Punch, Volume 156, 26 March 1919 by Various
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Various >> Punch, Volume 156, 26 March 1919
There being no further remarks, the meeting dispersed, the various
speakers returning sadly home to perform the household duties.
* * * * *
"EX-KAISER TO PAP THE PENALTY."
_Sunday Paper_.
We always feared he would get off with a soft punishment.
* * * * *
[Illustration:_Docker_ (_by way of concluding a heated argument with
Scotsman_). "WELL, GO UP THERE, THEN, AN' TALK TO YOUR BLINKIN'
SCOTCH PALS."]
* * * * *
OUR POPULAR GUIDES.
"HOW INFLUENZA MAY BE SPREAD."
_Headline in a Daily Paper_.
* * * * *
A correspondent writes: "It may interest you to know that I recently
received the following statement from a provincial branch of a
floor-cloth company:--
'Owing to some of the principal ingredients used in the
manufacture of floor coverings having been taken over by the
Ministry of Food, the price of the material is again advanced.'
Have you noticed it at all in your soup?"
* * * * *
THE HOUSE-HUNTER
Unless something is done for Higgins without delay the nation must
prepare to face a tremendous rise in the rate of mortality among
house-agents.
Soon after he came back from the War he began to adopt a threatening
attitude (as the police-court witnesses say) towards these gentlemen.
Recently he has gone beyond the threatening stage. If rumour can be
trusted, he has thrown at least six of them through their office
windows. He has taken a dislike to the whole tribe. They are, in his
opinion, a gang of criminals for whom no punishment could be too
severe, because they impose upon the public in general and Higgins in
particular, by continuing in business as if they were in a position to
let houses when, as a matter of fact, there are no houses for them to
let.
Higgins wants a house. Yes, incredible though it may sound, this man,
who for years has been content to dwell in a dug-out or consort with
creeping things in the confines of a canvas tent, and even on occasion
make his bed beneath the starry dome of heaven, with nothing in
between, has now developed a craving for a residence built of bricks
and mortar.
What is more, he expects the house-agents to find it for him, and,
since he considers the whole thing from the purely personal point of
view, their excuses for failing to do so are of no avail. The fact
that half a million other people want houses is nothing to him. He
ignores it. He believes that the house-agentry of the country has
hatched a gigantic conspiracy to keep him, Higgins, out of a home.
I have done _my_ best to put him out of his misery. After seeing the
poor wretch wear himself (and his boots) out in useless journeying to
and from the places where house-agents pretend to work I thought of a
scheme--not strictly original--for obtaining a house and presented it
to him without hope of reward.
"You are committing and error," I said.
"I shall commit a murder in a minute," he growled but, knowing what he
had suffered, I took no notice of the threat.
"Listen," I said; "all the habitable houses in England are occupied
and it will be years before the new ones are built. The painting of
"TO LET" boards has become a lost art. You are wasting your time in
looking for an _empty_ dwelling. Take my advice. Choose one that is
occupied, any one you fancy, and empty it."
At this point he interpolated an offensive expression with which I was
not familiar before I joined the army, but I overlooked that also.
"You think it is impossible, but you are wrong," I told him. "This
scheme is bound to succeed. All you have to do is to haunt the house.
You do not eject the tenant yourself. You conjure up a ghost to do it
for you."
"The devil!"
"No--not necessarily. An ordinary ghost will do."
"But, my dear good fool, how in Hades or out of it can I produce a
ghost?"
"Easily. By _suggestion_. That is the secret. This is an age of
suggestion. Doctors are curing patients by suggestion. Politicians
hypnotise the public by suggestion. And you can frighten the present
occupants out of your chosen home by suggestion. No real ghost
is required. Having selected the house you pay a call and lay
ground-bait, so to speak. You tell the tenant you are interested in
the place because you happen to know that at one time it was haunted.
You relate a gruesome tale of some mysterious tragedy that you say has
occurred there, and generally make your victim's flesh creep.
"He or she, a woman for choice, will probably laugh at first. Never
mind. Allow a few days for the idea to sink in, and then call again.
It is a hundred to one that you will hear that strange manifestations
have been observed. After that it will be plain sailing. You will
continue to call, always supplying fresh suggestion, until at last,
thoroughly unnerved, the tenant will bolt, probably taking refuge in
a hotel. That will be your chance. Snatch the place up at once, and
there you are."
For the first time since he was demobilised, Higgins smiled.
"By Heavens!" he said, "I'll try it. There's a little place at Croydon
which would be a perfect billet. I will pay my first visit at once."
He sauntered away, proclaiming in song the satisfactory condition of
rose-culture in Picardy.
Yesterday he came back.
His face was grim. There was a light in his eye which I did not like.
He made no mention of roses blooming in Picardy or anywhere else.
"How is the scheme working?" I asked. "Have you called on the Croydon
gentleman?"
"I have," he answered; "and when I had laid the blessed ground-bait,
as you call it, he told me he always did think there was a ghost about
the place, and he was delighted to have his theory confirmed. He wants
more details now. He invites me to furnish evidence. What for, you
ask? Well, you see, he happens to be an active member of the Society
for Psychical Research."
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Polite Stranger (during the busy hour on the
Underground_). "WON'T YOU SHARE MY HANDLE, MADAM?"]
* * * * *
SILLY SEASONING.
The strange case of the halibut and the cormorant, recently reported
in the daily Press, has brought us a budget of interesting letters,
from which we select the following as agreeable evidence of the return
of normal conditions in the fish-story-telling industry:--
_Gullane, N.B._
Dear Sir,--One of the most striking results of the War has been
its effect on the mentality of birds and animals and even fishes.
The papers have lately contained accounts of a halibut which
swallowed a cormorant and survived the exploit only to fall a
victim to the wiles of a North Sea fisherman. As the cormorant
is generally regarded to be the _dernier cri_ in voracity, the
incident illustrates the old saying of the biter bit. As a rule
birds of prey have the upper hand in their contests with the
finny denizens of the deep. But the triumph of the halibut is not
altogether unprecedented. I remember, when I was cruising in the
China Seas in the year 1854, witnessing a combat between a dolphin
and a Bombay duck, in which the latter came off second-best. And
some thirty years later, during a yachting excursion off the
Scilly Isles, I saw an even more remarkable duel between a
porbeagle--as the Cornish people call the mackerel-shark--and a
pipit, in which, strange to relate, the bird came off victorious.
Believe me to be, Sir,
Yours truthfully,
CONSTANTINE PHIBSON.
_Tara, Diddlebury_.
DEAR SIR,--When I was an undergraduate at Cambridge in the
'sixties a "Limerick" was current which began as follows:--
"There was an adventurous sole
Which swallowed an albatross whole."
Unfortunately I cannot remember the conclusion of the stanza, nor
am I able to state whether it was founded on fact or was merely an
ebullition of lyrical fancy. In the latter case the lines are
a striking instance of the prophetic power of minstrelsy, and
justify the use of the word "_vates_," or seer, as applied to
poets by the ancient Romans.
I have the honour to be, Sir,
Yours faithfully,
SEPTIMUS BOWLONG.
_Rougemont Villa, Crookhaven._
DEAR SIR,--The halibut-cormorant episode has attracted undue
attention, since many similar but far more extraordinary incidents
have occurred during the War, but have passed unrecorded owing
to the claims of Bellona. I will confine myself to one which was
witnessed by my daughter Anna in course of bathing at Sheringham
in August, 1917. While swimming underwater she collided with a
middle-sized sea-serpent, which was evidently in difficulties and
made its way to the beach, where it expired. The post-mortem,
which was conducted by Professor Darcy Johnson, F.R.S., revealed
that the serpent had been choked by a gigantic gooseberry, which
had formed part of the cargo of a Greenland tramp torpedoed by an
enemy submarine. The serpent was actually being stuffed when a
bomb dropped by a Zeppelin blew it into infinitesimal smithereens,
to the profound disappointment of the Professor and my daughter
Anna, who has never been quite the same woman since. Permit me to
subscribe myself
Yours faithfully,
ALEXANDER NIAS.
_Steep Hill, Cramlington._
DEAR SIR,--There is nothing surprising in the story of a halibut
devouring a cormorant. As you will see from consulting _Murray_,
halibut means "holy-butt" (or flat-fish), and holy fishes are
possessed of magical powers. When I lived on the coast of Florida
I had a tame tarpon, which could swallow anything--croquet balls,
door scrapers--and once ate an entire cottage pianoforte in
half-an-hour. Here I may add that in my travels in Turkestan I was
attacked by a boa-constrictor, and, though I escaped with my life,
it proceeded to swallow the Bactrian camel on which I was riding.
On the following day, however, when the boa was still in a
comatose condition, I killed it with a boomerang, rescued the
camel and continued my journey without further mishap.
I am, Sir, Yours veraciously,
ANDREW MERRIMAN.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Lady Driver (just joined)_. "OH, SERGEANT, I HOPE I
SHAN'T UPSET MY FIRST PASSENGER!"
_Sergeant (A.S.C., M.T.)._ "PASSENGER, MISS! DON'T LET THAT WORRY YOU.
PLENTY MORE PASSENGERS!"]
* * * * *
THE SIX-HOUR DAY.
AN ANTICIPATION.
["If the husband's hours are reduced to six that gives the wife a
chance. The home and the children are as much his as hers. With
his enlarged leisure he will now be able to take a fair share in
home duties."
_Mrs. WILL CROOKS_.]
Jock Mackay was a lusty soul;
He earned his livelihood winning coal;
Black with grime, all huddled and bent,
A third of his life in the pit he spent;
A third he slept and a third he slacked
Training the whippet his fancy backed,
Or talking strikes with a fervent zest
In the bar of the neighbouring "Miners' Rest."
Jean Mackay was his wife; her day
Started or ever the dawn was grey;
She lit the fire, she shook the mats,
She frizzled the bacon and dressed the brats,
She darned and mended, she made the beds,
She combed the tugs in the tousled heads,
She knitted the socks, she washed and baked
Till every bone in her body ached;
She toiled and moiled in a non-stop fight
From six in the morning till ten at night.
But there dawned a day when Jock Mackay
Came home from the mine with a dancing eye
And a laugh in his heart, and he cried out, "Jean,
'Tis the grandest day that the warl' has seen!
The lads are a' cheerin' and rinnin' fey,
For the Government's gien us the sax-hour day."
Jean stopped scrubbing. "Is't true?" said she;
"I wish ye luck. But bide a wee.
Noo that the battle is owre an' done,
What will ye dae wi' the hours ye've won?"
"What will I dae wi' them? What I like.
I'll tak' a bit turn wi' my wee bit tyke,
Or call for a crack wi' the lads at the "Rest,"
And mebbe I micht tak' a drap, if pressed."
"That's a' vera weel, but bide a bit.
Ye work sax hours a day in your pit,
But I'd hae ye to bear in mind," said Jean,
"While ye work sax I work saxteen."
Jock scratched his head. "Ay, lass, that's sae.
Aweel, an' what would ye hae me dae?"
"Fair does," she answered; "it's only fair
That ye should be takin' your ain just share,
An' help me in keepin' the hame for a spell
In the extry hours that ye've got to yoursel',
Sae, while I'm scrubbin' the floor," she said,
"Ye micht be pittin' the bairns tae bed."
Jock laughed. "I doot there's somethin' in it;
I'll stairt on my duties this verra minute."
A week went by: Jock learnt to scrub,
He gave the bairns their Saturday tub,
He made the beds, he blacked the grates,
He washed up saucers and cups and plates,
He cleaned and polished, he boiled and baked
Till every bone in his body ached.
Around the neighbourhood rumour flew;
Soon every wife in the village knew
That Jock, when his spell in the pit was done,
Was cook, nurse, parlourmaid rolled into one;
And every wife she vowed that her man
Should be trained on the same super-excellent plan.
* * * * *
Behold these lusty miners all
Fettered fast in domestic thrall,
Scrubbing, rubbing, baking bread,
Busy with scissors and needle and thread,
Spreading the brats their bread and jam,
Trundling them out in the morning pram,
Washing their pinafores clean and white
And tucking them up in their cots at night.
* * * * *
Ask me not--for I cannot tell,
I can only guess--how the end befell:
A wifely word, an angry scowl,
A bit of a grumble, a bit of a growl,
A scolding here, a squabbling there,
And here the sound of an ugly swear,
A cry of despair from the sore opprest,
A secret call to the "Miners' Rest,"
A sudden revolt from the brooms and mats,
And a roar from a thousand throats--"Down brats!"
* * * * *
"What--striking again?" you cry, aghast.
Nay, friend, cheer up, for the worst is past;
A glint of blue may be seen through the grey--
_They are asking again for an eight-hour day_.
* * * * *
THE DISCIPLINARIAN.
Saluting is rapidly becoming a thing of the past, even among
British-born soldiers. Dating from the Armistice, it has lapsed more
and more, until now it is practically extinct.
Now I regard this as serious. I have ever been a stickler for
discipline, and consequently I dislike it when men pass by--not, like
the Levite, on the other side--but close to me without so much as a
click of the eyeballs.
So I decided that I as a disciplinarian would make a stand against it;
I would keep my eyes open for any particularly flagrant case. When I
found it I intended to let myself go. I promised myself an agreeable
ten minutes--or longer, if I got properly worked up.
My chance came the other day. I was strolling down Regent Street when
three N.C.O.'s, including a sergeant, passed me. They did not salute.
I might have been a civilian for all the notice they took of me. Ha!
my hour had come.
Turning, I hastened after them.
"Sergeant, a word."
They stopped and the Sergeant asked if I was speaking to him.
"Have you ever heard of the little word 'Sir,' Sergeant?" I asked
severely. "Evidently not. However I pass over that. But a moment ago
you went by me without saluting. Deliberately--inexcusably. I was as
close to you as I am now."
"But how--" began the Sergeant.
"Not a word," I cut him short. "Not a word. You know perfectly well
that you have neglected your duty grossly. Now tell me. Is it your own
idea to drop saluting, or has Mr. CHURCHILL had a word in your ear?"
(Sarcasm is my strong point.)
"But look here--" said the Sergeant, rather red in the face.
"Do not interrupt," I thundered, warming to my work. "How, I ask,
do you expect the ordinary soldier to salute when _you_ slink past
officers--you, who ought to be a shining example? Now I am going to
report--"
Something in the Sergeant's eye, which seemed to be travelling over my
person generally, made me suddenly glance down at myself, and it was
then that, horror-struck, I realised that I was wearing for the first
time my new ten-guinea suit.
As I faded away the Sergeant clicked his heels and saluted smartly.
* * * * *
THE STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.
"Lady will exchange clothing, self, little girl, for farm butter,
eggs, jam."--_The Lady_.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Infuriated Italian (who has recently purchased a
British Army horse)._ "FAIR WORDS DID I SPEAK HIM, SAYING, 'PEDRO,
AVANTI PIANISSIMO,' AND--BEHOLD!"]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
_(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)_
_Within The Rim_ (COLLINS) is, I suppose, the last of the posthumous
volumes of Mr. HENRY JAMES. It is a short book, produced with the
beauty that I have already grown to associate with the imprint of its
publishers, and containing five occasional pieces. Of these the first,
which gives its title to the whole, is the most considerable: an essay
of very moving poignancy, telling the emotion of the writer during
the earliest months of the War, in "the most beautiful English summer
conceivable," months that he "was to spend so much of in looking over
from the old rampart of a little high-perched Sussex town at the
bright blue streak of the Channel ... and staring at the bright mystery
beyond the rim of the farthest opaline reach." In the thoughts to
which HENRY JAMES here gives expression one may find much of the love
and sympathy for this country that subsequently led to that assumption
of British citizenship which he intended as their demonstration to the
world. Of interest also in this same paper is the revelation of a mind
that knew already by a personal experience (of the American Civil War)
"what immensities our affair would carry in its bosom--a knowledge
that flattered me by its hint of immunity from illusion." I would not
be understood that this is a volume for the casual reader, or even for
one desirous of making a first acquaintance with the Master, since
much of it exemplifies not only the beauty but the perplexities of
his later style; but it is certainly one which his disciples will not
willingly be without.
* * * * *
_Notebooks of a Spinster Lady_ (CASSELL) is smallish talk about
biggish wigs of the Victorian era, but not on that sole account to be
condemned. Perhaps rather wholesome as showing how little distant we
are from an age of government of the people by superior people for
superior people. The notebooks cover the years 1878-1903, but the
anecdotes have a much wider range, are often indeed of a venerable
antiquity. The lady of the notebooks was not, I fancy, of a critical
temper, and versions not too credible of well-known _contes_ figure in
her quiet kindly pages. There are moreover stories which I should not
hesitate to describe as of an appalling banality if they were not
concerned with such very nice people. On the whole I don't think it
quite fair to the spinster lady to have published her notes. They may
well have been painstaking jottings to provide material for polite
conversation and have sounded much better than they read in cold
print. For myself the real heroine of the book is _Maria_, the poet's
wife, who, on being waked and adjured by her spouse to get up and
strike a light for that he had just thought of a good word, replied
in un-Victorian mood, "Get up yourself! I have just thought of a bad
one."
* * * * *
_Love--on Leave_ (PEARSON) is the sufficiently expressive title that
Miss JESSIE POPE has chosen for a small book of little courtship
tales. You never saw a volume of its size, more packed with love,
which is shown leaping walls, laughing at locksmiths and generally
making the world go round in its proverbial fashion. The pace of the
revolutions may be found a little disconcerting. You will perhaps be
inclined to amend the title and call the collection "Love on _Short_
Leave," to mark the regularity with which the respective heroes and
heroines fall into each others' arms at the end of every dozen pages
or so. As a matter of fact, the incident that is to my mind the best
of the bunch is an exception to this rule of osculation--a happily
imagined little comedy of a young wife who thought to avoid the visit
of a tiresome sister-in-law by betaking herself for the night to
the branches of a spreading beech. Whether in actual life this is a
probable course of conduct need not exercise your mind; at least not
enough to prevent your enjoyment of her arboreal adventure, which
comes, as I say, with the more freshness as a break in what might else
be a surfeit of proposals. In effect, a gallant little florin's
worth of _fiancailles_; though, if you wish to avoid feeling like a
matrimonial agency, you will be well-advised to take it by instalments
rather than in bulk.
* * * * *
Among the pacific warriors in the great 1914-18 struggle there is
probably none who did better work, often under conditions of the
gravest peril, than Mr. G.M. TREVELYAN for the Red Cross in Italy.
Disqualified both by age and health from joining the army of attack,
he threw himself into the task--a labour of love--of tending the
sick and wounded of that country which he knows so well and of whose
greatest modern hero he is the classic biographer. That the eulogist
of GARIBALDI should hasten to the succour of Italian soldiers was
fitting, and how well he performed the task the records of the Villa
Trenta Hospital, near Udine, and of the ambulance drivers under his
command, abundantly tell. The story of this beneficent campaign and of
much besides is told with too much modesty by Mr. TREVELYAN himself,
in a book entitled _Scenes from Italy's War_ (JACK), which gives a
series of the vividest impressions of the Italian effort, and is
remarkable for the best analysis that I have yet seen of the causes
that led to the disaster of Caporetto. The pages in which Mr.
TREVELYAN paints the portrait of a typical Italian soldier, home sick
and perplexed, are likely to be borrowed by many more pretentious
historians of the War for years to come.
* * * * *
Mr. JOHN HARGRAVE, the author and illustrator of _The Great War Brings
It Home_ (CONSTABLE) has already a wide reputation in the world
of Scouts, gained not only by his enthusiasm but by his profound
knowledge of scout-craft. Here he tells us very plainly that the War
has brought home to us the fact that, if we are to make good our
losses in the ranks of the young and the fit, we have got to give our
children a better chance of living healthy, wholesome lives. He urges
the need of more outdoor education and as many open-air camps as
possible, and shows that, if we are to carry out such a scheme as he
lays in detail before us, scoutmasters and still more scoutmasters are
wanted. With reason he complains that none of these good fellows is
paid one halfpenny, and that nearly all of them are young men who have
to get a living. "Offer them," he says, "a living wage and how gladly
would they become national scoutmasters in charge of national camps."
You may, if you are on the look-out for it, find much that will seem
fantastic in Mr. HARGRAVE'S ideas; his appeal, however, is not to
those of us who, even in a case of great national urgency, cannot get
away from the tyranny of convention. Intrinsically his idea is sound,
and I plead with all my heart for a fair consideration of his schemes
and for help in their development.
* * * * *
Mr. REX BEACH is one of the few prolific writers whose stories
increase in power as they increase in number, and this though they are
essentially novels of action rather than novels of thought. Of his
latest effort, _The Winds of Chance_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON), one may
say that there is not a tedious page in it. The scene is laid in
Yukon, a very vortex of life and colour and excitement in fiction,
whatever it may seem to the actual inhabitants. The true hero of the
story, _Napoleon Doret_, the French voyageur, wins his heart's desire
in the end and we breathe a sigh of relief. The other hero is left
the accepted swain of the daughter of the Colonel of the North-West
Mounted Police at Dawson, and this we find a little hard to swallow,
seeing what shady, not to say immoral, company, male and female, he
had just been basking in. He is a weak creature and certainly should
have married the _Countess Courteau_, an Amazonian lady, who would
have kept him in order. But that is to be fastidious. The story is
crisp and vivid, and, anyway, those ancient prospectors, _Tom Linton_
and _Jerry McQuirk_, are worth twice the money.