PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 159.

July 14th, 1920.

CHARIVARIA.

We understand that it has now been decided that the Ex-Kaiser will travel to England for his trial by way of the Channel Tunnel.

A new coal war is anticipated by The Daily Express. The difficulty is in knowing where the last coal war ended and this one will begin.

We understand that the Government fixture card is not yet complete and they still have a few open dates for Peace Conferences (away matches) for medium teams.

The world's largest blasting-furnace has been opened at Ebbw Vale. It is expected however that others will flare up immediately the Chancellor's proposals go through.

"Militarism has created a dragon whose fangs will never properly be drawn," announces a writer in a Sunday paper. This charge against Mr. Winston Churchill's dentist is, in our opinion, most unkind.

The report that the Turks had appealed to the Allies to stop the new war in Asia Minor turns out to be incorrect. What the Turks demand is that the Allies shall stop the Greek end of it.

"I would like to take a great piece of England back to America as a souvenir of the happy time I have recently spent there," exclaimed Miss Mary Pickford to a reporter in Belgium. Arrangements, we hear, are now being hastily made to offer her the whole of Ireland if she will take it away during this month.

According to a local paper a lawyer living in Birmingham, returning unexpectedly from the theatre, discovered two burglars at work in his library. It is reported, however, that the intruders with great presence of mind immediately retained him for their defence.

Several workhouses in the South of England now possess tennis-courts and bowling-greens. It is satisfactory to note that preparations are at last being made to receive the New Poor.

We are glad to learn that the two members of a well-known club in the City who inadvertently took away their own umbrellas have now agreed to exchange same, so that the reputation of the club shall not suffer.

A Warwickshire miner summoned for not sending his child to school is reported to have pleaded that he saw a red triangle danger notice above the word "school" and therefore kept his daughter away.

"We must have support," said the Postmaster-General last week. We can only say that we always buy our stamps at one of his post-offices.

A little domestic tragedy was enacted in London last week. It appears that a small boy, on being offered a penny by his mother, who had just returned from the winter sales, refused it, saying that he was not allowed to accept money from strangers.

An official of the New York Y.W.C.A. inquires whether a woman of thirty years is young. A more fair question would be, "When is a woman thirty years of age?"

President C.W. Eliot, of Harvard University, says Britishers drink tea because it feeds the brain. Our own opinion is that we drink it because we have tasted our coffee.

So many servant-girls are being enticed from one house to another that several houses now display the notice, "Visitors are requested to refrain from stealing the servants."

Under a new Order public-houses will not open until seven in the evening on Sundays. This seems to be another attempt to discourage early rising on that day.

Two men have been arrested at Oignies, Pas de Calais, for selling stones as coal. We fancy we know the coal-dealer from whom they got this wrinkle.

Speaking at Sheffield University last week, Sir Eric Geddes said he hoped to see the day when there would be a degree of Transport. What we're getting now, we gather, can't really be called Transport at all.

A live mussel measuring six inches has been found inside a codfish at Newcastle. We expect that if the truth was known the mussel snapped at the cod-fish and annoyed it.

A soldier arrested at Dover told the police he was Sydney Carton, the hero of The Tale of Two Cities. He is supposed to be an impostor.

A market-gardener in Surrey is said to be the double of Mr. Winston Churchill. Since this announcement it is stated that the poor fellow has been inundated with messages of sympathy.

"The secret of success," says Mr. W. Harris, "is hard work." Still, some people would scorn to take advantage of another man's secret.

Wives, said the Judge of the Clerkenwell County Court recently, are not so ignorant that they do not know what their husband's earnings are. There is no doubt, however, that many workmen's wives simply pocket the handful of bank-notes their husbands fling them on Saturday night without stopping to count them.

There were no buyers, it is stated, for fifty thousand blankets offered by the Disposals Board last week. We have all along maintained that, though it would take time, the Board would wear its adversaries down.

According to an official list recently published the Government employs over three thousand charwomen. The number is said to be so great that they have to take it in turns to empty Mr. Austen Chamberlain's portfolio.

Showman. "Don't get him too tame, Professor. He's got to go five rounds with the boxing kangaroo when you've finished."

A CRICKET MANNERISM.

A writer commented recently in an article in Punch on the advantage to a cricketer of some harmless mannerism, giving as an instance Mr. P.F. Warner's habit of hitching up the left side of his trousers and patting the ground seven times with his bat. This homely touch reminded me irresistibly of Rankin. Not that Rankin resembles Mr. Warner even remotely in any other way. But Rankin has a mannerism, one which is fairly harmless, too, as a general rule. If on one occasion, of which I will tell you, it had unfortunate results, there was then a combination of circumstances for which Rankin was not entirely responsible. That much I now feel myself able to admit. At the time I could see nothing good about Rankin at all.

Rankin resides in our village of Littleborough, and is by trade what is known as a jobbing gardener. On Thursdays he is my gardener, on Wednesdays Mrs. Dobbie's gardener, and so on. On Saturday afternoons he plays cricket. Or at least he dresses in (among other garments) a pair of tight white flannel trousers and a waistcoat, and joins the weekly game.

Recently we met in deadly combat the neighbouring village of Smallwick. Away into the unchronicled past runs the record of these annual contests. Each village hints that it has gained the greater number of victories; each is inclined in its heart to believe that the other one has actually done so—because, as I suppose, the agony of defeat leaves a more lasting impression than the joy of victory. But I digress. We have not even got to Rankin's mannerism yet.

Rankin's mannerism is the habit of plunging his hands into his trouser pockets. A very ordinary one, you will say; but not when carried to the extent to which Rankin carries it. It is useless for Rankin to field at short slip, for instance. The only time he did so a catch struck him sharply in the lower chest (and fell to the ground, of course) before he had time to take his hands out of his pockets. When he is batting he crams one hand into his pocket between each delivery. As he wears a large batting glove and his trousers are very tight (as I mentioned before) this is a matter of some difficulty. In fact we usually attribute the smallness of his scores to its unsteadying effect.

How he ever survived five years of military service without being shot for persistently carrying his hands in his pockets while on parade, to the detriment of good order and military discipline, I can never understand. Surely some Brass-hat, inspecting Rankin's regiment, must have noticed that Rankin's hands were in his pockets when he should have been presenting arms? I can only presume that they all loved Rankin, and love is blind. Well, he is quite a good chap. I like him myself.

We now come to the day of the Smallwick v. Littleborough match.

Smallwick lost the toss and went out to field, and, as one of their players had not arrived, Rankin went with them as a substitute.

We lost three wickets for only ten runs, and then I went in. It was one of my rare cricket days. I felt, I knew, that I should make runs—not much more than twenty, of course, but then twenty is a big score for Littleborough. And I felt like twenty at least.

Rankin was fielding at deep long-on, close to the tent; but they had no one at square leg, which is my special direction on my twenty days. Presently the bowler offered me a full pitch on the leg side. I timed it successfully, and had no doubt of having added four to my score, when, to my astonishment, I saw a fieldsman running from the direction of the hedge. The next moment he had brought off a very creditable catch.

It did not dawn on me at first that this was their eleventh man, arrived at that moment. When it did, I could not help laughing to think that he should imagine he could rush in like that while his substitute was still fielding. Then I heard the bowler appeal to the umpire, and to my horror I heard the umpire (their umpire) say "Out."

"But they can't have twelve men fielding," I cried. "The substitute is still there."

"You're out, Sir," said the umpire haughtily. "The substitoot has already retired. 'E's standing there watching the game with 'is 'ands in 'is pockets."

A Self-Starter.

"Born of an Iris moter and a Scots father, in Chicago, U.S.A., Mr. ——'s ability for the stage developed very early."—New Zealand Paper.

"Within the square of spectators were paraded about two thousand Girl Guides. It delighted the eye to see the companies march with precision and smartness, while the ear was charmed and the marital spirit stirred by the music of the pipes and drums."—Scotch Paper.

So that's the idea.

"Soon we could make out the Sultan's Palace, from which the tired 'Hunter of the East' was now unwinding his 'nose of light.'"— —— Magazine.

For further details of this remarkable organ see Lear's "Dong with the Luminous Nose."

PHILOSOPHERS.

We are all different, and often our differences are of the widest. Some men can be knocked prostrate by the most trifling disappointment, while others can extract comfort or even positive benefit from what looks like complete disaster—such as the Cambridge youth I met last week, raving about Turner's "Fighting Téméraire."

"But I didn't know you were interested in pictures," I said.

"Oh, yes, I've always been, in a way," he replied; "but it wasn't till the rain ruined the first day of the Varsity match that I ever had a real chance to get to the National Gallery, and when it came down like blazes again on Tuesday I went back there. Did you ever see such painting? And the pathos of it too! And then that frosty morning scene in the same room! Why, Turner was too wonderful."

How some of the other dampened enthusiasts tided over their loss I can only guess; but this ardent one reminded me of the Shipwrecked Entomologist, and I placed him on a niche somewhere near that radiant soul.

And who was he?

Well, he was the curator of his own department in some Indian museum—I think at Calcutta—and when the time came for his holiday he took a passage for Japan on a little tramp steamer. Everything went well until a few hours out of Shanghai, when a typhoon began to blow with terrific force. The ship was driven on the coast of Korea, where she set about breaking up, and only with the greatest difficulty did the passengers and crew get to shore, bruised and saturated, without anything but their clothes and what their pockets could hold. Some lives were lost, but my man was saved.

It was a desolate part, with nothing but the poorest huts for shelter, dirty and verminous, so that the discomforts of the land were almost equal to the perils of the sea.

Naturally, on his return to Calcutta the curator was plied with questions. How did be feel about it? Wasn't it an awful experience? If ever a man deserved sympathy it was he. And so forth. But he wouldn't rise.

"Sympathy?" he said. "Good Heavens! I don't want sympathy. Why, I had the time of my life. Do you know that during the night in that Korean hovel I found five absolutely new kinds of bug."

E.V.L.

"Notice to the public, that John ——, Toronto, will not be responsible for debts hereafter contracted by any one."—Canadian Paper.

Very sensible of him.

SUBJECT TO REVISION.

British Housewife. "DO YOU REALLY MEAN IT?"

Miner. "WELL, PART OF IT, ANYWAY."

Captain (to very unsuccessful lob bowler). "Oi be sorry to 'ave to take 'ee off, Garge, but I must let the Vicar 'ave a go before the ball gets egg-shaped."

SANTAMINGOES.

A Fancy.

[The santamingo is a kind of Oriental bird believed by foolish sailor-men to confer on its possessor great content and peace of mind.]

East from the Mahanadi and north of the Nicobar

You will come to Evening Island where the santamingoes are;

Their wings are sunrise-orange and their tails are starlight-blue;

You catch a santamingo and all your dreams come true.

They've a crest of flaming scarlet and a purple-golden breast,

And their voice is like all the music that ever you liked the best,

And their eyes are like all the comfort that ever you hoped to find;

You catch a santamingo and you'll get peace of mind.

You won't find buried treasures, you won't get sudden luck,

But things'll just go smoothly that used to get somehow stuck—

The little things that matter, the trumpery things that please,

You catch your santamingo and you're always sure of these.

You don't get thrones and kingdoms, you don't turn great or good,

But you know you're just in tune with things, you know you're understood,

And wherever you chance to be is home and any old time's the best

When you've got your santamingo to keep your heart at rest.

If ever you've dreamed of a golden day when nothing at at all went wrong,

Or a pal who'd want no tellings but would somehow just belong,

Or a place that said, "I was made for you"—well, sailor-men tell you flat,

You catch your santamingo and you'll find it all like that.

* * * * *

I've sailed from the Mahanadi to north of the Nicobar,

But I can't find Evening Island where the santamingoes are,

Though I've taken salt to put on their tails and all that a hunter should—

Perhaps you can't really catch them; but don't you wish you could?

H.B.

"Capitalist who will consider financing Canadian oil fields or will send English theologist to investigate property."—Daily Paper.

And do the clerical work, we suppose.

From a description of the V.C.'s at Buckingham Palace:—

"There were a sergeant-major arranged in nine separate groups, and an attempt had been made to get old comrades together as far as possible."—Provincial Paper.

The reassembling of the sergeant-major must have taken a bit of doing.

MY RAT.

He visits me at least once every day. His favourite time is the hour of tea, when the family and staff may be expected to be at home; but sometimes he honours us with an additional call at the luncheon hour. He emerges from his deep hole beneath an ivy root, takes the air up and down the paths of my rockery, glances in at the drawing-room window, passes on to the back premises, and so home.

There is nothing furtive about his movements. His manner is that of one who has purchased the mansion and its appurtenances but does not wish to disturb the sitting tenants. It is his duty to sea that the premises are properly cared for, but for the present he has no desire to take possession. It is beautiful weather and the simple life out-of-doors contents him.

He is a brown rat. I write of his sex with confidence because his urbanity is that of a polished gentleman of the world; no feminine creature could ever display it. A female rat who had bought the house would eagerly try to get in and drive us forth. But not so my rat. He discharges the function of a landlord as considerately as he can; after all, even a landlord must be allowed the rights of inspection of his own property.

At first I regarded him as merely an ordinary intrusive brown rat. I laid down poisonous pills composed of barium carbonate and flour. He did not take offence; he understood our human limitations. He showed by a jaunty cock of the eye that all to understand is all to pardon. His daily visits continued without abatement.

It has been suggested to me that we should await his regular calls with dogs, blood-thirsty terriers. I cannot take so scurvy an advantage of his confidence.

I have sinned. The fault is less mine than that of the High Court of Parliament. I was bidden to study the penalties laid down for those who do not proceed to the destruction of their rats. When I weighed my landlord rat against five treasury notes I confess that in an hour of meanness I permitted the notes to tip the scale. I prepared phosphor paste and laid a trail of this loathsome condiment upon the path trodden every afternoon by my rat.

He came as usual on the day after that on which I had basely planned his murder—Heaven forgive me!—that I might escape a trifling fine, and he deigned to partake of my hospitality. Twenty-four hours later, when duty summoned him once more at the hour of tea, his eye was dim and he staggered slightly in his gait. He was still able to go his rounds, but since that tragic afternoon I have seen him no more.

My family eyes me with suspicion. They look for the rat, which no longer arrives at his accustomed hour. My cook has given notice. I alone bear the burden of the fatal secret.

Saved! What care I for five paltry pounds now that our rat has recovered from his indisposition and has hastened to re-visit his property? The phosphor paste, like arsenic, has added brightness to his eye and brought a beautiful lustre to his smooth brown coat. He has softened in his manner and tends towards friendship. There is less of the grand air, less assertion of the vast gap which yawns between the landlord and the tenant. Presently, if I continue to prove worthy of his condescension, my rat will eat phosphor paste out of my hand.

Jack (to novice in difficulties with the tide). "The next time you sportsmen takes an outin' try a number twenty-seven bus."

From the obituary notice of an octogenarian:—

"He was a keen chronologist, and possessed a valuable collection of shells."—Provincial Paper.

Picked up, no doubt, on the sands of time.

THE LITTLE HORSE.

[The following fragment is taken from the play, David Lloyd George, which we understand may some day be produced at the Lyric Opera House, Hammersmith, as a companion-piece to Abraham Lincoln.]

The scene is laid in the House of Commons, where Sir Frederick Banbury has moved the rejection of the Poets and Verse (Nationalisation) Bill.

Sir Frederick Banbury is speaking.

But it stands to reason,

If you propose to pay them just the same

Whether they write a little or a lot,

They won't write anything. There will not be

Sufficient stimulus. It's human nature,

And human nature is unchangeable.

Do you imagine, Sir, that Keats or Shelley

Would have produced such valuable work,

So large an output, if this precious Bill

Had been in operation at the time?

We should have had no Shakspeare. And, besides,

It means the death of British poetry,

Because we can't continue to compete

With foreign countries.

A Labour Member. I am not a lawyer

Nor I am not a manufacturer,

But earned my bread these five-and-forty years,

Sweating and sweating. I know what sweat is....

An Hon. Member.

You're not the only person who has sweated.

Labour Member.

At any rate I sweated more than you did.

Mr. Speaker.

I do not think these constant interruptions

Are really helping us.

Labour Member. So you may take it

That what I utter is an honest word,

A plain, blunt, honest and straightforward word,

Neither adorned with worthless flummery

And tricks of language—for I have no learning—

Nor yet with false and empty rhetoric

Like lawyers' speeches. I am not a lawyer,

I thank my stars that I am not a lawyer,

And can without a spate of parleying

Briefly expound, as I am doing now,

The whole caboodle. As for this here Bill,

So far as it means Nationalising verse,

We shall support it. On the other hand,

So far as it means interferences

With the free liberty of working-men

To write their poetry when and how they like,

We will not have the Bill. So now you know.

Mr. Asquith.

It was remarked, I think by Aristotle,

That wisdom is not always to the wise;

To which opinion, if we may include

In that august and jealous category

The President of the Board of Ululation,

I am prepared most freely to subscribe.

When was there ever since the early Forties

A more grotesque and shameless mockery

Of the austere and holy principles

Which Liberalism like an altar-flame

Has guarded through the loose irreverent years

Than this inept, this disingenuous,

This frankly disingenuous attempt;

To smuggle past the barrier of this House

An article so plainly contraband

As this unlicens'd and contagious Bill—

A Bill which, it is not too much to say,

Insults the conscience of the British Empire?

I will not longer, Sir, detain the House;

Indeed I cannot profitably add

To what I said in 1892.

Speaking at Manchester I used these words:—

"If in the inconstant ferment of their minds

The King's advisers can indeed discover

No surer ground of principle than this;

If we have here their final contribution

To the most clamant and profound conundrum

Ever proposed for statesmanship to solve,

Then are we watching at the bankruptcy

Of all that wealth of intellect and power

Which has made England great. If that be true

We may put Finis to our history.

But I for one will never lend my suffrage

To that conclusion."

[An Ovation.

Mr. David Lloyd George. Mr. Speaker, Sir,

I do not intervene in this discussion

Except to say how much I deprecate

The intemperate tone of many of the speakers—

Especially the Honourable Member

For Allways Dithering—about this Bill,

This tiny Bill, this teeny-weeny Bill.

What is it, after all? The merest trifle!

The merest trifle—no, not tipsy-cake—

No trickery in it! Really one would think

The Government had nothing else to do

But sit and listen to offensive speeches.

How can the horse, the patient horse, go on

If people will keep dragging at the reins?

He has so terrible a load to bear,

And right in front there is a great big hill.

The horse is very tired, and it is raining.

Poor little horse! But yonder, at the top,

Look, look, there is a rainbow in the sky,

The promise of fair weather, and beyond

There is a splendidly-appointed stable,

With oats and barley, or whatever 'tis

That horses eat, while smiling all around

Stretch out the prairies of Prosperity,

Cornfields and gardens, all that sort of thing.

That's where the horse is going. But, you see,

The horse has got to climb the great big hill

Before he gets there. Oh, you must see that.

Then let us cease this petty bickering;

Let us have no more dragging at the reins.

What is this Bill when all is said and done?

Surely this House, surely this mighty nation,

Which did so much for horses in the War,

Will not desert this little horse at last

Because of what calumniators say—

Newspaper-owners—I know who they are—

About this Bill! No, no, of course it won't.

We will take heart and gallop up the hill,

We will climb up together to the rainbow;

We will go on to where the rainbow ends—

I know where that is, for I am a Welshman.

It is a field, a lovely little field,

Where there are buttercups and daffodils,

And long rich grass and very shady trees.

Hold on a little, and the horse will get there,

Only, I ask you, let the horse have rein.

That is my message to the British nation:

"Hold on! Hold fast! But do not hold too tight!"