Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 153, Nov. 28, 1917 by Various
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 153, Nov. 28, 1917
Pouring though it was, and grovelling admirer of footlight favourites as
I am, somehow I never thought to offer either of them my umbrella. But
then one doesn't offer an umbrella to a donkey or a camel, even though
they are two of the stars of _Chu Chin Chow_.
* * * * *
ANOTHER INJUSTICE.
From a Sinn Fein speech:--
"When Ireland was silent England did not hear her cry
out."--_Wicklow News-Letter_.
* * * * *
"WHY SHOULD A RABBIT COST 2s. 3d.?
"This question from a reader induces me to postpone until next week
my analysis of the high cost of onions."--_Empire News_.
On the principle that it is better to make sure of the rabbit before
arranging about the stuffing.
* * * * *
"Stockholm, Tuesday.
"News from Finland shows that the Socialist leaders have lost control
of the workmen, and all kinds of excesses are taking place. The
present Commandant at Tornea was a sailor, the head of the
passport office was a tailor, and the chief telegraphic censor a
tinker."--_Central News_.
We miss the soldier, to say nothing of "apothecary, ploughboy, thief."
* * * * *
"Scholars and tragedians between them seem to have appropriated
the right to keep Shakespeare's memory green. But there are other
Richmonds in the field, humble Richmonds, not well read ... John of
Gaunt, crying that his England 'never did nor never shall lie at the
proud foot of a conqueror....'"--_The Times_.
The writer who thus deprived the _Bastard_ in _King John_ of his famous
lines was, we infer, one of the "other Richmonds."
* * * * *
SUGAR.
AN ELEGIAC ODE.
Queen of the palate! Universal Sweet!
Gastronomy's delectable Gioconda!
Since with submission loyally I greet
And follow out the regimen of RHONDDA,
I cannot be considered indiscreet
If I essay, but never go beyond, a
Brief elegiac tribute to a sway
By sterner needs now largely swept away.
Thy candy soothes the infant in its pram;
Thou addest mellowness to old brown sherry;
Thou glorifiest marmalade, on Cam
And Isis making breakfast-tables merry;
Thou lendest magic to the meanest jam
Compounded of the most insipid berry;
And canst convert the sourest crabs and quinces
To jellies fit for epicures and princes.
Thou charmest unalloyed, in loaf or lumps
Or crystals; brown and moist, or white and pounded;
I never was so deeply in the dumps
That, once thy fount of sweetness I had sounded,
Courage returned not; even with the mumps
I still could view with gratitude unbounded
The navigators of heroic Spain
Who found the New World--and the sugar-cane.
Sprinkled on buttered bread thou dost excite
In human boys insatiable cravings;
On Turkish (I regret to say) Delight
Thou lurest them to dissipate their savings,
Instead of banking them, or sitting tight,
Or buying useful books and good engravings;
And lastly, mixed with strawberries and cream,
Thou art more than a dish, thou art a dream.
Before necessity, that knows no ruth,
Ordained thy frugal use in tea and coffee,
Some Stoics banned thee--men who in their youth
Showed an unnatural dislike of toffee;
For sweetness charms the normal human tooth,
Sweetness inspires the singer's tenderest strophe,
Since old LUCRETIUS musically chid
The curse of life--_amari aliquid_.
_Eau sucree_, I admit, is rather tame
Compared with beer or whisky blent with soda;
But gallant Frenchmen, experts at this game,
Commend it highly either as a _coda_
Or prelude to their meals, and much the same
Is sherbet, which the Gaekwar of Baroda
And other Oriental satraps quaff
In preference to ale or half-and-half.
Nor must I fail, O potent saccharin!
Thou chemic offspring of by-products coaly,
Late comer on the culinary scene,
To hail thy aid, although it may be lowly
Even compared with beet; for thou hast been
Employed in sweetening my roly-poly--
Thou whom I once regarded as a dose
And now the active rival of glucose!
But still I hear some jaundiced critic say,
Some rigid self-appointed _censor morum_,
"Why harp upon the pleasures of a day
When freely sweetened was each cup and jorum,
Ere stern controllers had begun to stay
The genial outflow of the _fons leporum?_
Now sugar's scarce, and we must do without it,
Why let regretful fancy play about it?"
True, yet it greatly goes against the grain,
Unless one has the patience of Ulysses,
Wholly and resolutely to refrain
From dwelling on the memory of past blisses;
Forbidden fruits allure the strong and sane;
Joys loved but lost are what one chiefly misses;
This is my best excuse if I deplore
"So sad, so _sweet_, the days that are no more."
* * * * *
'TATERS.
SCENE: _At "The Plough and Horses_."
"You seen Parson lately, George?"
"Not lately I ain't, Luther."
"Not since 'is 'taters be out o' ground?"
"No. Finest crop in village, some do say."
"That be right--sev'ral ton of 'em there be."
"What to goodness do 'e want 'em all for, then? 'Im an' 's wife an' a
maid 'll never eat all them 'taters."
"I'll tell you what 'e says to me, for 'appen 'e'll say it to you,
George, when 'e comes acrost you next. 'E says to me, 'I've growed
as many potatoes as I've had strength to grow, an' they've prospered
exceedin'ly,' 'e says, 'thank God! So if any deservin' folk in my parish
gets through wi' their own crop an' wants more later on they 'as only to
come to me, for I've growed more 'an my 'ouse'old 'll eat if they was to
eat all day.'"
"'E be proud o' that?"
"Fine an' proud 'e be."
"An' yet it be some'at unfort'nate too. For all of us as is left in this
'ere parish 'as growed as many 'taters as they'll be like to need, same
as 'e. So I don't see nought but disappointment for Parson an' a lot o'
good 'taters lyin' to rot in their pies."
"Some there be too fond o' Parson to let that 'appen. Me an' my wife
be sendin' few of ours to London ev'ry week or so. So in due season we
shall be free to go to Parson an' 'elp 'im through wi' 'is, same as 'e
wants us to. I 'ears as others is doin' some'at the same as us--fear is
as too many'll tumble to the idea, which is why I'd 'ave you keep it
fro' goin' further, George."
"Silent as th' grave I'll be. So you're givin' your 'taters 'way to
please Parson? Yet I do allus say as 'taters what a man grows wi' sweat
of 'is own brow do beat all others in t' eatin'."
"That may be; but us can't afford to be so mighty pernickerty in time o'
war. Nor we ain't givin' nothin 'way in manner o' speakin'. Fair market
price they gives for 'em in London. So it be somethin' in 'and in these
'ard times as well as savin' Parson from a bitter disappointment what 'e
ain't done nothin' to deserve, so far as I can see."
* * * * *
"Two organ grinders, aged 23 and 16, were taken to Charing Cross
Hospital to-day with bad injuries and severe shock, the result of a
barrel organ getting out of control in Rosebery-avenue."--_Evening
Paper_.
They should try a less dangerous instrument next time.
* * * * *
"'Seed potatoes' means potatoes grown in Scotland or Ireland in the
year 1917, or grown in England or Wales in the year 1917 from seed
grown in Scotland or Ireland in the year 1916, which will pass
through a riddle having a 1-5/8-in. mesh, and will not pass through
a riddle having a 1-5/8-in. mesh."--_Journal of the Board of
Agriculture_.
We ourselves cannot get through any riddle of this kind.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Sergeant (instructing squad of volunteers in physical
drill)._ "THIS 'ERE HEXERCISE IS INTENDED TO 'ARDEN THE MUSCLES OF
THE STUMMICK AND MAKE IT HIMPERVIOUS TO GERMAN BULLETS HIN CASE OF
HINVASION."]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
_(By Mr, Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)_
It is difficult within the ordinary limits of a review in these columns
to say all that one feels or even to express adequately one's gratitude
after reading the two volumes of Lord MORLEY'S generous and delightful
_Recollections_ (MACMILLAN). I seem to have been sitting with him in a
large and comfortable library while the great Viscount rolled me out his
mind, now breaking out into a glowing eulogy of GEORGE MEREDITH, JOSEPH
CHAMBERLAIN or LESLIE STEPHEN, or again dashing off with a few firm and
skilful strokes a portrait of JOHN MILL or HERBERT SPENCER, or some
other intellectual giant of that nineteenth century which Lord MORLEY
nobly defends and of which he himself was _grande decus columenque_. The
book is crammed with passages that arouse and maintain pleasure in
the reader and clamour for quotation on the part of the reviewer.
"Meredith," we are told, "who did not know Mill in person, once spoke to
me of him, with the confident intuition proper to imaginative genius, as
partaking of the Spinster. Disraeli, when Mill made an early speech in
Parliament, raised his eye-glass and murmured to a neighbour on the
bench, 'Ah, the Finishing Governess.'" Or we are introduced to SPENCER
at MILL'S table: "The host said to him at dessert that Grote, who was
present, would like to hear him explain one or more of his views about
the equilibration of molecules in some relation or other. Spencer, after
an instant of good-natured hesitation, complied with unbroken fluency
for a quarter-of-an-hour or more. Grote followed every word intently,
and in the end expressed himself as well satisfied. Mill, as we moved
off into the drawing-room, declared to me his admiration of a wonderful
piece of lucid exposition. Fawcett, in a whisper, asked me if I
understood a word of it, for he did not. Luckily I had no time to
answer." Or again: "Another contributor [to _The Saturday Review_]
was the important man who became Lord SALISBURY. He and I were alone
together in the editorial anteroom every Tuesday morning, awaiting our
commissions, but he too had a talent for silence, and we exchanged no
words, either now or on any future occasion." How charming a picture
is this of two shy British publicists maintaining towards one another,
against every possible discouragement, an inviolable silence. Not even
the weather could tempt them to break it. Yet the great characteristic
of this book is the large-hearted tolerance of comment and judgment
which makes it emphatically a friendly book. As such I commend it with
all the warmth in my power.
* * * * *
For her new story, _Missing_ (COLLINS), Mrs. HUMPHRY WARD has used her
knowledge, already proved elsewhere, of two settings, the English Lakes
and a Base Hospital somewhere in France. Also perhaps her knowledge
of human nature, though I like to think that there are not many elder
sisters so calculatingly callous as _Bridget_. The bother about her
was that she sadly wanted her attractive younger sister to marry a
sufficient establishment, not, I fear, from wholly altruistic motives.
So she was not altogether sorry when the impecunious soldier-husband,
whom _Nelly_ had personally preferred, was reported missing, thus
leaving that to chance once again open. Then, just as her plans seemed
to be prospering, word came secretly to her that there was a man
shattered and with memory lost in a base hospital who might possibly be
the brother-in-law whom she so emphatically didn't want. What happens
upon this you shall find out for yourself. Mrs. HUMPHRY WARD, as you
will notice, has no fear of a dramatic, even melodramatic, situation;
handles it, indeed, with a skill that the most popular might envy.
Thence onwards the story, perhaps a trifle slow in starting, gathers
force. The two visits to the camp at X---- (a very thin disguise for a
place that no Englishman of our time will ever forget) are admirably
vivid; the last chapters especially being as moving as anything that
Mrs. WARD has given us, whether in her popular, profound or propagandist
manner.
* * * * *
Lately, Mr. E.F. BENSON seems to have been devoting himself almost
wholly to chronicling the short and simple annals of the middle-aged.
With one exception, all his recent protagonists have been, if not
exactly in the sere and yellow, at least ripely mature. So that such
a title as that of his latest novel, _An Autumn Solving_ (COLLINS),
produced in me rather a feeling of familiar expectancy than of surprise.
Also when the wrapper artist clothes a volume with a picture of an
elderly gentleman obviously giving up an attractive young woman of
perhaps one-third his years it is idle to pretend that the contents
retain all the thrill of the unforeseen. Having said so much, I can let
myself go in praise (as how often before) of those qualities of insight
and gently sub-acid humour that make a BENSON novel an interlude of pure
enjoyment to the "jaded reviewer." In case the indiscreet cover may
happily have been removed before the volume reaches your hands, I do not
propose to give away the plot in any detail. The autumn sowing of course
produces a crop not exactly of wild oats, but of romantic tares that
springs in the hitherto barren heart of one _Keeling_, prosperous
tradesman, husband, father, mayor, public benefactor and baronet,
by reason of the too sympathetic damsel who types his letters and
catalogues his library. That library shows Mr. BENSON'S genius;
without it I should hardly have been able to believe in the subsequent
happenings, but, given this "secret garden," all the tragedy is
explained. I have left myself no space in which to do justice to some
admirable characterization. _Keeling's_ wife is worthy of a place in the
author's long gallery of woolly-witted matrons; while in _Silverdale_ he
has given a study of clerical futility and egotism almost savage in its
detestability, a portrait at which one laughs and shudders together. Of
course the book will have, and deserve, a huge welcome.
* * * * *
The union of scholarship and sympathy, enthusiasm and eloquence, is
rare; yet these qualities are to be found in perfect harmony in the
stately volume on the poets' poet which has just been published under
the style, on the cover, _Life of John Keats_, and on the title-page,
_John Keats, His Life and Poetry, His Friends, Critics and After-Fame_
(MACMILLAN)--a volume upon which Sir SIDNEY COLVIN has been engaged ever
since his retirement from the Print Room of the British Museum, and may
be said to have been preparing to write all his days, ever since, as a
boy, he first opened the "magic casement." A book representing so long
and ardent a devotion, and written by one whose loyalties have always
been so cordially sustained and acknowledged, could not but glow; and it
is its warmth of feeling which, to my mind, peculiarly marks this very
distinguished work. It is more than a life; it is a "companion" to KEATS
so complete and understanding that one can with confidence apply to it
the abused word, "definitive." Critical essays on the poet no doubt will
continue to appear, but this is the last biographical monument likely to
be raised to him.
* * * * *
Your enjoyment of _The Head of the Family_ (METHUEN) may in a measure
depend upon your capacity to appreciate _William Linkhorn_ and the glory
of his "great flaming beard." To me, unhappily, _William_ was an uncouth
rustic, just that and very little else; but he possessed some mysterious
attraction for women; so, at any rate, Mrs. HENRY DUDENEY tells
me, though she does not explain to my satisfaction what it was.
_Phoebe-Louisa_ married him partly because she wanted a man to help in
her greengrocery; but what charm he had for her soon waned, and she
smote hard when she caught him philandering with _Beausire Fillery_. It
was all the lady's fault; _William_ had, so to speak, only to wave his
beard and she was at his feet. But if the hirsute feature of this story
leaves me cold it is easy enough to enjoy and admire the rest. The
_Firebraces_, spoken of here as "The Family," are most admirably drawn.
Never has the condescension of county people to those less exalted in
birth been described with more delightful irony. True that some of the
_Firebraces_ kicked over the traces and married whom they listed, but
the family as a whole was rooted deep enough to stand shocks which would
have devastated people of less assured position. The scenes of the story
are laid in and around Lewes, a part of England dear to Mrs. DUDENEY'S
heart, and of which she writes with real comprehension and devotion.
* * * * *
By a self-denying ordinance Mr. Punch declines, as a general rule, to
review in these columns the work of his Staff. But he may permit himself
to announce to all lovers of the gay humour of "A.A.M." that Messrs.
HODDER AND STOUGHTON have just brought out a new novel, _Once on a
Time_, by Mr. ALAN A. MILNE, with illustrations by Mr. H. M. BROCK.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A CONSOLING THOUGHT.
_Belated Traveller (surprised by a bull when taking a short cut to the
station)._ "BY JOVE! I BELIEVE I SHALL CATCH THAT TRAIN AFTER ALL."]
* * * * *
"Alexander had his 'Plutarch' always under his pillow."--_British
Weekly._
This must have been a very early edition.
* * * * *
"Colombo is suffering from an attack of rabies and there have been
38 cases reported so far. In the first six months of the year 1,300
days were destroyed."--_Singapore Free Press_.
Let us hope that every day had its dog.