Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 158, March 24, 1920. by Various
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Various >> Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 158, March 24, 1920.
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 158.
March 24, 1920.
CHARIVARIA.
"Nobody knows," says a Berlin message, "how near the KAPP
counter-revolution came to being a success." A kind word from
Commander KENWORTHY, it is believed, would have made all the
difference.
***
It is reported that Miss ISOBEL ELSOM, the cinema star, tried to get
knocked down by a taxi-cab for the purposes of a film, but failed. We
can only suppose that the driver must have been new to his job.
***
A vicar has written to the Press complaining indignantly of a London
firm's offer to supply sermons at five shillings each. We are not
surprised. Five shillings is a lot of money to give for a sermon.
***
The Llangollen Golf Club has decided to allow Sunday golf. In
extenuation it is pointed out that the Welsh for "stymied" does not
constitute a breach of the Sabbath, as is the case with the Scots
equivalent.
***
At Caterham a robin has built its nest in a bully beef tin. These are
the little things that give the Disposals Board a bad name.
***
A North of Ireland man who has just died at the age of 107 boasted
that he had never had a bath. This should silence the faddists who
pretend that they can hardly wait till Saturday night.
***
The ruins of Whitby Abbey, it is announced, are to be presented by
their owner to the nation. On the other hand, the report that Mr.
LLOYD GEORGE intends to present the ruins of the Liberal Party to
Manchester City is not confirmed.
***
The latest information is that the recent German revolution had to be
abandoned owing to the weather.
***
From a weekly paper article we gather that the trousers-crease will be
in its accustomed frontal position this year. It is unfortunate that
this announcement should have clashed with the attempted restoration
of the Monarchy in Berlin.
***
Hot Cross Buns will probably cost threepence this year. An economical
plan is for the householder to make his own hot cross and then get the
local confectioner to fit a bun to it.
***
"There will be no whisky in Scotland in the year 1925," says a
Prohibitionist speaker. He did not say whether there will be any
Scotsmen.
***
No arrangement has yet been made for the carrying on of the Food
Ministry, though it is said that one food profiteer has offered to buy
the place as a memento.
***
"All the great men are dead," states a London newspaper. This sly dig
at Mr. CHURCHILL'S robust health is surely in bad taste.
***
We are glad to hear that the strap-hanger who was summoned by a
fellow-passenger on the Underground Railway for refusing to remove his
foot from off the plaintiff's toes has now been acquitted by the jury.
It appears that he was able to prove that he was not in a position to
do so as his was not the top foot of the heap.
***
According to a trade journal the latest fashion in umbrellas is a
pigeon's head carved on the handle. This, we understand, is the first
step towards a really reliable homing umbrella.
***
The appearance of a hen blackbird without any trace of feathers on its
neck or back is reported by a Worcester ornithologist. The attempt
on the part of this bird to follow our present fashions is most
interesting.
***
So much difficulty is being experienced in deciding whose incendiary
bullet was the most effective, that it is thought possible that the
Government may arrange for the Zeppelin raids to be revived.
***
A society paper reports that a large number of millionaires are now
staying on the Riviera. It is not known where the other shareholders
of COATS'S are staying.
***
In order to influence the exchange a contemporary suggests that we
should sell our treasures to America. We understand that a cable to
New York asking what they are prepared to pay for Mr. RAMSAY MACDONALD
remains unanswered.
***
An egg weighing nine-and-a-half ounces has been laid at Bayonne,
France. It looks like a walk-over unless _The Spectator_ has something
up its sleeve.
***
"One hears the crying of the new-born lambs on all sides," writes a
Nature correspondent. On the other hand the unmistakable bubbling note
of the mint-sauce will not be heard for another month or so.
***
Will the A.S.C. private who in 1917 was ordered to take a mule to
Sutton Coldfield please note that the animal has been sighted in
California still chewing an army tunic, but the badges are missing?
***
"So many letters are being lost in the post nowadays," states a
daily paper, "that drastic action should be taken in the matter." We
understand that the POSTMASTER-GENERAL has expressed his willingness
to be searched.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Hygienist_. "FEELING THE COLD, EH? AHA--LOOK AT ME. I
DON'T KNOW WHAT COLD IS."
_Normal Individual_. "THEN N-NATURALLY YOU D-DON'T FEEL IT."]
* * * * *
A VULNERABLE SPOT.
"Lady, a word--but oh, beware!
And prithee do not slight it--
If you will have your back so bare,
Someone is sure to bite it."
* * * * *
"An official of the Coal Controller's Department said that
everything possible would be done to relieve the situation.
'No stone will be left unturned,' he said, 'to ease the
position.'"--_Daily Paper_.
This accounts, no doubt, for the stuff in our last half-hundredweight.
* * * * *
A JUNKER INTERLUDE.
Once more the Militant Mode recurs
With clank of sabre and clink of spurs;
Once more the long grey cloaks adorn
The bellicose backs of the high-well-born;
Once more to the click of martial boots
Junkers exchange their grave salutes,
Taking the pavement, large with side,
Shoulders padded and elbows wide;
And if a civilian dares to mutter
They boost him off and he bites the gutter.
Down by the Brandenburger Thor
Kitchens are worked by cooks of war;
Loyal moustaches cease to sag,
Leaping for joy of the old war-flag;
Drums are beating and bugles blare
And passionate bandsmen rip the air;
Prussia's original ardour rallies
At the sound of _Deutschland ueber alles_,
And warriors slap their fighting pants
To the tune _Heil dir im Siegeskranz_.
Life, in a word, recalls the phase
Of the glorious Hohenzollern days.
What if a War's meanwhile occurred
And talk of a humbling Peace been heard?
Treaties are meant to be torn in two
And wars are made to be fought anew.
_Hoch_! for the _Tag_, by land and main,
When the Monarchy comes to its own again.
Surely tho wind of it, faint but sweet,
The Old Man sniffed in his Dutch retreat;
Surely it gave his pulse a jog
As he went for his thirteen thousandth log,
Possibly causing the axe to jam
When he thought of his derelict Potsdam,
Of his orb mislaid and his head's deflation,
And visions arose of a Restoration.
(If not for himself, it might be done
For LITTLE WILLIE or WILLIE'S son).
Alas for the chances of child or sire!
The _coup_ went phut, for the KAPP missed fire.
O.S.
* * * * *
A FLAT TO LET.
It was twelve o'clock (noon) and I was sitting over the fire in our
squalid lodgings reading the attractive advertisements of country
mansions in a weekly journal. I had just decided on a delightful Tudor
manor-house with every modern convenience, a nice little park and
excellent fishing and shooting, when Betty burst upon me like a
whirlwind.
Her face was flushed and a fierce light shone in her usually mild
blue eyes. She looked like a Maenad or the incarnation of Victory at a
bargain sale.
"Come on," she gasped, seizing me by the arm. "Hurry."
"Good heavens! Is the house on fire? My child! Let me save my child."
"Oh, do come on," cried Betty; "there's not a moment to be lost."
"But how can I come on in slippers?" I demanded. "If I may not save
the young Henry Augustus, at any rate let me put on my boots."
Betty's only reply was to drag me from the room, hustle me through the
hall, where I dexterously caught my hat from the stand in passing, and
thrust me into the street.
"I've got a flat," she panted. "That is, I've got it if we're quick
enough. Hi, taxi!"
"But, my dear," I remonstrated as the taxi-driver, cowed by the look
in her eye, drew up to the kerb, "if we take a taxi we shan't have
anything left to pay for the flat."
"Victory Mansions, Trebarwith Road. Drive fast!" shouted Betty as she
pushed me into the cab.
"Now you've done it," I said bitterly. "Do you know I've only five
pounds ten on me at the moment? We shall lose the flat while we're
quarrelling with the driver."
"Oh, dear," cried Betty, "can't you see that this is serious? It was a
wonderful piece of luck. I was passing the mansions and I happened to
look up just as someone was sticking up a notice, 'Flat to Let,' in
one of the windows. There was a beast of a man on the other side of
the street and he simply leapt across the road. I slipped, or I should
have beaten him. As it was he got to the door a yard ahead of me. We
looked over the flat together, but of course he was first, and he
said he was sure it would suit him, only he must ask his wife. It was
awful! I felt as if I must kill him."
"So you followed him out and pushed him down the lift-shaft? My dear
brave girl!"
"No, but I heard him say he could be back in half-an-hour. I knew I
could do it in twenty-five minutes. Look!" Betty crushed my hand as in
a vice. "There he is."
As we took a corner on two wheels I looked out and saw a man running.
"Taxi!" he shouted in the hoarse voice of despair. Our driver sat like
a graven image and we swept on in triumph.
"Oh!" cried Betty suddenly, "suppose that, after all, somebody
else----" She choked on a sob.
"Courage, dear heart," I said. "All is not yet lost."
A moment later we had reached Victory Mansions and made a dash for the
flat.
"Are we in time?" asked Betty as the door was opened.
"I think so, Ma'am," said the smiling maid and ushered us into the
presence of the out-going tenant. A tour of the rooms at express speed
showed the flat to be a desirable one enough. There were three years
to run and the rent was not extortionate--for the times.
"I'll sign the agreement now," said I.
"Half-a-minute," said the out-going tenant as he produced the
documents; "I'll get a pen and ink."
The whirr of an electric bell resounded through the flat.
"Quick!" panted Betty. "Your fountain pen." I produced it and wrote my
name with a hand trembling with eagerness.
"A gentleman about the flat, Sir," said the maid, and, haggard, pale
and exhausted, our defeated rival staggered into the room.
He looked at us with a dumb agony in his eyes, and neither of us two
men had the courage to deal the fatal blow. It was Betty who spoke.
"I'm sorry, but we've just taken this flat," she said sweetly, and
added with true feminine cruelty, "I saw it first, you know."
The stranger lost control and crashed badly on the hearth-rug.
"Poor man," said Betty to the late tenant. "Be kind to him for our
sakes." Then she led the way to our cab.
"Hotel Splendid!" I said magnificently to the driver.
"Wot," he growled, "not in them slippers?"
"True," I said, with what dignity I could muster, and gave him the
address of our lodgings.
"None the less," I said to Betty, "you shall lunch among the
profiteers. This is a great day, and it is yours."
* * * * *
THE INTER-UNIVERSITY SPORTS.
Great interest is being taken in the plucky attempt of Cambridge
to beat America, Africa and Europe (with Oxford).
* * * * *
[Illustration: WHAT'S IN A NAME?
MATE. "WHILE WE _ARE_ DOIN' HER UP, WHAT ABOUT GIVIN' HER A NEW NAME?
HOW WOULD 'FUSION' DO?"
CAPTAIN. "'FUSION' OR 'CONFUSION'--IT'S ALL ONE TO ME SO LONG AS I'M
SKIPPER."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _First Juvenile Spectator (as the Oxford crew go out
to practice)_. "THERE Y'ARE, 'ERR--WOT DID I TELL YER? THEY '_AVE_ GOT
ONLY ONE OAR EACH!"
_Second ditto_. "YOU WAIT TILL THE DAY OF THE RACE!"]
* * * * *
THE LAST OF THE WATCH DOGS.
MY DEAR CHARLES,--In all the stirring history of the War I don't know
which has been the most moving sight: the War Office trying to get me
to be a soldier, or the War Oflice trying to get me to stop being a
soldier.
Before the late Summer of 1914, England had evinced no burning
interest in its Henry. It had, in fact, left me to make my own way,
contenting itself with cautioning me if I didn't stick to the right
side of the road, or to fining me if I exceeded the speed limit. In
August of that memorable year it got, you will remember, mixed up
in rather a nasty bother. Searching for friends to get it out, it
bethought itself of Henry, along with 499,999 others whose names for
the moment I do not recall. Between us (with subsequent assistance) we
set things to rights, and nothing remained for Old England save to rid
itself gracefully of what remained of its few millions of new-found
friends. There was, however, no shaking off its bosom pal, Henry. I
am one of those loyal characters whose affection, once gained, nothing
can undo. No use saying to me: "Well, old man, it's getting late now;
you must come and see us again some other day." I am one of the sort
who answer: "Don't you worry yourself about that. I'm going to stay
and go on seeing you now."
In the early days of demobilisation there was, I think, a certain
novelty and attraction about my attitude to the problem. In contrast
to the impatient hordes crowding the entrance of the War Office,
ringing the front-door bell violently, tapping on the window-panes
and generally disturbing that serene atmosphere of peace which was the
great feature of the War in Whitehall, it was refreshing to think
of Henry, plugging quietly away elsewhere at his military duties,
undeterred by armistices, peaces and things of that kind. I fancy I
was well thought of in those days at the War House.
"Say what you like about him," I can hear A.G.4 remarking to M.S.19
(decimal 9 recurring) as they met in the corridor on their way to
lunch, "but I find him a patient, well-behaved young fellow."
"Yes," would be the thoughtful answer, "it seems almost a pity we are
going to lose him."
Speaking strictly between ourselves, I have never thought much of the
Military Secretary branch. What made them think they were going to
lose me as easily as all that?
What I said to myself was: "Henry, my lad, thirteen shillings and
elevenpence a day is thirteen shillings and elevenpence a day; now
isn't it? And war isn't war when there is a peace coming on. Why then
throw up a fat income just for the sake of getting into long trousers?
You stay where you are till they come and fetch you."
So I just stayed where I was, and I conducted the operation with such
ability and tact that Whitehall came to forget all about me. My name
went on appearing, with ever-increasing dignity and beauty, in the
Army List; but that made no difference. You see, though lots of people
write the Army List, no one ever reads it; only from time to time
a man will surreptitiously turn up his own name, just to renew his
feeling of self-importance, or in an emergency he will look up the
name of a friend in order to get the right initials after it and not
risk giving that personal offence which may prevent the loan....
But when I say that I stayed where I was I don't mean to suggest that
I didn't go on leave in the usual way. Indeed I often came home, in
full regimentals, too, partly to impress you and partly to travel
first-class at your expense. Fellow-passengers never thought of
turning on me and rending me, as being the cause of
six-shillings-in-the-pound. They would be extremely polite and make
friendly conversation with me, leading up to the point that they had
been soldiers themselves once, but had given it up, owing to having
been told that the War was finished.
I would be just as polite to them, telling them they might count on
me to return to the discomforts and risks of civil life as soon as I
could be spared from the front. They had never the intelligence, or
daring to ask, "The front of what?"
Now the climax has arrived; I am asked if they must throw me out or
will I go quietly? I fancy I have been caught by one of those
card-indexes. I suspect some Departmental General of showing off to a
friend. "This is my IN basket," I can hear him explaining as he shows
his audience his office; "every letter which comes in goes into the
IN. That is my OUT basket, and every letter which goes out goes out of
the OUT.
"And then, Sir, we have the Card Index. A complete record of every
officer in the Army, permanent or temporary."
"Are there still temporary officers in the Army?" asks the audience,
not being able to think of anything better to ask, and clearly being
called upon to ask something.
"Sergeant-Major, turn up 'Officers, army, temporary, the, in,' for
this gentleman."
And thus the shameful truth comes out. One card only--mine.
Exit audience wondering what manner of intrepid man this Henry might
be.
Originally the W.O. had had a great idea; they caused my regiment
softly and silently to vanish away, thinking that I would vanish with
it. But I had been too sharp for them. Learning that they were bent
on "disembodying" me, and not liking the sound of the word, I had very
quietly removed myself from my regiment to the Staff. Thus for a few
happy months we see the W.O. rendered inert.
My final defeat was due to a chance remark of my own, made to one of
the fifty-nine officers under whose direct command I served. Upon
my first arriving on his Staff he had said to me, "Oh, by the way,
P.S.C., of course?" Quite affable, frank and to the point; "P.S.C., of
course?"
Not knowing the language, I could not make an equally affable answer.
I asked him to repeat the question, but to change the code.
"You have Passed Staff College, of course?" he said a little less
affably.
I then had the misfortune to answer: "Why, of course, if you mean that
tall building on the right as I came up here from the station?"
He then made up his mind that I was not only wanting in essential
parts, but was also the sort of person who jested on religious
subjects. He never forgot the matter; indeed, when applied to (under
"Secret and Confidential" cover) to suggest a means of getting rid of
me, he very clearly remembered it. At once every department in the War
House got busy; the interest of the Secretary of State was enlisted,
and the War Cabinet decided that for permanent purposes my post
must necessarily be held by a P.S.C. man. Done in by what was little
better, when you come to think of it, than a mere postscript.
Please understand that there was no talk of discharging me; no talk
of demobilising me; no talk even of disembodying me. Without any
reflection on my conduct and merely upon the grounds that, not being
P.S.C., I could not be regarded as quite right in the head, they
intimated their intention of vacating my appointment by the simple
process of an advertisement in the fashionable columns of _The London
Gazette_.
"What happens next?" I asked.
"You will return to regimental duty," they said.
"But there isn't any regiment," I pointed out triumphantly, "therefore
there won't be any duty."
They didn't seem to mind that, and for some time I wondered why. Then
a thought occurred to me.
"But here, I say, what about my pay?"
"Ah!" said they unhelpfully....
And that, my dear Charles, is why, if you keep your eye on the
journals of (say) the Summer of 1925, you will read in the Stop-press
Column an urgent telegram from the W.O.: "On April 1st, 1920, the
following relinquishes his appointment
(Remaining, however,
Yours always), HENRY."
* * * * *
ANOTHER IMPENDING APOLOGY.
"MOTHERS' UNION.-- ... A helpful discussion followed on 'How
to Deal with Unworthy Members.' There were about 50
present."--_Parish Magazine_.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Old Lady_. "WILL YOU PLEASE PUT ME DOWN AT THE SAME
PLACE AS YOU DID LAST FRIDAY WEEK?"]
* * * * *
THE PRACTICE OF THE CREWS.
(_Ballad after C.S.C._)
The reporter aired his aquatic lore
(_Popply water in Corney Reach_,)
A thing he had yearly essayed before;
And a rowing jargon obscured his speech.
The coach he coached with a megaphone
(_Crabtree, Craven and Chiswick Eyot_)
Till the crew were prone to emit a groan,
And the Cox said nothing but "Bow, you're late."
The Stroke he quickened to thirty-four
(_In the first half-minute struck seventeen_)
Some clocks returned it a trifle more,
Which wasn't so good as it might have been.
The towpath critic he shook his head
(_Thornycroft's, where they began to row_):
"Hung over the stretcher" was what he said,
And "missed the beginning," and "hands too slow."
The towpath critic, whoe'er he be
(_A tug and some barges blocked the way_),
For thirty odd years, it seems to me,
Has never found anything else to say.
The towpath critic's remarks are trite
(_Off Ayling's Yard in a stiffish breeze_),
Yet I study religiously morn and night
Whole columns consisting of words like these.
* * * * *
[Illustration: MANNERS AND MODES.
THE COMPANY-PROMOTER'S PROBLEM--HOW TO UTILISE THE BOOM IN SPRING.]
* * * * *
THE GENIUS OF MR. BRADSHAW.
(_By our Literary Expert._)
No one will be surprised to hear that the Christian name of Mr.
BRADSHAW was George. Indeed, it is difficult to think what other name
a man of his calibre could have had. But many people will be surprised
to hear that Mr. BRADSHAW is no longer alive. Whatever one thinks
of his work one is inclined to think of him as a living personality,
working laboriously at some terminus--probably at the Charing Cross
Hotel. But it is not so. He died, in fact, in 1853. His first book--or
rather the first edition of his book[1] was published in 1839; yet,
unlike the author, it still lives. He is, in fact, the supreme example
of the posthumous serial writer. I have no information about Mr.
DEBRETT and Mr. BURKE, but the style and substance of their work are
relatively so flimsy that one is justified, I think, in neglecting
them. In any case their public is a limited one. So, of course, is Mr.
BRADSHAW'S; but it is better than theirs. Mr. DEBRETT'S book we read
idly in an idle hour; when we read Mr. BRADSHAW'S it is because we
feel that we simply must; and that perhaps is the surest test of
genius.
It is no wonder that in some circles Mr. BRADSHAW holds a position
comparable only to the position of HOMER. I once knew an elderly
clergyman who knew the whole of Mr. BRADSHAW'S book by heart. He could
tell you without hesitation the time of any train from anywhere to
anywhere else. He looked forward each month to the new number, as
other people look forward to the new numbers of magazines. When it
came he skimmed eagerly through its pages and noted with a fierce
excitement that they had taken off the 5.30 from Larne Harbour, or
that the 7.30 from Galashiels was stopping that month at Shankend. He
knew all the connections; he knew all the restaurant trains; and, if
you mentioned the 6.15 to Little Buxton, he could tell you offhand
whether it was a Saturdays Only or a Saturdays Excepted.
This is the exact truth, and I gathered that he was not unique. It
seems that there is a Bradshaw cult; there may even be a Bradshaw
club, where they meet at intervals for Bradshaw dinners, after which
a paper is read on "Changes I have made, with some Observations on
Salisbury." I suppose some of them have first editions, and talk about
them very proudly; and they have hot academic discussions on the best
way to get from Barnham Junction to Cardiff without going through
Bristol. Then they drink the toast of "The Master" and go home in
omnibuses. My friend was a schoolmaster and took a small class of boys
in Bradshaw; he said they knew as much about it as he did. I call that
corrupting the young.
But apart from this little band of admirers I am afraid that the book
does suffer from neglect. Who is there, for example, who has read
the "Directions" on page 1, where we are actually shown the method
of reading tentatively suggested by the author himself? The ordinary
reader, coming across a certain kind of thin line, lightly dismisses
it as a misprint or a restaurant car on Fridays. If he had read the
Preface he would know that it meant a SHUNT. He would know that a
SHUNT means that passengers are enabled to continue their journey by
changing into the next train. Whether he would know what that means I
do not know. The best authorities suppose it to be a poetical way of
saying that you have to change--what is called an euphemism.