Punch,

or the London Charivari

Volume 158, Jan-Jul 1920

June 23, 1920

CHARIVARIA.

Kieff has been retaken by the Bolshevists. It looks as if the Poles will have to win the place three times in succession before it becomes their own property.

Annoyed by a small boy who was sucking sweets and laughing a parson recently stopped in the middle of his sermon and refused to go on with it. We are informed that the boy in question has since received several tempting offers from other parishes.

A motorist, summoned the other week, admitted to having knocked three people down one day and two people the next. If only this progress can be steadily maintained!

Traffic in Finsbury Park was considerably delayed the other day by a crowd which collected in the main street in order to watch two bricklayers who had deliberately removed their coats.

A weekly paper states that the winding up of the Ministry of Munitions will not be completed until next year. After all it is just as well not to rush things.

"Only the small boy knows the joys of ice cream," says an evening paper. Inside information, we presume.

A New York writer thinks that a man with a large family of girls is fortunate. On the contrary, in these days, just as he gets the last one married off, the first gets a divorce and comes back home.

"The secret of health," said Professor Darsonval of the French Academy of Science, "is to walk on the toes." This is better than the plan adopted by Tube travellers of walking on other people's.

At the Business Exhibition there was shown a waistcoat-pocket calculator guaranteed to juggle with figures up to five thousand pounds. This should be just the thing for persons ordering dinner at a London restaurant.

"In 1924," says a contemporary, "Mars will be only thirty-five million miles from the earth." It has not yet been decided what can be done about it, but we understand that Lord Northcliffe has the matter in hand.

Scotland Yard is warning people against a man who perpetrates fraud by means of the telephone. It is to be hoped he will soon be captured so that the secret of how he gets through can be wrested from him.

"An expedition in search for gold," says a contemporary, "will leave Glasgow next week." In view of their object no surprise is felt that they have decided to leave Scotland.

Mr. Robert Hyde, a chemist of Pittsburg, claims to have obtained sugar from sawdust. This is not so very remarkable. Several people in this country have succeeded in obtaining sugar from a grocer.

"On July 1st," says an official notice, "all banks in the United Kingdom will be closed." To avoid disappointment, holders-up are requested to enter the date in their engagement books.

Whilst assisting with the repairs to his church a clergyman in the Midlands has had the misfortune to injure his thumb with a hammer. It still remains a mystery what the clergy say on such occasions.

Although this year the majority of lady-shoppers are practising in private for the summer sales there are still a few who have again adopted the Underground Railway as their training quarters.

The principle of the League of Nations has now been accepted by all the Great Powers with the exception of America and Mr. Bottomley.

A bargee summoned in Warwickshire for saying what he thought of the Government was acquitted, but was told that if he repeated the offence the fine would be five pounds. We understand that he is saving up for it.

"We must thank Germany for the present high cost of living," says an evening paper. Personally, at the risk of appearing ungrateful, we shall do nothing of the sort.

During a recent debate on crime a well-known doctor stated that, although his house was often left empty, no attempt had ever been made upon it. We hear, however, that he has since been visited by the secretary of the Burglars' Union and has agreed to await his turn.

In reply to several correspondents we have now much pleasure in announcing that it is not necessary to wear kilts whilst taking the oath in the Scottish fashion.

Time: Monday Morning.

Golfer. "No, I nevah go to the Club on Saturdays or Sundays. I find a much better lot there on Mondays."

The Other (bound Citywards). "Really. Well, you might keep a special look-out for a couple of new 'Purple Dimples' I lost at the fourteenth yesterday."

"Send Twopence for the latest Pamphlet on the East:

CARRYING FREEDOM TO TURKEY.

Delivery may be Slightly Delayed."

Muslim Outlook.

We can well believe this.

There was a young man of the Peak

Who had kippers for tea once a week;

As he hated the taste

It was rather a waste,

But it gave him a feeling of chic.

"It was learned yesterday, on enquiry at the offices of the City of Dublin Steampacket Company, that there is no truth in the statement that the officers and crews of the company's boats had been served with six months' notice in into a new contract for the carrying of the Government."—Irish Paper.

We doubted it from the start.

THE ART OF POETRY.

III.

In this lecture I shall deal with the production of Lyrics, Blank Verse and (if I am allowed) Hymns (Ancient and Modern).

First we will write a humorous lyric for the Stage, bearing in mind, of course, the peculiar foibles, idiosyncrasies and whims of Mr. Alf Bubble, who will sing it (we hope). Mr. Bubble's principal source of fun is the personal appearance of his fellow-citizens. Whenever a new character comes on the stage he makes some remark about the character's "face." Whenever he does this the entire audience rolls about on its seat, and cackles and gurgles and wipes its eyes, and repeats in a hoarse whisper, with variations of its own, the uproarious phrasing of Mr. Bubble's remark. If Mr. Bubble says, "But look at his face!" the audience, fearful lest its neighbours may have missed the cream of the thing, splutters hysterically in the intervals of eye-wiping and coughing and choking and sneezing, "He said, 'What a face!'" or "He said, 'Did you see his face?'" or "He said, 'Is it a face?'"

All this we have got to remember when we are writing a lyric for Mr. Bubble. Why Mr. Bubble of all people should find so much mirth in other men's faces I can't say, but there it is. If we write a song embodying this great joke we may be certain that it will please Mr. Bubble; so we will do it.

Somebody, I think, will have made some slighting remark about the Government, and that will give the cue for the first verse, which will be political.

We will begin:—

Thompson ....

I don't know why the people in humorous lyrics are always called Thompson (or Brown), but they are.

Thompson, being indigent,

Thought that it was time he went

Into England's Parliament,

To earn his daily bread ....

That is a joke against Parliament, you see—Payment of Members and all that; it is good. At the same time it is usual to reserve one's jokes for the chorus. The composer, you see, reserves his tune for the chorus, and, if the author puts too much into the verse, there will be trouble between their Unions.

Now we introduce the face-motif:—

Thompson's features were not neat;

When he canvassed dahn our street

Things were said I won't repeat,

And my old moth-ah said:—

This verse, you notice, is both in metre and rhyme; I don't know how that has happened; it ought not to be.

Now we have the chorus:—

"Oh, Mr. Thompson,

It isn't any good;

I shouldn't like to vote for you,

So I won't pretend I should;

I know that you're the noblest

Of all the human race ...."

That shows the audience that face is coming very soon, and they all get ready to burst themselves.

"I haven't a doubt, if you get in,

The Golden Age will soon begin—

But I don't like—your FACE."

At this point several of the audience will simply slide off their seats on to the floor and wallow about there, snorting.

The next verse had better be a love-verse.

Thompson wooed a lovely maid

Every evening in the shade,

Meaning, I am much afraid,

To hide his ugly head ....

Head is not very good, I admit, but we must have said in the last line, and as we were mad enough to have rhymes in the first verse we have got to go on with it.

But when he proposed one night—

Did it by electric light—

Mabel, who retained her sight,

Just looked at him and said:—

Now you see the idea?

"Oh, Mr. Thompson,

It isn't any good;

I shouldn't like to marry you,

So I won't pretend I should;

I know that you have riches

And a house in Eaton Place ....

(Here all the audience pulls out its handkerchief)

I haven't a doubt that you must be

The properest possible match for me,

But I don't like—your FACE."

I have got another verse to this song, but I will not give it to you now, as I think the Editor is rather bored with it. It is fortunate for Mr. Bubble that he does not have to perform before an audience of Editors.

Having written the lyric the next thing to do is to get a composer to compose music for it and then you get it published. This is most difficult, as composers are people who don't ever keep appointments, and music publishers like locking up lyrics in drawers till the mice have got at the chorus and the whole thing is out of date.

By the time that this song is ready Mr. Bubble may quite possibly have exhausted the face-motif altogether and struck a new vein. Then we shall have wasted our labour. In that case we will arrange to have it buried in somebody's grave (Mr. Bubble's for choice), and in 2000 A.D. it will be dug up by antiquaries and deciphered. Even a lyric like this may become an Old Manuscript in time. I ought to add that I myself have composed the music for this lyric, but I really cannot undertake to explain composing as well as poetry.

The serious lyric or Queen's Hall Ballad is a much easier affair. But I must first warn the student that there are some peculiar customs attaching to this traffic which may at first sight appear discouraging. When you have written a good lyric and induced someone to compose a tune for it your first thought will be, "I will get Mr. Throstle to sing this, and he will pay me a small fee or royalty per performance;" and this indeed would be a good arrangement to make. The only objection is that Mr. Throstle, so far from paying any money to the student, will expect to be paid about fifty pounds by the student for singing his lyric. I do not know the origin of this quaint old custom, but the student had better not borrow any money on the security of his first lyric.

For a serious or Queen's Hall lyric all that is necessary is to think of some natural objects like the sun, the birds, the flowers or the trees, mention them briefly in the first verse and then in the second verse draw a sort of analogy or comparison between the natural object and something to do with love. The verses can be extremely short, since in this class of music the composer is allowed to spread himself indefinitely and can eke out the tiniest words.

Here is a perfect lyric I have written. It is called, quite simply, Evening:—

Sunshine in the forest,

Blossom on the tree,

And all the brave birds singing

For you—and me.

Kisses in the sunshine,

Laughter in the dew,

And all the brave world singing

For me—and you.

I see now that the dew has got into the second verse, so it had better be called quite simply The Dawn.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHTMARE.

John Bull. "'IF I HAD WIT ENOUGH TO GET OUT OF THIS WOOD,' ..."

A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act III., Sc. 1.

You notice the artistic parallelism of this lyric; I mean, "The brave birds singing" in one verse and "The brave world singing" in the next. That is a tip I got from Hebrew poetry, especially the Psalms: "One day telleth another; and one night certifieth another," and so on. It is a useful trick to remember, and is employed freely by many modern writers, the author of "The King's Regulations," for example, who in Regulation 1680 has the fine line:—

"Disembarkations are carried out in a similar manner to embarkations."

That goes well to the Chant in C major by Mr. P. Humphreys.

But I am wandering. It is becoming clear to me now that I shall not have time to do Blank Verse or Hymns (Ancient and Modern) in this lecture, after all, so I will give you a rough outline of that special kind of lyric, the Topical Song. All that is required for this class of work is a good refrain or central idea; when you have got that, you see how many topics you can tack on to it. But if you can tack on Mr. Winston Churchill you need not bother about the others.

Our central idea will be "Rations," and the song will be called Heaps and Heaps:—

Now Jimmy Brown

(always begin like that)

Now Jimmy Brown

He went to town,

But all the people said,

"We're rationed in our jam, you know,

Likewise our cheese and bread;

But we've lots of politicians

And Ministers galore,

We've got enough of them and, gee!

We don't want any more."

Chorus.

We've had heaps and heaps and heaps of Mr. Smillie (Loud cheers);

We've had heaps and heaps and heaps of our M.P. (Significant chuckles);

At political carouses

We've had heaps of (paper) houses

But though we WAIT, no houses do we SEE

(Bitter laughter).

The khaki-boys were good enough for fighting,

But now we hear the khaki-coat is barred;

If they ration us in Mr. Winston Churchill,

Why, anyone may have my ration-card!

(Uproar.)

All you have to do now is to work in some more topics. I don't think I shall do any more now. The truth is, that that verse has rather taken it out of me.

In my next lecture I shall deal with Blank Verse and "The King's Regulations."

A.P.H.

ELIMINATION.

Stranger. "Can you tell me where Mr. Tooley lives?"

Native. "There's fifteen families o' Tooleys."

Stranger. "Mr. Samuel Tooley?"

Native. "There's twenty Sam Tooleys."

Stranger. "He is, I believe, a carpenter."

Native. "Ten on em's carpenters."

Stranger. "His age is seventy-eight."

Native. "Ah, that must be me. What can I do fur ee?"

"Deeside Forest Fire.

Ground game flew from their nesting places with shrill cries."—Daily Paper.

Odd behaviour for hares and rabbits?

Professional Candour.

"Young Gentlemen Taught
BALLROOM DANCING
(Privately).
Individual Instruction. No Class."

Advert. in South African Paper.

"For Sale.—A chance for Art Collectors:—Beautiful Enamel on Gold by Email de Geneve."

—Singapore Free Press.

We understand that the advertiser has also for sale some priceless statuary by the eminent sculptor, Plâtre de Paris.

"By Lady M—— S——.

My favourite quotation is: 'Things are what they are, and the consequences will be what they will be; why, then, should we wish to be deceived?'—Samuel Butler."—Daily Sketch.

It always looks well, when mentioning the name of the author of one's favourite quotation, to get it right. There seems to be an Analogy here between Lady M—— S—— and that Pharaoh "who knew not Joseph."

NEW MODES FOR MARS.

The anti-scarlet fever raging throughout the country is causing the Government the deepest concern, and many schemes for modifying the present khaki uniform of our troops, instead of reverting to the old red and blue for ceremonial wear, have, it is well known, been under consideration by the tailoring experts of Whitehall. Bright and brainy as are most of the projects, we are authorised to state that the following memorandum at present holds the field, being considered to provide the greatest measure of economy and utility, nattiness and hygiene.

The flat-topped service cap (to begin with the private's head) is to undergo considerable alterations, the crown becoming dome-shaped, the peak disappearing and a brim being added eight inches wide and curving deeply downwards. This detail will be carried out for summer in chip-straw, for winter in crown velours, and completed with a ribbon in the regimental colours (to take the place of the regimental badge), with two streamers in the rear, like those of the Glengarry bonnet, but greater in length and width. The chin-strap will be made of white elastic, but not pipeclayed, and worn permanently round the chin.

Owing to the expense of brass buttons and the bother of cleaning them the S.D. frock will cease to be worn, a Cardigan taking its place both for winter and summer use. The old shades of grey-brown elephant and mole will disappear, but in deference to the views of the pacifists a pale pink will be substituted for the unpopular red. White facings will surround the collar, cuffs and bottom edge of this garment, which will extend to a depth of eight-and-a-half inches above the knee-cap. If side-arms are worn they will be of a miniature size and suspended round the neck to hang in front by means of a lariat decorated with coral beads. Non-commissioned rank will be indicated by bangles round the right wrist.

Service trousers and puttees are both clumsy in appearance and awkward to put on, and will be replaced by a variant of the Scottish kilt, navy blue in colour and without the sporran or pleats. Under this will be worn pink socks, supporting the motif of the Cardigan, and, instead of the ammunition boot, tan shoes, fastened by means of a single cross strap and button, a mechanism which can be taken down and reassembled with remarkable ease.

A small haversack will be carried by a cord attachment in the right hand, and will contain the following items of small kit:—

One housewife.
One hold-all. [This will be filled with the usual toilet requisites, including a toothbrush, to be employed for the first time, in view of the abolition of brass buttons, for the purpose of brushing the teeth.]
One front hair glass.
One back ditto.
Six safety-pins.
One tin shoe-cream.
One tin face-cream.

It will be compulsory to shave the upper lip, but, in order to minimise expense at the barber's shop, the hair will be worn not less than ten inches in length and brushed with a downward and backward movement of the right hand away from the crown, so as to leave the forehead clear and conceal the ears.

White cotton gloves will be worn, one on each hand.

Our Erudite Contemporaries.

"Slightly to vary the old Greek proverb, we must beware of the Bishops when they pay us compliments!"—John Bull.

Policeman. "You say you saw the man. What sort of a man was 'e?"

Lady (giving the information). "Oh, a clean-shaved bloke—same as my 'usband 'ere."

THE ELFIN TUBE.

I know a solemn secret to keep between ourselves—

I heard it from a sparrow who heard it from the elves—

That always after 2 A.M., before the first cock-crow,

The elfin people fill the Tubes just full to overflow.

The grown-ups do not know it; they put the trains to bed

And never guess that magic will drive them in their stead;

All day the goblin drivers were hiding in the dark

(If mortals catch a fairy's eye they take it for a spark).

Elves patter down the subways; they crowd the moving stairs;

From purses full of tiddly-winks they pay the clerk their fares;

A Brownie checks the tickets and says the proper things:

"Come pass along the car there!" "Now, ladies, mind your wings!"

They're never dull like mortals who read and dream and doze;

The fairies swing head downwards, strap-hanging by their toes;

When Puck is the conductor he also acts as host

And sets them playing Leapfrog or Coach or General Post.

I'd love to travel with them! The sparrow says he thinks

I'd get from here to Golder's Green for three red tiddly-winks;

Two yellows pay to Euston, four whites to Waterloo;

Perhaps I'll go some moonlight night; the question is—will YOU?

AUTHORSHIP FOR ALL.

[Being specimens of the work of Mr. Punch's newly-established Literary Ghost Bureau, which supplies appropriate Press contributions on any subject and over any signature.]

II.—The Middle-Class Mother.

By Lady Vi Fitzermine, Leader of Society's Revels.

Are we growing dull? That is a question which in these pip-inducing times of peace one is frequently constrained to ask; and in the view of many, I fear, there can be but one answer.

During the late lamented War it was almost impossible for any rightly constituted woman to experience the pangs of boredom. When one wasn't making things vibrate in the hospitals of France and Flanders there was always abundance of excitement on the Home Front—flag-days, tableaux, theatricals, dances and other junketings in aid of this or that charity. And when the supply of charities threatened to run dry it was always a simple matter to invent new ones. All you had to do was to organise a drawing-room meeting, put the names of the Allied nations in one hat and of the more or less recognised necessaries of life in another and draw out one paper from each receptacle. You there and then registered a new charity out of the result and advertised some thrillingly expensive form of entertainment in support of the Society for the Supply of Chewing-gum to the Czecho-Slovakians, or any other equally pathetic cause.

In those days a charity began at an At Home and usually ended at the Coliseum or the Albert Hall—or (in a few unfortunate cases) in the Bankruptcy Court. Nowadays, however, people are deplorably sceptical on the subject of new appeals to the pocket, and many folk find time hanging heavy on their hands in consequence. It is for us who are of what I may call the organising class to break down the walls of this growing prejudice, which, if not checked in time, threatens to add seriously to the general volume of unrest. Hence it is necessary to scrap a good many of our old ideas and to realise that for all essential purposes the exotic form of charity is played out. To-day a Society woman who wishes to maintain her position as arbiter elegantiarum must tap other sources of inspiration and supply.

It is in these circumstances that I confidently fall back upon the Middle-Class Mother. After all, who was always the chief financial support of my wartime enterprises? The Middle-Class Mother. It was to her heart that the cry of the Croat, the moan of the Montenegrin, the ululation of the Yugo-Slav made its most effective entry. It was she who lavished her husband's pay or profits on the entrancing vision of the Countess of Bustover as Britannia or of Lady Aaronson as England's Girlhood. So I have determined that she shall now have a show to herself, and we shall see whether she will subscribe to her own charity as wholeheartedly as she did to those of our suffering Allies.

Without a doubt the Middle-Class Mother is a very deserving institution and has done extremely good work in the past, which I regret that the space at my disposal does not permit me to particularise. I must perforce content myself with announcing that on her behalf a grand Zoological Fancy Dress Ball will be held next month at Valhalla, which will be converted for the occasion into a realistic representation of a Bear Garden. I myself am appearing as Queen of the Polar Bears, and by way of augmenting the takings I propose to sell hugs at a guinea per head. The whole of the proceeds, after the expenses have been deducted, will go to the Middle-Class Mothers' Mutual Criticism Society, an animated body of which I have the privilege to be founder and hon. president.

MAIDEN'S BOWER ROCKS, SCILLY.

It was an earl's daughter, she lived in a tower

(Ding-dong, ding-a-dong-dey),

And she was as fair as the loveliest flower

That nods in the girdle of May.

The floor of her bower was strewn with green rushes;

Full many knights' banners hung waving above;

And round her young minstrels stood singing like thrushes

Brave ballads of lovers and love,

Dove—

Wooings and cooings of love.

But over their harping and over their singing,

When twilight came mantled in lilac and grey,

Would sound the sweet clangour of chapel-bells ringing

"Ding-dong, ding-a-dong-dey,"

From over the hills and away.

It was an earl's daughter, she lived in a tower

(Ding-dong, ding-a-dong-dey),

But the salt sea arose in a terrible hour

And smothered her singing in spray.

It changed her to rock, and she lies in her chamber,

Her faithful stone minstrels all crouched by her side;

Above her, weed banners of crimson and amber

Wave slow in the sweep of the tide,

Glide

Hither and yon on the tide.

Yet down through the fathoms of twilit green water

Where eerie lights glimmer and strange shadows sway,

The steamer bells ring to the earl's little daughter,