The Project Gutenberg eBook, Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156, Feb. 5, 1919, by Various, Edited by Owen Seamen

E-text prepared by Malcolm Farmer, William Flis,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team

PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 156.

February 5, 1919.

CHARIVARIA.

The Germans refer to the Armistice negotiations as Waffenstillstandeverhandlungen. We hope it will be worse even than they think.

There is no truth in the rumour that among the many new performances of Hamlet which are promised there will be one in aid of the fund for brightening the lives of the clergy, with the Gloomy Dean as the Gloomy Dane.

"We Americans do not consider ourselves the salt of the earth," says Senator HENRY. No, but their bacon certainly is.

In view of the fact that there is a large quantity of marmalade in the country, it has been decided to release it. This is such a satisfactory solution of the problem that people are wondering whether the Food Ministry thought of that one themselves.

Our heart goes out to the soldier who, when offered, on demobilisation, the option of fifty-two shillings and sixpence or a standard suit, replied that he would rather pay the fine.

The only surprising thing about Mr. C.B. COCHRAN'S proposal for a Peace Fair in Hyde Park, to be arranged largely by himself, is that there is no mention of a Serpentine dance for DELYSIA.

The Australian Government proposes to send returned Australian soldiers to prospect for minerals in the Northern Territories. Whether they will be interested in them after their experience in England in failing to locate quarts is another matter.

Sir EDWARD ELGAR has dedicated his new orchestral work, "Polonia," to M. PADEREWSKI. The report that the distinguished pianist-politician is thinking of retorting with a fugue, "Stiltonia," is not confirmed.

The Aircraft Salvage branch announces that not less than one thousand five hundred yards of the aeroplane linen which is being disposed of to the public will be sold to one purchaser. In the event of the purchaser deciding to use it as a pocket-handkerchief he can have it hemstitched for a trifling sum.

Improvement is reported in the condition of the taxi-cab driver who had a seizure in Piccadilly Circus while attempting to say "Thank you" to a fare.

We are pleased to be able to announce that the Kensington man who last week managed to board a tube train has consented to write a book about it.

Writing to a contemporary a Leeds correspondent says that he does not think much of an inactive corporation. As a matter of fact, since the introduction of rationing we didn't think active ones were being worn.

As a result of munition work, says a health journal, quite a number of men have given up smoking tobacco. We suppose the theory is that they have now taken to smoking threepenny cigars.

Mrs. MAGGIE HATHWAY of Montana is to be congratulated upon running a six-hundred-acre farm without the help of men's labour. After all we men must admit that her sporting effort is a distinct score for the second oldest sex in the world.

Anglesea Police Commission are offering one shilling and sixpence a dozen for rats' tails to residents of the county. Some difficulty is expected in distinguishing local from imported tails once they are separated from the rat.

In connection with the offers for Drury Lane Theatre it appears that one of the would-be purchasers declares that he was more syndicate than sinning.

In connection with the epidemic of burglaries in London, The Daily Express has now published a leader note saying there have been too many of late. It is hoped that this will have the desired effect.

We are glad to report that the gentleman who, at the BURNS festival, upon being asked if he would take a little haggis replied that he wouldn't mind trying a wing, managed to escape with his life.

A West Hampstead architect has designed a cottage in which there will be no bricks in the walls, no timber in the roof, no slates or tiles and no register grates. Too late. Jerry-builders accomplished that trick years ago.

While walking in Highams Park, Chingford, says a contemporary, a postman picked up a package containing one ounce of butter. To his eternal credit let it be said that he at once took it to the nearest police station.

The best brains of the country are still exercised by the alleged need of brightening cricket. One of our own suggestions is that the bowler should be compelled to do three Jazz-steps and two Fox-trots before delivering the ball.

A typist recently fell from a moving train on the Isle of Wight railway, but was able to get up and walk towards her destination. We hear she had a good deal to say to the guard when she overtook the train.

THE NEW AERO-GUN SERVICE BETWEEN LONDON AND PARIS.

From a feuilleton:—

"He had a cleft in his chain which Rosemarie thought most attractive."—Evening News.

There is no accounting for tastes. We should have thought it suggested the Missing Link.

EVICTED.

(A common scandal, inviting the attention of the Government.)

I was amazed the other day to hear that my landlord had called to see me. Hitherto our intercourse had been by letter and we had had heated differences on the subject of repairs. His standpoint seemed to be that landlords were responsible for repairs only to lightning conductors and weathercocks. My house possesses neither of these desirable adjuncts.

I moved an armchair so that no one sitting in it could fail to see the dampest wall and ordered him to be shown in.

He was a most benevolent-looking old gentleman, and I felt I had done him an injustice in regarding him as a property shark.

"Glad to see you," he said, shaking me warmly by the hand.

"Do sit down," I said. "That chair is the most comfortable. Don't be afraid. At that distance from the wall the damp won't affect you."

"So glad to see how comfortable you are here," said the benevolent one.

"If we could occasionally have a hot bath we should be more comfortable, but the kitchen range is impossible."

"What you need, my friend, is a house of your own so that you can adapt it to your own ideas. How would you like this house?"

My breath was taken away. Had the kindly one come to present me with a house? Was I to be the object of an amiable plutocrat's benevolence?

"I should like it very much," I said.

"You shall have it," he said, slapping me amiably on the knee.

I gasped for breath. In my time I had had boxes of cigars given me, but never houses.

"For fifteen hundred pounds, as you are the tenant," continued the benevolent one.

I gasped for breath again.

"But you bought it for five hundred and fifty pounds just before the War," I said when I had recovered.

"Ah, before the War," chuckled the philanthropist.

"I don't think I can afford fifteen hundred pounds."

The benevolent one looked disappointed in me. "Dear me," he said, "and I wanted so much to sell it to you. Well, I shall have to give you notice to quit in June. This house must be sold."

"But I can't get another house."

"You can have this house. But surely you have some friend who will advance you fifteen hundred pounds?"

"You don't know my friends. It would be very awkward to be turned into the street."

"You should have a house of your own and be independent. Every man should own his home. Now can't you think of some friend who could assist you?"

"Could you lend me fifteen hundred pounds for a rather speculative investment?" I inquired.

"Since my kindly consideration for a tenant is treated with mockery I give you written notice to leave. A 'For Sale' board will be placed in your garden. A clause in the lease authorises me to do that. I wish you good morning."

Well, I am to be evicted, and, as I'm not an Irishman, no one will care. I shall not lie in wait with a shot-gun for my landlord. But there is no clause in the lease forbidding me from putting up my sale announcement beside the landlord's. It will run:—

FOR SALE

THIS UNDESIRABLE PROPERTY

COST £550 IN 1913.

Never been repaired since.

Damp guaranteed to come through

every wall.

Mice can run under the doors but there

is not sufficient space for cats to follow them.

The Kitchen Range is unusable.

All hope of baths abandon ye who enter here.

One half of the windows won't open—the others won't shut.

All chimneys smoke in all winds.

A unique chance for the War-rich.

THE PUFF ERRATIC.

The New Statesman contains a letter from Mr. ARNOLD BENNETT, disclaiming all responsibility for the publisher's official description of his new novel printed on the "jacket" or paper cover thereof. It had not been submitted to him for approval and he knew nothing of it. Mr. BENNETT is, of course, entitled to his protest, but we greatly hope that publishers will not be induced thereby to abstain from supplying these interesting summaries. If only the method could be applied to standard works the results would be even more illuminating. As for example:

"HAMLET."

This delicious comedy is the romance of the Prince of Denmark, which, unlike other romances, begins after his marriage: with Polonia, daughter of Horatio, who had been previously engaged to both Rosenstern and Guildencranz. Hamlet, by joining a troupe of strolling players, offends his uncle, the reigning sovereign, and is confined in a lunatic asylum.

Brilliant pictures of society in Copenhagen, Denmark Hill and Heligoland alternate with sparkling studies of the inner life of a touring company on the Continent.

"Can a woman love three men?" is the theme of this engrossing extravaganza.

"IDYLLS OF THE KING."

In a series of exciting episodes, written in fluent heroic couplets, the author gives us a thrilling picture of the manners and customs of the Court of King Arthur, an early British sovereign, whose stately home was situated on the Cornish Riviera.

Owing to the compromising attentions which he pays to Elaine, the Lady of Shalott, the King alienates the affections of Queen Guinevere and is slain by one of his knights, Lancelot by name.

Winsome women, gallant paladins and mysterious magicians throng these fascinating pages, which incidentally throw much light on the theological problems discussed by the Knights of the Round Table, among whom Merlin, Vivien and Enid are especially, prominent.

"VANITY FAIR."

Major Dobbin, a beau sabreur of irresistible charm, is on the point of eloping with Amelia Osborne, the wife of a brother-officer, when the Battle of Waterloo breaks out and Dobbin is slain. Captain Osborne, in the mistaken impression that Amelia has shared her betrayer's fate, marries the beautiful Becky Sharp and is tried for bigamy, but is acquitted, as Becky Sharp is proved to have been already married to an Indian Nabob of the name of Crawley. On the death of Crawley, Becky marries the Marquis of Steyne, becomes deeply religious and dies in the odour of sanctity.

"Is marriage a failure?" is the problem of this kaleidoscopic drama, which is handled with all the author's well-known soulful verve.

"Smith Minor" again.

"Apelles fuit carus Alexandro propter comitate." "Apples were dear in the days of Alexander on account of the Committee." (? Food Controller.)

"A resolution was passed requesting the responsible local authority to provide thirty new houses in accordance with the Local Government Board's scheme. The houses required were—first, those which were unfit for human habitation."—Sussex Paper.

And, to judge by some of the fantastic designs for rural cottages published in the newspapers, those are what they will probably get.

THE ORDER OF RELEASE.

THE REAL DALRYMPLE.

You would feel quite uncomfortable if you heard Dalrymple talk. He conveys the impression that everything is badly in the way and ought to be removed at once. That's his view. Dalrymple has no patience with the social system. This includes everything, from the washing bill to the House of Commons.

Dalrymple said the General Election made him impatient. By the way, Dalrymple is a fine upstanding personage, with just the coloured hair the lady novelists dote on, and eyes in harmony; but despite his handsome placid bearing Dalrymple is a fire-eater of the hungriest.

"What you want to do is to make a clean sweep of everything," he said. "Money is an anachronism, and in a perfectly ordered State would not be required."

Of course it is no more use arguing with Dalrymple than it would be to attempt a controversy on naval affairs with Lord Nelson on his pedestal.

And then there is this about Dalrymple—you remember what some Court poet said concerning Louis THE FOURTEENTH; it was to the effect that quand le Roi parle—well, apparently everything and everybody else had to put up the shutters. I forget exactly how the thing ran. It is just so with Dalrymple. He comes into my room in the City and warms himself, though no fire is needed to fan his enthusiasm for destruction. The Bolsheviks are peaceable Sunday folk compared with him. A Nihilist on a war footing would be considered Quaker-like in his symptoms.

Dalrymple is neck or nothing. He is a whole-hogger even to the most indigestible bit of crackling.

"What we want is a fresh start," he said. "Then you could begin anew and everybody would have a chance. Burn things, blow them up, leave nothing; then we should see something. Your whole scheme is faulty. Your Underground—" Dalrymple has an irritating habit of fathering things on me, which is unfair, for, as regards the Tubes, for instance, I am sorry to say I have not even a share, and often not as much as a strap.

"But the Underground is only a bit overcrowded," I ventured to say. "It can't help that, you know."

"It is all wrong," said Dalrymple. "The entire gadget is defective. Look at France, look at America, look at Germany and Russia and the Jugo-Slavs."

It was rather breathless work looking at all these nations and peoples, but I did my best. Dalrymple is particularly strong when it is a question of the Jugo-Slavs, and he always gave me the idea that he spent his Saturday afternoons enunciating chatty pleasantries in Trafalgar Square and on Tower Hill.

But—you might just see the finish—Dalrymple was not doing anything of the sort the afternoon that I was out house-hunting. Yes, it is true. You will scarcely credit the fact that I found any difficulty in tracking down an eligible villa, but that is the case.

The quest took me to a pleasant semi-rural neighbourhood where there was room for gardens with the borders edged with the nice soft yellow-tinted box, and rose walks, and dainty little arbours, and fandangled appurtenances which amateur gardeners love with perfect justification.

And there was Dalrymple. I won't deceive you. I recognised him on the other side of a low oak fence. He was wearing an old hat of the texture of the bit of headgear which the man who impersonates Napoleon at the music-hall doubles up and plays tricks with, only Dalrymple's hat had obviously been white and was now going green and other colours with wear and tear.

And wherever Dalrymple went a small cherub in a holland frock went too. The cherub would be about five. Dalrymple was fashioning a hen-coop out of two or three soap-boxes. Both he and the cherub ceased activities when I hailed and approached; and I stopped to dinner. Dalrymple told me he rather fancied he could wangle me a bungalow.

"I know the agent chap," he said, as we sampled a very pleasant glass of port. "Of course they want to keep it fairly dark or we should be swamped. I have taken a lot of trouble myself, you know, and am just starting gardening lectures at our club."

So he went on—the house, his new roses, the hens, the jam his wife made, the idea he had for a winter garden in the interests of his wife's mother, who could then take the air in her Bath-chair.

"But," I said, "you want to sweep everything away. You aim at sending villages like this to pot—your own word, you remember. And then there are the Jugo-Slavs—"

Dalrymple winked and handed me the cigars.

I fancy he is a fraud.

"AEROPLANE FLIGHT TO INDIA.

"PREPARATIONS FOR DECEPTION IN DELHI."—Englishman (Calcutta).

But the aviators, in order that there might be no doubt about their bona fides, wisely landed at Karachi.

MY SERGEANT-MAJOR-DOMO.

When WILSON has abolished War

And grim Bellona claims no more

The greatest of her sons,

What job has Peace to offer thee

That shall fulfil thy destiny,

O Sergeant-Major Buns?

Shall thy great voice, at whose behests

Trembled a hundred martial breasts,

Be heard without a smile

Urging astonished Cingalese

To tap the tapering rubber trees

Upon their distant isle?

Shall thy dread presence clothed in tweed

Be seen, O Buns, without the meed

Of some regretful sigh,

Fresh from the triumphs of the trench

Upon the Opposition Bench

Begging the SPEAKER'S eye?

Nay, rather let thy mighty mind

At length its true vocation find

In the domestic sphere;

The trivial round, the common task

Shall furnish all thou needst to ask—

There shalt thou earn thy beer.

Yes, thou shalt play a worthy rôle,

Thou great unconquerable soul,

Within my humble flat;

For when thy voice shall thunder, "Where

Is master's cream?" what maid shall dare

Invoke the mystic cat?

And what or volatile Miss Gripps?

The weekly notice on her lips

Shall wither at thy look.

And still one triumph waits for thee—

And, oh! may I be there to see—

When thou shalt face my cook!

"DATE FIXED FOR HANGING RETAILERS."—Provincial Paper.

And some of them richly deserve it.

"The League will reconsider traety obligations from time to time.

"The League will reconsider traeyt obligations from time to time."—Evening Paper.

And then the printer gave it up.

"A Handley Page, with two Rolls-Royce engines, was the first and only machine to fly to India, and was the first and only machine to fly to India, and is the second to fly to India."—Daily Paper.

Not the third and only, as for the moment we were tempted to believe.

"Young Educated Girl Pupil Wanted, help animals; live clergyman's family; pocket-money."—Newcastle Journal.

We are glad to hear of a really live clergyman. So many parsons nowadays are accused of being dead-alive.

THE SPREAD OF EDUCATION.

DAILY AND MAILY.

Mr. Daily burst into the room, slamming the door behind him, to find Mr. Maily seated before the fire.

"Maily, you're not getting things done," he shouted as he walked swiftly up and down the Turkey carpet.

"Only buttoning my spat, Daily," said Mr. Maily. Then he too, springing from his chair, walked rapidly to and fro. But whereas Mr. Daily chose the route between the window and the motto, "Do something else NOW!" Mr. Maily took the line between the fireplace and "Keep on keeping on!" for they seldom felt compelled to stick to one direction.

"Maily, I'm worried," exclaimed Mr. Daily in passing. "Things seem to be easing down. Even you are not so nimble as you were. This silence of the public troubles me—haven't been saying things about us for a long time."

"Some people even praise us," remarked Mr. Maily, disgust mingling with the perspiration on his face.

"We'll be damned if we put up with praise," Mr. Daily declared.

"We shall. We'd give praise if they'd damn us," said Mr. Maily.

"Never be funny, Maily, if you can help it," warned Mr. Daily. Then he remarked wistfully, "If they'd only burn us again!"

"Couldn't we go for the Archbishop of CANTERBURY?" asked Mr. Maily. "To be burnt during morning service in a cathedral—"

"No, these church-people couldn't be roused, Maily. Too much dillydally about them. They'd never fall to it."

Mr. Daily jabbed his thumb against a white bell-push, and a clerk appeared. "Got enough work to do?" asked Mr. Daily.

"And then some," said the clerk.

"Well, get on with it," shouted Mr. Daily impatiently, and pressed a red bell-push.

"Plenty doing?" he asked the compositor who appeared.

"Twice that," said the compositor.

"Then go to it," barked Mr. Daily. Turning to behold Mr. Maily mopping his brow, he cried, "For heaven's sake don't let anybody see you standing still, Maily."

"I was only thinking," said Mr. Maily.

"Whatever for?" asked Mr. Daily.

"Do you suppose—"

"Suppose nothing. Know!"

"How would it be to—to denounce beer?" asked Mr. Maily.

"Gad, but you've still got pluck," said Mr. Daily with something like admiration. "They'd burn us right enough. But there is such a thing as too much pluck, Maily. Think again, if you must think."

"No," Mr. Daily went on, "I doubt if a satisfactory burning can be worked—it only comes by accident. Meanwhile, if the public won't talk about us, we must boom ourselves;" and he sprinted to a yellow bell-push to summon the editor.

"This peace business," said Mr. Daily to him—"Peace must be signed! How's that for a new stunt? Cut out 'The Soldiers' Paper' and call ourselves 'The Paper that gets Peace.' Get the boys together, work out a scheme and come and show us in half-an-hour."

"But, Daily, is there any likelihood of peace not being signed?" asked Mr. Maily, when the editor had gone.

"For goodness' sake, Maily, pull yourself together. Don't you understand that one of the principles of our job is to back certs?" said Mr. Daily.

Manager of Kinema Theatre (referring to the two turbulent members of audience who have been ejected). "HOW DID THE QUARREL COMMENCE?"

Doorkeeper. "THEY WERE FIGHTING, SIR, ABOUT WHICH OF THEM THE GIRL IN THE PICTURE WAS WINKING AT."

LINES TO A LEGIONARY.

(Members of the new corps of domestic servants are called legionaries.)

Sole hope of this my household, martial maid

Whom ordered ranks and discipline austere

Have shaped (I gather) for a braver trade,

So that respect, not all unmixed with fear,

Informs my breast as I await you here,

Your title, with its stern Cæsarian touch,

Does, to be frank, alarm me very much.

Come not, I pray you, to my casual home

(Where moulting cats usurp the best arm-chair)

With the harsh practices of Ancient Rome,

The brow severe, the you-be-careful air

Which (on the film) all legionaries wear;

My dream is just a regulated ease;

Rules, if you like, but not too stringent, please.

Come not with rude awakenings, nor request

That I at stated hours must rise and feed;

I like my morning slumber much the best

And hate a life by drastic laws decreed

(I'm not a Persian born, nor yet a Mede);

No, but with step demure and tactful come,

And if soft music greet you, oh, be dumb!

In careless comfort let my days be spent!

And, maiden, mutual happiness shall reign;

The crash of crockery I'll not lament

Nor (when I fain would sing) will I complain

Though you should raise the far from dulcet strain;

But with a sweet content I'll bless the day

My legionary came, and came to stay.

"LOST, large retriever dog, flat-coated; when pleased or expectant he grins, showing all his teeth; information leading to his recovery will be rewarded."—Glasgow Herald.

It is supposed that he has been studying the portraits of "Variety" ladies in the illustrated papers.

"He must, said Mr. Thomas, urge men to recognise that, in the present state of the country, it was imperative that soppages should be avoided."—Liverpool Paper.

Excellent advice; but in the present state of the country, unless one wears waders, extremely difficult to follow.

"WANTED.—A suitable match for a well-connected and refined Suri widower of 37; healthy and of good moral character; monthly income about 500 rupees. Possesses property. Late wife died last week."—Indian Paper.

It is a sign of the truly moral character to be definitely off with the old love before you are on with the new.

"The five main points in the Prime Minister's programme are: (1) Punch the ex-Kaiser."—Sunday Times (Johannesburg).

The other four don't matter, but we wish to take the earliest opportunity of denying this totally unfounded suggestion. Mr. Punch is not the ex-Kaiser, and never was.

Late Superintendent of Munition Canteen (in dairy where she has dealt for over three years). "AND YOU WON'T FORGET THE CREAM AS USUAL."

Dairy Girl. "SORRY, MADAM. I REGRET YOU CANNOT HAVE ANY MORE CREAM, AS YOU HAVE CEASED TO BE OF NATIONAL IMPORTANCE."

A LITTLE FAVOUR.

Maisie was terribly upset when she lost her gold curb bangle (with padlock attached) between the hospital and the canteen. The first I knew of it was seeing a handbill offering two pounds' reward on our front gate, with the ink still damp, when I came home to lunch. There was a similar bill blowing down the road. My wife had some more under her arm and she pressed them on me. "Run round to the shops," she said; "get them put right in the middle of the windows where they'll catch everybody's eye."

The first shop I entered was a hosier's. Since drilling in the V.T.O. I have acquired rather a distinguished bearing. Shopkeepers invariably treat me with attention. The hosier hurried forward, obviously anticipating a princely order for tweeds at war prices. I hadn't the courage to buy nothing. I selected the nearest thing on the counter, a futurist necktie at two-and-six-three, and, as I was leaving the shop, turned back carelessly. "By the by, would you mind putting this bill in your window?" I said.

His lip curled. "This is a high-class business. We make it a rule—no bills," he said.

At the butcher's next door there were several customers. They all gave way to me. I made purchases worthy of my appearance and carriage, half an ox tail and some chitterlings. Then I proffered a handbill. The man in blue accepted it and, before I had opened my lips, returned it to me wrapped round the ox tail. I was too taken aback to explain. In fact, when he held out his hand, I mechanically gave him another bill for the chitterlings.

At the next shop, a fancy draper's, I acted with cunning. In the centre of the window, on a raised background of silver paper, was displayed a wreath of orange-blossom veiled with tulle. I bought it. The young ladies were hysterical. "May I ask permission to put this little handbill in its place?" I said. They appealed to the shopwalker. "In the absence of the head of the firm I cannot see my way to accede to your request," he said. "At present he is on the Rhine. On his demobilisation I will place the matter before him if you will leave the bill in my hands." I left it.

I skipped a gramophone emporium and a baby-linen shop and entered a fishmonger's. Here I adopted tactics of absolute candour. "Look here," I said, "I haven't come to buy anything. I don't want any fish, flesh or red-herring, but I should be no end grateful if you would stick this bill up for me somewhere."

"Certainly, Sir, as many as you like," said the proprietor heartily.

Gleefully I gave him two. One he stuck on a hook on top of a couple of ducks, and it flopped over face downwards on their breasts. The other he laid in the middle of the marble counter, and the next moment his assistant came along and slapped an outsize halibut on it.

I went into a jeweller's next and purchased a gold curb bangle (with padlock attached).

"You clever old thing," said Maisie; "you'd never tell one from the other, would you? Mine's a tiny bit heavier, don't you think? I've just found it in the soap-dish. I'll change this for a filigree pendant. All my life I've longed for a filigree pendant"