Punch, Volume 156, January 22, 1919. by Various
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Various >> Punch, Volume 156, January 22, 1919.
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 156.
January 22, 1919.
CHARIVARIA.
The huge waterspout observed off Guernsey last week "travelling
towards France" is believed to have been making for the Peace
Conference.
***
The Captain of a Wilson liner on being torpedoed ate his pocket-book
to prevent his sailing instructions from falling into the hands of the
Germans. The report that the ex-Kaiser has whiled away the time at
Amerongen by chewing up three copies of the German White Book and one
of Prince LICHNOWSKY'S Memoirs is probably a variant of this story.
***
"Our chief hope of control of influenza," writes Sir ARTHUR NEWSHOLME
of the Local Government Board, "lies in further investigation."
Persons who insist upon having influenza between now and Easter will
do so at their own risk.
***
Writing to a provincial paper a correspondent asks when Mr. PHILIP
SNOWDEN was born. Other people are content to ask "Why?"
***
"We think it prudent to speak with moderation on all subjects," says
_The Morning Post_. There now!
***
We mentioned last week the startling rumour that a Civil Servant had
been seen running, and a satisfactory explanation has now been issued.
It appears that the gentleman in question was going off duty.
***
According to the _Malin_, the Bavarian PREMIER told a newspaper man
that the Bavarian revolution cost exactly eighteen shillings. This
seems to lend colour to the rumour that Dr. EISNER picked this
revolution up second-hand in Russia.
***
"Springfield and Napsbury Lunatic Asylums," says a news item, "are to
be known in future as mental hospitals." Government institutions which
have hitherto borne that title will in the future be known simply as
"Departments."
***
A German sailor, who is described as "twenty-seven, 6 ft. 91/2 in.,"
has escaped from Dorchester camp. A reward has been offered for
information leading to the recapture of any part of him.
***
The servant question is admittedly acute, but whether sufficiently
so to justify the attitude of a contemporary, which deals with the
subject under the sinister title, "Maxims for Mistresses," is open to
doubt.
***
The case of the North Country workman who voluntarily abandoned his
unemployment grant in order to take a job is attributed to a morbid
craze for notoriety.
***
As a result of the engineers' strike and the failure of the heating
apparatus, we understand that Government officials in Whitehall have
spent several sleepless days.
***
We gather that the mine reported to have been washed up at Bognor
turns out to be an obsolete 1914 pork pie--but fortunately the pin
had been removed.
***
_The Daily Express_ tells us that a crowd of new monkeys have arrived
at the Zoo. We are pleased to note this, because several of the
monkeys there were certainly the worse for wear.
***
A contemporary anticipates a boom in very light motor cars at a
hundred and thirty pounds each. They are said to be just the thing
to carry in the tool-box in case of a breakdown.
***
A sensation has been caused in Scotland, says _The National News_, by
the passing of a number of counterfeit Treasury notes. As we go to
press we learn that most of the victims are going on as well as can be
expected, though recovery is naturally slow.
***
Mr. WILLIAM LE QUEUX is said to be very much annoyed at the wicked way
in which Russia has been appropriated by other writers.
***
Much regret is felt at the news that the recent outbreak of Jazz music
is not to be dealt with at the Peace Conference.
***
Is gallantry dying out? We ask because _Tit Bits_ has an article
entitled, "Women Burglars." We may be old-fashioned, but surely it
should be "Lady Burglars."
***
On the last day for investing in National War Bonds, a patriotic
subaltern was heard at Cox's asking if his overdraft could be
transferred to these securities.
***
"The market price of radium to-day," says a Continental journal,
"is L345,000 an ounce." In order to avert waste and deterioration,
purchasers are advised to store the stuff in barrels in a large dry
cellar.
***
Mr. Punch does not wish to boast unduly of his unique qualities, but
up to the time of going to press he had made no offer for Drury Lane
Theatre.
***
In view of the recent newspaper articles on spiritualism, several
prominent persons are about to announce that they have decided not
to grant any interviews after death.
***
Liverpool Licensing Justices have urged the Liquor Control Board to
take steps to prevent the drinking of methylated spirits by women. It
is suggested that distillers should be compelled to give their whisky
a distinctive flavour.
***
"A box of cigarettes was all that burglars took from the Theatre
Royal, Aldershot," says a news item. There is something magnificently
arrogant about that "all."
***
"Saying 'Thank you' to a customer," says a news item, "a Wallasey
butcher fell unconscious." In our neighbourhood it used to be, until
quite lately, the customer who fell unconscious.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "NOW LOOK HERE, SIMPKINS--I CAN'T HAVE MY CHIEF CASHIER
TURNING UP LIKE THIS. IT'S A DISGRACE TO THE OFFICE."
"WELL, SIR, I STARTED ALL RIGHT, BUT I CAME BY TUBE."]
* * * * *
THE CAREER.
My dear James,--Ere long the military machine will be able to spare
one of its cogs--myself. Yes, James, soon you will once again see
me in my silk hat, cerise fancy vest and brown boots (among other
garments). I think I shall have brass buttons on all my coats for the
sheer joy of seeing them without let or hindrance grow green from
lack of polish. I shall once again train my hair in graceful curling
strands under (respectively) the south-east and south-west corners of
my ears. If I meet my Brigadier in the street I shall notice him or
not just according to my whim of the moment. But, James, I shall have
to work for my living. There's the rub.
I must say the Army tries to help one. Somebody or other has issued
a whole schedule of civil occupations to assist me in my choice of a
career. It offers an embarrassment of riches.
Take the "A's." I was momentarily attracted by _Air Balloon Maker_.
It sounds a joyous job. Think of the delight of sending forth these
delicate nothings inflated and perfect. My only fear is that I should
destroy the fruits of my own labour. One touch of my rough hands
is always inimical to an air-balloon. And if you know of any more
depressing sight than a collapsed air-balloon, all moist and incapable
of resurrection, for heaven's sake keep it to yourself.
_Allowance Man_ (_brewing_) sounds hopeful. My only question is: Does
an _Allowance Man_ (_brewing_) fix his own allowance (brewed)?
Am I slightly knock-kneed or am I not? Do write me frankly on the
subject. You have seen me divested of trousers. Because if I am then
I don't think I will try my luck as an _Artist's Model_.
_Athlete_.--Ha! I feel my biceps and find it not so soft. It's
a wearing life, though. Is there such a thing as an _Athlete_
(_indoor_)? You know my speed and agility at Ludo.
I flatter myself I have musical taste, but _Back and Belly Maker_
(_piano_) I consider vulgar--almost indecent, in fact. Such anatomical
intimacy with the piano would destroy for me the bewitchment of the
Moonlight Sonata.
There is something very alluring about _Bank Note Printer_. I see
the chance of continuing the Army trick of making a living without
working for it. Surely a _Bank Note Printer_ is allowed his little
perquisites. Why should he print millions of bank notes for other
people and none for himself? I can imagine an ill-used _Bank Note
Printer_ very easily becoming a Bolshevist.
_Barb Maker_ (_wire_) I do not like. I have too many unpleasant
memories of the Somme. It is a hideous trade and ought to be abolished
altogether.
If I am wrong correct me, but isn't the prime function of a _Bargee_
to swear incessantly? Not my forte, James. What you thought you heard
that day in 1911, when I missed a six-inch putt, was only "Yam," which
is a Thibetan expression meaning "How dreadfully unfortunate!" I knew
a Major once--but that's for another article.
Beneath the heading "Bat" I find _Bat Maker_ (_brick_) and _Bat
Maker_ (_tennis_). Under which king, James? Anyway, I hate a man who
talks about a "tennis bat." He would probably call football shorts
"knickers."
I am favourably inclined towards _Bathing Machine Attendant_ (why
not _Bathing Mechanic_, for short?) What a grand affair to ride old
Dobbin into the seething waves and pretend he was a sea-serpent!
Confidentially, there are lots of people to whose bathing-machines
I would give an extra push when I had unlimbered their vehicles and
turned Dobbin's nose again towards the cliffs of Albion.
My pleasure in stirring things with a ladle nearly decided me to train
as a _Bean Boiler_; but I fear the monotony. Nothing but an endless
succession of beans, with never a carrot to make a splash of colour
nor an onion to scent the steamy air. And, James, I have a friend who
is known to all and sundry as "The Old Bean." Every bean I was called
upon to boil would remind me of him, whom I would not boil for worlds.
Here is something extraordinarily attractive--_Black Pudding Maker_.
You know black puddings. I am told that when you stew them (do not eat
them cold, I implore you!) they give off ambrosial perfumes, and that
after tasting one you would never again touch _peche Melba_. But as a
_Black Pudding Maker_ should I become nauseated?
Almost next door comes _Blood Collector_. Wait while I question the
Mess Cook ... James, I cannot become a Black Pudding maker. The Mess
Cook tells me that _Blood Collector_ and _Black Pudding Maker_ are
probably allied trades. How dreadful!
How about _Bobber?_ Does that mean that I should have to shear my
wife's silken tresses? Cousin Phyllis has appeared with a tomboy's
shock of hair, and she says it "has only been bobbed." By a "bobber"?
I would like to wring his neck. But if _Bobber_ has something to do
with those jolly little things that dance about on cotton machines
(aren't they called "bobbins"?) I will consider it.
I have not even finished the "B's." A glance ahead and other
enchanting vistas are revealed. For instance, _Desiccated Soup Maker,
Filbert Grower_ and (simply) _Retired_.
This Schedule is splendid in its way, but why can't they be honest?
They must know that lots of us in our great national army are in
ordinary life just rogues and vagabonds. The Schedule ignores such
honest tradesmen. How is a respectable tramp to know when his group
is called for demobilisation if he is not even given a group? What a
nation of prigs and pretenders we are!
Yours ever, WILLIAM.
* * * * *
_AUTRES TEMPS, AUTRES MOEURS._
My baker gives me chunks of bread--
He used to throw them at my head;
His manners, I rejoice to state,
Have very much improved of late.
My butcher was extremely gruff,
And sold me--oh, such horrid stuff;
But I observe, since Peace began,
Some traces of a better man.
I find my grocer hard to please
In little things like jam or cheese;
Now that the men are coming back
His scowl, I think, is not so black.
My coalman is a haughty prince
No tears could move or facts convince;
But tyrants topple everywhere
And he too wears a humbler air.
My milkman was a man of wrath
As he came down the garden path;
But, since the Hohenzollern fell,
I find him almost affable.
And what is this? My greengrocer
(A most determined character)
Approaches--'13 style--to say,
"What can I do for you to-day?"
* * * * *
"GERMAN CONSTITUTION.
Bill Disposing of Old Prussia."
_Manchester Guardian_.
Tit for tat; Prussia had already disposed of Old BILL.
* * * * *
"Mr. Cecil Harmswirth has vacated his iffict in the 'gardtn
suburb' at 0. Downing Strtet."--_Daily Mail_.
To the evident consternation of Carmelite Street.
* * * * *
"'I am an A.B.C. girl,' said a passenger to _The Daily Mirror_,
'and have been eleven hours on my feet. If a get a seat in the
Dulwich omnibus, I shall have another hour's standing before I
get to my house.'"--_Daily Mirror_.
It seems to be high time that the omnibus company adopted the railway
regulation, "Passengers are requested not to put their feet on the
seats, etc."
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE NEW COMMERCIAL TRAVELLER.
PUCK, R.A.F. (_to SHAKSPEARE_). "YOUR IDEA OF A GIRDLE ROUND ABOUT THE
EARTH IN FORTY MINUTES IS A BIT TALL, BUT YOU BET YOUR IMMORTALITY WE
SHALL GET AS NEAR IT AS WE CAN."]
* * * * *
F. E.
_A SIMPLE BIOGRAPHIC RECITATIVE BASED ON THE TONIC SOL-FA NOTE OF MI._
In ante-bellum days, ah me, when I a stuffman used to be, and proudly
pouched a junior's fee, the _Law List_ styled me "Smith, F.E." Oh,
how my place seemed small for me; not that I scorned the stuffman's
fee, but stuffy courts did not agree with me. I dearly longed to be
respiring often, fresh and free, the breath that was the life of me,
so I became a live M.P. And, lest the spacious H. of C. should fail to
hold sufficiently the lot of air respired by me, said I, "A soldier
I will be--not one of Foot (that's Infantry), nor yet the reg'lar
Cavalry, for barrack-life will not suit me, yet ride I must the high
gee-gee;" so I decided straight to be an officer of Yeomanry. Drilling
the troopers on the lea, the vent I craved for gave to me. Moreover,
on my high gee-gee I learned what galloping could be.
Those back-bench days! Ah me, ah me, rude Members christened me "F.E."
And even _Punch_, in kindly glee, once on a time, did picture me a
prowling beast, beside the sea, all spotted o'er with signs, "F.E."
That patronymic thus will be preserved for immortality. Newspapers,
too, I chance to see sometimes apply that name to me.
Although I found smart repartee, shot forth from back seats, gave me
glee, still I aspired to climb the tree, so with restrained temerity
I donned a gown of silk, i.e. became a fully-fledged K.C. Then, after
able A.J.B. was shunted by his great party and A.B.L. assumed the see,
the latter's finger beckoned me to face direct the enemy. Anon the
KING created me a member of his own P.C.
And then "the active life" for me, as Galloper to "Gen'ral" C.,
the loyal Ulsterman, to free from acts of Irish devilry. I thanked
"whatever gods may be" for training with the Yeomanry!
Then came the war with Germany. Alas, again I sighed, "Ah me," and
viewed the aspect gloomily, for I was then in apogee from all that
mighty company that domineered the H. of C. A. ruled the roast, not
A.J.B. But happy thought, that company of muddlers held one hope for
me--my constant pal of Yeomanry, the smashing, dashing WINSTON C.;
result--the Censorship for me. But not for long. The fresh and free
and open air was calling me, so off I went across the sea to join the
fighting soldiery. But soon there came a call for me, and back I came
across the sea to be His Majesty's S.-G.
What next was I? Eureka! "_The_ Right Hon. _Sir_ F.E. SMITH, K.C."
Then came the storm. Sir EDWARD C. threw up his job and let in me,
before I scarce could laugh, "He, he!" to be His Majesty's A.-G. That
wasn't bad, I think, for me--a mild young man of forty-three!
Next came "the quiet life" for me. I held my tongue, but drew my fee
and eke my A.-G. salary. Not e'en the great calamity that overtook
A.'s Ministry and raised the wizard, D.L.G., to offices of high degree
disturbed my sweet serenity. Nor did I jib when Sir R.B. FINLAY took
on unblushingly the job that seemed cut out for me. Unwilling _he_ his
weird to dree! _I_ whispered, "Mum's the word for me!"
Now, after waiting patiently, as fits a man of my degree, the Woolsack
cries aloud for me, and soft and soothing it will be to my whole frame
and dignity. And unto those who wish from me to know what will the
ending be of my august biography, I answer in a minor key and classic
language, "Wait and see!"
* * * * *
TRANSFORMATION.
My house, which I am trying to let, is a modest little affair in
the country. It has a small meadow to the south and the road to the
north. There are some evergreens about the lawn. The kitchen garden
is large but most indifferently tended; indeed it is partly through
dissatisfaction with a slovenly gardener that I decided to leave. The
nearest town is a mile distant; the nearest station two miles and a
half. We have no light laid on except in a large room in the garden,
where acetylene gas has been installed.
I am telling you these facts as concisely as I told them to the agent.
He took them down one by one and said, "Yes." Having no interest in
anything but the truth, I was as plain with him as I could be.
"Yes," he said, "no gas anywhere but in garden-room."
"Yes, small paddock, about two acres, to the south."
"Yes, one mile from nearest town."
I was charmed with his easy receptivity and went away content.
A few days later I received the description of the house which the
agent had prepared for his clients. Being still interested in nothing
but the truth I was electrified.
"This very desirable residence," it began. No great harm in that.
"In heart of most beautiful county in England," it continued. Nothing
very serious to quarrel with there; tastes must always differ; but it
puts the place in a new light.
"Surrounded by pleasure-grounds." Here I was pulled up very short. My
little lawn with its evergreens, my desolate cabbage-stalks, my tiny
paddock--these to be so dignified! And where do the agents get their
phrases? Is there a Thesaurus of the trade, profession, calling,
industry or mystery? "Garden" is a good enough word for any man who
lives in his house and is satisfied, but a man who wants a house can
be lured to look at it only if it has pleasure-grounds: is that the
position? Does an agent in his own home refer to the garden in
that way? If his wife is named Maud does he sing, "Come into the
pleasure-grounds"?
"Surrounded," too. I was so careful to say that the paddock and so
forth were on one side and the road on the other.
I read on: "Situated in the old-world village of Blank." And I had
been scrupulous in stating that we were a mile distant--situated in
point of fact in a real village of our own, with church, post-office,
ancient landau and all the usual appurtenances. And "old world"! What
is "old world"? There must be some deadly fascination in the epithet,
for no agent can refrain from using it; but what does it mean? Do
American agents use it? It could have had no attraction for COLUMBUS.
Such however is the failure of our modernity that it is supposed to
be irresistible to-day. And "village!" The indignation of Blank on
finding itself called an "old world village" will be something fierce.
None the less, although I was amused and a little irritated, I must
confess to the dawnings of dubiety as to the perfect wisdom of leaving
such a little paradise. If it had all this allurement was I being
sensible to let others have it, and at a time when houses are so
scarce and everything is so costly? Had I not perhaps been wrong in my
estimate? Was not the sanguine agent the true judge?
I read on and realised that he was not. "One mile from Blank station."
Such a statement is one not of critical appraisement but of fact or
falsity. The accent in which he had said, "Yes, two and a-half miles
from the station," was distinct in my ear.
I read further. "Lighted by gas;" and again I recalled that
intelligent young fellow's bright "Yes, gas only in the garden-room."
What is one to do with these poets, these roseate optimists? And how
delightful to be one of them and refuse to see any but desirable
residences and gas where none is!
But it was the next trope that really shook me: "Well-stocked
kitchen-garden." Here I ceased to be amused and became genuinely
angry. The idea of calling that wilderness, that monument of neglect,
"well-stocked." I was furious.
That was a week ago. Yesterday I paid a flying visit to the country
to see how things were going and how many people had been to view the
place; and my fury increased when, after again and for the fiftieth
time pointing out to the gardener the lack of this and that vegetable,
he was more than normally smiling and silent and dense and impenitent.
"You say here," he said at last, pulling the description of the house
from his pocket and pointing to the words with a thumb as massive as
it is dingy and as dingy as it is massive--"you say here 'well-stocked
kitchen garden.'" _You!_
And now I understand better the phrases "agents for good" and "agents
for evil."
* * * * *
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF MR. ----, WHO HAD NO IDEA, WHEN HE FLED
FROM LONDON TO ESCAPE AIR-RAIDS AND TOOK A THREE YEARS' LEASE NEAR
MAIDENHEAD, THAT THE WAR WOULD BE OVER SO SOON.]
* * * * *
From an official circular:--
"If the man in question happens to be a seaman, he will be
included on A.F.Z.8 in the figures appearing in the square of
intersection between the horizontal column opposite Industrial
Group 2 and the vertical column for Dispersal Area Ib."
Yet there are people who still complain of a want of simplicity in the
demobilisation regulations.
* * * * *
STAGES.
1914.
Mr. Smith (of Smith, Smith and Smith, Solicitors) sat in his office
awaiting his confidential clerk. There was a rattle as of castanets
outside the door. It was produced by the teeth of the confidential
clerk, Mr. Adolphus Brown.
Mr. Smith was a martinet ...
1915.
Second-Lieutenant A. Brown was drilling his platoon. There was a
rattle as of castanets. It was produced by the teeth of the platoon.
Adolphus was a martinet ...
1916.
The raiding, party hurled itself into the trench, headed by an
officer of ferocious mien. There was a rattle as of castanets. It was
produced by the teeth of the 180th Regiment of Landsturmers, awaiting
destruction.
Adolphus fell upon them ...
1917.
Captain A. Brown, M.C., on leave, sat by his fireside. There was a
rattle as of castanets. It was produced by the teeth of Adolphus,
Junior.
Daddy had changed ...
1918.
Major A. Brown, D.S.O., M.C. (on permanent Home Service) was awaiting
the next case. There was a rattle as of castanets. It was produced
by the teeth of No. 45012 Private Smith (of Smith, Smith and Smith,
Solicitors), called up in his group and late for parade.
Adolphus was famous for severity ...
1919.
Mr. (late Major) Adolphus Brown stood outside the door of Mr. (late
No. 45012) Smith (of Smith, Smith and Smith, Solicitors). There was a
rattle as of castanets ...
On which side of the door?
Both.
* * * * *
"Mr. Ian Macpherson, the new Chief Secretary for Ireland, posed
specially yesterday for the _Sunday Pictorial_. He has a difficult
task to face."--_Sunday Pictorial_.
Let us hope they will keep the portrait from him as long a possible.
* * * * *
"Three new telephone lines have been laid between London
and Paris, and it is now possible to pick up a telephone in
Downing Street and speak directly to Mr. Lloyd George at any
time."--_Daily Chronicle_.
Immediately on the appearance of the above a long queue formed in
Downing Street. Further telephones are to be installed to meet the
rush. Some of the messages to the PREMIER, we understand, have been
couched in very direct language.
* * * * *
A TRAGEDY OF OVER-EDUCATION.
It must not be thought that I underestimate the value of education
as a general principle; indeed I earnestly beg of Mr. FISHER, should
these lines chance to meet his eye, not to be in any way discouraged
by them; but I have been driven to the conclusion that there is such a
thing as over-education, and that it has dangers. When you have read
this story I think you will agree with me. It is rather a sad story,
but it is very short.
The population of my poultry-yard was composed of five hens and
Umslumpogaas. The five hens were creatures of mediocrity, deserving no
special mention--all very well for laying eggs and similar domestic
duties, but from an intellectual point of view simply napoo, as the
polyglot stylists have it. Far otherwise was it with Umslumpogaas.
He was a pure bred, massive Black Orpington cockerel, a scion of the
finest strain in the land. Indeed the dealer from whom I purchased
him informed me that there was royal blood in his veins, and I have
no reason to doubt it. One had only to watch him running in pursuit
of a moth or other winged insect to be struck by the essentially
aristocratic swing of his wattles and the symmetrical curves of
his graceful lobes; and the proud pomposity of his tail feathers
irresistibly called to mind the old nobility and the Court of LOUIS
QUATORZE. Pimple, our tabby kitten, looked indescribably bourgeois
beside him.