Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 153, July 25, 1917 by Various
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 153, July 25, 1917
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"... Mr. Lloyd George, on whom, by devious paths, has
descended the mantle of Lord Rosebery."--_Daily Express._
Including the PRIMROSE path, we presume.
* * * * *
PETHERTON'S PEDIGREE.
A stroke of luck enabled me to open an interesting little
correspondence with my genial neighbour, Petherton, which resulted in
one of those delightful passages-of-arms in which Petherton, at least,
excels.
DEAR MR. PETHERTON (I began),--I have made a discovery which
will, I am sure, interest you, though I am uncertain whether
it will be as pleasing to you as to myself.
During certain research work at the Record Office I came
across incontrovertible evidence that we are in some
way related through a Petherton in the early part of the
eighteenth century (_tempus_ GEORGE II.) being sufficiently
far-seeing to contract a marriage with a Fordyce. This
Petherton, by name Edward, lived at Kirkby Lonsdale, and his
wife, Emily Jane Fordyce, at Dent, in the same district.
I haven't a family tree by me, but know the late-lamented
Emily Jane by name. She was part of the issue of one Henry
Fordyce, who is in the direct line, absolutely non-stop,
without changing, from the earliest known Fordyce to myself.
What a field for speculation is here opened up! With your
scientific bent you will grasp the possibilities of the
hereditary influence of my family on yours, supposing Edward
Petherton to be a direct ancestor of your own. To me the
unexpected result of my researches will give an added interest
to our correspondence, and I await with eagerness your views
as to the value and interest of my discovery.
Your kinsman,
HENRY J. FORDYCE.
Petherton cried "Touche" at once, and lunged at me in accordance with
my plan of campaign.
SIR (he spluttered),--As a very busy man I must protest
against your attempt to distract my attention by writing to me
on a matter that is of no importance. That your discovery is
of a somewhat disconcerting nature I will not deny, but that
it is of any particular value or interest to me is hardly to
be expected, seeing that it relates to a by-gone century, and
any defects acquired by the Pethertons from such a union will,
I imagine, have been overcome by now.
The Fordyces were apparently a more attractive race in the
eighteenth than in the twentieth century. I can scarcely
imagine a present-day Petherton contracting such a
_mesalliance_.
A direct ancestor of mine, Edward Petherton, as I see by the
Family Bible in my possession, was born in 1699, married in
1728, and lived at Kirkby Lonsdale. His wife's name is not
stated, but I can the more readily believe that he is the
misguided individual to whom you refer, as he died in 1729, no
doubt as the result of his rash act. His son, Primus Postumus
Petherton, born, as his second name suggests, after his
father's death, carried on the line. Any possible virtues or
talents my family may possess are not, I am certain, from the
distaff side of this union.
Yours faithfully,
FREDERICK PETHERTON.
I made a thrust in tierce:--
DEAR COUSIN FRED,--What a mine of information you are! I touch
a spring and out comes Primus Postumus Petherton. The name
conjures up visions of grey church towers, monumental urns
and the eulogies in verse beloved of Georgian poets. I wonder
whether Possy was a great letter-writer and kept poultry.
By the way, what a lot of good things begin with a "P," and,
talking of poultry, I notice yours are laying, or should be.
They are certainly in full song these mornings.
I'm so glad that you're so glad that I'm a relation. When I
was at the Record Office again yesterday I searched for more
information about my new-found relatives. In fact I dug up
the Petherton allotment thoroughly and unearthed Priscilla
and Anne, both of CHARLES I.'s time, and Marmaduke of the
Restoration.
I couldn't exhume a complete family tree, or no doubt I should
have found all these worthies hanging on their respective
branches, though Marmaduke might have dropped off, as he
appears to have been a bit over-ripe from what I could gather
from the records.
How are the Food Regulations suiting you? Judging from your
last letter I'm afraid you are not taking enough starch.
Of course I know it's gone up fearfully in price lately.
Personally I've taken to wearing soft collars.
Your affectionate Cousin, H.F.
Aren't you pleased that potatoes have come in again? (Another
good thing beginning with a P.)
Petherton ground his teeth for a last bout, and bade me come on.
SIR (he wrote),--I'm glad you've taken to soft collars. They
will suit your soft head. As for food, I'm afraid you're not
taking enough arsenic. A slight touch of relationship to my
family has evidently turned your brain. I cannot say how
sorry I am that you should have discovered the one flaw in
my pedigree.
Yours faithfully,
FREDERICK PETHERTON.
I gave him one last little tweak under the ribs:--
DEAR OLD BOY,--Just a hurried line to say that all is forgiven
and forgotten. The family feud (there must have been one, I'm
certain) which has kept the Pethertons and the Fordyces apart
for the last couple of centuries is a thing of the past, now
that we two understand each other so thoroughly. I am only
sorry I did not discover the strawberry mark on your left arm
earlier, that I might the sooner have subscribed myself.
Your long lost HARRY.
This either disarmed him or he threw away his weapon in disgust.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _British Tar_ (_confidentially to lady friend_). "SHE'S
SUNK ALL RIGHT."]
* * * * *
"Other houses have a good many books which have come down
from posterity, mostly in odd volumes."--_"Claudius Clear"
in "The British Weekly."_
Some of those that we bequeath to our ancestors will be quite as odd.
* * * * *
It is rumoured that during the period of food-control a well-known
Soho restaurant intends to change its name to the "Rhondda-vous."
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Busy City-man to his Partner_ (_as one of the new
air-raid warnings gets to work_). "IF YOU'LL LEAVE ME IN HERE FOR THE
WARNINGS I'LL CARRY ON WHILE YOU TAKE SHELTER DURING THE RAIDS."]
* * * * *
THE LITTLE THINGS.
I used to be a peaceful chap as didn't ask for trouble,
An' as for rows an' fightin', why, I'd mostly rather not,
But now I'd charge an army single-'anded at the double,
An' it's all along o' little things I've learned to feel so 'ot.
It's 'orrid seein' burnin' farms, which I 'ave often seen 'ere,
An' fields all stinks an' shell-'oles, an' the dead among the flowers,
But the thing I've 'ated seein' all the bloomin' time I've been 'ere
Is the little gardens rooted up--the same as might be ours
It's bad to see the chattos--which means castles--gone to ruins,
And big cathedrals knocked to bits as used to look that fine,
But what puts me in a paddy more than all them sort o' doin's
Is the little 'ouses all in 'eaps--the same as might be mine.
An' when the what's-it line is bust an' we go rompin' through it,
An' knock the lid off Potsdam an' the KAYSER off 'is throne,
Why, what'll get our monkey up an' give us 'eart to do it?
Just thinkin' o' them little things as might 'ave been our own
(An' most of all the little kids as might 'ave been our own)!
C.F.S.
* * * * *
GOIN' BACK.
I'm goin' back to Blighty and a free-an' easy life,
But I grant it ain't the Blighty of me pals:
They takes the Tube to Putney, to the kiddies and the wife,
Or takes the air on 'Ampstead with their gals;
My little bit o' Blighty is the 'ighway,
With the sweet gorse smellin' in the sun;
And the 'eather 'ot and dry, where a tired man may lie
When the long day's done.
There's picture-'alls in 'Ammersmith to suit them mates o' mine;
There's beer and 'addock suppers and cigars;
But I guess I'd sooner slog it where there's jest the scent o' pine
And over'ead an 'eap o' little stars;
The lights o' Charin' Cross and Piccadilly,
I'd swop 'em for the silver of the streams,
When the summer moon is lit and the bats begin to flit
And the dark earth dreams.
I'm goin' back to Blighty, to the little lonesome lanes,
The dog-rose and the foxglove and the ferns,
The sleepy country 'orses and the jolty country wains
And the kindly faces every way you turns;
My little bit o' Blighty is the 'ighway,
With the sweet gorse smellin' in the sun;
And the 'eather good and deep where a tired man may sleep
When the long day's done.
* * * * *
[Illustration: LONG LIVE THE HOUSE OF WINDSOR!]
* * * * *
ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.
_Monday, July 16th_.--In the course of a discussion on "rope"
in War-bread Mr. THORNE accused the West-End bakeries of mixing
white flour with the "G.R." variety, and so supplying their
wealthy customers with better bread than is procurable by his own
constituents. Although no official confirmation of this charge was
forthcoming Mr. THORNE appeared to be convinced of its accuracy. In
his opinion the Government, following the historic example of PHARAOH,
should give the bread to the people and the rope to the bakers.
It might not be accurate to say that in the matter of beer the
Irishman wants but little here below, but he certainly wants that
little strong; and being, in spite of a popular impression to the
contrary, a seriously-minded person, he resents any reduction of his
gravity. Mr. BRIDGEMAN'S gentle reminder that no Irish brewer need
avail himself of the new regulations unless he pleases quite failed
to satisfy the Nationalists that a new item had not been added to
Ireland's catalogue of grievances.
_Tuesday, July 17th_.--For some weeks Mr. GINNELL has been absent from
his place. No one has gone so far as to suggest that the Roll of the
House should be called in order to bring back the hon. Member to his
Parliamentary duties. But considerable curiosity was aroused by his
recent statement that he proposed to make one more appearance at
Westminster before retiring permanently to Ireland to watch over
the growth of the Sinn Fein Republic. To-day was the day. Question
45, "Mr. Ginnell, to ask the Prime Minister, &c., &c.," was eagerly
awaited. There was no saying that the hon. Member, if dissatisfied
with the reply, would not hurl the Mace at the CHANCELLOR OF THE
EXCHEQUER, so as to ensure a properly dramatic exit. At last No. 45
was reached; but Mr. GINNELL was not there to put it. Once more the
Saxon intellect had been too slow to keep up with the swift processes
of the Celtic cerebellum. Mr. GINNELL has on more than one occasion
made what his compatriots call a "holy show" of himself; but he
refuses to do this sort of thing to order.
[Illustration: THE EMPTY SEAT.
MR. PUNCH DROPS A SILENT TEAR AT THE DEPARTURE OF ONE OF HIS BEST
PUPPETS.]
Mr. HOUSTON is still harping upon the CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER'S
recent confession of his ship-owning gains, and laboured hard this
afternoon to convince the Committee that shipowners in general were
in no sense profiteers. He failed, however, to avert the wrath of
Mr. DENNISS, who declared that if, after what had been revealed, any
shipowner was made a peer, he should move to abolish the peerage.
This day the KING in Council decreed that the Royal House should
forthwith abandon all German titles and be known henceforth as
the House of Windsor. No one will be better pleased than Mr. SWIFT
MACNEILL, who for months past has been unsparing in his efforts
to purge the Upper House of enemy peers, and to-night had the
satisfaction of seeing a Bill for that purpose read a second time. His
prophecy that such a measure could be passed in three minutes was not
quite borne out; but that was chiefly because the hon. Member himself
occupied a quarter-of-an-hour in complaining of the Government's delay
in introducing it.
_Wednesday, July 18th_.--Sir HENRY DALZIEL has been labouring under
the delusion that the R.N.A.S. and the R.F.C. are so mortally afraid
of trespassing upon one another's aerial preserves that the former
will not attack an enemy plane travelling over land, or the latter
over sea. Dr. MACNAMARA for the Navy, and Mr. MACPHERSON for the Army,
informed him that there was no truth in the suggestion; but Colonel
CLAUDE LOWTHER, remembering that there were once Two Macs who
delighted in spoofing their audiences, refused to be comforted until
categorically assured that between R.N.A.S. and R.F.C. there is
"sufficient cohesion."
[Illustration: LORD HARDINGE'S CHAMPION.
MR. BALFOUR LETS OUT.]
This was BALFOUR's day. Never since he gave up the Leadership of the
Unionist Party six years ago has he more completely dominated the
scene. Mr. BONAR LAW had announced that the Government had on third
thoughts decided not to set up a new tribunal to try the persons
affected by the Mesopotamia Report. The military officers would be
dealt with by the Army Council. As for Lord HARDINGE, the Government,
"on the representations of the FOREIGN SECRETARY," had again refused
his proffered resignation. If any Members disapproved, let them
propose a Vote of Censure or move the adjournment.
It was perhaps fortunate for the Government that Mr. DILLON accepted
the challenge. During the War the Member for East Mayo has lost such
authority in the House as he once possessed. Criticism on the conduct
of the campaign from one who boasts that he has never stood upon a
recruiting platform lacks sincerity. Mr. BALFOUR, always at his best
when defending a friend, laid about him lustily, and convinced the
majority of the House, not very friendly at the outset, that it would
be an act of gross injustice to remove a great public servant because
the Commission--on whose evidence, without further inquiry, you could
not hang a cat--had reported adversely on his conduct in an entirely
different capacity.
To add to the force of this appeal came Sir HEDWORTH MEUX'S striking
testimonial--"I have known Lord Hardinge from a boy." After that,
small wonder that the House rejected Mr. Dillon's motion by 176 to 81.
_Thursday, July 19th._--The only thing that keeps Mr. Reddy at
Westminster is his delight in acting as Chorus to Major Pretyman
Newman. Whenever the hon. and gallant Member asks a question Mr.
Reddy, in a piping voice of remarkable carrying power, immediately
puts another, designed to throw doubt upon his personal prowess or
his military capacity. Major Newman had several Questions on the Paper
this afternoon, and, as he had just announced the withdrawal of his
valuable support from a Government so lost to all sense of propriety
as to welcome Messrs. Churchill and Montagu to its fold, Mr. Reddy's
comments were awaited with pleasurable anticipation.
Alas! for once he was not in his place. Even when Major Newman
elicited the damning information that some members of the Dublin
Metropolitan Police occasionally employ a German barber there was
no penetrating voice from the back benches to ask, "Why doesn't the
honourable Mimber go and shave them himself?"
Mr. Jowett wants the Home Secretary to withdraw the permission he gave
some time ago "to employ women on the night-turn in wool-combing."
Several much-married Members are afraid that whatever he may decide
the objectionable practice will continue.
* * * * *
SCOTLAND FOR EVER.
They came from untamable highlands,
From glens where their fathers were free,
From misty and mountainous islands
Set fast in the throat of the sea;
They fought for the honour of Britain;
They died in defence of the right;
Their deeds are in history written
In letters of light.
They fell where the Ganges is flowing;
They lie 'neath the Russian Redan;
Their dust o'er the desert is blowing
In the whirlwinds of far Kordofan;
The sons of Glen Orchy and Rannoch
Sleep sound by the slow-moving Scheldt,
And the bones of the men of Loch Fannich
Are white on the veldt.
But the Lows and Lochmaben and Gairloch
Still march to the battle array,
And the fighters from many a fair loch,
Like their fathers, leap forth to the fray;
Red flame tears the darkness asunder
Where the curtain of battle is drawn,
Where the clansmen through death-cloud and thunder
Go over at dawn.
In the strength of the hills and the heather,
With the salt of the sea in their blood,
They sweep from the trenches together
With the force of an onrushing flood;
Like the billows that beat upon Moidart
When gales from the Hobrides blow,
Like a storm on the mountains of Knoidart
They burst on the foe.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Hairdresser_ (_with a view to business--to customer,
who is getting rapidly bald_). "There are plenty of hairdressers, you
know, Sir, who profess to make a wig; but, when you've got it on, it
looks nothing like a wig at all, Sir."]
* * * * *
A film-drama:--
"It is the story of the poor orphan daughter of a South
American aristocrat. She has become enamoured of a tradesman's
son, but misapprehension having arisen, she becomes engaged
to a man who apparently is well endowed with this world's
foods."--_Leicester Daily Mercury._
In these times, who can wonder at her choice?
* * * * *
From an article on the Royal Lineage:--
"After the extinction of the Billing Family...."--_Daily
Telegraph_.
A correspondent, writing upon House of Commons' notepaper, assures us
that the above passage is a gross exaggeration.
* * * * *
"Charlie D. (Westminster).--We answer you in the words of
Cassius, 'A plague of both your houses.'"--_Town Topics_.
Were not the words those of _Mercutio_ when he had failed to set up a
Business Government in Verona?
* * * * *
"Apply weed-killers to garden walks and drives, using every
precaution against domestic fowls and other bird-eating
worms."--_Irish Gardening_.
Very careless of St. Patrick to leave these ornithophagous reptiles at
large.
* * * * *
"Wanted, Few Men to travel with Hobby Horses.--Apply Murphy's
Steam Galloping Horses, Abbeyleix, Queen's Co."--_Irish
Independent_.
Now we understand Mr. Ginnell's sudden decision to quit Westminster.
* * * * *
THE TAP-ROOM.
Our Reserve Battalion has a billiard-room, which is well patronised
by all those cheerful souls who have escaped from France without
permanent injury and resignedly await the second call.
To-night the "Tap-room" is in top form. A four-handed game of snooker
is in as rapid progress as is reasonably possible. Every easy-chair
is filled with a would-be player offering gratuitous advice in order
to speed things up. A young war-scarred Captain is balanced on a
rickety side-table, offering odds on the game in a raucous voice.
The Mess-waiter strives to be in three places at once. Through all,
the players, totally unnerved, play with a desperate attempt at
concentration.
Suddenly the door opens, and the Colonel enters, heated and out of
breath. His eye pierces through the tobacco smoke and transfixes the
unhappy bookmaker. He requests him to take advantage of his position
to open a window. The players examine the tips of their cues in sudden
silence. The Colonel refuses the offer of six vacated chairs with a
slightly impatient negative and inquires as to the probable length
of the game. He accepts the obvious untruth that it has just ended,
smiles with satisfaction, and proposes to the Adjutant a game of one
hundred up.
The Colonel, after examining the cues with marked disapproval,
eventually selects one of short length and pronounced weight. He
then appropriates for his sole personal use the only piece of chalk,
demands the spot ball, places it in position, and endeavours to cast
his opponent's ball into a baulk pocket with a rapid back-hander. The
Adjutant sprints round the table in pursuit.
The Colonel next addresses his own ball and propels it violently
against the red, which, taken completely by surprise, bounds with a
strong resilience from the top cushion, courses twice up and down the
table and comes to a pause in the neighbourhood of the middle pocket.
The Colonel tests the elasticity of the cushion with his thumb and
gives way a foot to enable his opponent to begin a neat break of
twenty-seven.
The Colonel, finding time hanging heavily on his hands, devotes this
period to filling his pipe from a borrowed pouch; he then tramps
determinedly back to the table and is about to pocket the red from
a point of considerable vantage, when the Adjutant deferentially
suggests that he is about to play with the wrong ball. The Colonel
immediately strides round the table to where his command is clinging
to the cushion, lifts the ball to convince himself that there is a
spot on its surface, plants it back in a slightly more favourable
position, and with one thrust of his cue projects it into open
country. He then leaves the table without awaiting the result and
resumes his pipe.
The Adjutant now compiles a fifteen break, pauses, notices the
Colonel's inattention, and with typical lack of true discipline
pots his opponent's ball and leaves the others in baulk. A horrified
silence ensues. The Colonel, without noticing the delicacy of the
situation, playfully slopes his "hipe" and marches back to the table.
The awful truth is instantly laid bare. The colour of his face becomes
of an imperial shade. He dumbly fumbles for his ball, which, with a
last bid for exemption, eludes his fingers and rolls under the table.
Taking advantage of this the Colonel, with one glance of concentrated
hate in the direction of his opponent, grapples with his choler, and
by the time that his ball is returned under escort, has partially
recovered himself. He is determined to show to his subalterns the
value of coolness in an emergency. He places his ball with infinite
care and walks round the table to examine the position from every
point of view. His next move is to mark out elaborate angles with
the assistance of chalk marks on the cushions. Having finally formed
all his plans, he encourages his artillery with a few more rounds of
chalk, approaches the field with studied and dignified calm, delivers
his attack, and retires to watch the effect from his O. Pip.
His command, flying desperately across the open, loses direction,
blunders hopelessly into an obstruction on the flank, retires in
confusion, and makes a blind despairing dash for a shell-crater.
Missing this by a fraction it loses all interest in life, wanders
pitifully off at an unnatural angle, runs into the hostile force of
the Adjutant, and comes finally into contact with the red.
The Colonel hastens to remark to the enthusiastic audience that this
cannon only proves the possibilities of the noble game when accuracy
is achieved. It is calculated to improve their marksmanship, to teach
them to grasp an opportunity, to apply their tactical training, and to
render them cool in the hour of crisis.
Inspired by this truth he attempts to pull off an awkward losing
hazard. This effort is ruined by an appalling miscue which affects the
new cloth. The Colonel justly blames the chalk, removes the pet-dog
of the battalion from his path with his foot, and makes for the
scoring-board. The volunteer marker inadvertently puts the Colonel's
modest score on to the large total of the Adjutant.
At this critical moment an orderly fortunately arrives with a note
from the Brigade office. The Colonel secures the missive, tears the
envelope to shreds, runs his eye over the trivial contents, and
curses the War. He then assumes an air of enormous importance, excuses
himself, and stamps out into the night.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Ancient Heroine_. "IT'S BEEN A TRYIN' TIME FOR ME,
MRS. BLOGGS. MY SAVIN'S-BANK BOOK WAS UP IN LUNNON ALL THROUGH THE
AIR-RAID."]
* * * * *
"It may be the bravery of ignorance that induces us to take
this point of view, but the locality excuses ignorance to
some extent, and the bravery still exists: Ovid has a line
that might be learnt with advantage by our readers--
"'Falliker augurio, spes bona saepe sus.'"--_Nigerian Pioneer_.