Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 152, February 28, 1917 by Various
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 152, February 28, 1917
"Francesca," I said, "how can you allude so flippantly to the tragedies
which are inseparable from the possession of Buff Orpingtons? In the
morning a young bird struts about in his pride, resolved to live his life
fearlessly and to salute the dawn at any and every hour before the break of
day. Then something happens: a gardener, a family man not naturally
ruthless, comes upon the scene; there is a short but terrible struggle; a
neck (not the gardener's) is wrung, and there is chicken for dinner."
"Don't move me," she said, "to tears, or I shall have to countermand your
egg. Besides, I don't think I could ever make a real friend of a fowl.
They've got such silly ways and their eyes are so beady."
"Their ways are not sillier nor are their eyes beadier than our Mrs.
Burwell's, yet she is honoured as a pillar of propriety, while they--no
matter; I hope the chicken when its moment comes will be tender and
succulent."
"Hark!" said Francesca.
"Yes," I said, "another egg has come into the world, and there's Frederick
rushing round like a mad thing with a basket, to find himself once more too
late. Never mind," I said, "I can have two boiled eggs to-night with my
chop,--I mean cutlet."
"No," she said.
"Yes," I said, "and you can have all the rissoles."
R.C.L.
* * * * *
ON PROMOTION TO FIELD RANK.
I remember a day when I felt quite tall
Because of a gift of five whole shillings;
I was Johnson major then, I recall,
And didn't I swank and put on frillings!
Well, we know that children are parents of men;
And, now that I'm getting an ancient stager,
Here am I pleased with a crown again,
And signing myself as Johnson, Major.
* * * * *
"Experienced General disengaged 1st March, one lady; no washing; would
take England."--_Irish Times_.
The advertiser should wire to KAISER, Potsdam.
* * * * *
"During the night an enemy raiding party in the neighbourhood of
Gueudecourt was driven off by our baggage before reaching our
line."--_Continental Daily Mail_.
There is no end to our warlike inventions. First the Tanks, and now the
Trunks.
* * * * *
"The Tigris, immediately above Kut, runs South-East for about four
miles. Then there is a sharp bend, and its course is almost due South
for about the same distance. Then against the stream it goes due North
for about the same distance."--_Glasgow Citizen_.
With the river behaving in this unnatural fashion General MAUDE deserves
all the greater credit for his success.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _She_ (_referring to host_). "YOU KNOW, THERE'S SOMETHING
RATHER NICE ABOUT MR. THOMKINS-SMITH."
_He._ "YES--I THINK IT MUST BE HIS WIFE."]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
_War and the Future_ (CASSELL), by Mr. H.G. WELLS, is not a sustained
thesis but just jets of comment and flashes of epigram about the War as he
has seen it on the French, Italian and British fronts, and has thought
about it in peaceful Essex. A characteristic opening chapter, "The Passing
of the Effigy," suggests that "the Kaiser is perhaps the last of that long
series of crowned and cloaked and semi-divine personages which has included
Caesar and Alexander and Napoleon the First--and Third. In the light of the
new time we see the emperor-god for the guy he is." Generalissimo JOFFRE,
on the other hand, he found to be a decent most capable man, without fuss
and flummery, doing a distasteful job of work singularly well. There is
some particularly interesting matter about aeroplane work, and the writer
betrays a keen distress lest the cavalry notions of the soldiers of the old
school should make them put their trust in the horsemen rather than the
airmen in the break-through. As for "tanks," he offers the alternative of
organised world control or a new warfare of mammoth landships, to which the
devastation of this War will be merely sketchy; but I doubt if he quite
makes his point here. And finally this swift-dreaming thinker proclaims a
vision which he has seen of a new world-wide interrelated republicanism
founded on a recognition of the over-lordship of God.... You put the book
down feeling you have had a long, desultory and intimate conversation with
a very interesting fellow-traveller.
* * * * *
Really, if Mr. ROBERT HICHENS continues his present spendthrift course,
whatever Board controls the consumption of paper will have to put him on
half rations. I believe that his literary health would benefit enormously
by such a regime. This was my first thought in contemplating the almost six
hundred pages of _In the Wilderness_ (METHUEN), and it persists,
strengthened now that I have turned the last, of them. Here is a direct and
moving tragedy of three lives, much of the appeal of which is lost in a fog
of superfluous words. Of its theme I will tell you only this, that it shows
the contrasting loves, material and physical, of two widely divergent types
of womanhood. Probably human nature, rather than Mr. HICHENS, should be
blamed for the fact that the unmoral _Cynthia_ is many times more
interesting than the virtuous but slightly fatiguing _Rosamund_. The former
is indeed far the most vital character in the tale, a figure none the less
sinister for its clever touch of austerity. Possibly, however, her success
is to some extent due to contrast; for certainly both _Rosamund_ and
_Dion_, the husband whom she alienated by her unforgiving nature, embody
all the worst characteristics of Mr. HICHEN'S creations. Perhaps you know
what I mean. Chiefly it is a matter of super-sensibility to surroundings,
which renders them so fluid that often the scenery seems to push them
about. It is this, coupled with the author's own lingering pleasure in a
romantic setting, that delays the conflict, which is the real motive of the
book, over long. But once this has come to grips the interest and the skill
of it will hold you a willing captive to Mr. HICHENS at his best.
* * * * *
Much as I have enjoyed some previous work by Baroness VON HUTTEN I am glad
to say that I consider _Magpie_ (HUTCHINSON) her best yet. It is indeed a
long time since I read a happier or more holding story. The title is a
punning one, as the heroine's name is really _Margaret Pye_, but I am more
than willing to overlook this for the sake of the pleasantly-drawn young
woman to whom it refers and the general interest of the tale. Briefly, this
has two movements, one forward, which deals with the evolution of _Mag_
from a fat, rather down-at-heel little carrier of washing into the charming
young lady of the cover; the other retrospective, and concerned with the
mystery of a wonderful artist who has disappeared before the story opens. I
have no idea of clearing up, or even further indicating, this problem to
you. But I will say that the secret is so adroitly kept that the perfect
orgy of elucidation in the final chapter left me a little breathless. Of
course the whole thing is a fairy tale, with a baker's dozen of glaring
improbabilities; but I am much mistaken if you will enjoy it the less for
that. A quaint personal touch, which (to anyone who does not recall the
cast of _Pinkie and the Fairies_ on its revival) might well seem an
impertinence, produced in me the comfortable glow of superiority that
rewards the well-informed. But I can assure Baroness VON HUTTEN that she is
all wrong about the acting of that particular part.
* * * * *
As it is not Mr. Punch's habit to admit reviews of periodical publications,
I ought to say that the case of _The New Europe_ (CONSTABLE), whose first
completed volume lies before me, is exceptional. In thirty years'
experience of journalism I never remember a paper containing so much
"meat"--some of it pretty strong meat, too--in proportion to its size. In
hardly a single week since its first issue in October last have I failed to
find between its tangerine-coloured covers some article giving me
information that I did not know before, or furnishing a fresh view of
something with which I thought myself familiar. And I take it there are
many other writers--and even, perhaps, some statesmen--who have enjoyed the
same experience. Dr. SETON-WATSON and the accomplished collaborators who
march under his orange oriflamme may not always convince us (I am not sure,
for example, that _Austria est delenda_ may prove the only or the best
prescription for bringing freedom to the Jugo-Slavs of South-Eastern
Europe), but they always furnish the reader with the facts enabling him to
test their conclusions; and that in these times is a great merit. My own
feeling is that if they had begun their concerted labours a few years
earlier the War might never have happened; or at least we should have gone
into it with a much more accurate notion of the real aims of the Central
Powers, and a much better chance of quickly defeating them. The tragedies
of Serbia and Roumania would almost certainly have been averted.
* * * * *
I am unable to hold out much prospect that you will find _Frailty_
(CASSELL) a specially enlivening book. The scope of Miss OLIVE WADSLEY'S
story, sufficiently indicated by its title, does not admit of humorous
relief. But it is both vigorous and vital. Certainly it seemed hard luck on
_Charles Ley_ that, after heroically curing himself of the drug habit, he
should marry the girl of his choice only to find her a victim to strong
drink. But of course, had this not happened, the "punch" of Miss WADSLEY'S
tale would have been weakened by half. Do not, however, be alarmed; the
author knows when to stop, and confines her awful examples to these two,
thereby avoiding the error of Mrs. HENRY WOOD, who (you may recall) plunged
the entire cast of _Danesbury House_ into a flood of alcohol. Not that Miss
WADSLEY herself lacks for courage; she can rise unusually to the demands of
a situation, and I have seldom read chapters more moving of their kind than
those that depict the gradual conquest of _Charles_ by the cocaine fiend,
and his subsequent struggle back to freedom. Here the "strong" writing
seemed to me both natural and in place; ever so much more convincing
therefore than when employed upon the love scenes. I have my doubts
whether, even in this age of what I might call the trampling suitor, anyone
was over quite so heavy-booted over the affair as was _Charles_ when he
carried off his chosen mate from a small-and-early in Grosvenor Square.
Fortunately the other parts of the story are less melodramatic, and make it
emphatically a book not to be missed.
* * * * *
Happy is the reviewer with a book which gives him so much delightful
information that he tries to ration himself to so many pages per day. This
is what I resolved to do with _In the Northern Mists_ (HODDER AND
STOUGHTON); but I could not keep to my resolution, so attractive was the
fare. These sketches are the work of a Grand Fleet Chaplain, and are packed
with wisdom from all the ages. If you haven't the luck to be a sailor you
will learn a lot from this admirable theologian about the men and methods
and the spirit of the Grand Fleet. His book fills me with pride; yet I dare
not express it for fear of offending the notorious modesty of the senior
service. So shy indeed is our Fleet of praise that I feel my apologies are
due to their Chaplain for my perfectly honest commendation of his book. But
he seems human enough to pardon the more venial sins.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A CASE FOR RATIONING.
"YOUR LITTLE DOG DOESN'T SEEM TO MIND THE WEATHER. I SUPPOSE HIS COAT KEEPS
HIM WARM."
"I DON'T THINK IT'S THAT ALTOGETHER. YOU SEE, HE HAS RUM-AND-MILK WITH HIS
CUTLET EVERY MORNING BEFORE HE GOES OUT."]
* * * * *
"Peterborough's youngest investor was Herbert Trollope Gill, barely
three months old, who subscribed the whole of his life's savings. He
arrived at the bank with his mother, and there was poured out before
the astonished gaze of the officials four hundred threepenny
pieces."--_Weekly Dispatch_.
We congratulate HERBERT on his patriotism and regret that it should have
compelled him to go into liquidation.