, "will express itself in the customary letter."

"What, another?" he asked, adding, after a pause, "Do you refer to the note which your solicitors will write me forthwith and charge me three-and-sixpence for?"

I thought deeply but was baffled. "It is full early in the morning for the cryptic and abstruse," I said.

Wreford sighed as he slowly folded up his letter and put it in its envelope. "It is the one moment in the week," he explained, "when the very worst must be expected."

I begged him to elucidate the position.

"Suppose," said he, "you had invited a man to stay with you for the week-end, had motored him down from town on the Friday night and given him dinner and a nice big bed, and on Saturday more meals and more bed, and on Sunday still more meals and still more bed, and on the Monday morning a nice yellow-and-white poached egg all to himself."

"I quite appreciate all that," said I.

"And suppose, while he was still sitting at your table and working his way through the bit of toast where the egg once sat, you received a letter from him."

"A letter from me?" I cried.

"You said your thanks would be expressed in a letter, but the promptitude of it has surprised even yourself, hasn't it? I should have received it yesterday, but that there is no Sunday post, happily."

"You remember I said I was very grateful," said I, still not understanding.

"And I said that gratitude had a queer way of expressing itself sometimes," said he, handing over the letter at last. "Read it aloud," he added; "I find the style original."

"Harley Street, W. 25th April, 1914," I read. "Thomas Wreford, Esquire, debtor to John Everall. For professional services, 1912 to 1913, thirty-eight guineas."

"Go on," he said. "The postscript is where your gratitude becomes the most exuberant."

"Your attention will oblige," I finished.

"Well, what do you think of it?" he asked with a smile.

"I prefer not to," said I, also smiling tentatively.

There was a silence. "However," said Wreford eventually, "let us say no more about it." At this my smile became firmer and more expansive. "Let us agree," he said significantly, "to let bygones be bygones."

My smile died out suddenly, as smiles do on a Monday morning.

"In practice yesterday Mr. Hilton did 72 in a three-hole match."

Liverpool Daily Post.

We must challenge him at once.

HIGHWAY LOOT.

Ah! the lapse of courtly manners,

Ah! the change from knighthood's code

Since the day when oil and spanners

Ousted horseflesh from the road!

This I realised most fully

Last week-end at Potter's Bar

When a beetle-flattening bully

Held me up in Laura's car.

"Where," I shouted, "are the graces,

Officer, of days long dead?

Never mind how hot our pace is,

Conjure up the past instead;

Dream of chaises and postilions,

Turnpike bars that ope and shut;

Try to get some more resilience

Into your confounded nut.

"Blooms are bursting in the covers

Even as they burst to-day

(Not to mention tyres); two lovers

Post to Scotland, let us say;

Sudden from the hedge comes Turpin,

Pistols cocked and debonair;

Both the horses stand up perpen-

dicularly in the air.

"What occurs? The gallant caitiff,

Noticing the swain is poor

(Courtesy with him is native,

Not like you, suburban boor),

Bows, and says in accents sunny,

'Pass along, Sir—make good speed;

I'm convinced you've got no money

And I do not want your bleed.

"'Sweet be Maytime to your noses;

Short is life, but love is sweet,

There's a city man named Moses

Whom I've simply got to meet;

On you go, you two young larkers;'

Then he bids his Jew disgorge

Or reserves his brace of barkers

For the coach of D. Lloyd George.

"Such the good high Toby fashion;

Surely in your bosom stirs,

Constable, a like compassion