PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 150.

January 26, 1916.

CHARIVARIA.

Some idea of the financial straits in which English people find themselves may be gathered from the statement that the first forced strawberries of the season fetched no more than ten shillings a pound. The Germans proudly point out that their forced loans fetched more than that.

A kindly M.P. has suggested that our German naval prisoners should be employed in making the projected the ship canal between the Firths of Forth and Clyde. At present they suffer terribly from a form of nostalgia known as canal-sickness.

Owing to the scarcity of hay in the Budapest Zoo the herbivorous animals are being fed on chestnuts, and several local humorous papers have been obliged to suspend publication.

As the two Polar bears refused to flourish on a war-diet they were condemned to death, and a Hungarian sportsman paid twelve pounds for the privilege of shooting them. No arrangements have yet been concluded for finishing off the Russian variety.

Old saw, adapted by an American journalist: Call no one happy until he is Hearst.

We all know that marriage is a lottery. But the New Zealand paper which headed an announcement of President Wilson's engagement, "Wild Speculation," was, we trust, taking an unduly gloomy view.

The fact that the Postmaster-General and the Assistant Postmaster-General are as like as two Peases was bound to cause a certain amount of confusion. Still we hardly think it justified a Welsh paper in placing a notice of their achievements under the heading: "Pea Soup and Salt Beef: 300 Sailors Poisoned."

In the endeavour to decide authoritatively what is a new-laid egg the Board of Agriculture has sought information from various sources, but is reported to be still sitting. There is some fear that the definition will be addled.

In tendering birthday congratulations to Mr. Austin Dobson a contemporary noted that "many of his most charming poems and essays were written amid; their the prosaic surroundings of the Board of Trade," and described him as "a fine example of a poet rising above his environment." Mr. Edmund Gosse, who was a colleague of Mr. Dobson at Whitehall Gardens during his most tuneful period, is inclined to think this last remark uncalled for.

It is estimated that 843,920 house-holders read with secret joy the paragraph in last week's papers stating that spring-cleaning is likely to cost the housekeeper this year considerably more than usual both for materials and labour; that 397,413 of them repeated it to their wives, suggesting that here was a chance for a real war-economy; and that one (a deaf man) persisted in the suggestion after his wife had given her views on the subject.

On reading that London people spend on an average seven shillings a year in theatre-tickets, a manager expressed the opinion that according to his experience this calculation was not quite fair. Account should also have been taken of the very large sum which they expend on stamps when writing for free admissions.

It is evident that recent events have had a chastening effect upon Bulgarian ambitions. After receiving a field-marshal's baton from the Kaiser, King Ferdinand is reported to have expressed his hope that by co-operation their countries would obtain that to which they had a right. The Kaiser then left Nish in a hurry.

From El Paso (Texas) comes news that a band of Mexican bandits stopped a train near Chicuabar, seized seventeen persons, stripped them of clothing, robbed them, and then shot them dead. There is some talk of their being elected Honorary Germans.

China has sent a trial lot of small brown eggs packed in sawdust to this country, and it is thought that after all we shall be able to have a General Election.

Private Jones (crawling out after being buried by a shell explosion). "Silly 'orse-play, I calls it!"

Too Good to be True.

"The able organisation which resulted in Hell being evacuated with just as complete success and the same absence of loss as at Suvla and Anzac, relieves what might otherwise be the rather melancholy spectacle of the winding up of this enterprise."

Morning Paper.

From an article by Mr. John Layland on his visit to the Fleet:—

"One would like to describe much more than one has seen, but that is impossible."—Morning Paper.

Some other Correspondents have found no such difficulty.

"Lady Secretary Required, for about two hours early every morning, by lady doctor living near the Marble Arch; rapid shorthand essential; preference given to a possessor of healthy teeth."

Advt. in "The Times."

It looks as if the lady-secretary's luncheon would be a tough proposition.

"Our Correspondent endorses the Russian official claim to have captured the heights north-east of Czernowitz."—Morning Paper.

The Correspondent's condescension is no doubt greatly appreciated by our Allies.

Answer to a correspondent:—

"'Enquirer.'—It is pronounced 'communeek.'"—"Examiner," Launceston, Tasmania.

But not in the best circles.

MODERNISING LAST YEAR'S SKIRT.

Another simple and practical way of doing it would be, if the skirt is quite plain, to lift it well from the top, and set it neatly on to a band, so making the skirt shorter as well as fuller. Eight inches is not considered too short for present wear, though personally I think six inches a more graceful length. However, do not be tempted to wear a very short skirt unless you are the possessor of well-shaped feet and ankles.—The Woman's Magazine.

But what about knees?

A Babu's letter of excuse:—

"Sir,—As my wife's temper is not well since last night, on account of that I am unable to attend office to-day. Kindly excuse my absence and grant me one day's causual leave."

In the circumstances Caudle leave would have been a happier form of holiday.

HOW TO GET UP A HOLY WAR

(German Style).

[The Special Correspondent of The Times at Salonica states that "among the documents examined at the Consulate of his Catholic and Apostolic Majesty of Austria are 1,500 copies of a long proclamation in Arabic to the Chiefs of the Senussis, inciting them to a Holy War on non-Germanic Christendom." The proclamation purports to be composed by one of the Faithful, but "its pseudo-Oriental wording clearly betrays its Germanic authorship.">[

In Allah's name, Senussis! Allah's name!

Please note the Holy War that we proclaim!

High at the main we hoist our sacred banner

(Forgive my pseudo-Oriental manner);

For now the psychologic Tag has come

To put the final lid on Christendom,

Always excepting that peculiar part

Which has the hopes of Musulmans at heart.

For lo! this noble race (its Chief has said it;

Else would it seem almost too good to credit),

Prompted by generous instincts, undertakes

To waive its scruples and for your sweet sakes,

Indifferent to private gain or loss,

To help the Crescent overthrow the Cross.

Christians they are, I own, this Teuton tribe,

Yet not too Christian. I could here inscribe

A tale of feats performed with pious hands

On those who crossed their path in Christian lands

Which, even where Armenia kissed his rod,

Would put to shame The Very Shadow of God.

You must not therefore feel a pained surprise

At having Christian dogs for your allies;

For there are dogs and dogs; and, though the base

Bull terrier irks you, 'tis a different case

When gentle dachshunds jump to your embrace.

If crudely you remark: "A holy win

May suit our friends, but where do we come in?"

My answer is: "Apart from any boom

Islam secures by sealing England's doom,

We shall, if we survive the coming clash,

Collect papyrus notes in lieu of cash;

And, if we perish, as we may indeed,

We have a goodly future guaranteed,

With houris waiting in Valhalla's pile"

(Pardon my pseudo-Oriental style).

These are the joys, of which I give the gist,

Secured to those who trust the Kaiser's fist,

Which to the infidel is hard as nails

Or eagles' claws whereat the coney quails,

But to the Faithful, such as you, Senussis,

Is softer than the velvet paws of pussies.

O. S.

From a story in The Glasgow Herald:—

"'He had his feathers ruffled that time, anyway,' laughed my husband, as he followed me whistling into the house."

It isn't every woman that has a husband who can talk and laugh and whistle all at once. Was he the clever man in the French tale, we wonder, who chanted a Scottish air, accompanying himself on the bag-pipes?

"Fire has broken out in an oven in Kafr Zarb, near Suez, completely destroying the fire brigade extinguishing the blaze."

Egyptian Mail.

Serve them right for their officiousness.

"Wanted, Experienced Ruler (female); permanency."

Bristol Times and Mirror.

Might suit a widow.

NAUTICAL TERMS FOR ALL.

(By our Tame Naval Expert.)

It is really surprising what confusion exists in the public mind upon the exact significance of such elementary terms as "Command of the Sea," and "A Fleet in Being." Only yesterday evening I was asked by a fellow-traveller on the top of a bus why, if we had command of the sea, we didn't blow up the Kiel Canal!

It will be as well to begin at the beginning. What is Naval Warfare? It is an endeavour by sea-going belligerent units, impregnated (for the time being) with a measure of animus pugnandi and furnished with offensive weapons, to impose their will upon one another. In rather more technical language it may be described as fighting in ships.

Now in order to utilize the sea for one's own purposes and at the same time to deny, proscribe, refuse and restrict it to one's enemy it is essential to obtain command. And it must not be overlooked that Command of the Sea can only be established in one way—by utilizing or threatening to utilize sea-going belligerent units. But we must distinguish between Command of the Sea and Sea Supremacy, and again between Potential Command, Putative Command and Absolute Command. Finally let there be no confusion between the expressions "Command of the Sea" and "Control of the Sea," which are entirely different things—though both rest securely upon the doctrine of the Fleet in Being, which is at the foundation of all true strategy.

This brings us to the question of what is meant by the phrase "A Fleet in Being." "To Be or Not to Be" (in Being) is a phrase that has been woefully misinterpreted, especially by those who insist on a distinction between Being and Doing. There is no such distinction at sea. For a fleet to exist as a recognisable instrument is not necessarily for it to be in Being. Only by exhibiting a desire to dispute Command at all costs can a fleet be said to come into Being. On the other hand, by being in Being a fleet does not necessarily obtain command or even partial control. This is not simply a question of To Be or Not to Be (in Being).

In explaining these academic principles one always runs the risk of being confronted with concrete instances. I shall be asked, "Is the German Fleet in Being?" I can only reply that it is in a condition of strictly Limited Control (I refer to the Kiel Canal), while the Baltic is in Disputed Command so long as the Russian Fleet is Strategically at Large.

This brings us to the question of the phrase "Strategically at Large," which has been loosely rendered "On the War-path." Let us say rather that any fleet (in Being) which is ready (even without Putative Control) to dispute Command is said to be Strategically at Large, so long as it is imbued with animus pugnandi.

Animus pugnandi is the root of the matter. A fleet is in a state of disintegration without it. And so long as the German Fleet's activities in the North Sea are confined to peeping out of the Canal to see if the foe is in the neighbourhood one must conclude that this ingredient has been overlooked in its composition.

Bis.

General Utility.

"Invalided soldier seeks job; domestic and lity. factotum in bachelor menage, or musician, lyrist, dramatist, etc.; house work mornings, lit. asst. afternoons, evenings; ex-officer's servant; fair cook; turned 60, but virile and active; or working librarian, cleaning, etc.; theatrical experience; nominal salary if permanent."

Daily Express.

If he hadn't called himself a soldier we should have almost thought he was a handy-man.

PRO PATRIA.

A TRIBUTE TO WOMAN'S WORK IN WAR-TIME.

Mistress. "And where is Jane?

Parlourmaid. "If you please, Ma'am, Jane says she can't come to family prayers any more while we have margarine in the kitchen."

THE ROMANCE OF WAR.

We relieved the Royal What-you-call-'ems under depressing circumstances. The front line was getting it in the neck, which is unfair after dark.

As I reached the transport dump a platoon met me led by a Subaltern of no mean dimensions. He was conversing with certain ones, seemingly officer's servants, who were drawing a hand-cart. He grew suddenly excited, then spoke to a Senior Officer, turned, left his platoon and ran back at the double to the fire-trench.

It was three-quarters of an hour before we drew near that unpleasant bourne. In the imitation communication trench, which began a hundred or more yards behind it, we met the Subaltern, hurrying to rejoin his platoon, bearing what seemed to be an enormous despatch-box. He said "Good night" very politely.

By the time we got up the shelling had slackened. The last remaining officer of the Royal What-you-call-'ems stopped to pass the time o' night with us.

I asked him if he knew who the Subaltern might be, and what object of overwhelming importance he had thus returned to retrieve.

"Yes, that was Billy Blank."

"And what was it he was carrying when we met him?"

"A sort of young Saratoga?"

We nodded. Our informant seemed to hesitate a moment.

"Well," he said at last, "I don't see why you shouldn't know, though it's a sort of battalion secret—not that Billy would mind anyone knowing. It's his love-letters."

Vicarious Prophylactics.

"How you may dodge the horrible 'Grippe.'"

"Give your children a cold shower every morning."—Ottawa Evening Journal.

"At the time when Turnbull was asking for the account, and flourishing suggestions as to his ability to pay, there was in the prisoner's bank the sum of sixteen pence."

Newcastle Evening Chronicle.

We have reason to believe that there was also an odd shilling or two in the bank belonging to other clients.

From an account of "Calls to the Bar in Ireland":—

"Mr. —— was awarded the Society's Exhibition of £21 per annum for three roars."

Irish Evening Paper.

He seems to have called himself to the Bar.

RAILWAY LINES.

O semblance of a snail grown paralytic,

Concerning whom your victims daily speak

In florid language, fearsome and mephitic,

Enough to redden any trooper's cheek:

Let them, I say, hold forth till all is blue;

I take the longer view.

Not mine it is to curse you for your tedium

And frequent stops in search of wayside rest,

Nor call you, through the morning papers' medium,

A crying scandal and a public pest;

I designate you, on the other hand,

A bulwark of the land.

For should the Huns, in final desperation,

On our South-Eastern shore dash madly down,

'Tis true they might entrain at Dover station,

But when, ah, when would they arrive in town?

Or would they perish, hungry, lost, and spent,

Somewhere in wildest Kent?

MY LIFE.

(With acknowledgments to Mr. G. R. Sims.)

Being a few Foretastes of the Great Feast to follow.

Peering backward into the gulf of time as I sit in my grandfather's chair and listen to the tick of my grandfather's clock I see a smaller but more picturesque London, in which I shot snipe in Battersea Fields, and the hoot of the owl in the Green Park was not yet drowned by the hoot of the motor-car—a London of chop-houses, peg-top trousers and Dundreary whiskers....

I remember the Derby of Caractacus and the Oaks of Boadicea. Once more I see "Eclipse first and the rest nowhere." I remember "Old Q." and Old Parr, Arnold of Rugby and Keate of Eton, Charles Lamb and General Wolfe, Charles James Fox and Mrs. Leo Hunter; the poets Burns and Tennyson, the latter of whom gave me my name of "Dagonet."

I think back to a London of trim-built wherries and nankeen pantaloons, when The Times cost as much as a dozen oysters, which everyone then ate. I remember backing myself in my humorous way to eat sixty "seconds" in a minute and winning the bet.

I look back to the time when Betty, the infant Roscius, and Grimaldi, and Nell Gwynn and Colley Cibber and Robson and Fechter and Peg Woffington were the chief luminaries of the histrionic firmament. I remember the débuts of Catalani and Malibran and Piccolomini and Broccolini and Giulio Perkins.

I remember the opening of the Great Exhibition of 1851, the erection of Drayton's "Polyolbion," the removal of the Wembley Tower, and the fight between Belcher and the gas-man.

I often think of the battles of Waterloo and Blenheim and Culloden and Preston Pans and Cannæ. I often think of next Sunday with a shudder.

I see Count d'Orsay careering along Kensington Gore in his curricle; Lord Macaulay sauntering homeward to Campden Hill, and Lord George Sanger driving home to East Finchley behind two spanking elephants.

I see Jerusalem and Madagascar and North and South Amerikee...

It was on the eve of the anniversary of the battle of Cressy that I first drew breath on August 25th, "somewhere" in the Roaring Forties. The date was well chosen, for my maternal great-great-grandfather had amassed a considerable fortune by the manufacture of mustard, and the happy collocation was destined to bear conspicuous fruit in after years.

Good old Herodotus, my favourite reading in my school-days, tells us how old-world potentate, in order to discover which was the most ancient language in the world, had two children brought up in strict seclusion by dumb nurses, with the result that the first word they uttered was "Beck," the Phrygian for bread. Strange to say this was not my first linguistic effort, which was, as a matter of fact, the Romany word "bop."

Although I shall probably write my autobiography again a few details about my ancestry are pardonable at this juncture.

My great-great-great-great-grandfather was a robust Devon yeoman who fought with Drake in the Spanish main, but subsequently married the daughter of a Spanish Admiral, made captain at the time of the Armada, Count Guzman Intimidad Larranaga. The daughter, Pomposa Seguidilla, came to England to share her father's imprisonment, and my ancestor fell in love with her and married her. She was a vivacious brunette with nobly chiselled features and fine Castilian manners. Their son Alonzo married Mary Lyte of Paddington, so that I trace my descent to the Lytes of London as well as to the grandees of Spain.... Incredibly also I was one of the Hopes of England.

And now, when London has no light any more, I take pen in hand to retrace the steps of my wonderful journey through the ages. Ah me! Eheu fugaces!

Among my early reading nothing made so much impression on me as Mrs. Glasse's Cookery Book, and I still remember the roars of laughter that went up when I read out a famous sentence in my childish way: "First tatch your hair." Those words have stuck to me through life and have had a deep influence on my career. Strange how little we know at the time which are our vital moments.

I remember standing, when still only of tender years, listening to Bow bells and vowing that, if I grew up, I would so reflect my life in my writings that no experience however trifling should be without its recording paragraph. I would tell all. And I am proud to say I have kept that vow. I have not even concealed from my readers the names of the hotels I have stayed in, and if I have liked the watering-places I have resisted every temptation not to say so. Odd how childish aspirations can be fulfilled!

Tommy. "Hold hard, young feller. You shouldn't butt in like that—plenty of room behind."

His Girl. "Leave him alone, Harry. He thinks it's a recruiting office."

"A Young Country Girl, 18, wishes a situation as Housemaid or Betweenmaid; never out before; wages not objected to."

Irish Times.

Very nice of her to be so accommodating.

"Col. J. W. Wray and Mrs. Wray entertained the recruiting staff, numbering £21, to tea at Brett's Hall, Guildford, on Thursday."

Provincial Paper.

Sterling fellows, evidently.

"Us have had a letter from our Jarge. He've killed three Germans!"

"I bain't zurprised! Lor'! How that boy did love a bit o' rattin', or anything to do with vermin!"

THE FLYING MAN.

When the still silvery dawn uprolls

And all the world is "standing to;"

When young lieutenants damn our souls

Because they're feeling cold and blue—

The bacon's trodden in the slush,

The baccy's wet, the stove's gone wrong—

Then, purring on the morning's hush,

We hear his cheerful little song.

The shafts of sunrise strike his wings,

Tinting them like a dragon-fly;

He bows to the ghost-moon and swings,

Flame-coloured, up the rosy sky.

He climbs, he darts, he jibes, he luffs;

Like a great bee he drones aloud;

He whirls above the shrapnel puffs,

And, laughing, ducks behind a cloud.

He rides aloof on god-like wings,

Taking no thought of wire or mud,

Saps, smells or bugs—the mundane things

That sour our lives and have our blood.

Beneath his sky-patrolling car

Toy guns their mimic thunders clap;

Like crawling ants whole armies are

That strive across a coloured map.

The roads we trudged with feet of lead

The shadows of his pinions skim;

The river where we piled our dead

Is but a silver thread to him.

"God of the eagle-winged machine,

What see you where aloft you roam?"

"Eastward, Die Schlossen von Berlin,

And West, the good white cliffs of home!"

Journalistic Candour.

Heading to the Stop-Press column of a Provincial Paper:—

"LATEST RAW NEWS."

"Motorcycle. Give £25 (maximum) and exquisite diamond ring (engagement broken off)."—Motor Cycling.

No sidecar required.

"Maeterlinck, the great Austrian statesman, looked with suspicion on all kinds of suggestions of reform or agitation."

Provincial Paper.

So unlike Metternich, the famous Belgian bee-farmer.

"Young Baby—Wanted, homely woman to take charge of duration of war."

Wood Green Sentinel.

If she will only finish it satisfactorily—the War, we mean, not the baby—we don't mind how homely she is.

Under the heading of "Horses, Harness, &c.":—

"Offer, cheap—Horse Chestnuts, 6 to 8 feet; Scotch, 2 to 3 feet; Spruce, about 2 feet; also Privet, Lilacs, Laurels, etc."

Irish Times.

We are quite glad to see this old joke in harness again.

"Tourists are permitted to carry cameras and use them as long as they do not attempt to take fortresses."

Russian Year Book.

These 4.7 cameras are deadly things for siege work.

"Quite the tit-bit of the evening was the little interlude in the duet from 'Faust' taken by Mr. H—— as Faust and Mr. B—— P—— as Mephistopheles. 'His Satanic Majesty' sings—

"'What is your will? At once tell me.

Are you afraid?'"

Accrington Observer.

Is this "My dear Tino" under another name?

THE BATTLE OF JOBEY.

January, 1916, will ever be remembered as the eventful month in which the oldest men in England turned aside from all their other pursuits and disregarded the state of Europe in order to take part in the Battle of Jobey. Their battle-ground was the columns of The Times, and no one was too proud or venerable to fight. Peers, bishops, deans, statesmen, baronets, knights—all rushed in, and still no one quite knows the result. How many Jobeys were there? we still ask ourselves. Did anyone really know the first Jobey, or was there only an ancestral Jobey back in the days of Edward VI.? How old was the dynasty? Was Jobey Levi? Was Jobey Powell? Was Jobey short and fat? Was Jobey tall and thin? What did Jobey sell? What did Jobey do?

To begin with, what was the casus belli? No one can remember. But some old Etonian, reminiscing, had the effrontery to believe that the Jobey to whom, in his anecdotage, he referred, who sold oranges at the gate or blew up footballs or performed other jobicular functions, was the only Jobey. That was enough. Instantly in poured other infuriated old Etonians, also in anecdotage, to pit their memories against his. Everything was forgotten in the struggle: the Kaiser's illness, Sir Ian Hamilton's despatch, the Compulsion Bill, the Quakers and their consciences, the deficiencies of the Blockade. Nothing existed but Jobey.

All the letters, however, were not printed, and some of those that escaped The Times have fallen into our own hand. We give one or two:—

Sir,—Your Correspondents are wrong. Jobey was a fat red man, with a purple nose and a wooden leg.

I am, Yours faithfully, Nestor.

Sir,—My recollection of Jobey is exact. He was a fat man with a hook instead of a left hand, and he stood at least six feet six inches high. No one could mistake him.

I am, Obediently yours,

Methuselah Parr.

Sir,—Jowett, though not an Etonian himself, was greatly interested in anecdotes of Jobey related to him by Etonian undergraduates in the "sixties," and on one occasion, when he was the guest of the Headmaster, he was introduced to the famous factotum, who instructed him in the art of blowing up footballs, and presented him with a blood orange, which Jowett religiously preserved for many years in a glass-case in his study. In features they were curiously alike, but Jobey's nose was larger and far redder than that of the Master's. I have given a fuller account of the interview in my Balliol Memories, Vol. iii., pp. 292-5, but may content myself with saying here that the two eminent men parted with mutual respect.

I am, Sir, Yours faithfully,

Lemuel Longmire.

Sir,—I wish to point out that "My Tutor's" is hopelessly wrong in thinking that his Jobey is the real Jobey. Looking through my diary for June, 1815, I find this entry:—

"News of Waterloo just received. Jobey, who has charge of all the cricket implements and is generally the custodian of the playing fields, monstrously drunk, on the ground of having won the battle."

This conclusively proves that there was a Jobey before the old fellow who has just died aged 85. But how anyone can be interested in people aged only 85, I cannot conceive. My own age is 118, and I am still in possession of an exact memory and a deadly diary.

I remain, Sir, Yours truly,

John Barchester.

Sir,—Although in my hundred-and-fiftieth year I can still recollect my school days with crystal clearness, and it pains me to find a lot of young Etonians claiming to have had dealings with the original Jobey. The original Jobey died in 1827, and I was at his funeral. He was then a middle-aged man of 93. When I was at Eton in 1776-1783, he stood with his basket opposite "Grim's," and if any of us refused to buy he gave us a black eye. Discipline was lax in those days, but we were all the better for it. On Jobey's death a line of impostors no doubt was established, trying to profit by the great name; but none of these can be called the original Jobey, except under circumstances of the crassest ignorance or folly.

I am, Yours, etc., Senex.

Sir,—It is tolerably obvious that your correspondent "Drury's" is suffering from hallucinations of the most virulent type. Maxima debetur pueris reverentia is all very well, but facts are facts. There may have been many pseudo-Jobeys, but the real original was born in the year of the Great Fire of London and died in 1745. He was already installed in the reign of William III., and was the first to introduce Blenheim oranges to the Etonian palate. He was an under-sized man, about five feet five inches high, with a pale face and hooked nose and always wore a woollen muffler, which we called "Jobey's comforter." To represent him as belonging to the Victorian age is an anachronism calculated to make the angels weep.

I am, Sir, Yours everlastingly,

Melchisedek Pontoppidan.

A MOTHER TO AN EMPEROR.

I made him mine in pain and fright,

The only little lad I'd got,

And woke up aching night by night

To mind him in his baby cot;