Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 153, Dec. 26, 1917 by Various
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 153, Dec. 26, 1917
"I do not at present," said I, "require a knife with indispensable
cheese-scoop and marmalade-shredding attachment. My indispensable
steel mirror with patent lanyard and powder puff for attachment to
service revolver is in perfect working order. I already possess two
pairs of marching boots with indispensable trapdoors in each heel
containing complete pedicure set and French-Portuguese dictionaries.
My indispensable fur waistcoats, Indian clubs, ponchos, collapsible
Turkish baths, steel aprons and folding billiard tables have already
brought the weight of my kit nearly up to the allotted thirty-five
pounds. My indispensable cigar cabinet, camouflaged to look like
a water-bottle; my patent and absolutely essential convertible
gramophone which can be changed at a moment's notice into a tin hat;
my caviare lozenges and shampoo tabloids--I have them all. I want a
trench-coat and nothing else."
His face had fallen a little as I spoke. But it lit up again with
a sort of cunning excitement when I said "trench-coat." I wondered
why--then. Now I know. I thought that he was baffled and would say
no more, but I had forgotten the developments of trench warfare.
"This way, Sir," said the shopman.
He led me to a room which combined the architectural style of the
Crystal Palace and Waterloo Station with a touch of the dentist's
waiting-room. There was a khaki tent in the midst of it, and he led me
towards this with the air of a broody hen anticipating the number of
her chickens.
"The Vadecumomnibus trench-coat," said he.
"But it's a tent," I protested.
"It has collapsible aluminium centre seam," he retorted rapidly,
"which can be used as a tent pole in severe weather. On buttoning the
top button this pole telescopes automatically and forms a bullet-proof
spine protector. Each sleeve can be unscrewed and used in an emergency
as a Lewis gun. This is indispensable--"
"Of course," I interrupted. "But I require something quite simple and
straightforward. Just a trench-coat, you understand."
"We have here," he said immediately, "the Gadget coat. It possesses
three hundred button-holes and three hundred buttons. Every single
portion of the coat can be buttoned on to every other part at a
moment's notice. The pockets are detachable and can be used as coffee
cups or finger bowls. The coat itself, when stretched on our patent
aluminium framework, makes an admirable hip-bath."
I played nervously in my pocket with the pin of a live Mills grenade
(overlooked by the A.M.L.O.).
"A simple, straightforward trench-coat," I repeated.
"This," said the shopman, handing me something very like a slice of
plum-pudding--"this is the cross-section of a piece of the cloth out
of which our 'Stopablitey' trench-coat is manufactured. It shows the
strata of the material, consisting of alternate layers of old motor
tyres and reinforced concrete--the whole covered with alligator skin
and proofed with our patent indispensable--"
It was then that I killed him and buried him under a pyramid of
indispensable gadgets. It will be years before they find him.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Wife_ (_Time 3.45 A.M._). "WHERE ARE YOU GOING?"
_Special Constable_. "AIR-RAID DUTY, DEAR."
_Wife_. "WELL, DON'T LET THE CAT OUT."]
* * * * *
If TROTSKY is the Enver Pasha of Russia, ENVER PASHA may be described
as the Turkey Trotzky.
* * * * *
OUR POPULAR EDUCATORS.
A recent article in _The Daily Mail_ began, "Jerusalem, the famous
city of the Bible..."
There is nothing like taking precautions not to talk over the heads of
your readers. We offer a few suggestions on similar lines:--
"Germany, the powerful enemy against whom we are contending in the
present War (1914 onwards)..."
"SHAKSPEARE, the immortal author of _Hamlet_ (the tragedy)..."
"'Blighty', the British soldier's name for England..."
"MOSES, the distinguished lawgiver and prophet..."
"The GERMAN CROWN PRINCE, eldest son of KAISER WILHELM II..."
"EVE, the heroine of the Garden of Eden story..."
"Economy, the virtue imposed on us by the present shortage of food..."
"_The Daily Mail_, a newspaper..."
* * * * *
HELLO, GIRLS!
"CIVIL SERVICE LADIES FOR LONDON TELEPHONE EXCHANGES, over 1 and
under 30 years of age. Minimum height 5ft."--_Evening Paper_.
Many ladies of our acquaintance, although just over the minimum age,
are not yet quite up to the required height.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Lady_ (_displaying costume in which she is to appear
as the Queen of Sheba in "Biblical Beauties" tableaux at charity
matinee_). "RATHER SWEET, ISN'T IT?"
_Friend_. "MY DEAR, ABSOLUTELY TOPPING. IT MAKES ME FEEL I OUGHT TO
BE DOING WAR-WORK TOO."]
* * * * *
TO SANTA CLAUS.
Historic Santa! Seasonable Claus!
Whose bulging sack is pregnant with delight;
Who comest in the middle of the night
To stuff distracting playthings in the maws
Of stockings never built for infant shins,
Suspended from the mantelpiece by pins.
Thou who on earth wast named Nicholas--
There be dull clods who doubt thy magic power
To tour the sleeping world in half-an-hour,
And pop down all the chimneys as you pass
With woolly lambs and dolls of frabjous size
For grubby hands and wonder-laden eyes.
Not so thy singer, who believes in thee
Because he has a young and foolish spirit;
Because the simple faith that bards inherit
Of happiness is still the master key,
Opening life's treasure-house to whoso clings
To the dim beauty of imagined things.
Wherefore, good Kringle, do not pass me by,
Who am too old, alas! for trains and blocks,
But stuff the Love of Beauty in my socks
And Childlike Faith to last me till I die;
And there'll be room, I doubt not, in the toes
For Magic Cap and Spectacles of Rose.
And not a song of beauty, sung of old,
Or saga of the dead heroic days,
And not a blossom laughing by the ways,
Or wind of April blowing on the wold
But in my heart shall have the power to stir
The shy communion of the worshipper.
Hark! On the star-bright highways of the sky
Light hoofs beat and the far-off sleigh-bell sounds!
Is it old Santa on his gracious rounds
Or one dead legend drifting sadly by?
Not mine to say. And, though I long to peep,
Santa shall always find me fast asleep.
ALGOL.
* * * * *
"A clerk was at London Mansion House yesterday charged with
stealing a blouse the property of the governor and directors of
the Bank of England.
"She said she could not understand what made her take it, and,
believing she acted from sudden temptation, the Lord Mayor bound
her over."--_Daily Mail_.
We do not think the "Old Lady of Threadneedle Street" ought to wear
such tempting garments in these times.
* * * * *
"WITH THE ITALIAN ARMY.--The battle, which continues with unabated
fury, is gradually extending along the front from the Brenta
to the Piave, a line of over 11 miles, with its wings on the
Col della Berretta and Monte Spinoncia, north-east of Grappa.
"I learn that for 24 hours the fighting was marked by a
determination in counter-attacks which has never yet been
exceeded. No fewer than four times Colonel della Berretta
changed hands."--_Scots Paper_.
We hope the gallant officer is none the worse for his game of
Hunt-the-Skipper.
* * * * *
[Illustration: AN INEXPENSIVE LUXURY.
FIRST KAISER (WILHELM). "I AM THINKING OF SENDING THIS BIRD OF
PEACE FORTH AGAIN. WE CAN AFFORD TO BE MAGNANIMOUS."
SECOND KAISER (KARL). "WELL, WE CERTAINLY CAN'T AFFORD ANYTHING
ELSE."]
* * * * *
ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.
_Monday, December 17th._--On the whole the Lords gave a friendly
reception to the Franchise Bill. They have learned a good deal
since 1911. Even Lord SALISBURY forebore on this occasion his usual
intention to die in the last ditch, and was ready to let the Bill
pass, provided that Proportional Representation was included in it.
The most vehement criticism came from Lord BRYCE, who viewed with
alarm the addition of six million women to the electorate. Women,
he declared, neither met nor talked--an assertion which surprised
the more married peers. Lord BURNHAM supported "P.R." with the
self-sacrificing argument that the Press would become too powerful
if minorities had no way of expressing their views except in the
newspapers. Perhaps he doesn't want another letter from Lord
LANSDOWNE.
[Illustration: A QUEUE FOR THE COMMONS.]
Mr. HOGGE is usually so assiduous in his attendance that I was
surprised at his sudden departure just before Sir C. KINLOCH-COOKE put
a question to the FOOD CONTROLLER. But when I found that the question
related to "the political as well as the economic effect of the new
regulation governing the sale of pigs" I recognised the delicacy of
his action in withdrawing. Mr. CLYNES, however, had nothing to say on
the political aspect of the question; and shortly afterwards Mr. HOGGE
reappeared.
The Members whose interrogatory activities it is sought to curb are,
for the most part, like the objects in a museum, more curious than
exhilarating; but there are some, I am afraid, whose questions are
intentionally mischievous, and by their mere appearance on the
notice-paper give comfort and even information to our foes. Mr. BONAR
LAW'S announcement that the Government would, during the Christmas
holidays, consider how to mitigate the nuisance met with noisy
objection from Mr. LYNCH, Mr. PRINGLE and other Members. The most
original contribution to the discussion came from Mr. HOLT, who
innocently inquired whether the Government would mind laying before
the House a statement of the harmful questions which had been asked.
Possibly he was thinking of the famous edition of MARTIAL in which all
epigrams of doubtful propriety were excluded from the main text and
collected in the appendix.
The SECRETARY for SCOTLAND, speaking at break-neck speed, managed to
give the House within the space of ten minutes an outline of the Bill
which he hopes will maintain for Scotland her primacy in education.
The new MUNRO doctrine did not, however, appeal to everybody, and
there were ominous cries of dissent when he announced his intention
of disestablishing the School Boards and putting the denominational
schools on the rates.
Lord RHONDDA listened from the Peers' Gallery to the debate on Food
Control, and received a quantity of advice which should help him to
mind his p's and q's, particularly the latter. His lieutenant, Mr.
CLYNES, improved the reputation that he has already acquired at
Question-time, and was able to bring a little personal experience
to bear upon the most vexed question of the day. "Members of my own
household," he said, "have stood in these queues, and I know something
of their hardships." That is why, no doubt, he has urged upon his
chief the formation of a Consumers' Council, to aid the Ministry in
its deliberations. Mr. TILLETT seized the opportunity to make his
maiden speech, and reminded the House that when they talked of queues
at home they should not forget those other queues in the trenches. For
the sake of the men who had lined up in our defence it was for us to
see that their wives and children got their proper supply of food.
_Tuesday, December 18th._--It was curious to hear Mr. LEES-SMITH, that
stickler for freedom of expression, complaining that a London paper
had published an article attacking M. CAILLAUX; and the House was
amused by Lord ROBERT CECIL'S suggestion that the hon. Member should
furnish him with ideas for the more stringent control of newspapers.
Mr. PETO was alarmed by an alleged increase in the export of footwear
to Switzerland, and particularly to villages on the German frontier.
He yields to none in his desire to give the KAISER the boot, but
not in any surreptitious manner. Lord WOLMER comforted him with the
statement that the bulk of the exports consisted of women's and
children's shoes, quite useless to the Germans until they get down
to their 1930 class.
The HOME SECRETARY announced an increase in the War-bonus to the
police from eight shillings to twelve shillings. With leather at its
present price it was good to hear that the Government had been mindful
of their extremities.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Coastguard_ (_rung up by the Military_). "NOT SO MUCH
OF YER 'ACK! ACK! AND YER OLD 'PIP EMMA!' LET'S 'AVE THE BLOOMIN'
MESSIGE."]
* * * * *
THE YOUNGEST GENERATION.
"What shall he have that killed the deer?" someone asks somebody else
in _As You Like It_. But there is a better question than that, and it
is this--"What shall they have that preserve the little dears?" and
the answer (if I can do anything to influence it) is--honour and
support; for there can be no doubt that in these critical times, when
the life of the best and bravest and strongest is so cheap, no duty is
more important than the cherishing of infancy.
At a _Creche_ in Notting Hill I watched, the other day, some of this
cherishing in progress, and it was a pleasant and stimulating sight.
The institution was in existence in a small way before the War, but it
has recently been enlarged and made scientific, to meet the greater
needs which the War has set up, and it is now able to act as foster
mother to seventy mites, from the age of one month to four years,
whose real mothers are for the most part engaged in war work. That is
a good piece of citizenship, is it not? And to watch it in being is an
education in those wonderful things to the eye of man--the solicitude
and patience and capability of woman. The noise alone, whether of
joy or of transitory grief, would drive most men frantic; but these
devoted souls, knowing that it is all part of the game, proceed with
an unearthly composure through it all--undressing their charges,
dressing them, washing them, feeding them, beguiling them; in a word,
tending them, from morning till evening.
The children begin to arrive, brought either by their mothers, their
"Little Mothers" (I mean sisters) or their brothers, between 8 and
9--some in arms and some in perambulators and some in go-carts; and
then they are immediately divested of their home clothes, popped
into warm baths three or four at a time, and dressed in the clothes
belonging to the _Creche_. For the rest of the day they wear these
clothes and sleep, eat, play and, when it amuses them more to do so,
cry, until the time comes to be put back into their own garments
and be taken away. By some strange instinct their relations, I am
informed, know them again, and very few mistakes occur; and so
gradually, in the neighbourhood of seven o'clock, peace descends on
this corner of Notting Hill once more.
The place is sheer Lilliputia: for everything is on a reduced scale.
Scores of little beds round the walls, with little pillows and little
coverlets; scores of little chairs; a long table so low that it seems
to be the footstool of a giant's wife, with little benches beside
it for their little meals. In the centre of the room are two little
pounds, with railings so close together as not to be crawled through,
where the more adventurous ones can be kept out of mischief in the
company of woolly toys; and outside is a loggia place with little
cradles for the babies who want more air to sleep in.
Such is the Stoneleigh Street Creche, and in order to realise what
admirable and desirable functions it fulfils--principally by voluntary
aid, for the capitation fee of half-a-crown a week is, of course,
quite insufficient to maintain it--one has only to imagine what the
lot of these helpless little creatures would be if they were left in
their motherless homes. Not only would they be far less happy but far
less healthy; and it is upon healthy babies that England's future must
be founded. If any reader of _Punch_, then, should be in doubt as to
what to do with a little surplus money, let the little requirements
of these little people be remembered. The address to which donations
should be sent is: The Secretary, Notting Hill Day Nursery, Stoneleigh
Street, Notting Hill, W.
* * * * *
INTERESTING EXAMPLE OF LONGEVITY?
"Richard ----, D.D., a member of the elder branch of the family,
was a contemporary and friend of Ben Jonson, and his portrait in
oils, by Romney, is now an heirloom."--_Provincial Paper_.
* * * * *
"The stationmaster was then kidnipped--he is a married
man."--_Standard_ (_Buenos Aires_).
Possibly henpecked as well.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "A SEASON FOR FRESH AIR AND ROOM TO
BREATHE."--_Quotation from one of the above Railway's
advertisements_.]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(_BY MR. PUNCH'S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERKS_.)
Those who like to read familiar letters--and I confess it is one
of my favourite literary distractions--will find matter very much
to their mind in _Some Hawarden Letters_ (NISBET), compiled by L.
MARCH-PHILLIPS and BERTRAM CHRISTIAN. It is a collection of letters
addressed to Miss MARY GLADSTONE before and after her marriage to Mr.
DREW. Sitting at the centre she seems to have held together her circle
by golden threads of confidence and intimacy. Here you will learn how
RUSKIN was brought to visit Hawarden, and how he entirely altered
his views on Mr. GLADSTONE, going so far as to suppress a number of
_Fors Clavigera_ in which slighting allusion had been made to him.
Here, too, you will find Lord ACTON, who deeply disapproved of Mr.
GLADSTONE'S conduct in paying a memorial tribute of respect and eulogy
to Lord BEACONSFIELD. ACTON'S list of the hundred best books (or,
to be strictly accurate, of ninety-nine of them) is also given. It
provides heavy reading for a hundred years at the very least. As a
set-off to this ponderosity there are the letters of BURNE-JONES,
fresh, amiable and delightful, as also those of Professor JAMES
STUART, which are among the best in the collection. Mr. A.J. BALFOUR
appears as the owner of four concertinas, on which he was willing "to
play with anyone who would accompany him through any of the oratorios
of Handel." RUSKIN writes to CARLYLE, addressing him as "Dearest
Papa," and signing himself "Ever your faithful and loving son." The
letters of GEORGE WYNDHAM are a charming collection, shining with hope
and idealism yet never losing their touch of the firm earth. This book
was nearly completed by the late Mr. MARCH PHILLIPS, and after his
untimely death the task was brought to a conclusion by Mr. CHRISTIAN.
On the whole the work has been done with great discretion, but there
is a passage relating to GEORGE ELIOT on pp. 193, 194 which ought to
have been omitted.
* * * * *
Miss MILLS YOUNG tells us that _John Musgrave_, the middle-aged hero
of _Coelebs_ (LANE), "was not a prig, but he came perilously near to
being one at times." Well, if anyone ought to know, it is his creator,
so I will accept her word for it, though for myself I should have
called him a first-class prig. The little village in which he lived
his bachelor existence was invaded by some up-to-date people who took
the Hall, and proceeded to liven up things. _Mrs. Chadwick_ freely
shocked the poor man; she smoked, was a reckless conversationalist and
had modern ideas, all which disturbed the decorous manner of his life.
Moreover, she had taken upon herself the heavy task of finding him
a wife, and _John's_ phlegmatic heart began to flutter when he saw
_Peggy_, her lady-gardener and niece, standing on a ladder, in blue
trousers. He was incensed by such apparel, but he was also intrigued.
From that moment his number, as they say, was up. Apart from a
dog-incident, which is far too prolonged, and some rather cheap
sarcasm at the expense of a wretched spinster, this tale of _John's_
conversion from something drier than dust to a human being is neatly
told. All the same I prefer Miss YOUNG'S South African stories.
* * * * *
My conjecture about _The Magic Gate_ (HUTCHINSON) is that its author,
MAUD STEPNEY RAWSON, found herself with two stories to choose from,
one of the Gate itself, and another of the romance of _Lydia_ and
_John Wodrush_. In my opinion she chose the wrong one. The history of
the _Wodrush_ elopement, compressed to a couple of pages, seems to me
far more original and interesting than the present rather unwieldy
tale. _The Magic Gate_ is a war-novel confessed, and I can only fancy
that the thronging new sensations of the past three years have proved
a little too much for Mrs. RAWSON'S sense of form. She is so anxious
that her heroine and her readers shall miss nothing of it all that in
the result the plot is lost in a maze of incidents that lead nowhere.
The effect produced on a small country society by the early phases
of the War is shown deftly enough. But perhaps posterity will find
in such a record a more compelling interest than we can to whom it
is still so familiar in every unforgettable detail. One other ground
of complaint I have against the book is that its most original and
attractive character, the American woman to whose generosity _Jennet_
owes her occupancy of Fullbrook Manor, is banished at an early page,
and submarined just when I was looking for her reappearance. Hers is
yet another story with which Mrs. RAWSON might have entertained me
better than by this of _The Magic Gate_, which I found a trifle creaky
on its hinges.
* * * * *
_Senlis_ (COLLINS) is one of the many places that have been
systematically destroyed by the Germans. It is difficult for anyone
who has not seen the results with his own eyes to realise the
business-like thoroughness which the Hun brings to this congenial
task. That a part (and the most beautiful) of the town still stands
does not imply that he yielded either to slackness or to aesthetic
refinement. True that Miss CICELY HAMILTON relates a pleasing story
that Senlis was saved from utter destruction by the entreaties of the
_cure_, but, all the same, I think the real reason why the Bosch did
not complete his work was that he was bundled out bag and baggage
before he had time to add the finishing touches. Miss HAMILTON clearly
and soberly states the case against him, and makes it all the more
damning by her frank recognition that many of the horrors of war,
whoever makes it, are inevitable. Her delightful account of Senlis
itself, admirably illustrated with photographs, is certain to
appeal to all lovers of the charm of old French towns; and the more
poignantly when they recall how narrowly the best of its beauty
escaped from the hand of the spoiler.
* * * * *
[Illustration: EPILOGUE]
* * * * *
MR. PUNCH AS PROPAGANDIST.
I don't know what decided him to do it. I think he must have been
a little fed up with our silly British way (rather attractive, all
the same) of assuming that the whole world is bound to recognise
the justice of our point of view without the use of propaganda to
stimulate its intelligence.
Or else he had read somewhere that the Bolsheviks had been flooding
the Hun trenches with Socialist literature and that the German
Headquarters Staff had protested against this kind of thing as being
contrary to etiquette, and he thought he couldn't go far wrong if he
did something that was contrary to Bosch etiquette.
Anyhow he started off in his Bouverie biplane to distribute a million
or so leaflets of his own composition over the whole expanse of the
Fatherland. It has been my privilege to read a sample which he handed
to me just before leaving earth. It runs as follows:--
"GERMANS--Your Kaiser has taken good care that his Press should keep
you in ignorance of the feelings with which your nation is regarded
by the civilized world. I am therefore about to oblige you with a few
home-truths.
"You have probably heard a rumour that we and our Allies have no
quarrel with the German people, but only with its rulers. Don't you
believe a word of it. Possibly we still respected you when the War
began, for we had not guessed how many of you had been looking forward
for years to the coming of 'The Day.' It is what we have found out
about you since you started fighting that has made us loathe and
despise you.
"When, as a nation, you accepted without protest the filthy savagery
of your armies in Belgium and other occupied lands; when even your
women were vile in their cruelty to the helpless prisoners you had
taken; when you rang your church bells and waved flags and took
holidays for joy of the murder of innocent women and children, we were
not deceived by apologists who explained that your only defect was
that you were the slaves of a brutal militarism (though you were that,
all right). We knew that you must have something of the beast in your
hearts. How it got there was another matter; we only knew that it was
there and that while it remained you were not fit for intercourse with
decent men.