Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 146., January 21, 1914 by Various
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Various >> Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 146., January 21, 1914
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 146.
January 21, 1914.
[Illustration: "NOT VERY SPORTING LINKS, ARE THEY?"
EVEN EARTHQUAKES HAVE THEIR USE.
"AH, THAT'LL MAKE BETTER GOLF."]
* * * * *
CHARIVARIA.
MAJOR-GENERAL LEONARD WOOD, chief of the U.S.A. General Staff, has
reported that the American Army is, practically speaking, unarmed,
and advises the immediate expenditure of L1,200,000 for artillery and
ammunition. We fancy, however, that the present state of affairs is
the result of a compromise with the American Peace party, who will not
object to their country having an army so long as it is unarmed.
***
"VICTORY FOR THE ORANGE WOMEN.
DRURY LANE INSTITUTION TO CONTINUE."
This should put heart into the Orange Men of Ulster.
***
We hear that, to celebrate the recent glorious victory in Alsace, the
little town of Zabern is to be re-named Saebeln.
***
The Rev. N. FITZPATRICK, describing a visit to the Balkan States in
a lecture at the Camera Club, spoke of the difficulties he had with
his laundry. The same bundle of clothes was soaked in Roumania,
rough-dried in Bulgaria, and ironed in Servia. We are astonished
that the lecturer should have made no mention of mangling, which we
understand is done well in the Balkan States.
***
The KAISER, we are told, has given instructions that his _menus_ are
in future to be written in German. What, by the way, _is_ the French
for _Sauerkraut_?
***
Mr. ARCHIBALD, a member of the Australian House of Representatives,
has calculated that the value of the property of the five million
inhabitants of the Commonwealth is L780,000,000. We cannot but think
it is a mistake to divulge the fact with so many dishonest people
about.
***
_I do like your eyes_ is the latest bright thought for a Revue title.
To be followed, no doubt, by _Her nose isn't bad, is it?_ and _What's
wrong with her toes?_
***
"FRENCH BATTLESHIP DROPPED."
_Pall Mall Gazette_.
Very careless of someone.
***
Reading that one of the features of the new British battleship class
will be less draught, Aunt Caroline remarked that she was glad to hear
this: she had always understood that during even half a gale it was
very easy to catch cold at sea.
***
Sir RUFUS ISAACS has decided to take the title of Lord READING. This
still leaves it open to a distinguished literary man, should he be
made a peer, to become Lord Writing.
***
The age of pleasure! Where will it stop? Extract from _The Witney
Gazette_:--"On Monday evening a very successful dance was given in the
Corn Exchange ... The company numbered over one hundred, and dancing
to the strains of Taylor's Oxford Scarlet Band was enjoyed till the
early hours of Wednesday morning."
***
While Police Constable JAKEMAN was in Eldon Road, Reading, last week,
a cat suddenly pounced on him and bit him. We have not yet received
a full account of the incident, but apparently the constable was on
detective duty and cleverly disguised as a mouse.
***
One of the cats shown at the Grand Championship Cat Show had her fur
cut and trimmed like a poodle's. The matter has been much discussed in
canine circles, and we understand that there may be trouble.
***
An express train travelling from Nice to Macon was, last week, beaten
by an eagle, which raced it over a distance of eighteen miles. Birds
are evidently being put upon their mettle by the aeroplanes.
***
Alleged notice outside Drury Lane:--
SLEEPING BEAUTY.
N.B.--CHAUFFEURS ARE KINDLY
REQUESTED NOT TO HOOT
WHEN PASSING.
***
From Paris comes the news that a successor to the Tango has been
found in the form of a Chinese dance known as the Tatao. The name,
presumably, is a contraction of the words "Ta-ta, Tango."
***
A new character named "It" appears in the revival of _The Darling of
the Gods_. We presume it is The Limit.
***
The manager of the Little Theatre is making arrangements for shilling
seats for the first time in the history of the house. How is it going
to be done? By _Magic_, of course.
***
"The Shepherdess without a Heart" continues to make good progress, and
the medical profession is much interested.
* * * * *
A FAREWELL TOUR.
This is positively Chum's last appearance in print--for his own sake
no less than for yours. He is conceited enough as it is, but if once
he got to know that people are always writing about him in the papers
his swagger would be unbearable. However, I have said good-bye to
him now; I have no longer any rights in him. Yesterday I saw him off
to his new home, and when we meet again it will be on a different
footing. "Is that your dog?" I shall say to his master. "What is he? A
Cocker? Jolly little fellows, aren't they? I had one myself once."
As Chum refused to do the journey across London by himself, I met him
at Liverpool Street. He came up in a crate; the world must have seemed
very small to him on the way. "Hallo, old ass," I said to him through
the bars, and in the little space they gave him he wriggled his body
with delight. "Thank Heaven there's _one_ of 'em alive," he said.
"I think this is my dog," I said to the guard, and I told him my name.
He asked for my card.
"I'm afraid I haven't one with me," I explained. When policemen touch
me on the shoulder and ask me to go quietly; when I drag old gentlemen
from underneath motor-'buses, and they decide to adopt me on the spot;
on all the important occasions when one really wants a card, I never
have one with me.
"Can't give him up without proof of identity," said the guard, and
Chum grinned at the idea of being thought so valuable.
I felt in my pockets for letters. There was only one, but it offered
to lend me L10,000 on my note of hand alone. It was addressed to "Dear
Sir," and though I pointed out to the guard that I was the "Sir," he
still kept tight hold of Chum. Strange that one man should be prepared
to trust me with L10,000, and another should be so chary of confiding
to me a small black spaniel.
"Tell the gentleman who I am," I said imploringly through the bars.
"Show him you know me."
"He's _really_ all right," said Chum, looking at the guard with his
great honest brown eyes. "He's been with us for years."
And then I had an inspiration. I turned down the inside pocket of my
coat; and there, stitched into it, was the label of my tailor's with
my name written on it. I had often wondered why tailors did this;
obviously they know how stupid guards can be.
"I suppose that's all right," said the guard reluctantly. Of course I
might have stolen the coat. I see his point.
"You--you wouldn't like a nice packing case for yourself?" I said
timidly. "You see, I thought I'd put Chum on the lead. I've got to
take him to Paddington, and he must be tired of his shell by now. It
isn't as if he were _really_ an armadillo."
The guard thought he would like a shilling and a nice packing case.
Wood, he agreed, was always wood, particularly in winter, but there
were times when you were not ready for it.
"How are you taking him?" he asked, getting to work with a chisel.
"Underground?"
"Underground?" I cried in horror. "Take Chum on the Underground?
Take--Have you ever taken a large live conger-eel on the end of a
string into a crowded carriage?"
The guard never had.
"Well, don't. Take him in a taxi instead. Don't waste him on other
people."
The crate yawned slowly, and Chum emerged all over straw. We had an
anxious moment, but the two of us got him down and put the lead on
him. Then Chum and I went off for a taxi.
"Hooray," said Chum, wriggling all over, "isn't this splendid? I say,
which way are you going? I'm going this way?... No, I mean the other
way."
Somebody had left some of his milk-cans on the platform. Three times
we went round one in opposite directions and unwound ourselves the
wrong way. Then I hauled him in, took him struggling in my arms and
got into a cab.
The journey to Paddington was full of interest. For a whole minute
Chum stood quietly on the seat, rested his fore-paws on the open
window and drank in London. Then he jumped down and went mad. He tried
to hang me with the lead, and then in remorse tried to hang himself.
He made a dash for the little window at the back; missed it and
dived out of the window at the side; was hauled back and kissed me
ecstatically, in the eye with his sharpest tooth ... "And I thought
the world was at an end," he said, "and there were no more people.
Oh, I am an ass. I say, did you notice I'd had my hair cut? How do
you like my new trousers? I must show you them." He jumped on to my
lap. "No, I think you'll see them better on the ground," he said, and
jumped down again. "Or no, perhaps you _would_ get a better view if--"
he jumped up hastily, "and yet I don't know--" he dived down, "though
of course, if you--Oh lor! this _is_ a day," and he put both paws
lovingly on my collar.
Suddenly he was quiet again. The stillness, the absence of storm
in the taxi was so unnatural that I began to miss it. "Buck up, old
fool," I said, but he sat motionless by my side, plunged in thought. I
tried to cheer him up. I pointed out King's Cross to him; he wouldn't
even bark at it. I called his attention to the poster outside the
Euston Theatre of The Two Biffs; for all the regard he showed he might
never even have heard of them. The monumental masonry by Portland Road
failed to uplift him.
At Baker Street he woke up and grinned cheerily. "It's all right,"
he said, "I was trying to remember what happened to me this
morning--something rather-miserable, I thought, but I can't get hold
of it. However it's all right now. How are _you_?" And he went mad
again.
At Paddington I bought a label at the bookstall and wrote it for him.
He went round and round my leg looking for me. "Funny thing," he said
as he began to unwind, "he was here a moment ago. I'll just go round
once more. I rather think ... _Ow!_ Oh, there you are!" I stepped off
him, unravelled the lead and dragged him to the Parcels Office.
"I want to send this by the two o'clock train," I said to the man the
other side of the counter.
"Send what?" he said.
I looked down. Chum was making himself very small and black in the
shadow of the counter. He was completely hidden from the sight of
anybody the other side of it.
"Come out," I said, "and show yourself."
"Not much," he said. "A parcel! I'm not going to be a jolly old parcel
for anybody."
"It's only a way of speaking," I pleaded. "Actually you are travelling
as a small black gentleman. You will go with the guard--a delightful
man."
Chum came out reluctantly. The clerk leant over the counter and
managed to see him.
"According to our regulations," he said, and I always dislike people
who begin like that, "he has to be on a chain. A leather lead won't
do."
Chum smiled all over himself. I don't know which pleased him
more--the suggestion that he was a very large and fierce dog, or the
impossibility now of his travelling with the guard, delightful man
though he might be. He gave himself a shake and started for the door.
"Tut, tut, it's a great disappointment to me," he said, trying to
look disappointed, but his back _would_ wriggle. "This chain
business--silly of us not
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE BLACK MAN'S BURDEN.
REFRAIN BY NATIVES OF SOUTH AFRICA AND KIKUYU.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Kindly Hostess_ (_to nervous reciter who has broken
down in "The Charge of the Light Brigade"_). "NEVER MIND MR. TOMPKINS,
JUST TELL US IT IN YOUR OWN WORDS."]
* * * * *
to have known--well, well, we shall be wiser another time. Now let's
go home."
Poor old Chum; I _had_ known. From a large coat pocket I produced a
chain.
"_Dash_ it," said Chum, looking up at me pathetically, "you might
almost _want_ to get rid of me."
He was chained, and the label tied on to him. Forgive me that label,
Chum; I think that was the worst offence of all. And why should I
label one who was speaking so eloquently for himself; who said from
the tip of his little black nose to the end of his stumpy black tail,
"I'm a silly old ass, but there's nothing wrong in me, and they're
sending me away!" But according to the regulations--one must obey the
regulations, Chum.
I gave him to the guard--a delightful man. The guard and I chained him
to a brake or something. Then the guard went away, and Chum and I had
a little talk ...
After that the train went off.
Good-bye, little dog. A.A.M.
* * * * *
"Lady Strachie wishes to thoroughly recommend her permanent
Caretaker and Husband."--_Advt. in "Morning Post."_
Lord STRACHIE should be a proud man to-day.
* * * * *
HOW GREAT MEN SHOW EMOTION.
[Mr. HANDEL BOOTH, speaking in Hyde Park recently, declared
that, when he informed Lord ABERDEEN of the conduct of the
police during the Dublin riots, the Lord Lieutenant "buried
his head in his hands."]
Mr. Leo Maxixe, writing in _The Irrational Review_, states that he
has it on the best authority that when the GERMAN EMPEROR read the
Criccieth New Year's interview with Mr. LLOYD GEORGE he exclaimed,
"This beats the Tango," and fell heavily on the hearthrug.
Mr. James Larvin, addressing a meeting of the Confederates at the
Saveloy Hotel, informed his hearers that when Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL
read the article in _The Daily Mail_ on his future he stood on his
head in the corner for three minutes, to the great embarrassment of
Sir FRANCIS HOPWOOD, who was present.
Sir WILLIAM ROBERTSON NICOLL, writing in _The British Weekly_, asserts
that when Mr. MASSINGHAM read "C.K.S.'s" recent reference to _The
Nation_ in _The Sphere_ he kicked the waste-paper basket round the
room and tore the hair out of his head in handfuls.
Mr. CECIL CHESTERTON, addressing a meeting of non-party fishmongers at
Billingsgate last week, stated that he had heard that when Mr. GODFREY
ISAACS informed the LORD CHIEF JUSTICE that Mr. HANDEL BOOTH had
retired from the Dublin Police Inquiry Lord READING OF EARLEY burst
into tears and hid his face in his wig.
* * * * *
WHY MR. CHESTERTON SHUNS THE ISLE OF WIGHT.
Extract from local time-table:--
"10.45 a.m. Motor Service between Freshwater and Newport
for light passengers only."
* * * * *
"Referring to the plea of Dr. Budge, the poet laureate,
for purer English, a writer in the 'Daily Chronicle'
says...."--_Glasgow Evening Citizen_.
Purer spelling of names is what the POET LAUREATE would really like to
see.
* * * * *
It was very touching of _The Evening News_ to give so much space to
the distressing story of the real Duchess who could not get a seat at
Olympia--(surely they might have thrown out a common person to make
room for her?)--but it was tactless to go on:
"'If you will bring me a couple of chairs,' said the duchess,
'I will sit down in the gangway with the greatest pleasure.'"
It makes one wonder which of our larger duchesses it was.
* * * * *
THE HOUSE OF PUNCH.
[He "married a princess of the House of Punch."--_Excerpt
front an account of the life of a former King of Kashmir_.]
Hail, Master, and accept the news I bring.
I come to make a solemn mystery clear,
One that affects you deeply; for I sing
Of a most ancient king
Nine hundred years ago in fair Kashmir,
Who yearned towards a bride, and--hear, oh hear,
Lord of the reboant nose and classic hunch--
"Married a princess of the House of Punch."
Yes, you are royal, as one might have seen.
The loftiness of your despotic sway,
Your strange aloofness and unearthly mien
(Yet regal) might have been
A full assurance of monarchic clay.
Had but the fates run kindly, at this day
Yourself should be a king of orient fame,
Chief of the princely house that bears your name.
Methinks I see you at it. I can see
A shamiana[1] loftily upreared
Beneath a banyan (or banana) tree,
Whichever it may be,
Where, with bright turban and vermilion beard
(A not unfrequent sight, and very weird),
You sit at peace; a small boy, doubly bowed,
Acts as your footstool and, though stiff, is proud.
Fragrant with Champak scents the warm wind sighs
Heavily, faintly, languorously fanned
By drowsy peacock-plumes--to keep the flies
From your full nose and eyes--
Waved from behind you, where on either hand
Two silent slaves of Nubian polish stand,
Whose patent-leather visages reflect
The convex day, with mirror-like effect.
Robed in a garment of the choicest spoil
Of Persian looms, you sit apart to deal
Grace to the suppliant and reward for toil,
T'abase the proud, and boil
The malefactor, till upon you steal
Mild qualms suggestive of the mid-day meal;
And, then, what plump, what luscious fruits are those?
What goblets of what vintage? Goodness knows.
Gladly would I pursue this glowing dream,
To sing of deeds of chivalry and sport,
Of cushioned dalliance in the soft hareem
(A really splendid theme),
The pundits and tame poets at your court,
And all such pride, but I must keep it short.
Once let me off upon a thing so bright,
And I should hardly stop without a fight.
But now you stand plain Mister; and, no doubt,
Would have for choice this visioned pomp untold.
Yet, Sire, I beg you, cast such musings out;
Put not yourself about
For a vain dream. If I may make so bold,
Your present lot should keep you well consoled.
You still are great, and have, when all is done,
A fine old Eastern smack, majestic One.
The vassals of your fathers were but few
Compared with yours, who move the whole world wide;
You still can splash an oriental hue,
Red, yellow, green or blue,
Upon a fresh and various outside;
While you support--perhaps your greatest pride
High pundits for your intellectual feast,
And some tame bards, of whom I am the least.
DUM-DUM.
[Footnote 1: Tent]
* * * * *
GIVEN AWAY.
A correspondent of _The Times_ writes:--"The _Niva_, the _Russian
Family Herald_, promises to annual subscribers, in addition to a copy
of the paper every week--
The complete works of Korolenko in twenty-five volumes.
The complete works of Edmond Rostand.
The complete works of Maikof.
A literary supplement every month.
A fashion book.
A book of patterns of fancy-work designs.
A tear-off calendar for 1914,"
and adds, "Where does English or American journalistic enterprise
stand beside this?"
We understand that our more enterprising contemporaries have no
intention of allowing this question to remain unanswered, and the
wildest rumours are afloat as to the nature of the gifts which will be
offered next year to annual subscribers by various British journals.
With a view to test the accuracy of these rumours our Special
Representative called yesterday upon the Editors of several leading
publications, and, although much secrecy is still maintained, he has
succeeded in collecting some valuable information. For instance, the
report that _The Nineteenth Century and After_ would include among
its gifts the dramatic works of the MELVILLE BROS., _HOW to Dance the
Tango_, and _Sweeter than Honey_, a novel with a strong love interest,
lacks confirmation; nor are we in a position to assert definitely that
_The Spectator_ will present a beautiful coloured supplement, entitled
"Susie's Pet Pup," and a handsome mug bearing the inscription: "A
Present from Loo," though we believe that such may be the case.
On the other hand, _The Times'_ reply to an inquiry as to whether
they would present to each reader half a ton of supplements was that
they had done so for some years past; and _The Daily Mirror_ did not
deny that they were considering the proposal to present a framed
copy of the portrait of John Tiffinch which appeared in their issue
of February 29, 1913. (Tiffinch, our readers will remember, was
brother-in-law to the man who discovered the great emerald robbery.)
_The British Medical Journal's_ list will include the works of GEORGE
BERNARD SHAW and the Life of Mrs. EDDY; but the report that _The
Tailor and Cutter_ would present _Wild Tribes of Central Africa_ is
emphatically denied.
Finally, _The Boxing World_ had not thought of offering any
free-gifts, but on learning that BOSWELL had written a Life of JOHNSON
seemed inclined to reconsider their decision.
* * * * *
"In order to counteract a tendency to stoutness which
ex-President Taft is now overcoming, the Kaiser has lately
undergone a systematic course of outdoor 'training.'"--_Daily
Mail_.
This is very friendly of the KAISER, but Mr. TAFT will probably do it
better by himself.
Says an Edinburgh tram-car advertisement:--
THE SCOTTISH ORCHESTRA.
Conductor..........E. Mlynarski.
Solo Violinist.....Duci Kerekjarto."
You should see these natives when they get among the haggis. Hoots!
* * * * *
THE KAKEKIKOKUANS;
OR, THE HEATHEN IN HIS BLINDNESS.
THE country of Kakekikoku, as its name suggests, lies in the vicinity
of Timbuctoo, the well-known African resort; and at the present time,
when so much interest is centred upon that little-known land, it may
be profitable to our readers, as well as to the writer, to give some
information about it.
A famous Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society, who has travelled
widely, not only in this country but in Belgium and the Channel
Islands, has stated that Kakekikoku is richly endowed with the
bewilderments, perils and mysteries of primitive and unexplored
African territory. A warlike and exclusive folk, the Kakekikokuans
extend a red-hot welcome to the foreigner who ventures within their
borders. They are possessed of a fine physique and an intelligence
of a subtler kind than many savage races can pretend to; yet while
having all the qualities that should go to the building up of a
strong nation, certain conditions of their life bar the way to such an
achievement. In a word, the Kakekikokuans are in the clutches of the
medicine-man. Each of these despots has his own little following, and
wields a distinctive influence, it being a point of honour with him
that his teaching should differ in some way (usually in but a trivial
detail) from the teaching of any other of his kind. The solemnity of
their discussions and the heat of their dissensions about the minutiae
of their creeds would be laughable were it not so pathetic..
And not only do the medicine-men dispute among themselves, but their
followers engage even more vehemently in bitter strife. For instance,
there is a national belief that the juby-juby nut, which grows in the
forests in profusion, possesses some supernatural virtue that will
make a man who chews it impervious to the weapons of his enemies.
That this virtue exists is generally accepted; but when it comes to
a discussion of how, when and where to chew the nut, much wrangling
goes on; and such men as survive in battle claim that their particular
method is proved to be the correct one, while such as succumb are
cited in proof of the error of their process of absorbing the
juices of the juby-juby nut. The survivors include, of course,
representatives of various schools of thought, and a battle against
a common enemy rarely goes by without being immediately followed by
a conflict among the surviving Kakekikokuans in order to put to final
proof their respective theories about their remarkable fruit. Thus a
promising people is committing race-suicide; for this sort of thing
goes on not only in connection with this particular problem, but over
such questions as the number of beads to wear round one's neck when
visiting the medicine-man, whether the national custom of saluting
the rising sun need be observed on cloudy mornings, and whether
the medicine-man is entitled to the pick of the yams on any day but
Sunday. People of different opinions on these points decline to eat
together or to enter into social intercourse with one another; and
their children are forbidden to mingle in play.
The good news has just come to hand, however, that a band of Church
of England missionaries, despatched by the Bishop of ZANZIBAR, has
now entered the country; and it is delightful to contemplate the
beneficent result that may be expected from their broadminded attitude
and their sane teaching on the subject of the brotherhood of man.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Observant Lady_ (_to gentleman alighting from 'bus_).
"_I_ THINK YOU'VE DROPPED A PENNY!"]
* * * * *