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
"The Berlin critics have been accusing Mr. Bernard Shaw of
having committed in his 'Pygmalion,' produced in Germany the
other day, a plagiarism from Smollett's novel, 'Peregrine
Pickle.' Mr. Shaw denies that he has ever read the novel
in question, and, in an interview in the London 'Observer,'
remarks: 'The suggestion of the German papers that I had
Pygmalion produced in Germany lest I should be detected in
my own country of plagiarism, shows an amusing ignorance of
English culture.'"--_Yorkshire Evening Post_.
It does. Why even our most cultured countryman, Mr. BERNARD SHAW, has
never read _Peregrine Pickle_.
* * * * *
"Mr. Spademan, of Woodnewton, Northants, placed a dozen eggs
under a hen some time ago, and there were hatched out thirteen
chickens, one of the eggs being double-yolked. All the young
birds are doing well.
Burroughes and Watts' billiard tables for
accuracy."--_Birmingham Daily Mail_.
They are, in fact, a lesson to Mr. STADEMAN's hens.
* * * * *
LACONICS.
"As a matter of fact," said the doctor, "you ought not to speak at
all. But that's asking too much. So let it go at this--not a word more
than is necessary. Good-bye.",
He left the room and I lay back pondering on his instructions. How
many words were really necessary?
The nurse soon after entered.
"So the doctor's gone," she said.
Obviously it wasn't necessary to say Yes, since the room was empty
save for me and her; so I made no reply.
She went to the window and looked out. The sky was blue and the
sunshine was brilliant.
"It's a fine day," she said.
No, I thought, you don't catch me there; and said nothing. But I
reflected that yesterday I might myself have made the same inane
remark as she.
"Would you like the paper?" she asked.
"Yes," I said, and then almost regretted it, for having waited nearly
fifty years for yesterday's news surely I could wait longer. Still,
the paper would help to pass the time.
While she was fetching it I remembered a dream of last night which I
had intended to tell her this morning.
But why do so? A dream is of no account even to the dreamer. Still,
the recital might have made her laugh. But why should laughter be
bothered about?
The nurse brought the paper and I signified Thank you.
"I'll leave you for a while now," she said; "The fire's all right.
Your drink's by the bed. You'll ring if you want anything."
All these things I knew. My drink is always beside the bed; the bell
is the natural communication between me and the house. What a foolish
chatterbox the woman was! I nodded and she went out.
On her return an hour or so later she asked, "Is there anything in the
paper?"
Before answering I examined this question. What did it mean? It did
not mean, Are the pages this morning absolutely blank, for a change?
It meant, Is there a good murder? Is any very important person dead?
In reply I handed the paper to her.
Instead of reading it she began a long account of her morning's
walk. She told me where she had been; whom she had seen; whom she
had thought she had seen and then found that it was some one else;
what somebody had said. Not a syllable mattered, I now realised;
but yesterday I should have joined in the talk, asked questions,
encouraged her in her foolishness.
Just before lunch my brother and a guest came into the room and began
to talk about golf. My brother said that he had been round in 98. This
was his best since September, when he went round in 97. He described
his difficulties at the tenth hole.
It all seemed very idiotic to me, for the game was over and done with.
Why rake it up?
The guest said that he had lost two balls, one of which was expensive.
His driving had been good, but in the short game he had been weak.
He could never quite make up his mind whether he putted best with a
gun-metal putter or a wooden one.
My brother asked me if I remembered that long drive of his two years
ago?
I nodded.
The nurse came in and told them to go. She then asked me if I was
hungry.
"Very," I said.
She brought me some beef-tea and calf's-foot-jelly, remarking that
they were easily taken and "would not hurt my throat."
That was why they were chosen, of course.
In the afternoon I had a visit from my Aunt Lavinia, who sat down with
the remark that she would tell me all the news.
"You remember Esther?" she began.
Esther is my cousin and we were brought up together. How could I have
forgotten her?
What she told me about Esther was of no consequence. Then she told me
how she had nearly lost her luggage at Brighton--she quite thought she
had lost it, in fact--but, as it happened, it turned up. "And if I had
lost it," she said, "it would have been dreadful, for I had a number
of dear Stella's beautiful sketches in one of my trunks. Quite
irreplaceable. However, it is all right."
Then why tell me?
And so she rattled on.
"You don't say anything," she said at last.
It was true. I had said nothing. I told her what the doctor
instructed.
"Quite right," she remarked. "I wish other people even in good health
could have the same prescription."
Just before dinner my brother came in again. "You've had Aunt Lavinia
here," he said.
I had.
"Getting quite grey, I thought," he said.
I had noticed it too.
He was smoking, and while he was with me he emptied his pipe and
filled it again. He thought he had knocked the burning ash in the
grate, but it had fallen in the turn-up of his right trouser-leg.
Should I tell him? I wondered. He would, of course, find it out from
the smell, but meanwhile the cloth would be burned through.
"Your trouser's burning," I said.
That was the only remark I volunteered all that day; and really,
except now and then on business, I don't see why one should ever
talk more.
* * * * *
CURLING.
(_THE GAME AND HOW TO PLAY IT, BY A WINTER SPORT._)
Take a piece of ice (you'll want Switzerland for this). Draw two
circles, one at each end. Draw a line a short distance from each
circle. The drawing can be done with a pin, pocket-knife, diamond,
axe, friend's razor or other edged or pointed instrument. I give no
dimensions because they are dull things and I hate guessing. Talk of
the circles at each end as "houses" and the lines as "hogs," and you
are well on the road to become a curler.
Take two narrow pieces of tin with prickly eruptions on one side.
Place one each end of the ice-patch, prickly side down, and stamp on
the smooth side. Why these pieces of tin are called "crampits" I can't
tell you, unless it's just part of the fun.
You now have a prepared patch that can be used for hop-scotch,
shove-halfpenny, Rugby football or curling. If you have named the
things as directed you really ought to use it for curling.
We now come to the question of players. This is one of the most
important parts of the game. Four a side is the almost ideal number,
but a few more or less do not make any very great difference. But be
sure to get some Scotchmen. They take the game seriously and do much
to make the whole affair bright and mirthful. A slight sprinkling of
Irishmen often serves to bring out more prominently the flavour of the
Scottish humour.
Don't play for money unless you have the majority of Scotchmen on your
side.
The game is played with "stones," or, to use their Scotch pseudonym,
"stanes." To every man two stanes. You can either get your "stanes"
in England and travel out with them, or hire them in the locality.
They make the most pleasant travelling companions and at times are
the cause of many amusing incidents which beguile the tedium of the
journey. Also they often lead to your picking up chance acquaintances.
I have known one stone placed in a dimly lighted corridor of a
train productive of much merriment and harmless banter. Being of
considerable weight they do not readily respond to a playful kick, but
having no sharp corners they are seldom responsible for serious injury
to the kicker.
Every stone, when new, has a handle. Be careful to preserve the handle
intact on the upper part of the stone. If this adjunct be lost or
mislaid the stone is less amenable to transit and almost useless for
its original purpose.
You will also require a long-handled carpet-broom, which you will on
arrival re-name a "cow." Most dressing-bags constructed for foreign
travel are now fitted with these useful and picturesque articles.
The "cow" is used for two purposes. If you are lucky enough to be
appointed scorer for your side you mark the score on the handle in
such a way as to be indecipherable by everyone but yourself. This
prevents disputes with regard to the accuracy of your arithmetic.
You also use it to sweep the ice in front of a friendly stone which
appears likely to give up prematurely from exhaustion. Sweeping is
carried out under the direction of your captain, and the process is
known in the vernacular as "sooping 'er oop." You are not allowed
to retard the progress of a stone, friendly or otherwise, by
intentionally sweeping obstructions into its path. To discard a
portion of your "cow" in front of a rapidly advancing stone is
actionable.
Over-enthusiasm in "sooping 'er 'oop" should be avoided. Ice is
proverbially slippery, and if you fall on to a friendly stone from
excess of energy or from debility, your side is "huffed" that stone.
This is a serious matter, and even if you are able to continue the
game you are looked on with disfavour by your friends.
The object of the game is to get your stone as near as possible to the
centre of the circle at the other end of the rink. With this object
you stand on the piece of tin or "crampit" before referred to, grasp
the stone firmly by the handle and hurl it along the ice. It is almost
essential to let go the stone at the right moment, otherwise it will
hurl you. The game is almost identical with the commoner game of
"bowls," except for the language, which is worse. The term "wood"
is inappropriate and must be avoided, as the use of it may lay you
under a charge of ignorance or flippancy, which you will find almost
impossible to live down.
I will conclude with a few hints to novices. Preserve a cool head
and steady eye. Whilst you are playing your shot your captain will be
dancing about in the circle at the other end of the ice. You will find
it best to disregard his maniacal shoutings and gesticulations. You
will probably not understand half of them and will not agree with the
other half. If he should break a blood-vessel do not take any notice
unless some part of his fallen body is likely to obstruct your stone.
In this case you are entitled to have him moved.
If, after you have played, cries of "hog" or "wobbler" arise, remember
that you are engaged in a sport and not in politics and that there
is nothing really offensive in the terms. Finally, never scoff at the
language used, and above all remember that what is one man's game may
be another's religion.
* * * * *
[Illustration: LIFE'S LITTLE TRAGEDIES.
SHY AND NERVOUS HUSBAND, ABANDONED IN COSTUME DEPARTMENT BY HIS
WIFE WHO HAS GONE TO THE FITTING-ROOM TO HAVE HER DRESS FITTED, AND
SURROUNDED BY TALL AND BEAUTEOUS YOUNG LADIES WHOSE ONLY BUSINESS
SEEMS TO BE TO MAKE HIM FEEL LIKE A WORM.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "EH, BUT I HAD A RARE TIME LAST YEAR-R. A WAS AT MA
COUSIN MACWHUSKIE'S A WHOLE FORTNIGHT, AN' A DIDNA ONCE KEN A WAS
THEER!"]
* * * * *
REVENGE.
(_OR, A HINT TO A HOUSE-AGENT AFTER COMING AWAY FROM HIS OFFICE._)
Your voice was pleasing and your face was fat;
With soap _ad libitum_ you sought to dabble us;
But when I told you we must leave the flat
Did I not notice; underneath the spat,
The bifurcated boot that marks _Diabolus_?
I know that in a brief while you'll have found
The house I wanted (_sic_), superbly roomy,
With a fine view and every comfort crowned,
A short three minutes from the Underground;
Also I know that you are safe to "do" me.
There will be something wrong; but you shall fill
My ears with praises specious and irrelevant
Of this and that; and you shall have your will,
And heave a deep sigh when I've paid my bill,
Having got off at last some rare white elephant.
And when things happen to "The Yews" or "Planes"
Left by the Joneses like a haunt of lazars;
When the roof falls, or in the winter rains
The dining-room breaks out in sudden blains,
And every feast we have recalls BELSHAZZAR's;
You shall be smiling. But you have not guessed
One thing, for all your wisdom, child of Lucifer:
You did not know I was a bard, whose breast
Could boil with bitter language when oppressed
Like a bargee's; if anything, abusiver.
This is the high reward of sacred song;
The minstrels' voices are like falling honey
When the gods please them, but when things go wrong
They speak their mind out straight, and speak it strong,
Especially on points concerned with money.
So, if you "do me down," I have my lyre,
And I shall trumpet (at the normal Press wage)
Such things about that house, and with such fire,
That all men ever after shall conspire
To shun the said demesne and curse that messuage.
And spiders on the broken panes shall sit,
And the grey rats shall scuttle in the basement,
Until the Borough Council purchase it
And cleanse and decorate, and lastly fit
A fair blue _plaque_ above the study casement,
Saying, "Here lived a while and wove his spell,
Eusebius Binks the bard, the unforgotten;
The house is mentioned in his 'Lines to Hell,'
Also the agents, Messrs. Azazel,
And the then drains which, so he sang, were rotten."
EVOE.
* * * * *
_The Daily Telegraph_ says of the Portsmouth Corporation telephone
system:--
"At present there are 1,899 subscribers and 2,528 distinct
telephones."
Why doesn't the Post Office experiment with this new sort of
telephone.
* * * * *
"Yet it is necessary to state emphatically, although no representative
of a daily newspaper seems to have been under this impression, that not
for twenty years have I been so bored."
_C.K.S. in "The Sphere," on the 'Edwin Drood' trial_.
But how are the poor reporters to know so much about C.K.S. as that?
* * * * *
[Illustration: COULEUR D'ORANGE.
MR. ASQUITH (_on the Riviera_). "LUCKY FOR ME THERE AREN'T ANY
'CONVERSATIONS' HERE--I MIGHT AGREE TO ALMOST ANYTHING."]
* * * * *
THE POST OFFICE AGAIN.
DEAR UNCLE,--Its your birthday to-day. I sent you some nice pairs of
hankerchifs because its your birthday. They for your nose. Its funny
our birthdays being so close. And now no more from your loving neice
NANCY.
MY DEAR NANCY,--Thank you very much indeed for the nice
pocket-handkerchiefs. I am very pleased with them. Nobody has ever
troubled to give me handkerchiefs before with pretty flowers worked in
the corners. I have been wearing them to-day, or rather one of them.
They are so nice that I really meant to have kept them specially for
parties and things like that, but, as I was obliged to leave home in
a great hurry this morning, and someone had hidden my everyday
handkerchiefs, I took one of yours.
Such a funny thing has happened. I sent you for your birthday a pretty
card with birds on it, and somehow or other it got taken in quite a
different direction, and was returned to me this morning by--whom do
you think? Auntie Maud, all the way away in Ireland. But we mustn't
blame the Postmaster-General without being absolutely sure of
ourselves. It is very difficult in mysterious cases like this to be
absolutely sure. Didn't you get my parcel? I sent it off at the same
time as I sent the card, and I haven't had the parcel back. I wonder
where it is. It looks as though things were going on that you and I
know nothing about. I shall be very angry with him if he has forgotten
to give you your parcel.
Hoping you are quite well, thank you, Your loving
UNCLE HENRY.
DEAR UNCLE,--Thank you for your pretty card for my birthday. I didn't
got your parsel. Its very naughty of him when its my birthday. I hop
youll be very very angry with him because its my birthday and I didnt
get your parsel. And now no more from your loving neice
NANCY.
_The Postmaster-General_.
SIR,--On Tuesday last I despatched by book-post a parcel from the
South-Western District Office. It is now Friday, and the parcel
has not been delivered. I should esteem it a favour if you would
kindly give the Official Handicapper for the District in question
instructions to allow my parcel to start forthwith. Yours faithfully,
HY. FRESHFIELD.
_The Postmaster-General_.
SIR,--In reply to your enquiry as to the nature of the parcel, I beg
to inform you that it was oblong in shape and done up in brown paper
and tied securely with string. To assist you still further in the
task of identification, I may mention that it is addressed to Miss
Nancy Freshfield, c/o F.E.L. Freshfield, Esq., 47, Ottalie Gardens,
Westminster, S.W.
Trusting that nothing serious has occurred to disqualify my parcel,
Yours faithfully, HY. FRESHFIELD.
DEAR UNCLE,--I thought it was such a long time my parsel didnt come I
would write to you dear Uncle. I hop you were very angry with him. And
now no more
from your loving neice NANCY.
DEAR SIR,--I am directed by the Postmaster-General to inform you that
your parcel has now been traced.
The name of the addressee was correctly stated by you, but you omitted
to append such further instructions for the guidance of the Post
Office as to indicate the destination to which you desired it to go.
I have the pleasure to add that the fuller information has been copied
in from your letter, and the parcel despatched....
DEAR NANCY,--By the same post that brought me your letter I heard from
our absent-minded friend, the Postmaster-General. You will be pained
to learn that he is even more absent-minded than we thought he was.
Although, when I handed him your parcel, I distinctly told him it
was going to Westminster, the moment my back is turned he must needs
forget all about it.
I feel really rather sorry for him, and I don't think we ought to be
angry any more. He can't possibly forget now, because I have written
the address down for him. Your loving
UNCLE HENRY.
* * * * *
[Illustration: WHAT TO DO WITH OUR FAT MEN; OR, EVERY LITTLE HELPS.]
* * * * *
A CABINET CRISIS.
It had to be faced at last. There is a demand for them occasionally,
and people won't put up with that excellent one taken under the
crab-apple tree any longer.
I was caught just right there. The sun was in an indulgent mood and
winked at the signs of advancing age. The bald patch was out of sight,
and the smile would have softened the heart of an income-tax assessor.
I acquired the negative from the amateur performer, and had it
vignetted, which made it better still, as there was a space between
the cashmere sock and the spring trousering in the original that I did
not want attention drawn to. I had a large number of prints made, and
dealt them out to anybody who asked for a photograph of me. At first
they aroused considerable enthusiasm, but after five or six years a
look of doubt began to appear on the faces of the recipients. Hadn't I
got a later one? This was very nice, but--I pointed out that I hadn't
changed at all, or only a very little. At my best I was still like
that; and didn't they want me at my best?
At last a person described by himself as plain-spoken, and by other
people as offensively rude, said that I had never really been as
good-looking as that, with all possible allowances made, and any way
he wanted a photograph and not a memorial card. I took a firm stand,
and said that if he wasn't satisfied with that one he could go without
altogether, and he said in the most insulting way that he supposed he
should be himself again in time if he took a tonic.
A few more episodes of that sort eventually drove me to it. I passed
my _viva-voce_ examination at the hands of the young lady at the desk,
paid my fees, got my testamur, and was shown into the torture-chamber,
where the head executioner was busy adjusting his racks and screws.
I was rather taken with the rustic seat that was standing on a white
fur mat in front of a scene representing the Jungfrau, but he headed
me off it. If I liked the Jungfrau as a background I could have
it, but not with the seat; that was for engaged couples only. He
recommended a pair of skis, or a bobsleigh; he could put a fine fall
of snow into the negative. But as I had arrayed myself in a black
coat, with one of those white waistcoat slips, and a flowing tie with
a pearl pin, I refused this offer, and we decided we wouldn't have a
background at all.
As the man who administered the laughing gas was out at lunch, I
prepared to go through with it in cold blood, and seated myself in the
operating chair in the most natural attitude I could assume--something
like the one I had taken under the crab-tree. I thought I would show
them that there wasn't so much difference after all. But it did not
suit the head mechanic at all. He looked at me with his head on one
side, and then took hold of mine by the chin and the hair and gave it
a twist. I had never worn it at that angle in my life, and I knew it
would put my collar all wrong; but I had to do what he told me. He
arranged my coat so that it should look as if it had been made to
fit somebody else, and disposed my arms in such a way as to give the
sleeves the appearance of trouser legs with rucks in them. I felt
almost more sorry for my tailor than for myself, but I shall send him
one of the prints when I get them; it will be good for him.
We were now ready to tackle the expression. I had chosen one that
would have been suitable for a man with a fair No Trump hand, but
with one suit not fully guarded, as I didn't want to overdo it; but,
judging from the inquisitor's remarks about the graveside, I am quite
ready to admit that it might not have come out like that. I hastily
dealt myself a hundred aces and a long suit of clubs, and he said
that that was better, but I must put off the idea of the funeral
altogether. It was not until I had assumed the appearance of a
reach-me-down Nut with a dislocated neck, being made love to by
six chorus-girls at once, that he condescended to take a look at
me through the peephole. Then he ran up to me, gave my chin another
hitch, pulled my neck another foot or two out of my collar, added a
ruck or two to my sleeves, and said he liked the other side of my face
better, after all.
So we went through it all again, and I worked at it with a will, for I
wanted to see him get under his black cloth and finish the business.
It wasn't as bad as I had thought, but he was not done by any means
when he had fired his first shot. He rammed more cartridges into the
breach, and twisted me into three fresh contortions. He said he was
sure that some of the efforts would turn out magnificently.
I don't feel quite the same confidence myself. I am anxiously
awaiting the result, and trying to get rid of the crick in my neck
and to unbuckle the smile in the meantime. If it doesn't turn out
satisfactorily, I shall get a few lines--not too deep--put into the
negative of the one taken under the crab-tree, and a little hair
painted out--but not too much.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "WORK! I'M NOT AFRAID O' WORK, BUT I CAN'T GET ANY IN
MY LINE."
"WHAT IS YOUR LINE?"
"I USED TO BE A STOCKBROKER, LIDY."]
* * * * *
"Lemnos and Samothrace are to pass to Greece, and Chios and
Wtlylene are to be neutralised."--_Daily Citizen_.
We shall remain anxious until the last-named is sterilized.
* * * * *
THE TRAGEDY OF MIDDLE AGE.
When I was a mid-Victorian nut
With a delicate taste in ties,
A highly elegant figure I cut,
At least in my own fond eyes,
And used to regard unwaxed moustaches
As one of the worst of social laches.
But now I find in my youngest son
The sternest of autocrats.
He tells me the things that must be done
And orders my collars and spats;
Prescribes mild exercise on the links
And advises me on the choice of drinks.
I've faithfully striven to imitate
My Mentor in dress and diction,
And loyally laboured to cultivate
A taste for the latest fiction;
Though I still read DICKENS upon the sly,
And even SCOTT, when nobody's by.
It's true I've managed to draw the line
At going to tango teas,
For, after all, I am fifty-nine
And a trifle stiff in the knees;
But I've had to give up billiards for "slosh,"
And pay laborious homage to "squash."