Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 146., January 14, 1914 by Various
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Various >> Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 146., January 14, 1914
I got up quickly. "Good-bye," I said. "You must excuse my leaving
you."
Daphne looked surprised. "Where are you going?" she enquired.
"To get married." I walked away with my head in the air.
* * * * *
A week later I wrote Daphne a letter. It ran as follows:--
"MY DEAR DAPHNE,--I am going to get married. Tina is nineteen, the
same as you, and is in the chorus of a musical comedy. She has real
jet black hair, so I am quite lucky. I hope you are fonder of me
already.
Yours devotedly, BILLY."
In reply, and by return of post, I received an invitation to tea at
Daphne's. Daphne, looking beautiful, was awaiting me.
"How d'you do?" I said gravely.
"Billy," Daphne began, "will you be really serious with me?"
I immediately assumed a business manner and coughed.
"Well?" I said.
The word was sharp and incisive, a regular lawyer's question.
"Of course, you're joking about this chorus girl?"
"Joking! Daphne, you know I'd do anything for you."
Daphne smiled. "But, Billy, I shan't like you any better if you marry
her."
I bit a piece of cake coldly. "I don't understand you, Daphne," I
said. "When I ask you to show me a little affection, only just what
you show others, you tell me I'm young and married men are different.
I arrange to be different at considerable personal sacrifice, and you
tell me you won't like me any better." I swallowed convulsively.
"But, Billy--dear--you're not actually engaged?"
"I'm not so sure," I replied. "These girls are wonderfully sharp; and
then, of course, I'm so young." (A good touch.)
There was a silence.
"I shall hate you if you marry a chorus girl," said Daphne.
"Then why did you tell me married men were different?"
"Because most of them are." Daphne smiled slowly. "I think I might
like you better if you were married to some really nice girl."
I laughed bitterly. "To you, for instance?"
"Yes, to me," said Daphne very sweetly.
* * * * *
[Illustration: IN VIEW OF THE EXAGGERATED AND MISLEADING REPORTS OF
WHAT OCCURS AT THE CONVERSATIONS BETWEEN MR. ASQUITH AND MR. BONAR LAW
ON THE ULSTER QUESTION WE VENTURE TO THINK THAT A LITTLE MAKE-UP AND
CAREFUL CHOICE OF RENDEZVOUS WOULD ENABLE THE LEADERS TO HAVE MANY A
LONG CHAT ON THE SUBJECT WITHOUT ANYONE BEING AWARE OF THEIR HAVING
MET.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: SPREAD OF THE SERVANT-GIRL GRADUATE IDEA.
(_Interior of a super-kitchen._)
_Mistress_. "WOULD YOU MIND LEAVING YOUR SOPHOCLES FOR A MOMENT, MARY,
AND RUNNING TO THE POST?"]
* * * * *
TO OBEY OR NOT TO OBEY.
_8th December, 1913._
Mr. and Mrs. Melbrook request the pleasure of Mr. Hugh Melbrook's
company at the marriage of their daughter Muriel Irene with Mr.
Adolphus Smith, at St. Peter's, Hashton, on Wednesday, December 31st,
1913, at 1.30 o'clock, and afterwards at _Westlands, Hashton_.
R.S.V.P.
_9th December, 1913._
Mr. Hugh Melbrook thanks Mr. and Mrs. Melbrook for the opportunity of
being present at the wedding of their daughter Muriel Irene, but much
regrets that, owing to great pressure of work, he cannot be there.
He desires that Mr. and Mrs. Melbrook should not feel constrained to
alter their present arrangements on that account.
_26th December, 1913._
MESSRS. HALL, MARK & Co., Silversmiths.
SIRS,--Kindly despatch at once to the address given below a seasonable
wedding gift, costing no more than the amount of the enclosed postal
order. I send my card for inclusion. Whatever change there may be
please return it to me, and oblige
Yours faithfully,
H. MELBROOK.
_27th December, 1913._
H. MELBROOK, ESQ.
DEAR SIR,--We are in receipt of your esteemed favour of yesterday's
date and beg to advise you that we have this day forwarded to
the address you gave a handsome cut-glass anchovy dish with a
finely-chased silver lid and tray. We enclose the receipted bill for
the dish, which stands in our list at exactly the amount remitted by
you.
We are, dear Sir,
Yours faithfully,
HALL, MARK & Co.
_29th December, 1913._
MY DEAR HUGH.--Thank you _very, very_ much for the sweet little
butterdish. It's ripping. Do try to get down, Hugh, there's a good
boy! If you can find time to choose me such a nice present--I know
what you are, it must have taken you hours--surely you could take the
day off for once. Say yes.
In tremendous haste, and thanking you again and again,
Your affectionate cousin,
MURIEL.
P.S.--I've just heard that Mr. Parsley, who is to marry us, is very
strict about _obedient_ weddings, and I promised Geraldine I wouldn't
"obey" if she didn't. Now it's my turn. Tell me something to do.
_30th December, 1913._
MY GOOD MURIEL,--That's a caviare dish! Caviare dishes, I understood,
were all the rage just now, and here am I slaving away to be in the
fashion, and you calmly write back and say, "Thank you very much for
the butt--" My good Muriel!
I really wanted to send you something quite different, something
equally novel but more seasonable; no less, in fact, than a
nose-muff or nose-warmer. It is a little idea of my own, the Melbrook
"Rhinotherm." Briefly, the mechanism consists of pieces of heated
charcoal, potato or what-not, encased in some non-conducting material,
the whole being then unostentatiously affixed to the frigid end of the
nose. Stupidly, I forgot to take a plaster cast of your nose. You'll
forgive me, won't you?
And now about coming down on the happy day. I feel very hurt about it.
You know perfectly well that I wanted you to be married on a Saturday,
but you wouldn't. It isn't as though you get married every day, and
I do think you might have considered me a little more. But, even if
I did come, even if by working all night Monday and Tuesday I could
scrape together a few hours of freedom, I know what it would be. I
should never be allowed in the vestry afterwards, while all the fun
was going on. And yet you have the effrontery to sit there and ask my
help in evading your, responsibilities as a married woman. Still, if
you promise to breathe not a word of this to any woman I may marry
hereafter, here's a dead snip for you. Listen! When you come to the
words "to love, cherish and to obey," you simply drop the second "to"
(nobody will miss it) and run the "d" of the "and" into the "obey,"
and lo! we have a French word, to wit, _dauber_, meaning to cuff,
drub or belabour. What say you to that, my bonny bride? I think that
deserves an extra large slice of cake, to put under my pillow. And I
say, Muriel, I do hope there won't be any of those rotten cassowary
seeds in it. If there are, for pity's sake rake them out and give them
to someone who likes them. And I'll have his share of the marzipan.
Your affectionate cousin,
HUGH.
NEWSPAPER EXCERPT.
... During the service an amusing incident occurred. It was noticed
that the, bride, who is rumoured to have feminist leanings, betrayed
some difficulty in pronouncing the vow of obedience. The Rev. Thos.
Parsley considerately paused and helped her to repeat the words
after him in a clear and audible manner. In an interview with
our representative, Mr. Parsley smilingly explained that he was
determined, in his parish at any rate, to discourage any possible
evasion of the matrimonial vows. He considered that a great deal of
post-nuptial unhappiness was attributable to the lamentable laxity
of the clergy in joining young people in matrimony without requiring
their future relations to be clearly defined at the outset. The young
bride refused to make any comment, but seemed highly amused at the
incident....
"_Hashton Weekly Hash._"
* * * * *
"A gem ring lost last summer by Franz Schroder while
travelling in a steamer on the Danube, near Prague, was found
inside a carp caught at Mayence by his nephew."--_Manchester
Evening News_.
The fact that Mayence is not on the Danube need not bother you. Only
last week our uncle lost a white elephant while travelling in a barge
on the Regent's Park Canal, near Maida Vale, and it was found inside
the hat-box of the Editor of _The Manchester Evening News_ by FRANZ
SCHRODER. Bless you, these things are always happening.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Irate Cottager._ "Hi! YOU'RE BREAKIN' MY 'EDGE!"
_Mild Sportsman._ "OH, NO; YOUR HEDGE IS BREAKING MY FALL, AND IF YOU
WILL KINDLY PUSH ME BACK AGAIN I SHALL TRY TO REJOIN MY HORSE."]
* * * * *
THE COWARD.
It is impossible to describe to you exactly how Herbert looked. But
shame, defiance and unconcern were the principal ingredients in his
expression as he stood on the kerb and stared across the road.
He started guiltily as I approached.
"Hallo, Herbert!" I began with my customary _bonhomie_.
"Hallo!" he said dismally.
"What are you doing here?" I asked sternly.
"Nothing," said Herbert. "Have you ever noticed what a fine building
that post-office is?"
"No," I said; "neither have you. Herbert, you are concealing something
from me. What have I done to deserve it? Have I not enjoyed your
confidence these many years, and have you ever known me betray it? Is
it marriage that has changed you thus? Is it--"
"Shut up," said Herbert. "I'll tell you, if you stop talking."
I stopped talking.
"It's this way. My wife and I have had a little discussion. And I
stated my belief that there was nothing in an ordinary way that a
woman could do that a man couldn't. Whereupon she defied me to go out
and--er--buy a bloater. As you see, I have gone out, and--er--"
"Yes," I said, "you have gone out. Splendid of you! And all that
remains to be done is to buy a bloater. Why not? Yonder, if I mistake
not, is the shop of a bloaterer."
"But a bloater!" said Herbert. "It isn't fair. If she'd said some
salmon, or a lobster, or even a pound of sausages; or if she'd allowed
me to 'phone for it. It's not as if I'd ever had any practice. It's
not decent to start a beginner on a hand-bought bloater."
"Tush!" I said. "This is not manly. Remember, our sex is at stake.
Come!"
I took him by the arm. He advanced under protest.
Four paces from the shop he stopped abruptly and laughed--a horrible
laugh.
"Do you know," he said, "I do believe I've come out without a cent on
me."
"_I_ don't believe it for a moment," I said, "but as it happens I can
lend you pounds and pounds--almost enough for two bloaters."
Herbert reluctantly found some money in one of the seven pockets he
had not felt in. Then we advanced once more.
This time there was no going back. Right into the body of the
fishmonger's we strode and stood firmly opposite the salesman.
"_Now_," I whispered tensely.
But Herbert hesitated, and even as he wobbled the salesman began his
suggestions.
"Yes, Sir? Lobsters or prawns, Sir? Some very good salmon this
morning--very fine fish indeed, Sir."
"Er, as a matter of fact," said Herbert, "we just wanted to know if
you would be so kind as to direct us to the nearest post-office?--the
one just across the road, you know," he added nervously.
"Herbert," I said in his private ear, "be a man."
Herbert pulled himself together. "Would you," he said to the salesman,
"would you please let me look at some b-b-blobsters?"
* * * * *
A BAD DREAM.
_Sunday_.--Great news! The plan suggested by the Anglo-German Alliance
Committee is at last to be carried out. There is to be an exchange of
garrisons, that is to say, certain English towns are to be garrisoned
by German regiments, while certain German towns are to have
English garrisons. Our own town, though a small one, is to have
the distinguished honour of being the first to give this mark of
friendship to the world. All the arrangements have been made, and
to-morrow the 901st Prussian regiment of infantry is to march in.
It will be a great day for Dartlebury, and we shall all do our best,
though the public notice has been short, to give our gallant visitors
a warm and truly British reception.
_Monday_.--Our German friends have arrived. At 11 o'clock this morning
it was announced that they were approaching, headed by their band. The
Mayor, Alderman Farthingale, and the whole Corporation, including the
three Labour members recently elected, immediately proceeded to the
old city wall to meet them. They were accompanied by the municipal
band in full uniform, playing "_Die Wacht am Rhein_," which they had
been assiduously practising. Unfortunately this led to what might have
been a somewhat painful contretemps. On meeting the municipal band the
Prussian commander, Colonel von Brausebrum, halted his soldiers and in
a loud voice declared that our men were playing out of tune. Perhaps
this was true, but the offence was involuntary and in any case it
was hardly serious enough to call for the arrest of the whole band.
Arrested, however, they were, and it was a melancholy sight to see
them marched off by a corporal's guard. Mr. Zundnadel, the chief of
the band, is himself of German origin, and his feelings can be better
imagined than described. The Mayor saved the situation by making an
extremely cordial speech, in which he spoke of the English and the
Germans as ancient brothers-in-arms. The Colonel in his reply said his
mission was a glorious one, and everything would depend on the way
we conducted ourselves. What can he have meant? The march was then
resumed, but another halt was made in the High Street to remove the
French flag which Mucklow, the linen-draper, had very tactlessly stuck
up over his shop. He too was arrested, with wife and family, and was
lodged in jail. Luckily no further incident disturbed the harmony of
the proceedings.
_Tuesday_.--This morning Lieutenant von Schornstein, while walking in
Brewer's Alley, trod on a piece of banana-skin and fell heavily on
the pavement. As he rose he observed that two small boys were, so he
alleged, laughing at him. He immediately ran after the two urchins,
and was proceeding to put them to the sword when the Brewery men
interfered and disarmed him. He pleaded that his uniform had been
insulted and that it was necessary for him to punish them. "_Ich
muss sie durch den Leib rennen_" were his words. The men, however,
were not inclined to admit the force of this plea, especially as
they understood no German, and they sent him back to barracks in a
taxi-cab. The Mayor at once wired his apologies to the Colonel, and it
is hoped that nothing further will be heard of the incident. I ought
to add that the boys deny that they laughed, but the lieutenant is
certain that they wore a smiling expression.
The "Friendship Banquet" was held this evening in the Town Hall,
with the Mayor in the chair. No very great enthusiasm was shown, and
when the Mayor, in proposing the health of our visitors, alluded to
the friendly rivalry of the two nations in commerce and the arts of
peace, the Colonel pulled him back into his seat and begged him not
to proceed. "_Maul halten_," he said. The three Labour members of the
Council were afterwards arrested for not having joined with sufficient
heartiness in the singing of "_Deutschland ueber Alles_."
_Wednesday_.--A state of siege has been declared in Dartlebury, and
we are all living under martial law. Lord Gruffen was arrested for
having knocked up against a soldier. The magistrates, on leaving the
police-court, were handcuffed and removed to barracks. A crisis is
evidently approaching.
_Thursday_.--An insurrection started this morning. A huge crowd
attacked the barracks and overpowered all resistance. Blood flowed
like water, but in an hour all was over. There is a strong feeling
that the experiment of the Alliance Committee was a rash one, though
no doubt it was well meant. We live and learn.
* * * * *
LOOP! LOOP!!
(_A STORY OF AERIAL PROWESS IN THE PROVINCES._)
They said, "He goes a-tumbling through the hollow
And trackless empyrean like a clown,
Head pointed to the earth where weaklings wallow,
Feet up toward the stars; not such renown
Even our lord himself, the bright Apollo,
Gets in his gilded car. For one bob down
You shall behold the thing." "Right-o," I said,
Clapping the old brown bay leaves on my head.
So to the hangars. Time, about eleven,
The air full chill, the ground a mess of muck,
And long time gazed I on the wintry heaven
And thought of many a deed of Saxon pluck;
How DRAKE, for instance, good old DRAKE of Devon,
Played bowls at Plymouth Hoe. Twelve-thirty struck.
No one had vaulted through the air's abyss;
DRAKE would have plunged tail up an hour ere this.
Brief interval for lunch, and then a drizzle
Fell on the dreary field. Like some dead moth
The thing remained. Chagrin commenced to sizzle,
And certain people cried, "A thillingth loth."
Others, "Hey, Mister Airman, it's a swizzle!"
Then a stern man came out, and with a cloth
Lightly, as one well used to such a feat,
Swaddled the brute's propeller and its seat.
The skies grew darkling, and there went a rumour,
"The thing is off; he will not fly to-day;"
And forth we wandered, some in rare ill-humour,
But not, oh, not the bard. Yet this I say--
There are two kinds of courage: one's a boomer
Avid of gold and glory; this is A,
Crowned with a palm, and in her hands I see
Sheaves of press cuttings. There is also B.
Not venturesome, this last, to brave the billows,
To beard the panther in his hidden lair,
To probe the epiderms of armadillos,
Nor execute wild cart-wheels in the air;
But who shall say how much Britannia still owes
To B, the kind of courage that can bear
Dauntless to wait, whate'er the skies portend,
(Having paid entrance) to the bitter end?
The heavenly hero in his suit of leather
Soars through Olympus with the world beneath
Sometimes, and sometimes, owing to the weather,
Scratches his fixtures in the tempest's teeth.
Shall the high gods, who gaze on both together,
Count him the nobler, or confer their wreath
On the brave bull-dog bard, who risks his thews
Standing about all day in thin-soled shoes?
EVOE.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "HERE'S ONE I'M SURE YOU'LL LIKE, TREVOR."
"WHAT IS IT?"
"_ROBINSON CRUSOE_."
"IN WHAT LANGUAGE?"]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(_BY MR. PUNCH'S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERKS._)
Just as one may say of certain novelists that they write at the top
of their voices, so, I think, one might describe Miss VIOLA MEYNELL
as writing in a whisper. This certainly is the effect that _Modern
Lovers_ (SECKER) produced upon me. The gentle method of it invested
the story--which of itself is a very slight thing--with an odd
significance almost impossible to communicate in criticism; but the
reading of a few pages will show you what I mean. The title is apt
enough, for the tale is about nothing but love, as it affects a group
of five young people, three men and two girls. Of the girls, who are
sisters, _Effie Rutherglen_ is the more important and detailed figure.
_Effie_, in the time before the story opens, had an affair with
_Oliver Bligh_; then, summoned North to live with her futile and
uncomprehending parents, she fell (as did her sister _Milly_ and most
of the local spinsters) under the fascination of one _Clive Maxwell_,
who was an author and had appealing eyes and obviously a way with him.
Then _Oliver_ turned up again, and poor _Effie_ didn't know which of
them she wanted. I speak lightly, but, if you think all this made
for comedy, your conception of Miss MEYNELL's methods is very much
at fault. Love to her is very much what it was to _Patience_ in the
opera--by no means a wholly enviable boon. I can hardly praise too
much the exquisite refinement and restraint of her treatment of
commonplace things. But one small point baffled me: _Oliver_ appears
to have been a professional diver and bath-keeper--we are told,
indeed, that he had occupied that position at Rugby (a statement
that I have private and personal reasons for discrediting)--yet we
find him staying as a welcome and honoured guest in the house of the
_Rutherglens_, whom I take to be more or less "county." Surely this,
though of no real importance, is at least remarkable?
* * * * *
"What," I asked myself, "is just the matter with this apparently quite
nice book?" (It was _Joan's Green Year_, and written by E.L. DOON and
published by MACMILLAN.) It is the kind of book that grows out of a
romantic disposition and an assiduously stuffed commonplace book. It
consists of letters from _Joan_, a paying guest in the Manor House
Farm at Pelton, to her brother _Keith_, a soldier in India, telling
him all about her year of holiday and "soul discipline" in the
country, the village gossip, her proposals and her one acceptance, and
giving a sort of farmer's calendar of the seasons as interpreted by
the guileless amateur. _Joan_ has what is known as a nice mind. But
to tell truth she has chosen a difficult and dangerous if alluring art
form. Of course letters enable you to evade some of the difficulties
of the novelist's task, to be discursive, allusive and incomplete. But
you can't be let off anything of the precision and subtlety of your
characterisation. On the contrary. And _Joan_ makes everyone in Pelton
(except the rustics, whose authenticity I gravely suspect) talk
as _Joan_ writes. They have nearly all seen her commonplace book,
I judge. Then, again, you must not have (like _Joan_) a large list
of acquaintances, or you breed confusion and dissipate interest
accordingly. _Joan_ is very young in many ways. She is extravagant in
the matter of the equipment of her heroes. _Bob Ingleby_, the farmer
(a gentleman, because he had been at Winchester), is a "great comely
giant," yet wins events one and three of the Hunt Steeplechase, though
thrown badly in number two. I have a suspicion that this work is
really _Joan's_ tee shot, and that after a notable recovery, which on
the best of her present form I can safely prophesy, she will reach her
green year next time.
* * * * *
Mrs. T.P. O'CONNOR has written a fascinating book. _My Beloved South_
she calls it, and PUTNAMS publish it. There is not a lifeless page
in the 427 that make up a bountiful feast. Every one contains vivid
reproductions of incidents in social life in the South "befo' de
wa'" and after. At the outset we make the acquaintance of a typical
Southron, Mrs. O'CONNOR's grandfather, Governor of Florida when it
was still a Territory, with native Indians fighting fiercely for their
land and homes. Mrs. O'CONNOR was, of course, not to the fore in those
early days. But so steeped is she in lore of the South, much of it
gained from the lips of nurses and out-door servants, so keen is her
sympathy, so quick and true her instinct that she is able to revivify
the old scenes and reproduce the atmosphere of the time. The darkey
nurse of earliest childhood lives again, sometimes bringing with
her plantation songs like "Voodoo-Bogey-Boo," quaintly musical. Many
passages of the grandfather's conversations are preserved, in which we
may detect the voice of the gifted granddaughter. But the influence of
heredity is strong, more especially "down South." Also there are many
charming stories redolent of the South. I was about to mention the
page on which will be found the thrilling history of a mule aptly
named "Satan." On reflection I won't spoil the reader's pleasure in
unexpectedly coming upon it somewhere about the middle of the book.
Nobody--man or woman, girl or boy--who begins to read _My Beloved
South_ will skip a page. So the story cannot be overlooked.
* * * * *
In _Lost Diaries_ (DUCKWORTH) Mr. MAURICE BARING travels by an easy
road to humour, and he does not pound it with too laborious feet. This
is perhaps a fortunate thing, for a farcical reconstruction of history
in the light of modern sentiment and circumstances might easily tire;
a Comic History of England, for instance, is stiffer reading to-day
than GARDNER or GREEN. Sometimes, however, Mr. BARING seems to carry
to extreme lengths his conscientious avoidance of efforts to be funny;
and in the imaginary records of one or two of his subjects there is
little more to laugh at than the unaided fancy of the student has long
ago perceived. _Tristram_ loved two _Iseults_, and JOHN MILTON was
an exasperating husband; but these things I knew, and the author of
_Lost Diaries_ has made no more capital out of the situations than
the eternal merriment which the bare statement of the facts inspires.
But where Mr. BARING, pleasantly disdainful alike of consistency
and taste, examines the pocket-book of the "Man in the Iron Mask,"
and finds him complaining of the noise and disturbance in dungeon
after dungeon until he is removed at last to the lotus island of the
Bastille; or records the blameless botanical pursuits of TIBERIUS in
seclusion; or the first consumption of the Colla di Gallo by COLUMBUS
in the newly discovered West, he is, for all the simplicity of his
methods, amusing enough. Yet even so I am inclined to think that the
first of his essays, which reads like an actual transcript from the
jottings of a nineteenth-century private-school boy, is the diary
which I most heartily congratulate Mr. BARING on having rediscovered,
and which I should be least willing for him to lose again.