Punch, Volume 156, January 22, 1919. by Various
V >>
Various >> Punch, Volume 156, January 22, 1919.
Women are funny creatures and I'm glad I don't own one. Snap, the
butcher's dog, even went so far as to suggest that we should adopt
anti-feminism as a plank in our platform, but the Irish Wolfhound who
comes from Cavendish Square said that his mistress was driving an
ambulance in France and that, in her absence, anyone who had anything
to say against women would have to see him first. Of course it's very
difficult to argue with that kind of dog, and, though Snap seemed
inclined to press the point, I ruled the proposal out of order. The
value of resource is one of the things you learn in the Army.
I think Snap was rather relieved really, because after the meeting he
asked me to go and help him dig up a nearly new mutton bone that he
had buried under a laurel bush in the Square.
Well, to return to our platform, what we say about these foreign dogs
is "Keep them all out." Of course there are some Allied dogs, like
Poodles and Plumpuddings and Boston terriers, that have earned the
right to be considered one of ourselves, but when it comes to having
Mexican Hairless and Schipperkes and heaven knows what else coming
into the country and taking the biscuits out of our mouths--well, we
say it isn't good enough. Not that we're insular, mind you, but to
hear some of these mangy foreigners talking about the Brotherhood of
Dogs! But I must tell you how Bolshevism raised its ugly head in
our midst. It was while we were discussing the second plank in our
platform, which is "DOGS, NOT DOORMATS."
But there, Master is calling me to take him for a walk, so it must
wait till next week. ALGOL.
(_To be continued._)
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Official (to applicant for post as policewoman)_. "AND
WHAT WOULD YOU DO IN THE EVENT OF A STREET ACCIDENT?"
_Applicant_. "OH, I SHOULD--ER--CALL A POLICEMAN."]
* * * * *
"German civil officials in Nancy must salute American officers.
Failure to obey the order means arrest."--_Globe_.
We hear that the same regulation applies to all German civil officials
in Lyons, Toulouse and Bordeaux.
* * * * *
NEW BOOKS
FROM MESSRS. TRUEMAN AND WASHINGTON'S LIST.
_THE ZOOMERS._
BY GLADYS WANK.
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A new writer who by virtue of her godlike genius takes her seat with
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is to malign its greatness It is the novel of the century, of all
centuries, of all time.
FIRST REVIEW BEFORE PUBLICATION.
"It is not saying too much, when I solemnly assert that I really
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* * * * *
_SIMIAN SONGS._
BY ISABEL MUNKITTRICK.
_PRICE_ 11/31/2.
These remarkable lyrics are translations into vernacular verse of the
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sincere and passionate emotion. The Chimpanzee's "swing song" on page
42 is a marvel of oscillating melody.
* * * * *
_THE MILLENNIUM VIA ARMAGEDDON._
BY REV. ANGUS WOTTLEY, D.D.
_WITH A FOREWORD BY_ PRINCIPAL CAWKER.
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This is a work of over 120,000 words of extraordinary beauty and
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* * * * *
_POLLY ANDREA'S SACRIFICE._
BY SALINA LAKE.
_PRICE_ 8/31/2.
This is the first attempt to present the limitations of the modern
monogamous system in its true polyphonic perspective, several
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a person in a state of partial exhaustion I can imagine no more
efficacious stimulant than is to be found in those beautiful pages.
Not being acquainted with any of the earlier works of the author, I
can honestly declare that in my opinion it is the best thing that
I have read from her pen, and, further, that it has made a deeper
impression upon me than any other work which I have not read but which
deals with the same subject."
* * * * *
[Illustration: DOPE.
_Jack_. "'ERE'S AN ARTICLE 'ERE ON THE 'FASCINATION OF OPIUM SMOKIN'.'
FASCINATION, I DON'T FINK! THE ONLY TIME I SMOKED IT WAS IN CHINA, AN'
FOR THREE DAYS I 'AD AH 'EAD ON ME LIKE A SMOKE BARRAGE."]
* * * * *
PEACE AND PROMOTION.
Lucasta, prideful times they were
When first it came to pass
That on each shoulder I might bear
A little star of brass.
And when by reason of my zeal
I was awarded twain,
'Twas not mere vanity to feel
Almost as proud again.
My warrior soul was filled with song
In triumph's clearest key,
When, feeling thrice as broad and strong,
My shoulders shone with three.
Yet these I'll gladly from their place
Remove, and in their stead
Support one star of gentler grace--
Lucasta's golden head.
* * * * *
"GENTLEMAN required, knowledge of short-hand essential although
not absolutely necessary."--_Local Paper_.
A very nice distinction.
* * * * *
"In my opinion the Asiatic cholera, 1850-1851, took more lives
and caused more anxiety than the flu. In Spanish Town, with a
population of 5,000, 7,800 died."--_Daily Gleaner_ (_Kingston,
Jamaica_).
We agree that the 'flu mortality can hardly have been greater than
this.
* * * * *
"Flageolets soaked or parboiled previously and placed in alternate
layers in a fireproof dish with sliced tomato or potato sprinkled
with onion also make a valuable dish." _--Evening Paper_.
We have fortunately not yet been reduced to eating our wood-wind
instruments; but we think we should need a double-bass to wash them
down.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Impressed Rustic Sightseer_. "AY, AMOS, IT MUST TAKE
YEARS OF OILING AN' COMBING TO TRAIN HAIR LIKE THAT."]
* * * * *
THE MUD LARKS.
I met a man in the Club at Lille the other day who told me that he
knew all about women. He had studied the subject, he said, and could
read 'em like an open book. He admitted that it took a bit of doing,
but that once you had the secret they would trot up and eat out of
your hand.
Having thus spoken he swallowed three whiskies in rapid succession and
rushed away to jump a lorry-ride to Germany, and I have not seen him
since, much to my regret, for I need his advice, I do.
* * * * *
We splashed into the hamlet of Sailly-le-Petit at about eight o'clock
of a pouring dark night, to find the inhabitants abed and all doors
closed upon us.
However, by dint of entreaties whispered through key-holes and
persuasions cooed under window-shutters, I charmed most of them open
again and got my troop under cover, with the exception of one section.
Its Corporal, his cape spouting like a miniature watershed, swam up.
"There's a likely-lookin' farm over yonder, Sir," said he, "but the
old gal won't let us in. She's chattin' considerable." I found a group
of numb men and shivering horses standing knee-deep in a midden, the
men exchanging repartee with a furious female voice that shrilled at
them from a dark window. "Is that the officer?" the voice demanded.
I admitted as much. "Then remove your band of brigands. Go home to
England, where you belong, and leave respectable people in peace. The
War is finished."
I replied with some fervour (my boots were full of water and my cap
dribbling pints of iced-water down the back of my neck) that I was
not playing the wandering Jew round one-horse Picard villages in late
December for the amusement I got out of it and that I could be relied
on to return to England at the earliest opportunity, but for the
present moment would she let us in out of the downpour, please? The
voice soared to a scream. No, she would not, not she. If we chose to
come soldiering we must take the consequences, she had no sympathy
for us. She called several leading saints to witness that her barn
was full to bursting anyhow and there was no room. That was that.
She slammed the window-shutter and retired, presumably to bed. The
Corporal, who had been scouting round about, returned to report room
for all hands in the barn, which was quite empty. Without further ado
I pushed all hands into the barn and left them for the night.
Next morning, while walking in the village street, I beheld a
remarkable trio approaching. It consisted of a venerable cleric--his
skirts held high enough out of the mud to reveal the fact that he
favoured flannel underclothing and British army socks--and a massive
rustic dressed principally in hair, straw-ends and corduroys. The
third member was a thick short bulldog of a woman, who, from the
masterly way in which she kept corduroys from slipping into the
village smithy and saved the cleric from drifting to a sailor's grave
in the duck-pond, seemed to be the controlling spirit of the party.
By a deft movement to a flank she thwarted her reluctant companions
in an attempt to escape up a by-way, and with a nudge here and a
tug there brought them to a standstill in front of me and opened
the introductions.
"M. le Cure," indicating the cleric, who dropped his skirts and raised
his beaver.
"M. le Maire," indicating corduroys, who clutched a handful of straw
out of his beard and groaned loudly.
"_Moi, je suis Madame, Veuve Palliard-Dubose_," indicating herself.
I bowed, quailing inwardly, for I recognized the voice. She gave
corduroys a jab in the short ribs with her elbow. "_Eh bien_, now
speak."
Corduroys rolled his eyes like a driven bullock, sneezed a shower of
straw and groaned again.
"_Imbecile!_" spat Madame disgustedly and prodded the Cure. But the
Cure was engaged in religious exercises, beads flying through his
fingers, lips moving, eyes tight closed. Madame shrugged her shoulders
eloquently as if to say, "Men--what worms! I ask you," and turned on
me herself. She led off by making some unflattering guesses as to my
past career, commented forcibly on my present mode of life, ventured
a few cheerful prophecies as to my hereafter and polished off a brisk
ten minutes heart-to-heart talk by snapping her fingers under my nose
and threatening me with the guillotine if I did not instantly remove
my man-eating horses from her barn.
"Observe," she concluded triumphantly, "I have the Church and State on
my side."
"Have you?" I queried. "Have you? Look again."
She turned to the right for the Mayor, but a strong trail of straw
running up the by-way told that that massive but inarticulate
dignitary had slunk home to his threshing. She turned to the left for
the Cure, but the whisk of a skirt and a flannel shank disappearing
into the church-porch showed that the discreet clerk had side-stepped
for sanctuary. I thought it kinder to leave Madame the widow
Palliard-Dubose to herself at this juncture, but something told me I
had not heard the last of her. Nor had I. A week later an imposing
document was forwarded from the orderly-room for my "information
and necessary action, please." It emanated from the French Military
Mission and claimed from me the modest sum of two thousand
three hundred and fourteen francs on behalf of one Madame Veuve
Palliard-Dubose, of the village of Sailly-le-Petit, Pas de Calais,
the claimant alleging that my troopers had stolen unthreshed wheat to
that value wherewith to feed their horses. A prompt settlement would
oblige.
I fled panic-stricken down to stables and wagged the document in
the faces of the thieves. They were virtuously indignant; hadn't
pinched no wheat-straw at all--not in Sailly-le-Petit. Might have
been a bit absent-minded-like at Auchy-en-Artois, and again at
Pressy-aux-Bois mistakes may have been made, but here never--no,
Sir, s'welp-them-Gawd. I wrote to the French Mission denying the
impeachment. They replied with a fresh shower of claims. I answered
with a storm of denials. The sky snowed correspondence. Just when the
French were putting it all over me and my orderly-room was hinting
that I had best pay up and save the Entente Cordiale, the French ran
out of paper and sent one of their missionaries in a car to settle
the matter verbally. I gave him a good lunch, an excellent cigar and
spread all the facts of the case before him as one human to another.
He spent an hour nosing about the village, and the result of his
investigations was that Madame Veuve Palliard-Dubose, so far from
having her wheat stolen, had had no wheat to steal, and furthermore
never in the course of her agricultural activities had she harvested
crops to the value of Francs 2314. Virtue triumphant. Evil vanquished.
Madame the widow Palliard-Dubose retired grimly into her cabin,
slamming the door on the world.
Yesterday was New Year's Day. Imagine my surprise when, on visiting
the horses at mid-day, Madame Veuve Palliard-Dubose leaned over
the half-door of her dwelling and waved her hand to me. "_Ah, ha,
Monsieur le Lieutenant_", she crowed, "many felicitations on this
most auspicious day! _Bon jour, belle annee_!"
I was so staggered I treated her to my _perfecto superfino_, my very
best salute (usually reserved for Generals and Field Cashiers). "The
same to you, Madame, and many of 'em. _Vive la France!_"
Madame bowed and smiled with all her features. "_Vive l'Angleterre_!"
What a lot of weather we were having, weren't we? and what a glorious
victory it had been, hadn't it?--mainly due to the dear soldiers, she
felt sure. She hoped I found myself enjoying robust health.
I replied that I was in the pink myself and trusted she was the same.
Never pinker in her life, she said; everything was perfectly lovely.
She beckoned me nearer. She had a small favour to ask. At this season
of peace and goodwill would the so amiable Lieutenant deign to enter
her modest abode and take a little glass of _vin blanc_ with her?
The "amiable Lieutenant" would be enchanted.
She swung the door open and bowed me in. The glasses were already
filled and waiting on the table--a big one for me, a little one for
her.
We clicked rims and lifted our elbows to the glorious victory, to the
weather (which was rotten) and our mutual pinkness.
"_A votre sante, mon Lieutenant_!" crooned Madame the widow
Palliard-Dubose.
"_A votre, Madame_," replied her Lieutenant, quaffing the whole
issue in one motion. Paraffin, ladies and gentlemen, pure undiluted
paraffin--paugh! wow! ouch!
* * * * *
If the fellow I met in the Lille Club who reads women's souls and gets
'em to feed out of his hand should also happen to read this, will he
please write and tell me what my next move is? PATLANDER.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "IT'S PERFECTLY SIMPLE, UNCLE--TWO SLOW, THREE QUICK,
THREE SIDE CHASSEES, WOBBLE WOBBLE, LAME DUCK, LAME DUCK, DIP,
GRASSHOPPER, TWO SLOW, SWIVEL, SCISSORS, JAZZ-ROLL, KICK, TURN, TWO
CHASSEES, BACK, TWINKLE, AND ON AGAIN."]
* * * * *
"TOO LATE FOR CLASSIFICATION.
12 March and April pullets laying rabbits."--_Advt. in Local
Paper_.
Personally we should place these admirable birds in a class by
themselves.
* * * * *
"HUNT FOR CIGARETTES.
STATE CONTROL ENDS, BUT SUPPLY STILL SCARCE."--_Daily Chronicle_.
Is this the fag-end of State control, or the State control of
fag-ends?
* * * * *
"Girl, about 18, for grocery; permanency; experience not
necessary; must love locally."--_Daily Paper_.
But we doubt if this attempt to constrain the tender passion within
geographical limits will prove a "permanency."
* * * * *
There was a young man from Dundee
Who didn't succeed with the Sea;
So they gave him command
Of the Air and the Land
Just to make it quite fair for all three.
* * * * *
THE END OF THE VOLUNTEERS.
And now the fell decree by post went out
That all the world might understand and know
How that our Volunteers henceforth must live
A quite unkhaki'd and civilian life,
Stripped of their rifles, bared of bayonets too.
Ah, many a time had we passed by to drill
And scorned the loafer who hung round to see,
The while, with accurate swift-moving feet
And hands that flashed in unison, we heard
The Sergeant-Major's voice in anger raised
Because we did not mark it as he wished;
Or uttering words of praise for them that knew
To act when rear rank got itself in front.
And ah, we knew to mount a gallant guard,
To fix our sentries, and to prime them well
With varied information that might serve
To help them in their duties and to make
Them glib and eloquent when called upon
In all the changes of this martial life.
And we could march in line and march in fours,
And bear ourselves ferociously and well
When the inspecting officer appeared.
And, one great day--it was our apogee--
When volunteers for France were called upon,
A forest of accepting hands went up;
But nothing further ever came of it.
At any rate it showed a right good will
And stamped our Volunteers as gallant stuff
To serve their country should the need arise.
And now their rifles have been ta'en away,
Their side-arms are removed, and they themselves
Are mocked in obloquy and sunk in scorn.
* * * * *
THE LINGUIST.
Nancy is eleven and thinks I know everything. I never could resist or
contradict her.
"Now tell me about animals in Africa," she said. "Tell me lots."
This was better than usual, for I possess a heavily-mortgaged and
drought-stricken farm in some obscure corner of that continent and
have spent much time disputing with beasts who refused to acknowledge
my proprietary claims.
So I told Nancy tales of lions that roared till the stars tumbled
out of the sky with fright, and, when she crept very close to me, of
the blue monkeys with funny old faces who swung through the trees
and across the river-bed to steal my growing corn. I told her of the
old ones who led them in the advance and followed in the retreat,
chattering orders, and of the little babies who clung to their
mothers. I told her that monkeys elected not to talk lest they should
be made to work, but that there were a few men living who understood
their broken speech and could hold communion with them.
She led me on with little starts and questions and--well, I may all
unwillingly have misled her as to my general intelligence.
"We'll go to the Zoo to-morrow," Nancy commanded, "and you can talk to
the monkeys and find out what they think. Let's."
* * * * *
Nancy shook her curls and turned her back on the patient-looking bear.
"He's stupid," she said. "Why can't you find the monkeys? You know you
promised."
I suggested luncheon, but was overruled, and, on turning a corner,
read my fate in large letters on the opposite building.
"Come on," said Nancy, taking me by the hand.
Her first selection was very old and melancholy. He accepted a piece
of locust-bean with leisurely condescension and watched us with quiet
interest as he chewed. He rather frightened me; the wisdom of all the
ages was behind his wrinkled eyes.
"When you were in your prison did the Germans feed you through the
bars?" Nancy asked with great clearness.
Several people in the vicinity became aware of our existence and,
feeling the limelight upon me, I again mentioned the lateness of the
hour.
"Talk to him," she said. "Ask him what it's like in there."
I treated the blinking monkey to a collection of clicks and chuckles
which would have startled even a professor of the Bantu languages. He
finished his bean and emitted a low bird-like call.
"What's that?" asked Nancy.
"You see," I said, "he's brown and comes from a different part of the
country. It's like Englishmen and Frenchmen. Now, if he was blue--"
"Ask that keeper," said Nancy.
"He's very busy," I whispered. "We oughtn't to interrupt him."
Nancy at once ran over to the man.
"Have you got any blue ones?" she asked. "'Cos _he_ can talk to them.
We'd like to see one."
The man looked at me without interest. I was an amateur and a rival;
but Nancy's smile can work wonders.
"Yes, Missy," he said, "a beauty round here."
We reached the cage all too soon.
"Now talk," Nancy ordered.
Again I went through my ridiculous performance. The monkey looked at
the keeper.
The hand which lay in mine told me that Nancy's confidence was waning.
I knew then how much I valued it.
"Not very well, is he?" I asked of the keeper. "A little out of
sorts--this weather, you know."
My reputation was in his hands, but I dared make no sign. Nancy's eyes
were on my face.
The man looked at me and then at the eager little face below him.
"Heavy cold, Sir," he said stolidly. "Always makes 'em a bit hard o'
hearing. Poor old Topsy! Want to be left alone, do you?"
"What a pity," said Nancy. "Mother _will_ be sorry to hear that the
only one you could speak to was so ill and deaf."
"What were you giving him?" she asked as we walked away.
"Only a little New Year present for his children," I said.
"How do you know he's got any children?" Nancy demanded. "He didn't
say so, did he?"
"No, but I'm quite certain he has," I answered.
* * * * *
Letter received by an officer in Egypt:--
"Sir I have the honour and the opportunity to write you a letter
and I am coming to ask you and to pray you perhapse perchance it
is possible to found for me employment for translator. I am verry
sorry and mutch vex grieve bother pester haras teass consequently
accordingly consequtivey I made you acknowledg may petion request
and to bid you peradvanture well you occpied me for 6 months with
a contract. I beg you verry mutch to anwer respond reply if that
letter I supose deeme concieve cogitate mediat when you will
received my letter you will respond me at once imadiatty from
your cervill and faitfull."
It is inferred that the would-be "translator" kept a dictionary at his
elbow and took no chances.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Visitor_. "YOU FOUGHT WITH THE GALLANT 51ST DIVISION,
DID YOU NOT?"
_Scot_. "AY--D'YE MIND MY FACE?"
_Visitor_. "OH--NOT AT ALL."]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(_BY MR. PUNCH'S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERKS._)
I wonder if I am alone in a feeling of impatience and bewilderment
over what I may call half-fairy stories. Magic I understand and love;
but this now diluted form of it leaves me cold. Take for example the
book that has occasioned this complaint, _The Curious Friends_ (ALLEN
AND UNWIN), an unconventional and perhaps just a little silly tale
about a secret association of children and grownups, pledged to mutual
help and a variety of altruistic aims--a scheme, with all its faults,
at least human and understandable. But Miss C.J. DELAGREVE has chosen
to complicate it by (apparently) a dash of the supernatural, in the
person of a character called _Saint Ken_, about whom we are told
that he lived in a tunnel on the Underground and employed himself in
helping distressed passengers. Well, what I in my brutal way want to
know is whether this is a joke, or what. Because if I have to credit
it, over goes the rest of the plot into frank make-believe. And
fantasy of this kind consorts but ill with a scheme that embraces
such realities as heart-failure and typhus. Not in any case that Miss
DELAGEEVE'S plot could be called exactly convincing. "Preposterous"
would be the apter word for this society of the Blue-Bean Wearers, in
which vague elderly persons wandered about with sadly self-conscious
children and talked like the dialogue in clever books. This at least
was the impression conveyed to me. I may add that I was continually
aware of a certainty that Miss DELAGREVE will do very much better when
she selects a simpler and less affected subject.
* * * * *
In _Douglas Jerrold_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) Mr. WALTER JERROLD has
executed a pious task. He has written the life of his grandfather, and
has done it with great enthusiasm. The work is in two volumes, one
thick and the other thin, and sometimes I cannot help feeling that
one volume, the thin one, would have been enough. DOUGLAS JERROLD'S
reputation depends upon his work in _Punch_ and his writing of plays,
of which nearly seventy stand to his credit. To _Punch_ he contributed
from the second number and soon became a power by means of "Mrs.
Caudle's Curtain Lectures," "The Story of a Feather" and countless
other articles which suited the taste of the public of that day. Of
his work for _Punch_ there is only the barest mention in this book,
for that story has already been told at some length by the same
author. In the present book Mr. WALTER JERROLD devotes a large amount
of space to a review of DOUGLAS JERROLD'S theatrical pieces. Where
now is a five-act comedy, entitled _Bubbles of the Day_, which at the
time of its production was described as "one of the wittiest and best
constructed comedies in the English language"? I am afraid that this
comedy, and even _Black-eyed Susan_, JERROLD'S greatest triumph, have
passed away into the limbo of forgotten plays and can never return
to us. Another drama had in it as one of the characters "a certain
cowardly English traveller named Luckless Tramp," a name, I should
have thought, quite sufficient in itself to swamp every possible
chance of success; yet our forefathers seem to have had no difficulty
in accommodating themselves to it.