PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOLUME 147

AUGUST 5th 1914.

edited by Owen Seaman

HINTS TO MILLIONAIRES.

When you bathe engage all the bathing-boxes so as to have the sea to yourself uncontaminated.

CHARIVARIA.

Sir Robert Lorimer has been appointed architect for the restoration of Whitekirk church, East Lothian, which was burnt down by Suffragettes last February. There is a feeling among the militants that, since it is owing to the exertions of women that the work has to be done, it ought to have been given to a woman architect.

Two Suffragettes who were charged, last week, at Bow Street with obstructing the police, refused to give their ages. Presumably the information would have shown that they were old enough to know better.

A committee of the Metropolitan Water Board reports that Thames water is purified at least 1,000 times before delivery to consumers. It looks as if there may, after all, be something in the complaints which reach the Board from time to time as to its water being absolutely flavourless.

The London Fire Brigade Committee has decided to ignore a demand from the Corporation Workers' Union for the reinstatement of a fireman who refused to obey an order on the ground that it involved too great a danger to him. For ourselves we are surprised at the moderation of the Union. We should have expected them to insist also on a medal for life-saving being bestowed on the man.

Dr. Ignatius Moerbeck, an engineer living on the Amazon, asserts that the river which Mr. Roosevelt claims to have placed on the map had long since been surveyed by him. The prettiest touch in Dr. Moerbeck's statement is to the effect that the real name of the river is Castanha, which means Chestnut.

Furs worth about £3,000 were stolen from a Chiswell Street firm last week. This gives one some idea of the intensity of the recent cold snap.

Mr. Lyn Harding, it is announced, has acquired a new play in four Acts entitled Bed Rock. Surely the lullaby touch in the title is a mistake? Audiences are quite prone enough to fall asleep without these soporific aids.

"I am not," says M. Paul Bourget, "responsible for the words I put into the mouths of my characters." We await a similar declaration from Mr. B. Shaw.

Another impending apology! Extract from the official Report of the Annual General Meeting of a Company that publishes certain illustrated papers:—"Our stock of published original black-and-white drawings, made by many of the foremost artists of the day, stand at nothing in our books."

A legacy of £10,000 has been left to a clerk in the Ashton-under-Lyme Waterworks Office by a gentleman who had intimated that he "would remember him in his will." We are so glad that this pretty old custom is not dying out.

It is rumoured that a daring attempt to rob the Zoological Gardens has been foiled. Plans, it is said, have been disclosed whereby burglars after dark were to scale the loftiest peaks of the new Mappin terraces and to fish for animals by means of highly-spiced joints attached to ropes. It was hoped to secure a number of valuable bears, to be disposed of to furriers.

We have been favoured with the sight of a circular issued by a Dutch bulb grower and printed in English. The fatherly interest which he takes in his creations does credit to his heart. "All bulbs who are not satisfied," he says, "we take back and pay the carriage ourselves, even if cheque has accompanied order."

THE BEES.

The brown bee sings among the heather

A little song and small—

A song of hills and summer weather

And all things musical;

An ancient song, an ancient story

For days as gold as when

The gods came down in noontide's glory

And walked with sons of men.

A merry song, since skies are sunny—

How in a Dorian dell

Was borne the bland, the charméd honey

To young Comatas' cell;

Thrice-happy boy the Nine to pleasure

That they for hours of ill

Did send, in love, the golden measure,

The honey of their hill.

Gone are the gods? Nay, he who chooses

This morn may lie at ease

And on a hill-side woo the Muses

And hear their honey-bees;

And haply mid the heath-bell's savour

Some rose-winged chance decoy,

To win the old Pierian favour

That fed the shepherd-boy.

THE LOGIC OF ENTENTES.

[Lines composed on what looks like the eve of a general European war; and designed to represent the views of an average British patriot.]

To Servia.

You have won whatever of fame it brings

To have murdered a King and the heir of Kings;

And it well may be that your sovereign pride

Chafes at a touch of its tender hide;

But why should I follow your fighting-line

For a matter that's no concern of mine?

To Austria.

You may, if you like, elect to curb

The dark designs of the dubious Serb,

And to close your Emperor's days in strife—

A tragic end to a tragic life;

But why in the world should I stand to lose

By your bellicose taste for Balkan coups?

To Russia.

No doubt the natural course for you

Is to bid the Austrian bird "Go to!"

He can't be suffered to spoil your dream

Of a beautiful Pan-Slavonic scheme;

But Britons can never be Slavs, you see,

So what has your case to do with me?

But since Another, if you insist,

Will be cutting in with his mailèd fist,

I shall be asked to a general scrap

All over the European map,

Dragged into somebody else's war,

For that's what a double entente is for.

Well, if I must, I shall have to fight

For the love of a bounding Balkanite;

But O what a tactless choice of time,

When the bathing season is at its prime!

And how I should hate to miss my chance

Of wallowing off the coast of France!

O. S.

CUT FLOWERS.

"Do you notice anything particularly queer about this house, Charles," I asked him, "now that Araminta has been forced to fly from it?"

(Araminta had gone home to visit her parents, not so much, as I explained to Charles, because she was tired of living with me as because I had invited him to come on a visit. She was to return on the following day after a fortnight's absence, and I had promised faithfully to evict him before she came).

"Except," said Charles, "that it is usual to offer one's guests the most comfortable arm-chair in the messuage and not to eat all the fattest strawberries oneself, I can't say that I do;" and he fluffed a second mashie pitch with his cigar ash well short of the drawing-room fender.

"You don't," I insisted, "remark any unusual hiatus in the household arrangements—anything that obviously betrays the absence of the feminine touch? I suppose you know what this is?" and I took from the mantelpiece a tall slender silver object.

"It seems to be a tin trumpet," replied Charles, "and why on earth you can't keep my godson's toys in the nursery, instead of littering them about——"

"Tin trumpet," I said cleverly, "be blowed! It is a vase—variously pronounced to rhyme with 'parse' or 'pause,' according to one's pretensions to gentility. It is a flower-vase, Chawles, and, what is more, there ought to be flowers in it. The whole house, let me tell you, should be a very garden of fragrant and luscious blooms. Instead of which it is full of mocking cenotaphs such as this. When Araminta went away she flung over her shoulder a parasol and a Parthian taunt. She said, 'I'm certain there'll be no flowers in the house while I'm away,' and now it seems she was jolly well right."

"Why ever can't the servants attend to the flowers?" said Charles lazily. "They seem to be fairly competent people. There were four match-boxes and The Return of Sherlock Holmes in my bedroom."

"There you touch one of the deeper mysteries," I explained to him. "Probably in the most expensive and luxurious mansions they have a flower-maid. A kind of Persephone who comes up from the underworld with her arms full of gerania and calceolarias. 'Housemaid,' she would put it in the advertisements, 'upper (where manservant kept); tall, of good appearance; free; several years' experience; understands vawses.' And in houses such as these the cinerarias would never wither or die. Every what-not would be a riotous profusion of et-ceteras from week's-end to week's-end. But with Jane it is different. Jane has her limitations. She comprehends match-boxes and detective fiction, but Araminta does the flowers."

"Well, what do you want me to do about it?" said Charles, bunkering his cigar-stump badly to the right of the coal-scuttle.

"I want you to help me," I told him, "because I shan't have time to attend to the matter myself. When I go out to-morrow I want you, before you leave, to fill all the vases all over the house. Pink roses will be the best, I think, and you can buy them at that little flowermonger's across the road."

"But there are pink roses in the garden," he objected.

"Only a kind of double dog-rose," I told him. "We never allow the dog-roses in the house: they haven't been properly trained. Besides you would certainly pick all the puppies and scratch yourself to death. There's no dog-rose without its tooth. You want the big ones that are grown exclusively on short stalks without any roots. And Araminta will never know that they haven't been there for several days at least."

"All right," said Charles, "I'll tackle the flower-smith for you."

When I came home on the following evening, before going upstairs, I peeped timidly into the dining-room and found to my delight that Charles had been as good as his word. All the vases had burst as though by a miracle into radiant blossom. Taking courage I went up to the drawing-room, found Araminta and saluted her, and then looked round with a smirk of conscious self-satisfaction. Charles had chosen pink carnations for the drawing-room, and the place was as starry as the final chapter of a feuilleton.

"What do you think of the flowers?" I said proudly.

"They're simply lovely," she replied. "But——"

"But what?" I asked with a sudden vague qualm. "Don't you like pink carnations?"

"I adore them," she said. "I was just going to ask how long they'd been there, that's all."

"These particular ones?" I said airily. "Oh, two or three days, I think, at most; not more than that."

"I see," she replied with a little smile. "That makes it more wonderful still."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, there isn't any water, you see, in the vases."

COOL STUFF.

The Tabloid. "YOU CAN MAKE IT AS HOT FOR ME AS YOU LIKE, I SHALL NOT DISSOLVE."

[The above is prospective. No sensible person desires a dissolution during the present crisis abroad.]

THE ETHICS OF THE RING.

Manager (to applicant for position of traveller). "And what salary would you require?"

Applicant. "£600 a year if I give satisfaction; £400 if I don't."

THE MAGIC NUMBER.

I have a telephone—a simple unpretentious toy, just like the next one. Sometimes I think it must be exceptional, but anon I hear other telephoners talking, and I realise that theirs too have the same repertory of pretty mannerisms.

Especially I found matter for complaint re Wilmer. Especially Wilmer found matter for complaint re me. Wilmer and I are friends and neighbours. No doubt the people at the exchange had made a note of it. For, if ever I rang up Wilmer, he, they told me, answered not. And, if ever Wilmer rang up me, I, they told him, was engaged. To discover that these things were not so, it was only necessary for the ringer to step across the road; nay, even a shout from the garden was sufficient.

Having matter for complaint, we complained. After that nothing could redeem us in the ears of our exchange. Formerly we got through to each other once in four shots. Thereafter the blockage was complete.

So we laid our plans.

One evening at half-past eight I rang up the exchange. "I want 4792 Marble Arch," I began.

An interval. Then, "Sorry; there's no answer."

I made a bad-tempered noise, full of incredulity and baffled urgency. And yet I was not wholly surprised; 4792 makes wall-papers up to 7 P.M., and then puts up the shutters.

I rang up the exchange.

"I want 5921 B City, please."

Again there was no answer. This was Wilmer's office. Wilmer, who was standing behind me, made them ring it up twice again to make sure. Then I went on to the other eight impossible numbers we had fixed on. They were unresponsive to a man.

Ten rings, and not a single answer!

Then we crossed to Wilmer's house.

Wilmer rang up the exchange. Bitter experience has assured us that we share the same operator.

"I want 4792 Marble Arch," he began.

4792 was still mute. So was 5921 B City. So were no fewer than all the eight further numbers prearranged.

Then I went back again and rang up 4792. This precipitated the crisis.

"I'm sorry, Sir, but I'm nearly sure I can't get them. Would you let me have a list of the numbers you want, and I'll get them when I can."

"The number I really want," I said, "is Mr. Wilmer's, 729 Lane, but I've given up trying to get that."

I was through to Wilmer like lightning; and a little later he rang me up by the same strategy.

Nowadays, if Wilmer or I have any trouble in getting one another, we have only to whisper 4792 Marble Arch, and we're through before we've thought of what to say.

MY HARDY ANNUAL.

I met him first three summers ago when he arrived from Baltimore with a letter of introduction from a mutual American friend. He was a tall thin clean-shaven man, a typical American of the inquiring rather than commanding type—and not a millionaire, not indeed rich at all, and rather nervous among waiters and wine lists: preferring a boarding-house in Bayswater to a caravanserai (as the newspaper men always call the big hotels). He had culture and desired more, and one way of getting it (one way, I mean, of making sure that it should be gotten) was to talk with every one he met. This I believe is an American custom.

Anyway, he arrived with his letter of introduction, and I did what I could for him—asked him to lunch, told him about picture galleries, adjured him not to see this play and that, and mentioned a few new books. Our surest common ground being American men of letters, we discussed them. We agreed that the early death of Frank Norris was a blow; that George W. Cable had style; that John Fox, Junior, could tell a good story, but Owen Wister a better. My friend interested me greatly by stating that he had been on intimate terms with that great man, Mark Twain, and wondered if I had ever heard the story (which he used to tell against himself) of the visitor to his house who, after a very delightful stay, during which the humorist had been at the top of his form, asked his daughter if her father was always like that? "Only when we have company," she replied.

The next year my American friend turned up again, sending a letter in advance to say that he would be at his old address in Bayswater at a certain date, and again I wrote asking him to lunch with me, as before. He was exactly the same, even to his clothes, and we talked of American writers in what I remembered to be the identical terms of the previous year. This is one of the disadvantages of annual meetings; there is no advance. The familiar ground included our decision, reinforced, that Mrs. Wharton was a swell, but rather on the bitter side; that it was a pity that Mary Wilkins had given up writing; that John Kendrick Bangs' name, at any rate, was funny; that Ambrose Bierce was a man of genius, and that Oliver Herford's continued residence in New York was a loss to England.

"À propos of humorists," said my friend, "I wonder if you have heard that story of Mark Twain which he often told against himself. A visitor to his house who had been greatly entertained by a constant flow of wit and satire asked Mark Twain's daughter if he was always in the same good spirits. 'Only when we have company,'" she said.

In August of last year I was doomed to London owing to the frivolous holiday proclivities of certain fellow-workers, and again my Baltimore migrant was here, and again we met for our single tête-à-tête. He looked, he said, on a year as wasted, unless a part of it was spent in London and Paris. He was exactly as he had been; his voice had the same slow mirthlessness and it uttered the same flat definitive comments. He could not be surprised or shocked or amused. He had taken the world's measure and was now chiefly occupied in adding to his collection of fine men and lovely-minded women. I made an effort to get the conversation to other than American literary personages, but it was useless. To discuss Mr. Roosevelt he was unwilling. The name of Hearst—I mean Mr. Hearst—touched no live wire, as it does with a few of his countrymen. He had merely heard of Mr. Brisbane, but had no information. Mr. Wilson was doing well, he thought, on the whole. Reaching books at last, we agreed again that it was a pity that Mr. James Lane Allen wrote so little nowadays and that Mr. Howells had become so silent. Mr. Howells, it seemed, had felt the death of his old friend, Mr. Clemens—Mark Twain—very deeply. Had I ever heard, he wondered, that story of Mark Twain about a reply made to one of his visitors by his daughter?

"Yes, I have," I said.

"The visitor," he went on, "had asked her if her father was always in the jovial and witty vein in which he had been during his—the visitor's—stay."

"Yes, I know," I said.

"Mark Twain's daughter," he continued, "replied that he was always like that—'when they had company.'"

He looked remorselessly at me for his reward of laughter. Since he was my guest he got it, but——

And then last week he arrived again, on his 1914 trip, and he is here now, or perhaps he is in Paris. In Europe, at any rate. He told me once more that across the Atlantic Mr. Henry James is no longer thought of as an American; that Mr. Jack London, it seems, is becoming one of the most popular of writers; that Ella Wheeler Wilcox sells probably more copies of her poetry than any English writer sells stories. He had had the pleasure of meeting Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in New York recently, but when Mr. Arnold Bennett was there he missed him, to his great regret. America was still feeling the loss of Mark Twain. By the way, that was a good story which Mark Twain used to tell against himself. A visitor——

But this time I was too clever for him. I gave a preconcerted signal to a waiter, who hurried up to tell me I was wanted on the telephone. When I returned it was to say good-bye.

And now I am safe till next summer; but last evening I met a lady who had been taken in to dinner by the American a few days ago. "A little bit pompous, perhaps," she said, "but he told me such a delightful story about Mark Twain that I should like to meet him again."

Passenger. "It's curious how these seagulls follow a steamer. Do they go far?"

Boatman. "Ay, sometimes, but they'll not follow her far; she's an Aberdeen boat."

The Latest from the Schoolroom.

Q. (put orally). "Where do the following races live? Berbers, Hottentots....

A. Barbers are to be found in large towns, but they are also found in some small places. They are the natives of the country, and their profession is to shave different men, for which they are paid. The Wottentots are animals that are found in the forests of England."

Seventy-miles-an-hour (as he hurtles past sixty-miles-an-hour). "Are you aware, Sir, that you slow-moving vehicles ought to keep close to the kerb?"

COCOANUTS.

(A Bank Holiday Idyll.)

Sing me, I said, O Muse, and sound the trump

For him not least among our noble tars

Who first on tropic isle was made to jump

By reason of a pericranial thump

And prospect of a galaxy of stars.

And there in green retreat by coral chained

Beheld the vision of the fibrous nut,

And drank the nectar that its shell contained,

And knew the goal accomplished and disdained

The nasty skin-wound on his occiput.

He did not see the feathered palm-trees wave;

He did not see the beckoning yams beneath;

The turtle moaning for its soupy grave,

The sound of oysters asking for a shave

He heard not—he was back on Hampstead Heath.

For him no more the ocean seemed to croon

Its endless legend to the listless sands;

He walked abroad upon an English noon,

And "Ah!" he murmured, "what a heavenly boon

To rehabilitate our cock-shy stands!"

In vain Aunt Sarah with her spinster vows

Entreats the Cockney sport to try his skill;

Her charms are languishing, but nuts shall rouse

To sterner combats and with damper brows

For 'Arriet's kindly glances 'Erb and Bill.

"And ah, the little ones! With how much glee

Their eyes shall gaze upon the oily fruit!

I shall behold them scamper o'er the lea,

Their warm young lips, in part from ecstasy,

In part from palatable nut-meat, mute."

Such was the man, I said, and praised the worth

Of all who make the cocoanut their ploy;

And thought, "I too will have a round of mirth,"

And threw—and brought one hairy globe to earth.

And, turning round, beheld a ragged boy.

So smirched he was, so pitiful a lad

That when I saw the teardrop in his eye

I gave the nut to him. It made him glad;

He took it proudly off to show his dad—

His dad was the conductor of the shy.

Evoe.

The Latest Cinema Poster.

"WANTED BY THE POLICE,

4,200 feet."

In any other profession they advertise for hands. It is a pleasant distinction.

From a circus advertisement in India:—

"It gives a great pleasure to all to see a goat, (1) riding on another goat, (2) placing its neck against the neck of the other, (3) walking on its knees, (4) pretending to lie dead, and many other feats of men."

For the moment we cannot remember to have performed any of these manly feats.

ARMAGEDDON.

The conversation had turned, as it always does in the smoking-rooms of golf clubs, to the state of poor old England, and Porkins had summed the matter up. He had marched round in ninety-seven that morning, followed by a small child with an umbrella and an arsenal of weapons, and he felt in form with himself.

"What England wants," he said, leaning back, and puffing at his cigar,—"what England wants is a war. (Another whisky and soda, waiter.) We're getting flabby. All this pampering of the poor is playing the very deuce with the country. A bit of a scrap with a foreign power would do us all the good in the world." He disposed of his whisky at a draught. "We're flabby," he repeated. "The lower classes seem to have no sense of discipline nowadays. We want a war to brace us up."

It is well understood in Olympus that Porkins must not be disappointed. What will happen to him in the next world I do not know, but it will be something extremely humorous; in this world, however, he is to have all that he wants. Accordingly the gods got to work.

In the little village of Ospovat, which is in the south-eastern corner of Ruritania, there lived a maiden called Maria Strultz, who was engaged to marry Captain Tomsk.

"I fancy," said one of the gods, "that it might be rather funny if Maria jilted the Captain. I have an idea that it would please Porkins."

"Whatever has Maria—" began a very young god, but he was immediately suppressed.

"Really," said the other, "I should have thought it was sufficiently obvious. You know what these mortals are." He looked round to them all. "Is it agreed then?"

It was agreed.

So Maria Strultz jilted the Captain.

Now this, as you may imagine, annoyed Captain Tomsk. He commanded a frontier fort on the boundary between Ruritania and Essenland, and his chief amusement in a dull life was to play cards with the Essenland captain, who commanded the fort on the other side of the river. When Maria's letter came he felt that the only thing to do was to drown himself; on second thoughts he decided to drown his sorrows first. He did this so successfully that at the end of the evening he was convinced that it was not Maria who had jilted him, but the Essenland captain who had jilted Maria; whereupon he rowed across the river and poured his revolver into the Essenland flag which was flying over the fort. Maria thus revenged, he went home to bed, and woke next morning with a bad headache.

("Now we're off," said the gods in Olympus.)

In Diedeldorf, the capital of Essenland, the leader-writers proceeded to remove their coats.

"The blood of every true Essenlander," said the leader-writer of the Diedeldorf Patriot, after sending out for another pot of beer, "will boil when it hears of this fresh insult to our beloved flag, an insult which can only be wiped out with blood." Then seeing that he had two "bloods" in one sentence, he crossed the second one out, substituted "the sword," and lit a fresh cigarette. "For years Essenland has writhed under the provocations of Ruritania, but has preserved a dignified silence; this last insult is more than flesh and blood can stand." Another "blood" had got in, but it was a new sentence and he thought it might be allowed to remain. "We shall not be accused of exaggeration if we say that Essenland would lose, and rightly lose, her prestige in the eyes of Europe if she let this affront pass unnoticed. In a day she would sink from a first-rate to a fifth-rate power." But he didn't say how.

The Chancellor of Essenland, in a speech gravely applauded by both sides of the House, announced the steps he had taken. An ultimatum had been sent to Ruritania demanding an apology, an indemnity of a hundred thousand marks, and the public degradation of Captain Tomsk, whose epaulettes were to be torn off by the Commander-in-Chief of the Essenland Army in the presence of a full corps of cinematograph artists. Failing this, war would be declared.

Ruritania offered the apology, the indemnity, and the public degradation of Captain Tomsk, but urged that this last ceremony would be better performed by the Commander-in-Chief of the Ruritanian Army; otherwise Ruritania might as well cease to be a sovereign state, for she would lose her prestige in the eyes of Europe.

There was only one possible reply to this, and Essenland made it. She invaded Ruritania.

("Aren't they wonderful?" said the gods in Olympus to each other.

"But haven't you made a mistake?" asked the very young god. "Porkins lives in England, not Essenland."

"Wait a moment," said the others.)

In the capital of Borovia the leader-writer of the Borovian Patriot got to work. "How does Borovia stand?" he asked. "If Essenland occupies Ruritania, can any thinking man in Borovia feel safe with the enemy at his gates?" (The Borovian peasant, earning five marks a week, would have felt no less safe than usual, but then he could hardly be described as a thinking man.) "It is vital to the prestige of Borovia that the integrity of Ruritania should be preserved. Otherwise we may resign ourselves at once to the prospect of becoming a fifth-rate power in the eyes of Europe." And in a speech, gravely applauded by all parties, the Borovian Chancellor said the same thing. So the Imperial Army was mobilized and, amidst a wonderful display of patriotic enthusiasm by those who were remaining behind, the Borovian troops marched to the front....

("And there you are," said the gods in Olympus.

"But even now——" began the very young god doubtfully.

"Silly, isn't Felicia the ally of Essenland; isn't Marksland the ally of Borovia; isn't England the ally of the ally of the ally of the Country which holds the balance of power between Marksland and Felicia?"

"But if any of them thought the whole thing stupid or unjust or——"

"Their prestige," said the gods gravely, trying not to laugh.

"Oh, I see," said the very young god.)

And when a year later the hundred-thousandth English mother woke up to read that her boy had been shot, I am afraid she shed foolish tears and thought that the world had come to an end.

Poor short-sighted creature! She didn't realise that Porkins, who had marched round in ninety-six the day before, was now thoroughly braced up.

("What babies they all are," said the very young god.)

A. A. M.

An Invidious Distinction.

"An Opening offers for a Gentleman or Public School man...."

Advt. in "The Times."

"At moderate expenditure he has increased the stock-carrying capacity of his holding many times over, and can now fatten both cattle and sheep, where formerly either had only a bear subsistence."—Times.

To the question, "What do bears subsist on?" we believe the answer to be, "Honey and American trappers."

Where to wear your Hat.

"The Misses Buckley (Llandaff) were dressed—the one in a cerise coat and skirt, relieved at the waist with a black patent band and hat to correspond...."—South Wales Daily News.

Police Sergeant (having swallowed with gurgling sounds and smacking of lips a pint of beer given him by publican at his back door after hours) to intruding Constable. "What have you come round here for?"

Police Constable. "I heard an unusual sound, Sir."

THE DOUBLE CURE.

"The hair," said the assistant, "is very thick."

"If you refer to mine," I replied, "it is frightfully thick."

He looked at it reflectively. "It is very thick," he said; "very thick," and he jabbed the comb into it.

"On the other hand," I pointed out, "my skull is very thin."

"Yes, Sir."

"And the comb is very sharp."

He apologized, pulled the comb out, and jabbed it back not quite so severely.