Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 153, Aug 15, 1917 by Various
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 153, Aug 15, 1917
In the end we came away with four patterns (fruits and flowers) and a
promise to let Lord Bayswater know which one we preferred. One of them I
chose really to show my tailor, as it was a top-hole scheme for a winter
waistcoat.
Alison and I spent the evening hanging the patterns up one after the
other on one wall of the dining-room, and tried to paper the rest of the
walls in the mind's eye, but at eleven o'clock we knocked off for the
night and went to bed with headaches.
I fancy Alison must have had a disturbed night. As I was leaving the
house after breakfast she said, "Have you made up your mind about those
patterns?"
"No, I haven't," I said. "I'm going to leave it to you. Choose which you
like."
"I've chosen," she said with an air of finality.
"Well," said Alison, when I reached home that evening, "it's up."
"Up?" I said. "The new paper, already?"
"Come and see," Alison said.
"By Jove, how well it looks!" I said. "You've chosen well. There's
something familiar about it, though it looks almost new."
"Yes," said Alison, "Ellen and I cleaned it all over with bread-crumbs."
"Poor Lord Bayswater," I said. "But you've done the right thing.
Wall-paper as usual during the War."
* * * * *
[Illustration: "NAH, ALL THEM AS IS WILLIN' TO COME ALONG O' ME, PLEASE
SIGNIFY THE SAME IN THE USUAL MANNER. CARRIED UNANIMOUSLY."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _First dangerous Mule (to second ditto)._ "DON'T YOU GO
NEAR HER, MATE--SHE'LL KICK YER."]
* * * * *
"The annual agricultural returns show that the increased area in
England and Wales of corn and potatoes for the present harvest
amount to no less than 347,0000 acres. This result exceeds all
expectations."
_Bradford Daily Argus_.
We can well believe it.
* * * * *
From a sale advertisement:--
"LACE DEPT.
Ladies' Overalls and Breeches for the farm, garden, or home use,
reduced in Price."
_Daily Paper._
Cooler and cooler.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Angry Lady (on being told that Fido's favourite biscuits
are now unobtainable)._
"NOTHING BUT THESE! REALLY, THIS WAR IS GETTING BEYOND A JOKE!"]
* * * * *
"SKILLY."
Prior to "Skilly" being taken on the regimental strength, our canteen
was the paradise of a battalion of mice, from whose nightly raids
nothing was sacred. But from the day "Skilly" enlisted the marauders
became less and less obtrusive. And "Skilly" grew sleek.
Then came a time of scarcity. Mice fought shy of the canteen, and
"Skilly" visibly suffered from lack of nourishment. A sergeant's wife
provided welcome hospitality; but no sooner was "Skilly" billeted
outside the canteen than the plague returned, and so she was recalled
urgently to active service. Again was the enemy routed; but again came
the wilting-time of dire want. Virtue, however, did not go unrewarded a
second time. "Skilly" had earned honourable mention, and representations
to the proper quarters resulted in an order that she should be rationed
so long as she remained on canteen duty.
With times of ease came time for love. In due course "Skilly" presented
an absentee and unidentifiable spouse with five bouncing baby kittens.
Throughout their extreme infancy the family throve; but the time came
when the devoted mother was no longer able to supply sufficient
nutriment for five lusty youngsters. Clearly something must be done, and
the canteen sergeant was the man to do it. He sent in a proper formal
application to the regimental powers, requesting that increased feline
rations be ordered as "subsistence for Canteen Skilly and family of
five."
Time passed, and--let this be read and remembered by all carping critics
who accuse our army of want of method and business sense--in due course
the application was returned, properly entered, checked, signed and
counter-signed. The verdict run thus: "Application on behalf of Canteen
Skilly refused, as apparently she married off the strength of the
regiment."
* * * * *
"No youth should be regarded educationally as a finished article
at 1 years of age." _Yorkshire Post._
Mr. Fisher will be pleased.
* * * * *
"A MERRY HEART GOES ALL THE DAY."
I jogged along the footpath way
And leant against the stile;
"A merry heart goes all the day,"
Stoutly I sang the old refrain;
My own heart mocked me back again,
"Yet tire you in a mile!"
Well may I tire, that stand alone
And turn a wistful glance
On each remembered tree and stone,
Familiar landmarks of a road
Where once so light of heart I strode
With one who sleeps in France.
Heavily on the stile I lean,
Not as we leant of yore,
To drink the beauty of the scene,
Glory of green and blue and gold,
Shadow and gleam on wood and wold
That he will see no more.
Then came from somewhere far afield
A song of thrush unseen,
And suddenly there stood revealed
(Oh heart so merry, song so true!)
A day when we shall walk, we two,
Where other worlds are green.
* * * * *
THE REVIEWS FOR ----.
_(A specimen article for the use of those editors who have come to the
realisation that the contents of our heavier periodicals never change.
All that is needed is the insertion of the right month and the survey
can be used as a serial.)_
In _The Umteenth Century and Forever_, which is, as usual, alert and
interesting, the place of honour is given to an article by Sir Vincent
Stodge, M.P., on "Proportional Representation in New Patagonia." Sir
Vincent's argument may or may not convince, but it is succinctly stated.
Sir ERNEST CASSEL writes usefully on "Economy for Cottagers," and Lord
Sopwith, in a paper on "Air Raids and Glowworms," shows how important it
is that on dark nights there should be some compulsory extinction of the
light of these dangerous and, he fears, pro-German, insects. Mr. HARRY
DE WINDT describes "Galicia as I Knew It," and there are suggestive
papers on "The Probable Course of History for the next Three Centuries,"
by the Dean of LINCOLN; "Potatoes as Food," by Sir WALTER RALEIGH; and
"Hair in Relation to Eminence," by Dr. SALEEBY, in which all the strong
men in history famous for their locks, from SAMSON to Mr. LLOYD GEORGE,
are passed in review. An excellent number, full of mental nutriment, is
brought to a close by a symposium of Bishops on the petrol restrictions.
* * * * *
By a strange coincidence _The Shortsightly_ also has a valuable paper on
"Proportional Representation," by Mr. and Mrs. C.N. WILLIAMSON, who thus
make their bow for the first time among what might be called our
thinking novelists, their effort being in some degree balanced by an
essay in the same number from so inveterate a politician as Mr. J.M.
HOGGE, M.P., on the "Wit and Humour of WILLIAM LE QUEUX." There is also
an anonymous article of great power on "Conscientious Objectors as Food
for Racehorses," which should cause discussion, both by reason of its
arguments and also through the secret of its authorship, which to the
initiated is only of course a _secret de Polichinelle_. For the rest we
content ourselves with drawing attention to "The Small Holding," by Lord
PIRRIE; "Women and Tobacco," by the Manager of the Piccadilly Hotel;
"Feud Control," by Mr. PHILIP SNOWDEN, M.P.; "Russia as I knew it," by
Mr. HARRY DE WINDT; and "The Spirit of Ireland," by Sir JOHN POWER.
* * * * *
_The Peremptory Review_ opens with Lord CURZON'S well-reasoned appeal to
Labour to relinquish its attitude of criticism and trust the powers that
be. Other notable articles deal with the possible effect of woman's
franchise on the cult of Pekinese spaniels, the case pro and con. for a
tunnel under St. George's Channel, and the philosophy of E. PHILLIPS
OPPENHEIM. Mr. HARRY DE WINDT writes of "Serbia as I Knew It." A
spirited attack on the MINISTER of MUNITIONS by the Editor of _The
Morning Post_ brings an excellent number to a close.
* * * * *
_Backwood's_ is, as usual, strong in the martial element, and is further
proof that in the present conflict there is no excluding rivalry between
pen and sword, but plenty of room for both. The article wittily
entitled, "Mess-up-otamia" should be read by everyone who is not tired
of that theme. The trenchant author of "Reflections without Rancour"
displays his customary vigilance as a censor of _betes noires_, not
sparing the whip even when some of the animals are dead.
* * * * *
In the ever iconoclastic and live _Gnashing All Review_ Mr. Smacksy is,
as usual, at his most vigorous. Among the statesmen who come in for his
attacks are Mr. ASQUITH and Lord HALDANE, both of whom are probably by
now quite inured to his blows. Nothing could be more amusing than the
renewed play which is made with the phrase, "spiritual home." Mr.
Smacksy has also something to say to members of what might be called his
own Party. Other articles deal with "The Psychology of the Pacifist," a
trenchant exposure; "The Teeth of American Presidents," which contains a
number of curious statistics; "The Film and the Future," by Viscount
CHAPLIN; "The Honours List," in which the anonymous writer makes the
revolutionary suggestion that the KING'S birthday should in future be
marked by the withdrawal of old titles instead of the conferring of new.
Mr. HARRY DE WINDT descries "Roumania as I Knew It"; "A Suggestion for
the Settlement of the Irish Problem" is offered by Mr. GINNELL, M.P.;
and Mr. C.B. COCHRAN utters a disinterested plea for "The Small
Theatre."
* * * * *
_The Jinglish Review_, also famous for the activity of its fighting
editor, has no fewer than four articles from his pen, of which the least
negligible is perhaps that of "The Partition of Europe after the War."
The others deal with "The Real Germany," "Sunday Journalism as a World
Asset," and "HORATIO BOTTOMLEY the Prophet." Other contributions in a
varied number include a series of votive verses to Mr. EDWARD MARSH,
C.B., by a band of Georgian poets, on the occasion of his resumption of
his duties as private secretary to Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL. A charming
study of leprosy, translated from the Russian of Lugubriski, brings the
number to a close.
* * * * *
LONDON PRIDE.
Upon a lily-laden tide,
Where galleons rocked with sails blown wide
And white swans gleamed, there was a city
Whose citizens called "London Pride"
The flower that some call "None-so-Pretty."
It grew beside the frowning tower,
By RALEGH'S walk and BOLEYN'S bower,
As frail as joy, as sweet as pity;
And "London Pride" they called that flower
Which country folk call "None-so-Pretty."
When London lads made holiday
In dewy hours o' th' month o' May,
And footed it with Moll and Kitty,
Among the maypole garlands gay
Be sure they plaited "None-so-Pretty."
When London lads in battle bent
Their bows beside the bows of Kent
('Tis told in many a gallant ditty)
Their caps were tufted as they went
With "London Pride" or "None-so-Pretty."
Oh, London is what London was,
And mighty food for pride she has;
Her saints are wise, her sinners witty,
And Picard clay and Flemish grass
Are sweet with stars of "None-so-Pretty."
* * * * *
"SAMMIES."
_A propos_ of the note in our issue of August 1st, a Correspondent
suggests that the Americans might go into action to the tune of "Tommy
make room for your Uncle."
* * * * *
"A Leghorn pullet, belonging to Mrs. G.R. Bell, of Coxhoe,
Durham, has laid an egg 3-1/4 oz. in weight, 7-1/2 in. in
diameter, and 6-1/4 in. in circumference."--_Scotch Paper._
Most interesting and novel, but very disconcerting to the
mathematicians.
* * * * *
"The procession was headed by the choristers and songmen, and
included the surplus clergy and the Very Rev. the Dean."
_Yorkshire Herald._
No support here, you will note, for the recent suggestion that Deans are
superfluous.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE FAILURE OF THE FILM-THRILL.
PATIENTS FROM THE LATEST PUSH AT THE PICTURES.]
* * * * *
DUELLING EXTRAORDINARY.
The contemplated single-stick encounter between Colonel ARCHER-SHEE and
Mr. PEMBERTON-BILLING recalls to mind a ludicrous affair which actually
happened some years ago in a foreign city which I will here call
Killemalivo.
Mr. Alec McTavish, a Briton many years resident in that fair capital and
editor of the only English newspaper, had taken up stout verbal cudgels
on behalf of the Americans, who had been viciously attacked in the
columns of a local "daily." The United States of the North, in its
capacity of "special" to the entire American continent, comes in for
plenty of abuse when a new revolution is about to be perpetrated.
The strife had waxed fast and furious and eventually had taken on a
personal tone, the editor of _La Muera_ accusing the editor of the
English paper of being "that lowest of all living things--a Texan." It
will be remembered that in times gone by the State of Texas decided to
desert its Latin parents and roost under the shadow of the eagle's wing,
thereby earning for itself prosperity and an evil reputation--in certain
quarters.
McTavish's editorial reply was a gem of satire and displayed an intimate
knowledge of the antecedents of the rival editor.
At that time duelling was still prevalent, and it was not many days
before the editorial sanctum of _The Tribune_ was honoured by the visit
of two officers in full-dress uniform.
The eventual outcome of their visit was that Mr. McTavish found himself
pledged to fight a duel with a man who was, among other things, a
first-class pistol shot and exceptionally expert with the "florette,"
all of which McTavish was not.
The affair looked particularly unpleasant--to McTavish, who was short,
fat, and by no means young. But the dignity of the foreign population as
represented by the editor of _The Killemalivo Tribune_ must of necessity
be upheld.
Faced by this quite unusual difficulty, McTavish bethought him of his
old and tried friend, General O'Flynnone, an Irish-American of many
years' residence in the Latin Americas. No one seemed to know his real
name, and the title of General had come to him from his last place.
The General was delighted at the turn of events, agreed to be McTavish's
second, and promised to get him through the affair with a whole skin and
no loss of honour.
As the challenged party McTavish had choice of weapons, which was the
crux of the situation, as the General pointed out.
Among the Killemalivo aristocracy the favourite weapons were the
duelling pistol and the "florette," or rapier. The "pelado," or lower
orders, preferred the "lingua de vaca," which means literally "cow's
tongue," a nasty-looking knife of no mean proportions.
As O'Flynnone explained, the duel would have to be fought with "killing
weapons"; nothing else would satisfy the bloodthirsty editor. Meanwhile
he would think on the matter, and he advised McTavish to do likewise.
The following were the most unpleasant days of his life, as McTavish
confessed afterwards. He was not a "conscientious objector," but he had
no pressing wish to exterminate his opponent, as that would have
necessitated a sudden and forcible exile from the land of his adoption;
still less did he fancy an early demise in the interests of his paper.
Meanwhile the General visited the rival editor's seconds and arranged
for a meeting in his own rooms to discuss final conditions.
O'Flynnone's rooms contained, among other things, a collection of
curious and ancient weapons. The walls were decorated with all sorts and
conditions of strange and barbarous instruments of slaughter; Zulu
assegais, Afghan knives and Burmese swords hung in savage array.
The meeting took place on the following Sunday afternoon. The officers
greeted the General agreeably enough, but saluted McTavish with the
stiffness that the occasion called for.
"Well, Senores," commenced the General, after depositing his visitors in
the most comfortable chairs, "to business. Mr. McTavish, as you will
admit, has the choice of weapons."
The officers nodded assent.
"This gentleman," continued O'Flynnone, "comes of that most noble and
warlike race--the Scotch. Fiercest of fighters, although they do not
sometimes look it, the warriors of Scotland alone among all nations
withstood the ravages of the conquering English. I feel sorry, very
sorry for the 'caballero' whom you have the honour to represent."
The pause which followed was most impressive. The General's air was
suggestive of dire things, as with dramatic suddenness he produced from
beneath the sideboard two enormous double-edged battle-axes, which
careful polishing had made to shine as new.
"These," said he, "are the weapons which Mr. McTavish has
chosen--weapons of men, such as they use in his own country," he
continued, brandishing one of them savagely. "And the fight will be on
barebacked horses, for such is the custom of the Scotch."
The duel did not occur.
* * * * *
THE GAME OF HIS LIFE.
I met the mercurial Gosling at the club a few days ago. As I hadn't seen
him for some time I asked if he had been on a holiday. "Yes," he said,
"down at Shinglestrand. Golfing? No--yes. I did play one game, the first
since the War, and rather a remarkable game it was. I'm a member of the
golf-club there, and was down at the clubhouse one morning looking at
the papers when a fat middle-aged man, about my age, asked me if I cared
for a game. I didn't, but in a spirit of self-sacrifice said that I
should be very glad. 'I think I ought to tell you,' he went on, 'that I
don't care about playing with a 18-handicap man, and that I always like
to have a sovereign on the match.' Now I never was much of a player--too
erratic, I suppose. My handicap has gone up from 12 to 18, and the last
time I played it was about 24. But, exasperated by his swank, I suddenly
found myself saying, 'My handicap is 12.' 'Very well,' replied the fat
man, 'I'll give you 4 strokes.' We went out to the first tee, and after
he had made a moderate shot I hit the drive of my life. My second landed
on the green and I ran down a long putt--this for a 4-bogey hole. I'm
not going to bore you with details. I won the second and third holes,
and then the fat man went to pieces. I never wanted any of my strokes
and downed him by 5 and 3. As we re-entered the club-house my partner,
who had become strangely silent, walked up to the board which gives the
list of handicaps and looked at them. There was my name with 18 opposite
it. 'I thought you said your handicap was 12,' he observed. 'Well,' I
answered, 'it wasn't more than that this morning.' The fat man was very
angry. He said he would report me to the committee, and he did. But the
secretary (who happens to be my brother) played up nobly. He
communicated with the secretary of the fat man's club, whom he happened
to know, and, having found out that the fat man's handicap was not 6 but
12, he wrote to him to say that in view of the fact that 'the lies had
been equally bad on both sides' the committee did not propose to take
any action. The fat man got no change out of my brother and I kept my
sovereign."
* * * * *
The Globe Trotters.
"Mr. and Mrs. ----, of Knysna, are on a
visit to Knysna."--_South African Paper._
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE MAYOR AND CORPORATION OF SPARKLINGTON-ON-SEA SOLEMNLY
TOUCHING WOOD ON THE OCCASION OF THEIR SENDING OUT TO THE PRESS A NOTICE
THAT THEIR TOWN HAS NEVER SUFFERED FROM ENEMY AIR-RAIDS.]
* * * * *
V.A.D.
There's an angel in our ward as keeps a-flittin' to and fro
With fifty eyes upon 'er wherever she may go;
She's as pretty as a picture and as bright as mercury,
And she wears the cap and apron of a V.A.D.
The Matron she is gracious and the Sister she is kind,
But they wasn't born just yesterday and lets you know their mind;
The M.O. and the Padre is as thoughtful as can be,
But they ain't so good to look at as our V.A.D.
She's a honourable miss because 'er father is a dook,
But, Lord, you'd never guess it and it ain't no good to look
For 'er portrait in the illustrated papers, for you see
She ain't an advertiser, not _our_ V.A.D.
Not like them that wash a tea-cup in an orficer's canteen
And then "Engaged in War Work" in the weekly Press is seen;
She's on the trot from morn to night and busy as a bee,
And there's 'eaps of wounded Tommies bless that V.A.D.
She's the lightest 'and at dressin's and she polishes the floor,
She feeds Bill Smith who'll never never use 'is 'ands no more;
And we're all of us supporters of the harristocracy
'Cos our weary days are lightened by that V.A.D.
And when the War is over, some knight or belted earl,
What's survived from killin' Germans, will take 'er for 'is girl;
They'll go and see the pictures and then 'ave shrimps and tea;
'E's a lucky man as gets 'er--and don't I wish 'twas me!
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
In _No Man's Land_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) is revealed a breadth of
vision which may astonish some of us who have been inclined to regard
SAPPER as merely a talented story-teller. Among the writers on the War I
place him first, for the simple reason that I like him best; and I am
not at all sure that I should like him any better if he cured himself of
his cardinal fault. With his tongue in his cheek he dashes away from his
story to give us either a long or short digression; no more confirmed
digressionist ever put pen to paper, and the wonderful thing is that
these wanton excursions are worth following. True he often apologises
for them, but I do not think that we need take these apologies
seriously. This book is divided into four parts, "The Way to the Land,"
"The Land," "Seed Time," and "Harvest," and in "Seed Time," at any rate,
we have a series of chapters which require not only to be read but to be
thought over. But whether he is out for fun, as in "Bendigo Jones--His
Tree," or for pathos, as in "Morphia," he obtains his effects without
the smallest appearance of effort. And I reserve a special word of
praise for "My Lady of the Jasmine," and commend it to the notice of
those pessimists who hold that only the French and the Americans can
write a good short story. Thank the powers that be for SAPPER.
* * * * *
_The Loom of Youth_ (GRANT RICHARDS) is yet another school story, but
with a difference, the difference being, partly at least, that it is
written by one who has so lately ceased to belong himself to the life
described that his account must carry an authority altogether unusual.
Here, one feels, is that strange and so-soon-forgotten country revealed
for us from within, and by a native denizen. For this alone Mr. ALEC
WAUGH'S book merits the epithet remarkable; indeed, considered as the
work of "a lad of seventeen," its vitality, discretion and general
maturity of tone seem little short of amazing. Realism is the note of
it. The modern schoolboy, as Mr. WAUGH paints him, employs, for example,
a vocabulary whose frequency, and freedom may possibly startle the
parental reader. Apart from this one might call the book an indictment
of hero-worship, as heroism is understood in a society where (still!)
athletic eminence places its possessor above all laws. This in itself is
so old an educational problem that it is interesting to find it handled
afresh in a study of ultra-modern boyhood. The actual matter of the
tale, individual character in its reaction to system, is naturally
common to most school stories; but even here Mr. WAUGH has contrived to
give an ending both original and sincere. Prophecy is dangerous; but
from a writer who has proved so brilliantly that, for once, _jeunesse
peut_, one seems justified in hoping that enlarged experience will
result in work of the highest quality.
* * * * *
Quite a host of moral reflections, none of them very original, flock to
one's mind in considering by what devious ways our Italian allies came
to range themselves on the side of that freedom which they have always
loved as well and bravely as any of the rest of us. For instance--a very
stale reflection--one sees Germany overdoing her own cleverness and
under-rating that of her neighbours--this more especially in her
arrogant dominance of Italy's commerce; further, one notices the Hun's
Belgian brutalities costing him dear in a quarter least expected; and
again one realises Italy's decision as a thing mainly dependent, in
spite of all Germany's taking little ways, on a righteous hatred of
Austria--a consideration which brings one surprisingly near to gratitude
towards the big-bully Government of Vienna. Our southern ally's loyalty
to her beautiful "unredeemed" provinces, and her claim, which all
right-minded Englishmen (I include myself) most heartily endorse, to
dominate the historically Italian waters of the Adriatic, happily proved
too strong for a machine-made sympathy for Berlin based on nothing
better than a superficial resemblance between the histories of Piedmont
and Prussia, and a record of nominal alliance with powers whose respect
for paper treaties was always fairly apparent. All the same, in reading
Mr. W. KAY WALLACE'S essay in recent history, _Greater Italy_
(CONSTABLE), a volume which I cannot too strongly commend for its
admirable way of telling these and similar things, I am struck most of
all by the super-incumbent mass of Germanism that had to be burst
asunder before the true Italy broke free. The story of that liberation
is romance of an amazing order, for in it one sees the very soul of a
great and ancient people struggling to renewal of life. It is more than
good to have such an ally, it is an inspiration.