Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 152, May 23, 1917 by Various
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
VOL. 152
MAY 23, 1917
CHARIVARIA.
MR. WILLIAM WATSON describes his new book of verse, _The Man Who Saw_,
as "an intermittent commentary on the main developments and some of
the collateral phenomena of the War." People are already asking, "Why
was a man like this left out of the Dardanelles Commission?"
***
Weeds are a source of great trouble to the amateur gardener, says a
contemporary, because he is not always able to recognise them. A good
plan is to pull them out of the ground. If they come up again they are
weeds.
***
We hope that Mr. CHARLES COCHRAN is not indisposed, but we have not
noticed a new revue by him this week.
***
Sulphur from Italy is being distributed by the Explosives Committee.
This body must not be confused with the Expletives Committee, which
gets it supply of sulphur straight from the Front.
***
The Metropolitan Water Board is appealing against waste of water. It
is proposed to provide patriotic householders with attractive cards
stating that the owner of the premises in which the card is displayed
is bound in honour not to touch the stuff.
***
According to a member of the Inventions Board, over two thousand
solutions of the U-boat problem have already been received.
Unfortunately this is more than the number of U-boats available for
experiment, but it is hoped that by strictly limiting the allowance to
one submarine per invention the question may be determined in a manner
satisfactory to the greatest possible number.
***
Of eight applications received by the Barnes Council for the vacancy
of Inspector of Nuisances three came from men of military age. It is
expected that the Council will suggest that these gentlemen should be
invited to inspect the nuisances in front of the British trenches.
***
The proprietor of thirteen steam rollers told the Egham Tribunal that
in two years he had only been able to take one of them out of the
yard. We cannot think that he has really tried. Much might have been
done with kindness and a piece of cheese, while we have often seen
quite large steam rollers being enticed along the road by a man with a
red flag.
***
A Swiss correspondent is informed that "Hindenburg's legs are no
longer strong enough to support him." The weakness appears to be
gradually extending to his arms.
***
"The starched collar must go," remarks a contemporary ruefully.
Not, we hope, before a substitute has been found for some of those
unwashable necks.
***
"Lady conductors," said the Underground Railway official last week,
"must remember that the seats and straps are put there for the use of
the passengers." We know all about straps, but we have often wondered
what it feels like to use one of the seats on the Underground.
***
The police have raided a coining plant in Marylebone. It is becoming
more and more difficult to make money.
***
Under a recent Government order the importation of wild animals into
Great Britain is forbidden. Allotment holders throughout the country
hope the order will be read out to any wireworm or potato-moth that
attempts to land at our ports.
***
A deputation to the FOOD CONTROLLER has demanded that the allowance of
bread to farm labourers should be increased to two pounds per head per
day. The amount is considered excessive in view of the national needs,
and the alternative course of permitting them to eat all they can grow
is being favourably considered.
***
Mr. MITCHEL, the Mayor of New York, has forbidden musicians to play
the National Anthems of the Allies in ragtime. Mr. MITCHEL is a great
humanitarian and simply hates the sound of anything in pain.
***
The German Society of Actors and Singers had forbidden its members
to sing in the United States. Enthusiasts from the latter country
are planning an early trip to Northern France rather than miss
entertainment in the Siegfried and Wotan line.
***
Following so closely upon the report that a Wallasey woman had
discovered a German coin in a loaf of bread we were not surprised by a
contemporary headline, "Seymour Hicks in a new Role."
***
Damage to the extent of twenty-five thousand pounds is said to have
been caused to the crops in Australia by mice, and the Australian
authorities contemplate the purchase of a mouse trap.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Economist_ (_soliloquising_). "WE MUST ALL DENY
OURSELVES SOMETHING. AND TO THINK, DESPITE THE PAPER SHORTAGE, PEOPLE
ARE STILL SMOKING CIGARETTES."]
* * * * *
AN IRISH SETTLEMENT.
"Miss----, who elected to serve fourteen days' imprisonment
rather than pay a fine for an alleged assault arising out of
a little commotion in Cork, was, on her release from prison,
presented with a gold mounted umbrella in compensation for
the one she broke on a policeman's head."--_Evening Herald_
(_Dublin_).
In view of the admission in the last sentence, "alleged" is good.
* * * * *
"New York, Friday.--An elaborate programme of welcome will
be escorted to the City Hall, which has been prepared. The
British Mission has been strikingly decorated for the occasion
with innumerable British and Allied flags."--_Liverpool Post_.
We are not anxiously awaiting a snapshot of Mr. BALFOUR in his latest
costume.
* * * * *
"The vessels are at present under construction by the Kawashi
Dockyard Company, Limited, of Kobe, and realised from L42 to
L42 per ton deadweight."--_Poverty Bay Herald_.
A careful calculation will show that the average cost was almost
exactly forty guineas.
* * * * *
"Several rhubord recipes have come in this week, so that the
reader who esquired for recipe for rhubard jelly is supplied
with this, and recipes for other rhubarb dainties as
well."--_Edmonton Journal_ (_Canada_).
If _John Gilpin_ were to "dine at Edmonton" (Canada) he would come in
for some nice new vegetables.
* * * * *
A PLACE OF ARMS.
[Inscribed by a humble member of the Inner Temple to the
Benchers of his Inn.]
I knew a garden green and fair,
Flanking our London river's tide,
And you would think, to breathe its air
And roam its virgin lawns beside,
All shimmering in their velvet fleece,
"Nothing can hurt this haunt of Peace."
No trespass marred that close retreat;
Privileged were the few that went
Pacing its walks with measured beat
On legal contemplation bent;
And Inner Templars used to say:
"How well our garden looks today!"
But That which changes all has changed
This guarded pleasaunce, green and fair,
And soldier-ranks therein have ranged
And trod its beauty hard and bare,
Have tramped and tramped its fretted floor
Learning the discipline of War.
And many a moon of Peace shall climb
Above that mimic Field of Mars
Before the healing touch of Time
With springing green shall hide its scars;
But Inner Templars smile and say:
"Our barrack-square looks well today."
Good was that garden in their eyes,
Lovely its spell of long-ago;
Now waste and mired its glory lies,
And yet they hold it dearer so,
Who see beneath the wounds it bears
A grace no other garden wears.
For still the memory, never sere,
But fresh as after fallen rain,
Of those who learned their lesson here
And may not ever come again,
Gives to this garden, bruised and browned,
A greenness as of hallowed ground.
O.S.
* * * * *
RANDOM FLIGHTS.
BY MARCUS MACLEOD.
(_With renewed acknowledgments to "The Skittish Weekly."_)
It was with inexpressible relief that I heard of the narrow escape
of the Rev. Urijah Basham. Presiding at a jumble sale at Sidcup he
described how he had been within an ace of partaking of rhubarb leaves
at luncheon on the previous day, but, having read in the morning's
paper of their fatal results, wisely decided to abstain. I need hardly
remind my readers that Mr. Basham is, after the Rev. JOSEPH HOCKING,
perhaps our greatest preacher-novelist. The jumble sale was held in
the beautiful concert hall of the Sidcup Temperance Congregational
Reed Band. The Dowager-Lady Bowler, Sir Moses Pimblett, and the Rev.
Chadley Bandman were amongst those who graced the function with their
presence.
* * * * *
A correspondent has kindly sent me a copy of _The Little Diddlington
Parish Magazine_ for April. In it there is an interesting letter
claiming that the original of _Mr. Pickwick_ was a benevolent
gentleman named Swizzle, who was temporarily employed as perpetual
curate of Little Diddlington in the sixties. The evidence on which
this identification is founded seems to me somewhat unconvincing, as
_Pickwick_ was published in the year 1836. But Nature, as it has
been finely said, often borrows from Art, and Fact may similarly be
inspired to emulate Fiction.
* * * * *
I promised not to trouble my readers again with the Mystery of the Man
in the Iron Mask. But I may be allowed merely to mention that there
is an excellent study of the subject in _The Methodist Monthly_, by
my old friend, Professor Corker. The article, which runs to nearly
seventy pages, does the utmost credit to this brilliant writer, who
comes to the conclusion that no satisfactory solution of the mystery
has ever been propounded or ever can be. But while his examination of
the different theories is singularly free from bias he is evidently
impressed by the ingenious view of Dr. Amos Stoot, the eminent Chicago
alienist, that the masked inmate of the Bastille immured himself
voluntarily in order to investigate the conditions of French prison
life at the time, but, owing to the homicidal development of
his subliminal consciousness, was detained indefinitely by the
authorities, and during his imprisonment wrote the _Letters of
Junius_.
* * * * *
I have been reading with much enjoyment, and I hope profit, a
book entitled _Behind the Ivory Gate; Being the Reminiscences of a
Dentist_, by Orlando Pullar, F.R.D.S. Mr. Pullar's opportunities for
studying the psychology of his clients have been exceptional, and he
has turned them to rich account in these fascinating pages. He is,
moreover, as adroit with his pen as with the instruments of his humane
and benevolent calling, and has a pretty wit. Thus he tells us that
his villa at Balham is named "Tusculum," and that, in view of the fact
that three generations of Pullars have been dentists, his family can
be said to be of "old extraction." This pleasant quip I seem to have
heard before; but, with all deductions, there are many signs here of
a strong sagacious mind, that brings to bear on all the jars of daily
life the priceless emollient of moral uplift.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE HYPNOTIST.
BETHMANN-HOLLWEG: "KEEP LOOKING AT ME. YOU'RE WINNING THE WAR! YOU'RE
WINNING THE WAR! YOU'RE WINNING THE WAR!"]
* * * * *
THE MUD LARKS.
Never have I seen a kiltie platoon wading through the cold porridge
of snow and slush of which our front used to be composed, but I have
said, with my French friend, "_Mon Dieu, les currents d'air!_" and
thank Fate that I belong to a race which reserves its national costume
for fancy-dress balls.
It is very well for MacAlpine of Ben Lomond, who has stalked his
haggis and devoured it raw, who beds down on thistles for preference
and grows his own fur; but it is very hard on Smith of Peckham, who
through no fault of his own finds himself in a Highland regiment,
trying to make his shirt-tails do where his trousers did before. But
the real heather-mixture, double-distilled Scot is a hardy bird with
different ideas from _nous autres_ as to what is cold: also as to what
is hot. Witness the trying experience of our Albert Edward.
Our Albert Edward and a Hun rifle grenade arrived at the same place at
the same time, intermingled and went down to the Base to be sifted. In
the course of time came a wire from our Albert Edward, saying he
had got the grenade out of his system and was at that moment at the
railhead; were we going to send him a horse or weren't we?
Emma was detailed for the job, which was a mistake, because Emma was
not the mount for a man who had been softening for five months in
hospital. She had only two speeds in her repertoire, a walk which
slung you up and down her back from her ears to her croup, and a trot
which jarred your teeth loose and rattled the buttons off your tunic.
However, she went to the railhead and Albert Edward mounted her, threw
the clutch into the first speed and hammered out the ten miles to our
camp, arriving smothered in snow and so stiff we had to lift him down,
so raw it was a mockery to offer him a chair, and therefore he had to
take his tea off the mantelpiece.
We advised a visit to Sandy. Sandy was the hot bath merchant. He
lurked in a dark barn at the end of the village, and could be found
there at anytime of any day, brooding over the black cauldrons in
which the baths were brewed, his Tam-o'-shanter drooped over one eye,
steam condensing on his blue nose. Theoretically the hot baths were
free, but in practice a franc pressed into Sandy's forepaw was found
to have a strong calorific effect on the water.
So down the village on all fours, groaning like a Dutch brig in a
cross-sea, went our Albert Edward. He crawled into the dark barn and,
having no smaller change, contributed a two-franc bill to the forepaw
and told Sandy about his awful stiffness. His eloquence and the double
fee broke Sandy's heart. With great tears in his eyes he assured
Albert Edward that the utmost resources of his experience and
establishment should be mobilised on his (Albert Edward's) behalf, and
ushered him tenderly into that hidden chamber, constructed of sacking
screens, which was reserved for officers. Albert Edward peeled his
clothes gingerly from him, and Sandy returned to his cauldrons.
The peeling complete, Albert Edward sat in the draughts of the inner
chamber and waited for the bath. The outer chamber was filled with
smoke, and the flames were leaping six feet above the cauldrons; but
every time Albert Edward holloaed for his bath Sandy implored another
minute's grace.
Finally Albert Edward could stand the draughts no longer and ordered
Sandy, on pain of court-martial and death, to bring the water, hot or
not.
Whereupon Sandy reluctantly brought his buckets along, and, grumbling
that neither his experience nor establishment had had a fair chance,
emptied them into the tub. Albert Edward stepped in without further
remark and sat down.
The rest of the story I had from my groom and countryman, who, along
with an odd hundred other people, happened to be patronising the outer
chamber tubs at the time. He told me that suddenly they heard "a yowl
like a man that's afther bein' bit be a mad dog," and over the screen
of the inner chamber came our Albert Edward in his birthday dress.
"Took it in his sthride, Sor, an' coursed three laps round the
bath-house cursin' the way he'd wither the Divil," said my groom and
countryman; "then he ran out of the door into the snow an' lay down in
it." He likewise told me that Albert Edward's performance had caused a
profound sensation among the other bathers, and they inquired of
Sandy as to the cause thereof; but Sandy shook his Tam-o'-shanter and
couldn't tell them; hadn't the vaguest idea. The water he had given
Albert Edward was hardly scalding, he said; hardly scalding, with
barely one packet of mustard dissolved in it.
Our Albert Edward is still taking his meals off the mantelpiece.
I met my friend, the French battery commander, yesterday. He was
cantering a showy chestnut mare over the turf, humming a tune aloud.
He looked very fit and very much in love with the world. I asked him
what he meant by it. He replied that he couldn't help it; everybody
was combining to make him happy; his C.O. had fallen down a gun-pit
and broken a leg; he had won two hundred francs from his pet enemy; he
had discovered a jewel of a cook; and then there was always the Boche,
the perfectly priceless, absolutely ridiculous, screamingly funny
little Boche. The Boche, properly exploited, was a veritable fount of
joy. He dreaded the end of the War, he assured me, for a world without
Boches would be a salad sans the dressing.
I inquired as to how the arch-humourist had been excelling himself
lately.
The Captain passaged his chestnut alongside my bay, chuckled and told
me all about it. It appeared that one wet night he was rung up by
the Infantry to say that the neighbouring Hun was up to some funny
business, and would he stand by for a barrage, please?
What sort of funny business was the Hun putting up?
Oh, a rocket had gone up over the way and they thought it was a signal
for some frightfulness or other.
He stood by for half an hour, and then, as nothing happened, turned
in. Ten minutes later the Infantry rang up again. More funny business;
three rockets had gone up.
He stood by for an hour with no result, then sought his bunk once
more, cursing all men. Confound the Infantry getting the jumps over
a rocket or two! Confound them two times! Then a spark of inspiration
glowed within him, glowed and flamed brightly. If his exalted _poilus_
got the wind up over a handful of rockets, how much more also would
the deteriorating Boche?
Gurgling happily, he brushed the rats off his chest and the beetles
off his face, turned over and went to sleep. Next morning he wrote
a letter to his "god-mother" in Paris ("_une petite femme, tres
intelligente, vous savez_"), and ten days later her parcels came
tumbling in. The first night (a Monday) he gave a modest display,
red and white rockets bursting into green stars every five minutes.
Tuesday night more rockets, with a few Catherine-wheels thrown in.
Wednesday night, Catherine-wheels and golden rain, and so on until the
end of the week, when they finished up with a grand special attraction
and all-star programme, squibs, Catherine-wheels, Roman candles,
Prince of Wales' feathers, terminating in a blinding, fizzing barrage
of coloured rockets, and "God bless our Home" in golden stars.
"All very pretty," said I, "but what were the results?"
"Precisely what I anticipated. A deserter came over yesterday who was
through it all and didn't intend to go through it again. They had got
the wind up properly, he said, hadn't had a wink of sleep for a week.
His officers had scratched themselves bald-headed trying to guess what
it was all about. All ranks stood to continuously, up to their waists
in mud, frozen stiff and half drowned, while _my_ brave little rogues
of _poilus_, mark you, slept warm in their dug-outs, and the only man
on duty was the lad who was touching the fireworks off. O friend of
mine, there is much innocent fun to be got out of the Boche if you'll
only give him a chance!"
PATLANDER.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Verger_ (_to Mrs. Smith, about to wed for fourth
time_). "VERY UNUSUAL INDEED, MRS. SMITH. I CAN'T REMEMBER ANY OF THE
OTHER THREE BEING QUITE SO LATE AS THIS."]
* * * * *
"The position of men who were not 41 before June 24, 1917,
and who have since attained 41 is again the subject of much
confusion."--_Daily Dispatch_.
We can well believe this.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Mollie_ (_who has been naughty and condemned to
"no toast"_). "OH, MUMMY! ANYTHING BUT THAT! I'D RATHER HAVE A HARD
SMACK--_ANYWHERE YOU LIKE_."]
* * * * *
A CURE FOR CURIOSITY.
(_An Idealistic Fable_.)
Alfonso Ebenezer Scutt
Could never keep his mouth close shut;
And when I mention that his tongue
Was flexible and loosely hung,
You will begin to understand
Why he was honoured in our land.
A lucky _coup_ in mining shares
Released him from financial cares,
And though his wife was strangely plain--
A lady of Peruvian strain--
She had a handsome revenue
Derived from manganese and glue.
Thus fortified, in Nineteen-Six
Alfonso entered politics,
Ousting from Sludgeport-on-the-Ouse
A Tory of old-fashioned views.
Alfonso Scutt, though wont to preach
In chapels, rarely made a speech,
But managed very soon to climb
To eminence at Question Time.
Fired by insatiable thirst
For knowledge, from the very first
He launched upon an endless series
Of quite unnecessary queries,
Till overworked officials came
To loathe the mention of his name.
At last their anguish grew so keen
The Premier had to intervene,
And by a tactful master-stroke
Relieved them from Alfonso's yoke.
By way of liberal reward
He made the childless Scutt a lord,
And then despatched him on a Mission
In honorific recognition
Of presents sent for our relief
By a renowned New Guinea Chief.
The natives of those distant parts
Are noted for their generous hearts,
But, spite of protests raised by us,
Continue anthropophagous.
And this, I have no doubt, was why,
When Members wished Lord Scutt good-bye,
You could not see one humid eye.
* * * * *
The moral of this simple strain
I trust is adequately plain.
When people crave for information
Unfit, in war, for publication,
They take a line, from vice or levity,
That's not conducive to longevity.
* * * * *
AN AFRICAN APPEAL.
The Baboo must look to his laurels, for other dusky aspirants to
fluent articulate culture are on the warpath, and they are by no means
to be underrated. I have seen lately quite a number of letters from
young studious gentlemen of Ashantee, who, having acquired a little
English, desire more, and develop a passion for correspondence with
English strangers, whose names they pick up. The following typical
example, dated March 9th, 1917, will serve to illustrate the new
habit:--
"DEAR SIR,--I am with much pleasure to indite you about your
name that has come to my hand with great, joy. On the receipt
of this letter, know that I want to be one of your fellow
friends. You have been reported to me by a friend of mine of
your good attention and benevolences. My openion of writing
you is to say, I want to take you as my favourite friend.
Everything or news that may be happened there at your side, I
wish you to report same to me. And I also shall report same
to you satisfaction. Will you be good enough to agree with
me? Then I hope to get few lines of news from you being as
you consented or disconsented. To have a friend at abroad is
something that delights the life. I am earnestly requested to
hear from you soon. I beg to detain, dear Sir,
"Yrs truly,
----."
To whom do you think that letter is addressed? You would suppose to
some public personage with a reputation for cordial sympathy with the
young and earnest, such as the CHIEF SCOUT, for instance. But no, the
"Dear Sir" is in reality a limited liability company, one of whose
circulars, I suppose, wandered to the Gold Coast.
* * * * *
THE LAW COURTS THEATRE.
"ROMNEY'S RUM 'UN."
London was probably never richer in comic actors than at the present
moment, for not only is W.H. BERRY at the Adelphi, LESLIE HENSON at
the Gaiety, ARTHUR ROBERTS at the Oxford singing his old songs, and
ROBERT HALE and GEORGE ROBEY twice daily elsewhere, but in the Law
Courts Playhouse CHARLES DARLING has been lately at his very best.
Dropping in there last week, during the performance of a new
farce, entitled _Romney's Rum 'Un_, I was again fascinated by the
inexhaustible wit and allusive badinage of this great little comedian,
beside whose ready gagging GEORGE GRAVES himself is inarticulate. Had
not GEORGE ROBEY invented for application to himself the descriptive
phrase, "The Prime Minister of Mirth," it should be at once affixed to
the Law Courts' fun-maker; but, since it is too late to use that, let
us think of him as "The Chancellor of the Exchequer of Mirth."
CHARLES DARLING'S success is the more remarkable because he keeps so
still. He sits in his chair as steadily as another of his outdistanced
rivals, SAM MAYO ("The Immobile Comedian," as he is called), remains
standing. He has few gestures; he rarely, if ever, sings, and I have
never seen him dance; and yet the way in which he "gets over" is
astonishing. "Laughter holding both his sides" is the most constant
attendant of this theatre.