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PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 158.
MAY 5, 1920.
CHARIVARIA.
We understand that Lord Fisher, who is reported to have taken a week off to say what he thought about the Budget, has asked for an extension of time.
Germany has decided to abolish gradually all titles of nobility. They will disappear Von by Von.
Six hundred Irish emigrants left for New York last Wednesday on board the Celtic. All, we understand, were advised before leaving that the price of a man's votes, after the first five or six, isn't what it was in former Presidential elections.
"I hope I will not come back until the basis of a real peace with Russia is secured," said Mr. Snowden on the eve of his departure. There are other people who don't much mind what cause detains him.
An earthquake is reported in California, and a volume of poems by the Poet Laureate is announced. What a breathless week!
"What is wanted in our prisons," says a well-known preacher, "is more humanity; in the Irish prisons in particular the right kind of humanity." Even in the rare cases where we get hold of it we don't seem able to keep it.
The Liverpool and District Federation of Brotherhoods and Sisterhoods, protesting against Sunday cricket, declare their anxiety to maintain in every way the traditional sacredness of the English Sabbath. With roast beef at its present price this seems scarcely possible.
A "uniform evening dress for women" was advocated at a discussion on "Fashions" by members of the Lyceum Club. Smart Society, it is observed, by a gradual process of elimination is working down to something of the kind.
"Increased party bitterness," says a Berlin correspondent, "is becoming a feature of German life." A sharp cleavage of opinion is detected between the party that refuses to comply with the terms of the Peace Treaty and the section that merely intends to evade them.
It appears that a man has been fined five pounds for using bad language about Mr. Winston Churchill. Latest reports from the district are to the effect that his remarks were rather good value for the money.
A weekly paper advocates the sterilizing of all foodstuffs. This is a decided advance on the old custom of sifting soup through a set of whiskers.
Germany, says Mr. James Douglas, lost the War. It is said that even the ex-Kaiser now admits that everything seems to point that way.
A Madras tiger cub, we are informed, has been born at Pontypridd. We can only suppose that the animal did not know it was Pontypridd.
Futurist painters, says a contemporary, are becoming scarce in America. The wave of crime that followed the War seems to be falling off.
The Department Committee of the Falkland Islands suggest that whales should be marked by a small projectile. This is much better than screwing the monster into a vice and carving its name and address on it with a chisel.
A Beachy Head correspondent writes to a daily paper to say that he has seen a peculiarly bright light in the sky. Quite a number of people are asking, Can it be the sun?
A morning paper reports that the Government is now offering for sale all machinery, fixtures and fittings installed in a certain large aerodrome in Hampshire. It is rumoured that they will be willing to buy them back from the purchasers at an enhanced price in order to equip a new aerodrome in the same locality.
According to a witness at Willesden Police Court a carter charged with insulting behaviour swore for twenty minutes without repeating himself. We understand that the Bargees' Union take a very serious view of the matter.
"The cost of cremation is now exceptionally low," announces a Sunday paper. Inexpensive luxuries are so rare in these days that one is tempted to give it a trial.
Replying to Sir K. Fraser, Mr. Austen Chamberlain stated that he was not prepared to levy an equalizing tax on total abstainers. The belief that they are already sufficiently punished is widely held.
"Man, naturally funny, desires to be trained for stage funny-man" (Times Advertisement). The initial handicap is bound to tell against him. He should try the House of Commons.
Twenty-one pigs have died at Woking as the result of eating phosphorus. The owner was apparently unaware that it has taken years to accustom the American pig to a phosphorus diet.
Hythe Council is offering sixpence a dozen for dead wasps. Hunters may bring their captures in on the hoof but must slaughter them before they can touch the money.
A South Wales miner charged with trapping birds was found to be wearing three coats. As this might have been due to an oversight on the part of his valet it was not included in the charge.
THE THINGS WE WRITE.
"Sir Pompey and his guests literally swam in champagne."
Our Tireless Terpsichoreans.
"Miss ——'s dance will take place on the 22nd and terminate on the 29th for this season."—Advt. in Provincial Paper.
"That fine sporting neighbourhood, Epsom, is represented by a big cheque from the town cub."—Evening Paper.
Good dog!
THE HEALING WATERS OF SPA.
[It is feared that the Treaty with the Turk will not be signed in time for him to receive an invitation to join the Allies and their late enemies, towards the end of May, at the Conference to be held at Spa, where it is proposed to discuss a common scheme for the regeneration of the world.]
Sweet after hopes deferred that make
The stomach feel so queer,
To think the Peace for which we ache
May very soon be here;
That, though but scarce two years have passed
Since we contrived to win it,
The War, if things go on so fast,
May end at any minute.
Yet must the pace be hotter still
With less of "hum!" and "ha!"
If we would have our pleasure's fill
And meet the Turk at Spa;
How nice if he could only come,
Fresh from Armenian slaughter,
And join our Mixed Symposium
Over a mineral water!
His ripe experience would show
Just how (by Allah's grace)
To make this world of sin and woe
Into a better place;
And, though we failed to cure at sight
All ills that want allaying,
At least (between the Acts) we might
Together go a-Maying.
O. S.
LE MONDE OÙ L'ON TRAVAILLE.
There had been a long silence between us. We sat lunching comfortably at the Ritz, and the Spring air came pleasantly in at the open window beside us. I watched the people passing by and commented on some of them to Tony, but he seemed completely wrapped in meditation.
Really it was a little aggravating. Spring always thrills me to the tips of my fingers; I had put on my very nicest clothes; we were eating the very last word in lunches, and there was a glorious atmosphere of holiday in the air; but it was all lost on Tony.
Suddenly he roused himself. "It's a queer thing," he began à propos of nothing, abstractedly toying with his pêche Melba and lapsing into thoughtful silence again.
"Shouldn't be surprised," I retorted sharply.
Then I looked across at him and my heart smote me. He is extraordinarily good to look upon—fair crinkled hair, Saxon colouring and blue eyes that can warm up so delightfully at moments.
"What is queer, Tony?" I went on more gently, conscious that in spite of his abstraction his gaze was wandering appreciatively in my direction, so that I felt my new blouse was not entirely wasted after all.
"Well, the fact is," he roused himself to start, "I've been making some very interestin' experiments."
"Oh!" I said, a trifle disappointed.
"Yes, very interestin' indeed. You know, of course, that I've only been demobbed about six months, so there's no ghastly hurry or anythin', but I rather feel that I ought to begin to think of doin' somethin'—some business, profession sort of affair, I mean. Havin' made up my mind more or less, I thought I'd come up to town yesterday and have a talk with one or two of the fellows I know who have got jobs—get a few tips and so on."
"That sounds an awfully good idea," I encouraged him.
"Well, it was rather," he agreed modestly, "but on my life, Betty, you'd never believe——Well, I'll tell you.
"I dropped in first of all on Dixon. Not a bad chap at all, one of those—you know—solicitors. Partner in an A1 firm an' all that. They're fairly rakin' in money at present with this boom in Divorce Court stunts.
"Anyway we began talkin' about old times and so on, as I hadn't seen him for ages. We got laughin' over some of his funny stories about their stuff—no names or anythin' like that, of course—and then bit by bit I started tellin' him what was really at the back of my mind about takin' up the work. I don't think he grasped it quite at first, but when he did he just leant back in his chair and looked at me with a kind of pityin' expression. 'My dear old boy,' he said, 'take it from a friend, one who has been through it—don't! It's a dog's life; years of training; work all day and night. No peace. Responsibility all the time. You know, dear old fellow, what you want is a soft job. Why don't you start stock-brokin' or somethin'?'
"Well, of course that was a bit of a set-back; still I thought, 'Are we down-hearted?' So I trotted on round to old Simkins—remember that stockbroker chap we ran into at the Gaiety the other evenin'? He's a decent sort of fellow; clever an' all that too—but not by way of overworkin' himself.
"Well, I got to his office and asked him out to lunch at the Club, but he wouldn't hear of it. 'My dear old man,' he said, 'you're comin' right along with me to the Carlton, and we're goin' to have the best lunch they can turn out. I tell you I've struck lucky this morning; absolutely had a haul!'
"Well, I thought that sounded pretty cheery, so we toddled off, and I must say they did us jolly well. It seemed just the chance to get him to talk in a pally sort of way, so I simply put it to him straight and told him what I was thinkin' of doin'. He listened to me a bit doubtfully for a few minutes and then leaned across the table and put his hand on my arm, interruptin' me. 'Don't you do it, my son,' he said. 'As a pal I warn you. The work! the worry! the carking anxiety! Take my word for it the life of a stockbroker isn't fit for a dog.'
"Seemed funny, didn't it? Only he was so insistent that I began to get the hump about it myself too and after a little while I managed to leave him and rolled off to get cheered up by Bird. Teddy Bird's one of the best of fellows—always merry an' bright. They manufacture ladies' jumpers or somethin' of the sort; they were on Army clothin' durin' the War; pots of money, of course; not doin' too badly now either.
"I just blew in an' told him to come on the binge or somethin' to cheer me up. He wanted to know what I had got the hump about, so I told him about these other two chaps, and really I was beginnin' to think what a let-off I had had. Then a bright idea flashed into my mind. Why shouldn't I manufacture somethin'? It seemed such a toppin' good scheme that I asked him straight out what he thought about it.
"'My poor innocent lad,' he said, 'don't you yet realise the sort of existence fellows like me have to lead? Labour troubles, money troubles, taxation on profits. Why, good heavens, it's little better than a dog's life!'
"I kind of felt crumpled and left him."
Tony looked across at me gloomily.
There was a heavy silence. I couldn't think of anything comforting to say. He paid the bill and we started threading our way towards Piccadilly.
"But, Tony," I finally suggested rather desperately, "you said just now there isn't such a ghastly hurry. Why don't you just stay round and amuse yourself for a bit till something crops up?"
He turned and gazed at me reproachfully.
"My dear Betty," he said, "I thought you understood me better than that. For a fellow of real ambition and keenness for gettin' on, it's absolutely feedin', an existence like this, just messin' about. It's the limit. Why, it's nothin' better than a dog's——"
I glanced at him quickly and he flushed crimson to the ears.
"What I mean to say—oh, hang it!" he stuttered, waving his cane. "Hi, taxi! That's right. Hop in, Betty. We've just about time to get a look in at the Palladium. You know one wants cheerin' up these days. Thinkin' seriously about things is so beastly worryin'."
FROM TRIUMPH TO TRIUMPH.
Mr. Lloyd George. "I'VE MADE PEACE WITH GERMANY, WITH AUSTRIA, WITH BULGARIA, AND NOW I'VE MADE PEACE WITH FRANCE. SO THERE'S ONLY TURKEY, IRELAND AND LORD NORTHCLIFFE LEFT."
OUR NATURE CORRESPONDENT WRITES TO US THAT THE COUNTRYSIDE IS LOOKING ALMOST PERFECT.
ALL FOR JANE.
(With the British Army in France.)
How Jane contrived to inspire affection and bitter rivalry in the hearts of Sergeant Bulter and Chippo Munks is hard to imagine. She was not beautiful or agreeable or even intelligent. And she was certainly fickle and greedy. If Sergeant Bulter persuaded her to accompany him for a walk she was quite likely to return with Chippo; and if Chippo invited her to dine the end of the dinner was usually the signal for her to leave in search of the further hospitality of Sergeant Bulter.
Nevertheless both soldiers wooed her with an intensity that nearly brought them into deadly conflict. The climax was precipitated by an announcement in Battalion Orders that ran:—
"All ownerless dogs straying about the Camp will be secured by the Camp police for destruction. Owners of dogs will therefore ensure that their dogs are provided with collars showing names of owners, and such dogs are not permitted to stray about the lines unattended."
On reading this Chippo laboriously inscribed an old identity disc—
JANE MUNKS,
"B" Coy.,
and sought out Jane in her usual corner near the cook-house. He was threading the disc with a piece of string when Sergeant Bulter appeared.
"What are you doin' to that dawg?" demanded the Sergeant.
"Fittin' 'er with a necklace," replied Chippo.
"Well, you can keep it to hang yourself with," said Bulter triumphantly; "she's already provided."
Chippo perceived, what he had previously overlooked, that Jane's neck was encircled with a collar marked—
JANE BULTER,
Sergeants' Mess.
A sick feeling of disappointment came over him, but he dissembled.
"I reckernize the family likeness, Sergeant," he remarked and walked away, whilst Jane, with callous disregard for his sufferings, meditated whether to dine with the Ration Corporal or the Sergeant Cook, or both.
Chippo walked gloomily in the direction of the town. As he approached the place the blaring of cornets and sounds of hilarity reminded him that Quelquepart was holding its annual foire. Merry-go-rounds and swing-boats were not in harmony with Chippo's mood, and the performance at the gaudily-painted Guignol struck him as particularly dreary, but the sight of Ferdinand Delauney's Grande Loterie, with its huge red wheel and tempting array of prizes, roused him to animation. Ferdinand was attracting investors by methods of persuasion which Chippo, as an acknowledged "Crown-and-anchor" expert, recognised as masterly.
"Reckon I'll try a franc's-worth of Ferdy's prize bonds," he said. "But I expect it'll just be my luck to win a dog-collar or a muzzle."
In due course the wheel began to revolve, and it had scarcely stopped before Ferdinand jumped from the platform and embraced Chippo with emotion.
"Mon ami," he said, "mes félicitations! Vous avez gagné le premier prix!"
Opening a crate he extracted an athletic young cockerel, which he thrust under Chippo's arm, and the latter walked away with a prize for which he had not the slightest use.
Presently the cockerel began to struggle, and Chippo, after considering all methods of transport, took the string intended for Jane from his pocket, attached it to the rooster's leg and marched it before him. He had not proceeded far before he was confronted by the scandalised Sergeant Bulter, with Jane trailing miserably at his heels.
"Hi!" shouted the Sergeant, "what do you mean parading the town like a blamed poultry show?"
"A chap must 'ave a bit o' company when he goes out. I ain't got no dawg now," replied Chippo pathetically.
"Dawgs is one thing," said the Sergeant, "and a mangy wry-necked rooster wot's probably missing from some-one's back-yard is another. It ain't regimental."
"It's as regimental as a yellow flap-eared mongrel wot's bin enticed away from its rightful owner," said the insubordinate Chippo. "There ain't nothink in King's Regs. against it."
"P'r'aps there ain't," said Bulter; "but it ain't soldierlike."
"One minit, Sergeant. Wot's our regimental mascot? It's a goat. An' what's the Dampshires'? A chattering monkey. If monkeys an' goats is soldierlike so's poultry."
The Sergeant was silenced, and Chippo and his rooster proceeded on their way, giving a finished exhibition of the goose-step.
Thereafter Chippo and his pet ostentatiously paraded the lines, selecting the occasions when the Sergeant was starting out for a constitutional. Though Bulter's feelings were sorely outraged he preserved an air of icy aloofness, which Jane imitated as long as she was on the lead. This apparent indifference should have been a warning to the cockerel, but he did not know Jane's peculiar temperament. The full revelation came one morning when they met in the lines unattended by their respective masters. The rooster quickly fell a victim to feminine duplicity, and Jane carried the mangled bundle of claws and feathers and dropped it at Chippo's feet.
Chippo took the remains to Sergeant Bulter.
"See what your dawg's done," he said with indignation.
"An' a good job too," answered Bulter.
"You 'ear that?" appealed Chippo to another N.C.O. who was standing by. "He was allus jealous of me 'avin' a pet, so 'e deliberately set 'is dawg on it, an' now 'e's gloatin'."
"See 'ere, my lad," spluttered Bulter, "you'll be for orderly-room to-morrow if you ain't careful."
"Very well, Sergeant," said Chippo meekly; "it'll give me a chawnce to make my complaint to the orficer."
"'Ow do you mean?"
"Why, against you for flat disobedience of Battalion horders. If you 'adn't let your dawg run about the lines unattended this wouldn't 'ave 'appened."
The Sergeant's face bore the expression of a quack compelled to swallow his own pills. Chippo continued relentlessly and untruthfully—
"I 'ear she's bit the Colonel's groom an' pinched the joint from the Warrant Orficers' Mess. She never oughtn't to be at large, she didn't."
Rarely in his career had Bulter shown such visible discomfiture.
"Of course," added Chippo casually, "if Jane was my dawg I'd 'ave no grounds for complaint."
When your strong man is compelled to submit to the inevitable he usually does it ungracefully. Bulter took the collar from Jane's neck and pushed her over with his foot.
"Take the brute," he said, "an' if ever I see 'er round this Mess again I'll shoot 'er!"
Fatuous Person. "Are you a diver?"
Cynic. "Ho, no. I'm Pavlover's dancin' partner."
"Paris, Friday.—The High Court of the Senate resumed in public its hearing of the Caillaux trial.... The jury found the prisoner guilty. Mr. Justice Darling postponed sentence."—Scotch Paper.
No other journal appears to have noticed this remarkable extension of the Entente Cordiale.
SUSSEX GODS.
I have been told, and do not doubt,
That Devon lanes are dim with trees,
And shagged with fern, and loved of bees,
And all with roses pranked about;
I do believe that other-where
The woods are green, the meadows fair.
And woods, I know, have always been
The haunt of fairies, good or grim;
There the knight-errant hasted him;
There Bottom found King Oberon's Queen;
The Enchanted Castle always stood
Deep in the shadow of a wood.
But I know upland spirits too
Who love the shadeless downs to climb;
There, in the far-off fabled time,
Men called them when the moon was new,
And built them little huts of stone
With briar and thistle over-grown.
The trees are few and do not bend
To make a whispering swaying arch;
They are the elder and the larch,
Who have the north-east wind for friend,
And shield them from his bluff salute
With elbow kinked and moss-girt root.
There, when the clear Spring sunset dies
Like a great pearl dissolved in wine,
Forgotten stragglers half-divine
Creep to their ancient sanctuaries
Where salt-sweet thyme and sorrel-spire
Feed on the dust of ancient fire.
And when the light is almost dead,
Low-swung and loose the brown clouds flow
In an unhasting happy row
Out seaward over Beachy Head,
Where, far below, the faithful sea
Mutters its wordless liturgy;
Then Sussex gods of sky and sun,
Gods never worshipped in a grove,
Walk on the hills they used to love,
Where the Long Man of Wilmington,
Warden of their old frontier, stands
And welcomes them with sceptred hands.
D.M.S.
Improving upon Nature.
From an hotel advertisement:—
"Fishing on lake and stream, also 4 ½ miles Vyrnwy River, recently redecorated."
Provincial Paper.
"SHOT AT DAWN AGAIN.
By Horatio Bottomley."
"John Bull" Poster.
This accomplished marksman seems to have missed his man at the first attempt.
WHEN THE CHESTNUT FLOWERS.
Famous Folk who visit Hampton Court.
(Specially contributed by our mendacious Paragraphical Expert after the best models.)
Wonderful is the lure that Cardinal Wolsey's ancient seat has for all classes of Londoners, especially now when the spires of pink and yellow blossoms rise amidst the dark foliage of Bushey Park, but it is not generally known how many celebrities of the day are attracted to Hampton Court Palace unobserved by anybody but me, who make a habit of noticing this kind of thing. Leaders in the worlds of politics and art wander on the closely-shaven lawns or through the stately chambers, where our English kings made their home and in most cases left their bedsteads behind for posterity to admire. It is as if some irresistible compulsion drove the great minds of the present to commune with the mighty shades of the past. Either that or because the return fare from Waterloo is comparatively cheap.
Paying my penny to visit the Great Vine the other day, I found myself alone in the conservatory with none other than the Chancellor of the Exchequer himself, who was regarding this magnificent specimen of horticulture with evident interest through his monocle. After mentioning to him that its record output was twenty-two hundred clusters, I could not resist the temptation of asking him whether he thought the manufacture of home-grown wines would be stimulated by the provisions of the present Budget. Mr. Chamberlain, however, returned an evasive reply and went out to join Sir Edward Carson, who was pacing up and down in front of the Orangery.
Other well-known politicians whom I have noticed here lately have been Lord Beatty and Lord Fisher strolling arm-in-arm beside the Long Canal, and Mr. Jack Jones looking contemptuously at the Kynge's Beestes; and the other day, owing to identical errors in our choice of routes, I bumped into Sir Eric Geddes no fewer than five times during one afternoon in the Maze. The Lord Chancellor is another frequent visitor. For one who has the mitigation of the harsher features of our marriage laws so much at heart, these Courts, where "bluff King Hal" celebrated so many of his cheeriest weddings, have a special charm. It is true that the eighth Henry was a little one-sided in his ideas of reform, but that was the fault of his age rather than himself, and, like the present National Party, he had, as the Lord Chancellor put it, the great heart of the people behind him.
Nor is it only statesmen who haunt the great palace. Nowhere else but here, where James I.'s company of actors, including William Shakspeare, performed, can Mr. Henry Ainley obtain the requisite atmosphere which inspires his swift variety of impersonations, and I am told that his sudden remark of, "Oh, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth," made to one of the attendants who had been for many years in the army, was nearly the cause of a slight fracas. Mr. H. G. Wells has sometimes been seen staring open-mouthed at the painting of the Olympian cosmogony which adorns the ceiling and walls of the Grand Staircase, and in the wych-elm bower Sir J. M. Barrie tells me that he often thinks out the titles of his new plays. It was here, in fact, whilst he was weighing the delicate question, "Why did Alice-Sit-By-the-Fire?" that the sudden happy answer occurred to him, "Because Mary Rose."
P.S.—I forgot to say that Lady Diana Duff-Cooper frequently comes down here. Or, at any rate, if she doesn't, I shall say she does, because I always mention her in my paragraphs.
V.
MY STRONG SUIT.
Not for me the profiteer's
Lucky hauls,
But a prospect of lean years
That appals;
Yet, although I dimly grope
On an ever downward slope,
I espy one gleam of hope—
Overalls.
When the experts prophesy
Further squalls,
And my income, never high,
Falls and falls,
Then the twenty-guinea suit
Is to me forbidden fruit,
But I cordially salute
Overalls.
Not to mention other woes,
Other calls,
Paying tailors through the nose
Greatly galls;
So farewell, expensive tweeds,
Though my manly bosom bleeds,
For the situation needs
Overalls.
"Nursery Governess (not over 40) wanted for three children, girl 10 years, twins (boy 2, girl 8)."—Times.
Oh, gemini!
MANNERS AND MODES.
THE HARDENING EFFECTS OF WAR.
If the Brontosaurus came to London.
Mrs. Smythe de Willoughby. "Was the grocer's boy impudent again this morning, Clara, when you telephoned the order?"
Clara. "'E was, mum! but I didn't 'arf give 'im wot for. I sez, 'Who d'yer blinkin' well think you're a-talkin' to? I'm Mrs. Smythe der Willoughby!"
ELIZABETH AND HER YOUNG MAN.
The study door burst open and one end of Elizabeth—the articulate end—was jerked into view.
"Wot will you 'ave for lunch?" she demanded breathlessly. "Lamb or 'am?"
Abruptly recalled from the realms of fiction-writing, I (her mistress) looked up a little dazed. "'Lamb or 'am,'" I repeated dully, "lamorram? Er—ram, I think, please, Elizabeth."
Having thus disposed of my domestic obligations for the day I returned to my writing. I was annoyed therefore to see the other end of Elizabeth travel round the doorway and sidle into the room. Her pretext for entering—that of dusting the roll-top desk with her apron—was a little thin, for she has not the slightest objection to dust. I rather think it cheers her up to see it about the place. Obviously she had come in to make conversation. I laid down my pen with a sigh.
"I yeerd from my young man this morning," she began. A chill foreboding swept over me. (I will explain why in a minute.)
"Do you mean the boiler one?" I asked.
"'Im wot belongs to the Amalgamated Serciety of Boilermakers," she corrected with dignity. "Well, they've moved 'is 'eadquarters from London to Manchester."
There was a tense silence, broken only by Elizabeth's hard breathing on a brass paper-weight ere she polished it with her sleeve.
"If 'e goes to Manchester, there I goes," she went on; "I suppose I'd quite easy get a situation there?"
"Quite easy," I acquiesced in a hollow voice.
She went out leaving me chill and dejected. Not that I thought for one moment that I was in imminent danger of losing her. I knew full well that this was but a ruse on the part of the young man to disembarrass himself of Elizabeth, and, if he had involved the entire Amalgamated Society of Boilermakers in the plot, that only proved how desperate he was.