PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOLUME 147

July 8, 1914

CHARIVARIA.

Lord Brassey is said to be annoyed at the way in which his recent adventure at Kiel was exaggerated. He landed, it seems, on the mole of the Kaiser Dockyard, not noticing a warning to trespassers—and certain of our newspapers proceeded at once to make a mountain out of the mole.

Mr. Roosevelt's American physician, Dr. Alexander Lambert, has confirmed the advice of his European physicians that the ex-President must have four months' rest and must keep out of politics absolutely for that period; and it is said that President Wilson is also of the opinion that the distinguished invalid owes it to his country to keep quiet for a time.

At the farewell banquet to Lord Gladstone members of the Labour Unions surrounded the hotel and booed loudly with a view to making the speeches inaudible. As the first serious attempt to protect diners from an orgy of oratory this incident deserves recording.

There appear to have been some amusing misfits in the distribution of prizes at the recent Midnight Ball. For example a young lady of pronounced sobriety, according to The Daily Chronicle, secured a case of whisky and went about asking if she could get it changed for perfume. Whisky is, of course, essentially a man's perfume.

There are One Woman Shows as well as One Man Shows in these days. An invitation to be present at a certain function in connection with a certain charitable institution announces:—

"Athletic Sports and Distribution of Prizes by Lady —— ——."

Some surprise is being expressed in non-legal circles that the actress who lost the case which she brought against Sandow, Limited, for depicting her as wearing one of their corsets, did not apply for stays of execution.

Quite a number of our picture galleries are now closed, and it has been suggested that, with the idea of reconciling the public to this state of affairs, there shall be displayed conspicuously at the entrance to the buildings the reminder, "Ars est celare artem."

The Gentlewoman, by the way, which is publishing a series of articles entitled "Woman's Work at the 1914 Academy," omits to show us photos of Mr. Sargent's and Mr. Clausen's paintings after certain women had worked upon them.

The Admiralty dismisses as "a silly rumour" the report that one of our new first-class destroyers is to be named The Suffragette.

In Mr. Stephen Phillips' play, The Sin of David, we are to see Cavaliers and Roundheads. This will be a welcome change, for in most of the theatres nowadays one sees a preponderance of Deadheads.

Once upon a time Red Indians used to kidnap Whites. Last week, Mrs. W. Bowman Cutter, a wealthy widow of seventy, living at Boston, Massachusetts, eloped with her 21-year-old Red-skin chauffeur.

A memorial to a prize-fighter who was beaten by Tom Sayers was unveiled at Nottingham last week. Should this idea of doing honour to defeated British heroes spread to those of to-day our sculptors should have a busy time.

A visitor to Scarborough nearly lost his motor-car in the sands at Filey last week: it sank up to the bonnet and was washed by the sea before it was hauled to safety by four horses. Neptune is said to have been not a little annoyed at the car's escape, as he realises that his old chariot drawn by sea-horses is now sadly démodé.

A new organisation, called "The League of Wayfarers," has been formed. Its members apparently consist of "child policemen," who undertake to protect wild flowers. How it is going to be done we do not quite understand. Presumably, small boys will hide behind, say, dandelions, and emit a loud roar when anyone tries to pluck the tender plant.

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

Romantic Tripper. "Tell me, have you ever picked up any bottles on the beach?"

Boatman. "Werry often, Miss!"

Romantic Tripper. "And have you found anything in them?"

Boatman. "Not a blessed drop, Miss!"

The intrepid photographer again! The Illustrated London News advertises:—

Photogravure Presentation Plate of
GENERAL BOOTH AND
MRS. BRAMWELL BOOTH
Lions Photographed at 5 Yards'
Distance.

When The Yorkshire Post and The Hull Daily Mail differ, who shall decide between them? The Hull Daily Mail asserts positively that A. Papazonglon won the long jump at the Bridlington Grammar School sports and that C. Papazonglon was second in the 100 yards and High Jump. Its contemporary, however, unhesitatingly awards these positions to C. Papazonglou, C. Papazonga and G. Papazaglou respectively. But it gives the "Victor Ludorum" cup to a new competitor, C. Papazouglou, and again differs from The Hull Daily Mail, which knows for a fact that it was won by C. Ppazonglon. Whom shall we believe?

"Asquith Denies Militant Plea.

Receives Working Women but Won't Introduce Bill."—New York Evening Sun.

We are left with the uneasy impression that William is a snob.

"On a divan the motion for rejection was carried by 178 to 136."—Daily Chronicle.

Our politicians are right to take it easy this hot weather.

A PATRIOT UNDER FIRE.

(Observed during the recent heat wave.)

Philip, I note with unaffected awe

How, with the glass at 90 in the cool,

You still obey inflexibly the law

That governs manners of the British school;

How, in a climate where the sweltering air

Seems to be wafted from a kitchen copper,

You still refuse to lay aside your wear

Of sable (proper).

The Civil Service which you so adorn

Would lose its prestige, visibly grown slack,

And all its lofty pledges be forsworn

Were you to deviate from your boots of black;

Were you to shed that coat of sombre dye,

That ebon brain-box (imitation beaver)

Whose torrid aspect strikes the passer-by

With tertian fever.

As something far beyond me I respect

The virtue, equal to the stiffest crux,

Which thus forbids your costume to deflect

Into the primrose path of straw and ducks;

I praise that fine regard for red-hot tape

Which calmly and without an eyelid's flutter

Suffers the maddening noon to melt your nape

As it were butter.

"His clothes are not the man," I freely own,

Yet often they express the stuff they hide,

As yours, I like to fancy, take their tone

From stern, ascetic qualities inside;

Just as the soldier's heavy marching-gear

Conceals a heart of high determination,

Too big, in any temperature, to fear

Nervous prostration.

I cite the warrior's case who goes through fire;

For you, no less a patriot, face your risk

When in your country's service you perspire

In blacks that snort at Phœbus' flaming disc;

So, till a medal (justly made of jet)

Records your grit and pluck for all to know 'em,

I on your chest with safety-pins will set

This inky poem.

O. S.

"THE PURPLE LIE."

"Arabella," I said, examining the fuzzy part of her which projected above the dome of the coffee-pot, "I perceive that you mope. That being so, I am glad to be able to tell you that I have been presented with two tickets for The Purple Lie to-morrow evening."

"Sorry," she replied, "but it's off."

"Off!" I exclaimed indignantly, "when the box-office is being besieged all day by a howling mob, and armoured commissionaires are constantly being put into commission to defend it. Off!"

"What I mean to say is," said Arabella, "that we're dining with the Messington-Smiths to-morrow evening."

I bowed my head above the marmalade and wept. "Arabella," I groaned, looking up at last, "what have we done that these people should continue to supply us with food? We do not love them, and they do not love us. The woman is a bromide. Her husband is even worse. He is a phenacetin. I shall fall asleep in the middle of the asparagus and butter myself badly. Think, moreover, of the distance to Morpheus Avenue. Remember that I have been palpitating to see The Purple Lie for weeks."

"So have I," said Arabella. "It's sickening, but I am afraid we must pass those tickets on."

I happened that day to be lunching with my friend Charles. "The last thing in the world I want to do," I said to him, "is to oblige you in any way, but I chance to have—ahem!—purchased two stalls for The Purple Lie which I cannot make use of. I had forgotten that I am dining with some very important and—er—influential people to-morrow night. When a man moves as I do amid a constant whirl of gilt-edged engagements——"

"Ass!" said Charles, and pocketed the tickets.

On the following morning I perceived a large crinkly frown at the opposite end of the breakfast table, and, rightly divining that Arabella was behind it, asked her what the trouble was.

"It's the Messington-Smiths," she complained. "They can't have us to dinner after all. It seems that Mrs. Messington-Smith has a bad sore throat."

"Any throat would be sore," I replied, "that had Mrs. Messington-Smith talking through it. I wonder whether Charles is using those tickets."

"You might ring up and see."

To step lightly to the telephone, ask for Charles's number, get the wrong one, ask again, find that he had gone to his office, ring him up there and get through to him, was the work of scarcely fifteen minutes. "Charles," I said, "are you using those two stalls of mine to-day?"

"Awfully sorry," he replied, "but I can't go myself. I gave them away yesterday evening."

"Wurzel!" I said. "Who to?"

"To whom," he corrected gently. "To a dull man I met in the City named Messington-Smith."

"Named what?" I shrieked.

"Messington-Smith. M for Mpret, E for Eiderdown——"

"Where does he live?"

"21, Morpheus Avenue."

For a moment the room seemed to spin round me. I put down the transmitter and pressed my hand to my forehead. Then in a shaking voice I continued—"Of all the double-barrelled, unmitigated, blue-faced——"

"What number, please?" sang a sweet soprano voice. I rang off, and went to break the news to Arabella.

She was silent for a few moments, and then asked me suddenly, "Whereabouts in the stalls were those seats of ours?"

"Almost in the middle of the third row," I replied mournfully.

Arabella said no more, but with a rather disdainful smile on her face walked firmly to her little escritoire, sat down, wrote a note, and addressed it to Mrs. Messington-Smith.

"What have you said?" I asked, as she stamped her letter with a rather vicious jab on King George's left eye.

"Just that I am sorry about her old sore throat," she replied. "And then I went on, that wasn't it funny by the same post we had been given two stalls for The Purple Lie to-night in a very good place in the middle of the third row? She will get the letter by lunch-time," she added pensively, "and it will be so nice for her to know that we shall be sitting almost next to them."

"But we aren't going to The Purple Lie at all," I protested.

"No," she said, "and as a matter of fact I don't suppose the Messington-Smiths are either—now."

I left Arabella smiling triumphantly through her tears, but when I returned in the evening the breakfast-time frown had reappeared with even crinklier ramifications.

"Why," I asked, "are you looking like a tube map?"

"Mrs. Messington-Smith," she answered with a slight catch in her voice, "has just been telephoning."

"I thought the receiver looked a bit played out," I said. "What does she want with us now?"

"Well, she has got a sore throat after all. You could tell that from her voice. And she isn't going to The Purple Lie either. She never even meant to."

"But the tickets," I gasped.

"She and her husband quite forgot about them till to-day," said Arabella. "And now they have given them away to some friends. But they weren't given away at all till this afternoon, and——"

She broke off and gave a lachrymose little sniff.

"And what?"

"And she knew, of course, that we're disengaged to-night, and when she got my letter she was just going to send them round to us."

BEATEN ON POINTS.

L.C.C. Tram. "HARD LINES ON ME!"

Motor-'Bus. "YES, IT'S ALWAYS HARD LINES WITH YOU, MY BOY. THAT'S WHAT'S THE MATTER; YOU CAN'T SIDE-STEP."

"Who's the little man holding his racket that funny way?"

"Oh, that's Mr. Binks. He takes the plate round in church, you know."

Commercial Candour.

From a testimonial:—

"I have had this cover on the rear wheel of my 3½ h.p. Humber Motor Cycle and have ridden same 7,000 miles, six of these without a puncture."—Advt. in "Motor Cycle."

"MRD. CPL., temporary."—Advt. in "Daily Mail."

When we tell you that the mystic letters mean "married couple," you will share our horror.

WOMAN AT THE FIGHT.

In ancient unsophisticated days

Women were valued for their cloistered ways.

And won at Rome encouragement from man

Only because they stayed at home and span;

While Pericles in Attic Greek expressed

The view that those least talked about were best.

There were exceptions, but the normal Greek

Regarded Sappho as a dangerous freak,

And Clytemnestra for three thousand years

Was pelted with unmitigated sneers,

Till Richard Strauss and Hofmannsthal combined

To prove that she was very much maligned.

But now at last these cloistered days are o'er

And woman, breaking down her prison door,

Is free to take the middle of the floor.

No more for her indomitable soul

The meekly ministering angel rôle;

No more the darner of her husband's socks,

She takes delight in watching champions box,

Finds respite from the carking cares that vex us

In cheering blows that reach the solar plexus,

Joins in the loud and patriotic shout

While beaten Bell is being counted out,

And—joy that makes all other joys seem nil—

Writes her impressions for The Daily Thrill.

ONCE UPON A TIME.

The Susceptible American.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful singer named Miss Iris Bewlay. Every now and then she gave a recital, and it was always crowded. She was chosen to sing "God save the King" at bazaars and Primrose League meetings; her rendering of "Home, Sweet Home" moistened every eye. Hostesses wishing to be really in the swim engaged her to sing during after-dinner conversation for enormous fees.

When Miss Iris Bewlay was approaching the forties and adding every day to her wealth, another Miss Bewlay—not Iris, but Gladys, and no relation whatever—was gradually improving her gift of song with a well-known teacher, for it was Miss Gladys Bewlay's intention, with her parents' strong approval, to become a professional. She had not, it is true, her illustrious namesake's commanding presence or powerful register, but her voice was sweet and refined and she might easily have a future.

It happened that a susceptible music-loving American staying in London for a short time was taken by some English friends to a concert at which Miss Iris Bewlay was singing, and he fell at once a victim to her tones. Never before had he heard a voice which so thrilled and moved him. He returned to his hotel enraptured, and awoke with but one desire and that was to hear Miss Bewlay again.

"Say, where is a Miss Bewlay singing to-night?" he asked the hotel porter.

The porter searched all the concert announcements, but found no mention of the great name. In the end he advised a visit to one of the ticket libraries, and off the enthusiast hurried.

Now it happened that this very evening was the one chosen for the début, before a number of invited friends, of Miss Gladys Bewlay, and one of the guests chanced to be at the ticket library at the moment the susceptible American entered and fired his question at the clerk.

"Say, can you tell me where Miss Bewlay is singing to-night?" he said.

The clerk having no information, the susceptible American was turning away when the guest of the other Bewlay family ventured to address him with the information that Miss Bewlay was singing that evening at a private gathering at one of the halls.

"Couldn't I get in?" the American asked.

"It's private," said the lady. "It's only for the friends of the family."

"Let me take down the address, anyway," said he, and took it down.

That evening, just before Miss Gladys Bewlay's first song, a visiting card was handed to one of her brothers, with the statement that a gentleman desired the pleasure of a moment's interview on a matter of great importance.

"See here," said the gentleman, and it was none other than the susceptible American, "I'm just crazy about Miss Bewlay's singing. They tell me she's here to-night. Now I know it's a strange thing to ask, but I want to know if you can't just let me lean against a pillar somewhere at the back while she's singing, and then I'll go right away. It's my last chance for some time, you see. I go back to America to-morrow."

The brother, not a little impressed by his sister's magnetism, all unsuspected in a débutante, and imagining the American to have heard her at a lesson, said he saw no reason why this little scheme should not be carried out; and so the American entered and took up an obscure position; and in a short while Miss Bewlay ascended the platform and began to sing.

When she had finished the American approached one of the guests and begged to be told the name of the singer.

"Miss Bewlay," said the guest. "It's her first appearance to-night."

"Miss Bewlay," gasped the American. "Then there are two of them. You say this is her first appearance?"

"Yes."

"Then she's very young?"

"Only about twenty."

The American returned to his corner, and the second song began.

Whatever disappointment his ears may have suffered it would have been obvious to close observers that his eyes were contented enough. They rested on the fair young singer with delight and admiration, and when she had finished there was no applause like the susceptible American's.

When Miss Bewlay's brother had gradually worked his way to the back of the room, he found the American in an ecstasy.

"She's great," he said. "Say, would it be too much to ask you to introduce me?"

"Not at all," said the brother, who was as pleased at his sister's success as though it were his own.

The American did not return to his own country the next day, nor for many days after; and when he did he was engaged to Miss Gladys Bewlay.

Isn't that a pretty fairy story? and almost every word of it is true.

"I Know, Old Boy—but I've Taken Six—different—remedies."

A SEASIDE "SONG SCENA."

Yesterday I celebrated the beginning of my holidays by patronising The Melodities on the beach. The Melodities are a band of entertainers who draw enormous salaries for giving a couple of performances daily in a kind of luxurious open-air theatre.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," announced the Manager soon after I had taken my seat, "our first item will be a Song Scena entitled The Moon, by Bertie Weston, assisted by six members of the company." A quiver of expectation ran through the crowded audience.

Bertie Weston, wearing a uniform resembling (I imagine) that of a Patagonian Vice-Admiral, advanced mincingly to the footlights, and the six others, similarly attired, ranged themselves in a row behind him. Behind these again dropped a back-cloth representing a stone balustrade, blue hills and fleecy clouds.

There was a burst of warm applause, in response to which Bertie politely bowed his thanks. Without further preliminary he commenced—

The crescent moon on high

Is shining in the sky.

Here the six turned up their faces and gazed pensively at the heavens (it was still broad daylight, by the way), at the same time resting their chins on their right hands and their right elbows on their left hands.

The sun is gone,

The stars are wan,

Oh come, my love, we'll wander, you and I.

Here the six ceased to regard the sky, split into pairs and by pantomimic gesture invited one another to wander.

Across the hills we'll go,

While birds sing soft and low.

The singer paused for an instant, while the six, now formed into a semicircle, hummed together softly a suggestion of distant nightingales. Not an imitation—that would be too banal—but a suggestion. In point of fact I thought I detected the air of "The Little Grey Home in the West."

While the silver moon adorns the summer sky.

After a brief pause, brightened by what are vulgarly termed twiddly bits on the piano, the soloist sang the chorus, softly and appealing, with a sort of treacly intonation:—

Moon, moon, moon,

We'll come soon, soon,

Across the hills while all the world is dreaming.

Moon, moon, moon,

I'd like to swoon, swoon,

The heads of the six drooped listlessly and their hands fell languidly to their sides; their eyes closed.

When I see your white rays beaming, gleaming, streaming.

The six awoke briskly and commenced to glide around the stage, describing circles, figures of eight, and other more intricate patterns, while Bertie swayed his body rhythmically from side to side, his arms and hands outstretched and palms turned downwards. In this formation they all repeated the chorus together.

Bertie now cleared his throat and started on the second verse without delay. The six stood sideways, their hands in their trousers pockets and their faces turned to the audience.

Oh, moon of dainty grace,

Shine on my loved one's face.

The footlights were suddenly switched off and each of the six produced a small electric torch and illuminated his neighbour's features. The effect was startling. Presently the footlights reappeared as abruptly as they had vanished and the torches were extinguished.

Upon the hill

The night is still.

Again there was a short pause, during which the six breathed lightly through their teeth, producing a faint and long-drawn sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh.

Oh come, my love, together let us haste.

The six ceased sh-sh-ing and gracefully invited one another to haste.

Away, away, we'll roam

To seek our fairy home,

While the silver moon illuminates the place.

The six placed both hands on their breasts and stood with bowed heads, motionless except for a continuous and rhythmic bending of the knees, while Bertie sang the chorus softly, lingeringly. Then, stretching out their arms, they swayed their bodies from side to side as their leader had previously done, while Bertie himself drifted in and out between them, and all rendered the chorus for the second time.

Moon, moon, moon,

We'll come soon, soon.

Across the hills while all the world is dreaming.

Moon, moon, moon,

I want to swoon, swoon,

When I see your white rays beaming, gleaming, streaming.

There was a moment's emotional silence, broken by a thunder of rapturous applause. The Song Scena, all too short, was finished.

Anxious not to risk spoiling the impression, I arose and left hastily before the next turn.

She. "Herbert, I can't find my bathing-dress anywhere!"

He. "See if you've got it on."

"Young M'Pherson, the Blackford jumper, is anxious to fix up a match for a long jump with anybody in Scotland. A week ago he did 5½ ft., but he asserts he can beat this hollow if called upon."

Edinburgh Evening News.

If M'Pherson will say just how young he is, we will find a suitable nephew to take him on. Tommy (aged eight) did 6 ft. 1 in. yesterday, but asserts that he slipped.

A MIDSUMMER MADNESS.

The girl who shared Herbert's meringue at dinner (a brittle one, which exploded just as he was getting into it) was kind and tactful.

"It doesn't matter a bit," she said, removing fragments of shell from her lap; and, to put him at his ease again, went on, "Are you interested in little problems at all?"

Herbert, who would have been interested even in a photograph album just then, emerged from his apologies and swore that he was.

"We're all worrying about one which Father saw in a paper. I do wish you could solve it for us. It goes like this." And she proceeded to explain it. Herbert decided that the small piece of meringue still in her hair was not worth mentioning and listened to her with interest.

On the next morning I happened to drop in at Herbert's office.... And that, in short, is how I was mixed up in the business.

"Look here," said Herbert, "you used to be mathematical; here's something for you."

"Let the dead past bury its dead," I implored. "I am now quite respectable."

"It goes like this," he said, ignoring my appeal.

He then gave me the problem, which I hand on to you.

"A subaltern riding at the rear of a column of soldiers trotted up to the captain in front and challenged him to a game of billiards for half-a-crown a side, the loser to pay for the table. Having lost, he played another hundred, double or quits, and then rode back, the column by this time having travelled twice its own length, and a distance equal to the distance it would have travelled if it had been going in the other direction. What was the captain's name?"

Perhaps I have not got it quite right, for I have had an eventful week since then; or perhaps Herbert didn't get it quite right; or perhaps the girl with the meringue in her hair didn't get it quite right; but anyhow, that was the idea of it.

"And the answer," said Herbert, "ought to be 'four cows,' but I keep on making it 'eight and tuppence.' Just have a shot at it, there's a good fellow. I promised the girl, you know."

I sat down, worked it out hastily on the back of an envelope, and made it a yard and a half.

"No," said Herbert; "I know it's 'four cows,' but I can't get it."

"Sorry," I said, "how stupid of me; I left out the table-money."

I did it hastily again and made it three minutes twenty-five seconds.

"It is difficult, isn't it?" said Herbert. "I thought, as you used to be mathematical and as I'd promised the girl——"

"Wait a moment," I said, still busy with my envelope. "I forgot the subaltern. Ah, that's right. The answer is a hundred and twenty-five men.... No, that's wrong—I never doubled the half-crown. Er—oh, look here, Herbert, I'm rather busy this morning. I'll send it to you."

"Right," said Herbert. "I know I can depend on you, because you're mathematical." And he opened the door for me.

I had meant to do a very important piece of work that day, but I couldn't get my mind off Herbert's wretched problem. Happening to see Carey at tea-time, I mentioned it to him.

"Ah," said Carey profoundly. "H'm. Have you tried it with an 'x'?"

"Of course."

"Yes, it looks as though it wants a bit of an 'x' somewhere. You stick to it with an 'x' and you ought to do it. Let 'x' be the subaltern—that's the way. I say, I didn't know you were interested in problems."