Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 146, January 7, 1914 by Various
V >>
Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 146, January 7, 1914
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 146.
JANUARY 7, 1914.
[Illustration: "THE MONARCH OF THE GLEN:" A NEW _LAND-SEER_.]
* * * * *
_AMENDE DESHONORABLE_.
Heavily dragged the night; the Year
Was passing, and the clock's slow tick
Boomed its sad message to my ear
And made me pretty sick.
"You have been slack," I told myself, "and weak;
You have done foolishly, from wilful choice;
Sloth and procrastination--" Here my voice
Broke in a squeak.
And deep repentance welled in me
As I mused darkly on my sin;
Yea, Conscience stung me, like a bee
That gets her barb well in.
"Next year," I swore, in this compunctious mood,
"I will be energetic, virtuous, kind;
Unflinching I will face the awful grind
Of being good."
I paused, half troubled by a thought--
Were my proposals too sublime?
Vowed I more deeply than I ought?
I glanced to see the time.
It was 12.10 A.M. At once a thrill,
A wave of manful resolution, sped
Through all my being. "Yes," I bravely said;
"_Next_ year I will!"
* * * * *
A PLAY OF FEATURES.
[Being Sir GEORGE ALEXANDER'S production of _The Attack_ at
the St. James's.]
SCENE--Alexandre Merital's _house_.
ACT I.
_Daniel Merital_. My father is a wonderful man. Leader of the Social
Party in the Chamber of Deputies, noted among his colleagues for his
absolute integrity, supported by the millionaire newspaper proprietor,
Frepeau, whose motives, between ourselves, are not altogether above--
Oh, are you there, Father? I didn't see you. I'm just off to play
tennis. [_Exit_.
_Enter_ Renee de Rould.
_Renee_. Mr. Merital, may I speak to you a moment?
_Georges Alexandre Merital (with, characteristic suavity_). Certainly.
_Renee_, I love you. Will you marry me?
_Merital (surprised_). Well, really--this is--I--you--we--er, he,
she, they--Frankly, you embarrass me. (_Apologetically_) This is my
embarrassed face.
_Renee_. But I thought you loved me. Don't you?
_Merital_. No. That is to say, yes. Or rather--
_Renee (tearfully_). I w-wish you could make it plainer whether you
d-do love me and are pretending you don't, or you d-don't love me and
are pretending you do. It's v-very unsettling for a young girl not to
know.
_Sir GEORGES ALEXANDRE (surprised and a little hurt_). Can't you tell
from my face?
_Miss MARTHA HEDMAN_. This is my first appearance in England, Sir
GEORGES.
_Sir GEORGES_. True. I was forgetting. Well, when you have been with
us a little longer, you will know that this is my face when I adore
anyone very much, but, owing to an unfortunate episode in my past
life, am forced to hide my love.
_Renee (alarmed_). Your past _wife_ isn't alive somewhere?
_Merital_. Oh no, not that sort of thing at all. (_Embracing her
carefully_.) I will marry you, Renee, but run along now because my
friend Frepeau is coming, and he probably wants to talk business.
[_Exit_ Renee.
_Enter_ Frepeau.
_Frepeau (excitedly_). Merital, you are in danger. A scandalous libel
is being circulated about you.
_Merital (calmly_). Pooh! Faugh!
_Frepeau_. It is said that thirty years ago (Alexandre's _nose
twitches_), when you were in a solicitor's office (Alexandre's _jaw
drops_), you stole ninepence from the stamp drawer (Alexandre's
_eyeballs roll_). Of course it is a lie?
_Merital (with a great effort obtaining command of his features
again_). Of course.
CURTAIN.
ACT II.
_Daniel Merital_. Father's face has been very odd these last few
weeks. Sometimes I wonder whether he didn't steal the money after all.
But we shall know after the libel action this afternoon. It starts
at two. Oh, are you there, Father? I'm just going to see a man about
something. [_Exit.
Enter_ Frepeau.
_Merital_. Ah, Frepeau, the man I wanted to see. (_Plaintively_)
Frepeau, when you called on me in the First Act, don't you think you
might have given some indication by the play of your features that it
was _you_ who originated this libel against me, and that you are my
deadly enemy? The merest twitch of the ears would have been enough.
_HOLMAN CLARK_. I wanted it to be a surprise for the audience.
_Sir GEORGES_. Yes, but is that art?
_HOLMAN CLARK_. Besides, in real life--
_Sir GEORGES (amazed_). Real life? Good Heavens, HOLMAN, is this
_your_ first appearance in England too?
_HOLMAN CLARK (annoyed_). Let's get on with the play.
_Sir GEORGES_. Certainly. Wait a moment till I've got my
"strong-man-with-his-back-to-the-wall" expression. (_Arranging his
face_.) How's that?
_HOLMAN CLARK_. Begin again.... That's better.
_Merital (sternly_). Now then, Frepeau! I must ask you to give
instructions that the libel is withdrawn in court this afternoon. If
not--
_Frepeau_. Well?
_Merital (softly_). I know somebody else who stole something from the
stamp drawer thirty years ago. (Frepeau's _whiskers tremble_.) Aha, I
thought I'd move you this time.
_Frepeau_. It's a lie! How did you find out?
_Merital (blandly_). I said to myself, "I am the hero of this play and
I've got to get out of this mess somehow. If I could only find some
papers incriminating the villain--that's you all would be well." So
I--er--found them.... It's no good, Frepeau. Unless you let me off,
you're done.
_Frepeau (getting up_). Well, I suppose I must. But personally I'd be
ashamed to escape through such a rotten coincidence as that. (_Making
for the door_.) I'll just go and arrange it. Er, I suppose this is the
end?
_Sir GEORGES_. The end? Good Heavens, man, I've got my big scene to
come. I have to explain _why_ Merital stole the money thirty years
ago!
_HOLMAN CLARK (eagerly_). Let me guess. His wife was starv--
_SIR GEORGES_. No, no, don't spoil it. (_Sternly_) It's a very serious
thing, HOLMAN, to spoil an actor-manager's big scene.
CURTAIN.
ACT III.
_Daniel Merital_. Father has won his case. I _am_ glad. Oh, are you
there, Father? I'm just going downstairs to count the telegrams.
[_Exit.
Enter_ Renee.
_Renee_. You have won the case? I knew it. I knew you were innocent.
_Merital (nobly_). Renee, I am not innocent. I did steal that
ninepence. I would have confessed it before, but I had to think of my
family. (_Cheers from the gallery_.) Of course it would also have been
unpleasant for _me_ if it had been known, but that did not influence
me. (_More cheers_.) I thought only of my children. Let me tell you
now _why_ I stole it.
_Renee (eagerly_). Let me guess. Your wife was starving--
_Merital (astounded_). Wonderful! How ever did you know?
_Renee_. --and you meant to repay the money.
_Merital_. More and more marvellous. Yes, Renee, that was how it was.
But it hardly does justice to the affair. It is too short. I want to
tell you the story of my _whole_ life and then you will understand.
Watch my face carefully and observe how it works; notice the constant
movement of my hands; listen to the inflections of my voice. This is
going to be the longest speech ever made by an actor-manager, and you
mustn't miss a moment of it. H'r'm! Now then. (_Nobly_) I was born
fifty-three years ago. My father....
_Renee (half-an-hour later_). I still love you.
_Merital (with some truth_). What a love yours is!
_Enter_ Daniel, Julien _and_ Georgette Merital.
_Daniel_. Father, we have a confession to make. For some time we
doubted your innocence. Your face--well, you'd have doubted it
yourself if you'd seen it.
_Merital (taking his hand affectionately_). Ah! Daniel, I see I must
tell you the story of my life. (_Excitement among the audience_.) And
you too, Julien. (_Panic_.) Yes, and--little Georgette!
SAFETY CURTAIN.
A. A. M.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE EARTHLY PARADISE.
_Coster_. "SEE THAT, LIZ? THERE'S A COUNTRY FOR YOU!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: PEACEFUL PERSUASION.
(JONES IS NOT NATURALLY A GENEROUS MAN.)]
* * * * *
THE ROMANCE OF A BATTLESHIP.
_(From the Navy League Annual of 1916.)_
I have just returned (writes a Naval correspondent) from an
interesting visit to the condemned battleship, _H.M.S. Indefensible_,
which is now anchored off Brightlingsea, in the charge of retired
petty-officer Herbert Tompkins and his wife.
The history of _H.M.S. Indefensible_, as gathered from the lips of her
present curator, is so romantic as to be worthy of permanent record.
In reply to my first question, "Whom did she belong to first of
all?" Mr. Tompkins said, "Well, she was ordered first of all by the
Argentine Republic, but, owing to a change of Government, they sold
her to the Italians. I remember the launch at Barrow quite well," he
said. "It was a mighty fine show, with the Italian Ambassador and his
wife--the _Magnifico Pomposo_, they called her, I think it was--and
there was speechifying and hurraying and enough champagne drunk to
float her. That was just three years ago: a super-Dreadnought, they
called her."
"Then how did the British Government get her?"
"Lor bless you, Sir, that didn't come for a long time yet. Ye see,
Italy shortly afterwards made an alliance with Denmark, and, wishing
to do the Danes a good turn, she arranged to sell them the _Magnifico
Pomposo_ at cost price--about three millions I think it was. But
immediately afterwards the Russo-Chinese war broke out, and the
Chinese offered the Danes four millions for the _Dannebrog_, as they
had called her, so by the time the engines were put into her she had
been rechristened the _Hoang-Ho_. But the war never came off: you
remember that Mr. ROOSEVELT settled it by fighting a single combat
with the Russian champion after he had been appointed President of
China; so the Chinese leased the _Hoang-Ho_ to the King of SIAM for
four years at a million a year."
"Did she get out to Siam, then?"
"Oh no, Sir, no fear. The crew ran her on the Goodwin Sands on her
trial trip, and there she stuck for a year. Before they got her
off the Siamese had been released from their bargain by the Hague
Tribunal, Mr. ROOSEVELT had resigned the Presidency of China for that
of Mexico, and the new President sold the _Chulalongkorn_ back to
Great Britain. Of course by that time she was quite obsolete, so they
called her the _Indefensible_, and put a nucleus crew on board for
a few months. Then when Mr. LLOYD GEORGE became Prime Minister, they
offered her to Canada as a gift; but the Canadians didn't like her
name. And when Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL came back last month he decided
that she was to be made a target; but last week I heard she was to be
sold for scrap-iron."
"Then whom does she belong to now?"
"Well, Sir, some says she belongs to Canada, and others say she's
British, and others say she belongs to Mr. CHURCHILL, but in a manner
of speaking I think she rightly belongs to Mrs. Tompkins and me."
* * * * *
"On making enquiries at the Hospital this afternoon, we learn
that the deceased is as well as can be expected."--_Jersey
Evening Post_.
It would, of course, be foolish to expect much.
* * * * *
A NEW BOOK OF BEAUTY.
A hundred years ago they had line, engravings by CHARLES HEATH, and
the long-necked, ringleted ladies looked wistfully or simperingly at
you. I have several examples: _Caskets, Albums, Keepsakes_.
This book is different. The steel engravers have long since all died
of starvation; and here are photographs only, but there are many
more of them, and (strange innovation!) there are more gentlemen than
ladies. For this preponderance there is a good commercial reason, as
any student of the work will quickly discover, for we are now entering
a sphere of life where the beauty of the sterner sex (if so severe a
word can be applied to such sublimation of everything that is soft and
voluptuous and endearing) is more considered than that of the other.
Beautiful ladies are here in some profusion, but the first place is
for beautiful and guinea-earning gentlemen.
In the old Books of Beauty one could make a choice. There was always
one lady supremely longer-necked, more wistful or more simpering than
the others. But in this new Book of Beauty one turns the pages only to
be more perplexed. The embarrassment of riches is too embarrassing. I
have been through the work a score of times and am still wondering on
whom my affections and admiration are most firmly fixed.
This new Book of Beauty has a very different title from the old ones.
It is called _The Pekingese_, and is the revised edition for 1914.
How to play the part of _Paris_ where all the competitors have some
irresistibility, as all have of either sex! Once I thought that Wee Mo
of Westwood was my heart's chiefest delight, "a flame-red little dog
with black mask and ear-fringes, profuse coat and featherings, flat
wide skull, short flat face, short bowed legs and well-shaped
body." But then I turned back to Broadoak Beetle and on to Broadoak
Cirawanzi, and Young Beetle, and Nanking Fo, and Ta Fo of Greystones,
and Petshe Ah Wei, and Hay Ch'ah of Toddington, and that superb
Sultanic creature, King Rudolph of Ruritania, and Champion Howbury
Ming, and Su Eh of Newnham, and King Beetle of Minden, and Champion Hu
Hi, and Mo Sho, and that rich red dog, Buddha of Burford. And having
chosen these I might just as well scratch out their names and write in
others, for every male face in this book is a poem.
The ladies, as I have said, are in the minority, for obvious reasons,
for these little disdainful distinguished gentlemen figure here as
potential fathers, with their fees somewhat indelicately named; for
there's a husbandry on earth as well as in heaven.
Such ladies as are here are here for their beauty alone and are beyond
or below price. Their favours are not to be bought. Among them I note
with especial joy Yiptse of Chinatown, Mandarin Marvel, who "inherits
the beautiful front of her sire, Broadoak Beetle"; Lavender of
Burton-on-Dee, "fawn with black mask"; Chi-Fa of Alderbourne, "a most
charming and devoted little companion"; Yeng Loo of Ipsley; Detlong
Mo-li of Alderburne, one of the "beautiful red daughters of Wong-ti of
Alderburne," Champion Chaou Ching-ur, of whom her owner says that
"in quaintness and individuality and in loving disposition she is
unequalled" and is also "quite a 'woman of the world,' very _blasee_
and also very punctilious in trifles;" Pearl of Cotehele, "bright red
with beautiful back"; E-Wo Tu T'su; Berylune Tzu Hsi Chu; Ko-ki of
Radbourne and Siddington Fi-fi.
Every now and then there is an article in the papers asking and
answering the question, What is the greatest benefit that has come to
mankind in the past half century? The answer is usually the Marconi
system, or the cinema, or the pianola, or the turbine, or the Roentgen
rays, or the telephone or the motor car. Always something utilitarian
or scientific. But why should we not say that it was the introduction
of Pekingese into England from China? According to an historical
sketch at the beginning of this book, the first Pekingese were brought
over in 1860, after the occupation of Pekin by the Allies. The first
black ones came here in 1896, and now in 1914 there are thousands of
these wholly alluring and adorable and masterful little big-hearted
creatures in England, turning staid men and women into ecstatic
worshippers and making children lyrical with cries of appreciation.
The book before me is the finest monument yet raised to this
conquering breed.
* * * * *
[Illustration: NEW SEASON'S NOVELTIES.
1. THE CAT'S-MEAT HAT-PIN PROTECTOR.
2. THE MUD-SPLASH VEIL.
3. THE THROAT CORSET.]
* * * * *
MISUNDERSTOOD.
_(A Story of the Stone Age.)_
Of all the young bachelors in his tribe not one was more highly
esteemed than Ug, the son of Zug. He was one of the nicest young
prehistoric men that ever sprang seven feet into the air to avoid the
impulsive bite of a sabre-tooth tiger, or cheered the hearts of grave
elders searching for inter-tribal talent by his lightning sprints in
front of excitable mammoths. Everybody liked Ug, and it was a matter
of surprise to his friends that he had never married.
One bright day, however, they were interested to observe that he
had begun to exhibit all the symptoms. He brooded apart. Twice in
succession he refused a second help of pterodactyl at the tribal
luncheon table. And there were those who claimed to have come upon him
laboriously writing poetry on the walls of distant caves.
It should be understood that in those days only the most powerful
motive, such as a whole-hearted love, could drive a man to writing
poetry; for it was not the ridiculously simple task which it is
to-day. The alphabet had not yet been invented, and the only method by
which a young man could express himself was by carving or writing on
stone a series of pictures, each of which conveyed the sense of some
word or phrase. Thus, where the modern bard takes but a few seconds to
write, "You made me love you. I didn't want to do it, I didn't want
to do it," Ug, the son of Zug, had to sit up night after night till
he had carved three trees, a plesiosaurus, four kinds of fish, a
star-shaped rock, eleven different varieties of flowering shrub, and
a more or less lifelike representation of a mammoth surprised while
bathing. It is little wonder that the youth of the period, ever
impetuous, looked askance at this method of revealing their passion,
and preferred to give proof of their sincerity and fervour by waiting
for the lady of their affections behind a rock and stunning her with a
club.
But the refined and sensitive nature of Ug, the son of Zug, shrank
from this brusque form of wooing. He was shy with women. To him there
was something a little coarse, almost ungentlemanly, in the orthodox
form of proposal; and he had made up his mind that, if ever he should
happen to fall in love, he would propose by ideograph.
It was shortly after he had come to this decision that, at a
boy-and-girl dance given by a popular local hostess, he met the
divinest creature he had ever seen. Her name was Wug, the daughter of
Glug; and from the moment of their introduction he realised that she
was the one girl in the world for him. It only remained to compose the
ideograph.
Having steadied himself as far as possible by carving a few poems, as
described above, he addressed himself to the really important task of
the proposal.
It was extraordinarily difficult, for Ug had not had a very good
education. All he knew he had picked up in the give and take of tribal
life. For this reason he felt it would be better to keep the thing
short. But it was hard to condense all he felt into a brief note.
For a long time he thought in vain, then one night, as he tossed
sleeplessly on his bed of rocks, he came to a decision. He would
just ideograph, "Dear Wug, I love you. Yours faithfully, Ug. P.S.
R.S.V.P.," and leave it at that. So in the morning he got to work, and
by the end of the week the ideograph was completed. It consisted of
a rising sun, two cave-bears, a walrus, seventeen shin-bones of
the lesser rib-nosed baboon, a brontosaurus, three sand-eels, and
a pterodactyl devouring a mangold-wurzel. It was an uncommonly neat
piece of work, he considered, for one who had never attended an
art-school. He was pleased with it. It would, he flattered himself, be
a queer sort of girl who could stand out against that. For the first
time for weeks he slept soundly and peacefully.
Next day his valet brought him with his morning beverage a piece of
flat rock. On it was carved a simple human thigh-bone. He uttered
a loud cry. She had rejected him. The parcel-post, an hour later,
brought him his own ideograph, returned without a word.
Ug's greatest friend in the tribe was Jug, son of Mug, a youth of
extraordinary tact and intelligence. To him Ug took his trouble.
Jug heard his story, and asked to see exactly what he had ideographed.
"You must have expressed yourself badly," he said.
"On the contrary," replied Ug, with some pique, "my proposal was
brief, but it was a model of what that sort of proposal should be.
Here it is. Read it for yourself."
Jug read it. Then he looked at his friend, concerned.
"But, my dear old man, what on earth did you mean by saying she has
red hair and that you hate the sight of her?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why, this ichthyosaurus."
"That's not an ichthyosaurus. It's a brontosaurus."
"It's not a bit like a brontosaurns. And it _is_ rather like an
ichthyosaurus. Where you went wrong was in not taking a few simple
lessons in this sort of thing first."
"If you ask me," said Ug disgustedly, "this picture-writing is silly
rot. To-morrow I start an Alphabet."
* * * * *
But on the morrow he was otherwise employed. He was standing,
concealed behind a rock, at the mouth of the cave of Wug, daughter
of Glug. There was a dreamy look in his eyes, and his fingers
were clasped like steel bands round the handle of one of the most
business-like clubs the Stone Age had ever seen. Orthodoxy had found
another disciple.
* * * * *
[Illustration: SCENE--_An Army Boxing Competition_.
_Civilian_. "RATHER A FEARFUL MAN, THAT?"
_Soldier_. "WELL, 'E AIN'T REALLY VERY FEARFUL. YOU SEE THE BIG
FELLOW'S 'IS SERGEANT AN' THIS IS THE ONLY CHANCE 'E 'AS OF GETTING A
BIT OF 'IS OWN BACK."]
* * * * *
CHARIVARIA.
Sir ERNEST SHACKLETON is to undertake a new expedition to the South
Pole, and across the whole South Polar Continent. It is said that an
offer from Dr. COOK, who happens to be over here, to show Sir ERNEST
how he might save himself much wearisome travelling in achieving his
object, has been rejected.
***
Judge PARRY declares, in the current number of _The Cornhill_, that
lost golf balls belong to the KING; and the ballroom at Buckingham
Palace is, we understand, to be enlarged at once.
***
Mr. BERNARD SHAW is the latest addition to Madame TUSSAUD'S gallery
of wax-works. But Mr. CHESTERTON must not be jealous. He too, we
understand, will be placed there if room can be found for him.
***
From some correspondence in _The Express_ we learn that members of
more than one savage tribe have a habit of standing on one leg. We see
no objection to this at all, but we were bound to protest the other
day, in a crowded train, when we came across a stout gentleman
standing on one foot. The foot, we should mention, was ours.
***
Of the late Mr. JOHN WILLIAM WHITE, who was only twenty-one inches in
height, we are told that he was an ardent politician. Could he have
been a Little Englander?
***
Straws show which way the wind blows, and the fact that the first
prize in the Christmas Lottery at Madrid has been won in Madrid, and
the second in London, is held by wiseacres to prove that there is a
secret understanding between our country and Spain.
***
The fact that France's Colonial Empire, which is already extensive,
has been increased by the birth, during a volcanic eruption, of a
new island in the New Hebrides, has caused some little irritation in
Germany.
***
The Lost Property department of Scotland Yard will, it is said, this
year easily beat all previous records in the number of articles lost.
But we English have always had the reputation of being good losers.
***
It is announced that Miss PHYLLIS DESMOND, of the Gaiety Theatre, and
Mr. C.R. FINCH NOYES, of the Royal Naval Flying Corps, were married
secretly last June. As proving how difficult it is to keep a secret we
believe that the fact has been known for some time past both to Miss
DESMOND and Mr. NOYES.
***
Special cinema productions depicting scenes of a sacred nature were
provided by enterprising managers for the clergy during the holiday
season. When one remembers that there is also _Who's the Lady?_
running under distinguished episcopal patronage, the modern curate
cannot complain that he is not well catered for.
***
We congratulate _The Daily Mail_ on finding a peculiarly appropriate
topic for discussion at Christmas time. It was "Too Much Cramming."
***
Thieves broke into the vestry during the service and stole the gold
watch and chain which the minister preaching the Christmas sermon at
Marylebone Presbyterian church had left there. The minister must be
sorry now that he did not trust his congregation.
***
Mr. GEORGE BAKER, of Brentwood, received a presentation the other day
on completing his fiftieth year as a carol singer. He mentioned that
once, at the beginning of his career, his carol party was broken up by
an angry London householder, who fired a pistol-shot from his bedroom
window. The modern Londoner, we fear, is decadent, and lacks the
necessary spirit.