Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156., March 5, 1919 by Various
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156., March 5, 1919
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 156.
March 5, 1919.
CHARIVARIA.
"What is whisky?" asks an evening paper headline. Our memory is not
what is was, but we have certainly seen the name somewhere.
***
"Bitter," says the _Koelnische Zeitung_, "is the taste of defeat." A
reference, presumably, to the thirty thousand tons of American bacon
sold to Germany by the Allies.
***
"The Octopus," said the Lord Mayor of DUBLIN in his inaugural address,
"is showing its fangs." Meanwhile Cardinal GIBBONS is busy twisting
the Lion's tentacles.
***
The owner of a mule found wandering at Walton-on-Thames is being
advertised for. "Trooper," writing from Mesopotamia, says that if it
had a portion of khaki breeching and a stirrup in its mouth it is
probably the brute which slipped out of his hands about six months
ago.
***
With regard to the man who was seen struggling in the river last week,
the report that his house was immediately taken by a passer-by is
untrue. The man who pushed him in had got there first.
***
So much controversy has been caused by DE VALERA'S escape from prison
that there is some idea of getting him to go back and do it again.
***
It is reported that just before his escape DE VALERA had been greatly
affected by the account of some labour strike. He is supposed to have
come out in sympathy.
***
There are now, it is announced, thirty-six prices at which bottled
beer may be sold. It is only fair to our readers to state that the
price it used to be is not included in the thirty-six.
***
A Servant Girls' Trade Union has been formed. So far there is no
suggestion of interfering with the mistresses' evening out.
***
Mr. Punch has already called attention to the statement that is costs
the nation a guinea every time a question is asked in Parliament. The
only difference between Westminster and the haunts of the General
Practitioner is that in the latter case (1) you pay out of your own
pocket, and (2) your tongue is protruded instead of being kept in the
cheek.
***
Burglars are very superstitious, says a press-gossip. For example
the appearance of a policeman while a burglar is drilling a safe is
considered distinctly unlucky.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "NO, MADAM. _NINE GUINEAS_--NOT NINE-AND-NINEPENCE."]
* * * * *
"The pores of the ordinary individual," says a, weekly paper, "would
reach nearly forty miles if placed end to end." We hope that nothing
of the kind will be attempted, as the traffic difficulties are bad
enough already.
***
A Thames bargee is reported to have sworn at a policeman for eleven
minutes without stopping. We understand that there is talk of having
the oration set to music.
***
Considerable damage has been caused in the Isle of Wight by rats. A
description of the offenders has been furnished to the police.
***
In order to cope with the traffic problem the L.G.O. Company have
placed one hundred additional omnibuses on the London streets. This
is such an admirable solution of a serious difficulty that people are
wondering what member of the Government first suggested it.
***
Despite the fact that his wife has attempted to shoot him eleven times
a Detroit architect declares that he will never leave her. He appears
to be one of those men who can never take a hint.
***
Mr. F.M.B. FISHER reports that in New Zealand some convicts recently
went on hunger-strike because a band played outside the prison. It
seems that their ground of complaint was that this was not included in
the sentence.
***
A correspondent writing to _The Daily News_ points out that the reign
of Satan has been cut short by eighty thousand years, and that the end
of the world is at hand. Several people in search of flats are now
wondering whether it is worth while after all.
***
Mr. SEAN T.O. KELLY, the Sinn Fein M.P., has handed M. CLEMENCEAU a
copy of the "Declaration of Independence of Ireland." Other means have
also been employed to entertain and amuse the distinguished invalid
during his enforced rest.
***
We understand that a West-End lady has just been appointed mistress to
a young parlourmaid.
***
We hear that the soldier who, after being demobilised, at once
returned to barracks in order to say a few suitable words to his late
sergeant-major, was put off on being told that he would have to take
his turn in the queue.
* * * * *
THE PRE-WAR HABIT.
"Clerk (male) quick and accurate at figures; one used to wages
preferred."--_Daily Paper_.
* * * * *
"The engine, which is based on the principle of the turbine, is
designed to produce 30,000 revolutions a minute."--_Daily Paper_.
Bolshevists please note.
* * * * *
"Commander Ramsay and the Princess themselves had a private survey
of their new possessions yesterday before the guests appeared, and
report has it warmly congratulated one another on the interest
and beauty of most of the things, and the unusual percentage of
unimaginative and ugly offerings."
_Daily Sketch_.
Although the statement is somewhat ambiguous, we feel sure that the
writer meant well.
* * * * *
THE TONIC OF MARCH.
_(With acknowledgments to the author)._
Month of the Winds (especially the East)
That staunch the young year's floods by dyke and dam,
Who enter like a lion, that great beast,
And make your egress like a woolly lamb;
Who come, as Mars full-armed for battle's shocks,
From lethargy of Winter's sloth to wean us,
Then melt (about the vernal equinox),
As he did in the softer arms of Venus;--
O Month, before your final moon is set,
Much may have happened--anything, in fact;
More than in any March that I have met
(Last year excepted) fearful nerves are racked;
Anarchy does with Russia what it likes;
Paris is put conundrums very knotty;
And here in England, with its talk of strikes,
Men, like your own March hares, seem going dotty.
Blow, then, with all your gales and clear our skies!
We did not win that War the other day
To please the Huns or gladden TROTSKY'S eyes
By fighting, kin with kin, this futile way;
Blow--not too hard, of course--I should not care
To inconvenience Mr. WILSON on his voyage--
But just enough to clean the germy air
And usher in the universal Joy-Age.
O.S.
* * * * *
GOOD-BYE TO THE AUXILIARY PATROL.
II.--THE SHIP'S COMPANY.
Demobilisation in the Navy, whatever it may be in the Army, is a
simple affair. You are first sent for by the Master-at-Arms, who
glares, thrusts papers into your trembling hand and ejects you
violently in the direction of the Demobilising Office. Here they
regard you curiously, stifle a yawn, languidly inspect your papers and
send you to the Paymaster, who, after wandering disconsolately round
the Pay Office, exclaiming pathetically, "I say, hasn't _anyone_ seen
that Mixed Muster book? It must be _somewhere_, you know," returns you
without thanks to the D.O., where they tell you to call again in three
days' time. On returning you are provided with a P.I.O. and numerous
necessary papers, requested to sign a few dozen forms, overwhelmed
with an unexpected _largesse_ of pay and sent forth on that
twenty-eight days' leave from which no traveller returns. There's
nothing in it at all; the whole thing only lasts four days. They do it
by a system, I believe.
As we assembled on board for the last time, awaiting our railway
warrants, there were some moving spectacles. The Mate and the
Second-Engineer were bidding each other affectionate and tearful
farewells behind the winch. "You won't quite forget me, Bill, will
yer?" I heard the Second exclaim brokenly, but the only reply was a
strangled sob. The Steward, seated on his kit-bag, was murmuring a
snatch of song that asserted the rather personal fact that "our gel's
a big plump lass." He is an oyster-dredger in civil life and is
eagerly looking forward to experiencing once more the delicate thrills
and excitement of this hazardous sport. Jones, our Signaller, who
recently wrote a poem which opened with the lines,
"I for one will be surprised
When we are demobilised,"
was struggling painfully to insert a pair of boots into a recalcitrant
kit-bag, and exhibited an expression of dogged determination rather
than the astonishment he had predicted. The Trimmer was heard
complaining mournfully that when he left the Patrol Office for the
last time they never said good-bye. He seemed to feel this keenly.
All of us were more or less excited, all as it were on tip-toe with
expectancy, like school-boys on breaking-up morning. All, did I say?
No, there was one member of the crew who sat supremely indifferent to
the prevailing atmosphere of emotion, gazing calmly before him with
his solitary lacklustre eye. The Silent Menace, the ship's dog,
betrayed none of our childlike sentiment. Demobilisation was nothing
to him--he was too old a campaigner to let a little matter like that
agitate his habitual reserve. To us the recent period of hostilities
had been "The War," the only war in which we had ever been privileged
to fight; but to him it was just one of the numberless affrays of an
adventurous life, and, judging by the worn condition of his ears and
the veteran scars that tattooed his tail, some of the previous ones
had had their share of frightfulness. And to-morrow, no doubt, he will
try the game again.
It was the Third Hand who suddenly propounded the unsolvable question:
"Who's goin' to keep that there Menace?"
There was an almost universal chorus of "Me!" I say "almost universal"
because Jones, who is R.N.V.R. and educated, probably said, "I," and
the Chief Engineer was lighting his pipe and merely succeeded in
blowing the match out.
"You can't all have him," said the Third Hand, "so I think I'll take
him along with me. I knows a bit about dawgs."
There was instant and clamant disapproval, each one of us urging an
unquestionable claim to the guardianship of the orphan Menace. The
Steward said he was the only one with the ghost of a right to the dog;
had it not always been the Menace's custom to help him wash up the
plates and dishes? A Deck Hand, however, protested that as he had
eaten one of his mittens the Silent Menace was already in part his
property. The Mate and the Second-Engineer nearly came to blows about
it.
The question was still unsettled when the warrants arrived. As time
was short it was finally decided that whomsoever he should follow was
to be adjudged his future owner. We climbed ashore and spread out
fanwise, looking back and uttering those noises best calculated to
incline the unyielding heart of the Menace towards us. He himself rose
from the deck and strolled on to the wharf, where he stood coolly
regarding us. Without emotion his Cyclopean orb directed its gaze
from one to another till, midway between the Third Hand and
the Second-Engineer, it was observed to irradiate a sudden and
unaccustomed luminosity.
"Come along then, Menace," wheedled the Second.
"Yoicks, old dawg!" exclaimed the Third Hand, patting his knee
encouragingly.
But they had misinterpreted their Menace, for in the middle distance,
on a pile of timber directly behind the expectant twain, had appeared
the sleek person of a sandy cat which proved to be the attraction. For
an instant the Menace stood motionless, his spine bristling and his
tail growing stiff; then with a short sharp bark he sprang forward
like an arrow from a bow in the direction of the feline objective. We
saw a streak of yellow as she fled for safety and life; a cloud of
dust, and the Menace and his quarry disappeared from view. Faintly
from afar floated an eager yelp, telling that the chase was still in
full cry.
"Well, sink me," said the Second-Engineer, "that settles it."
There were trains to be caught, and so, slowly and sadly, we turned
away.
Thus did the Silent Menace, with the rest of his shipmates, bid
good-bye to the Auxiliary Patrol.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A HOME FROM HOME.
PRESIDENT WILSON (_quitting America in his Fourteen-League-of-Nations
Boots_). "IT'S TIME I WAS GETTING BACK TO A HEMISPHERE WHERE I REALLY
_AM_ APPRECIATED."]
* * * * *
THE ROAD TO THE RHINE.
A LITTLE LOOT.
It was at the time when men still imagined that to be a pivotal man in
some way enhanced their chances of being demobilised that an abnormal
wave of acquisitiveness passed over us. Before it passed, I regret
to say, it _hovered_, chiefly on account of the prospect of a speedy
return home and the desire to take back some kind of trophy to satisfy
the still small voice of inquiry concerning papa and the Great War.
The very first day after we had arrived in the most unimportant
village imaginable (our usual luck), Roley, the fattest subaltern
on record, lurched into the room and told us of the discovery of a
wonderful trainload of abandoned Bosch material, Being a Regular
soldier, acquisitiveness runs through his whole being, of course, and
he gave us a most glowing account of the wonders to be found. "Full
of things," he cried, "coal, Bosch beds, field-guns and
souvenirs--hundreds of 'em."
I know no rabbit that could have pricked up his ears quicker than did
the pivotal men at the sound of that magic word. "Hail, Roley!" we
cried; "we who are about to be demobilised salute you!"
That evening a select conclave of super-scroungers met with great
solemnity. Beds for the men and coal for all--certainly, and _then_ we
would start collecting. By the morrow each man slept in luxury, while
subalterns from other companies came in to warm themselves by our
roaring fires. Not till then did we feel justified in turning our
thoughts to the furnishing of the baronial hall at home.
Some day, we pivotal men are still ready to believe, when
demobilisation is nearly complete we shall return to our bowler hats
and civic respectability, but meantime, let me tell you, respectable
elderly subalterns _enjoy_ things like clambering over a forbidden
Bosch train in search of loot. When we had climbed to the end of the
trucks and were thoroughly dirty, we found we had done very badly.
The souvenirs were there all right, but no matter how interesting and
desirable it may be, you simply cannot pack up a field-gun and send it
home--the tail part does stick out so.
Chardenal and I had picked up the best thing we could find, brass
cartridge cases (about three feet high) of a 5.9 gun, and some shorter
eight-inch affairs. It was hard work. I carried four of the former and
Chardenal carried two of each, and we looked as if we had come to mend
a main drain. Not having been in the Army long enough to have lost all
sense of shame, Chardenal began by trying to hide his cases under his
British warm. His biggest effort at concealment was made when passing
the sentry of the Brigade Headquarters' guard, and the noise he made
doing it brought the whole guard out. However, being sentries, they
took very little notice of what we did, except that the N.C.O. in
charge certainly did pick up one of the dropped cases and hand it to
Chardenal. This was after I had tried to help him and we had dropped
the whole lot.
After this Chardenal gave up all idea of concealment and tried to
express by his carriage that he accepted no responsibility whatever
for the souvenirs. He didn't want the things, not he! They were
_there_, certainly, and--well, yes, he was carrying them, but _why_
he was carrying them (here he would have shrugged his shoulders if
he could) he really couldn't tell you; it was a matter of absolute
indifference to him, anyway. Histrionically I have no doubt it was a
great piece of work, but the only possible inference anybody could
have drawn was that he might have been carrying them to oblige
me--which I resented.
Heavens, how our arms ached, for it was over two miles to the billet!
A collision of milk-trains could hardly have made more noise than we
did as we clashed and clanged down the main street. Of course we met
everybody we knew. People we hadn't seen for years, people we didn't
like, people who didn't like us--all seemed to have been paraded
especially for the occasion.
We got home in the end, and it was a great triumph. The only
unenthusiastic person was Mr. Brown, my batman, who surveyed the
things in silence, betokening that he knew quite well he would be
called upon to sew them up in sacking and label them "Officer's Spare
Kit, c/o Cox and Co." Then he looked sadly at my soiled tunic and my
British warm and asked if I had carried them far.
"Over two miles," I replied proudly. "Pity," he said; "there's a whole
dump of them at the bottom of the garden here."
There the matter might have ended if the fat Roley had not lurched
up again the next day with a steel box containing a dial-sight off
a field-gun. The dial-sight was a complicated affair of prisms and
lenses which probably cost the Bosch about sixty pounds, and we felt a
little sick at having overlooked such a find.
"Awful job I had too," he went on. "Some fellows were seen yesterday
taking stuff away and they've put a sentry on the train."
"Serve them right," we said.
Next day we returned to the trucks to try again. The sentry was
engaged in a little conversation, and whilst Chardenal took his
photograph (ostensibly for _The Daily Snap_ as "Sentry Guarding a
Train") I slipped behind the trucks, opened a couple of lids in the
tails of some field-guns, picked out two cases of sights and hurried
off. Chardenal joined me later and, concealing our swag under our
British warms, we walked as quickly as we could until the Brigadier
stopped and had a little chat with us about things in general. And
there we had to stand for a quarter of an hour on a freezing afternoon
with two fingers holding the box and the other fingers holding the
coat down to effect better concealment. Chardenal was in so much pain
and wore such an expression of agonized innocence that the Brigadier
wanted him to come into headquarters until he felt better.
"Well, what have you got?" asked Carfax, another candidate for
demobilisation, when we finally got back and showed him the cases.
"Only two?" he cried, "and you promised _me_ one!" We said things.
"What lenses are they?" he asked.
"I don't know," said Chardenal, "but, whatever's the heaviest kind,
that's the kind we've brought."
And we opened the boxes and they were empty.
The baronial hall will remain unfurnished. I'm fed up with the whole
business.
L.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Farmer_ (_to land-girl, who has been sent to feed the
pigs_). "WHY HAVE YOU BROUGHT THE SWILL BACK?"
_Land Girl_. "WELL, THEY WERE ASLEEP AND LOOKED SO COMFY--I SIMPLY
HADN'T THE HEART TO DISTURB THEM."]
* * * * *
THE LANGUAGE TEST FOR V.A.D.'S.
From an Official Form of Application for stripes:--
"I certify that these Members have diligently attended their
duties at the Hospital, are always neat in appearance, punctual in
their habits and proficient in their cursing. I recommend they be
allowed to enter for the Blue Stripe Examination."
* * * * *
From the announcement of a musical service:--
"Soprano Solo, 'With Verger clad'. (_Creation_), Miss Dorothy
----,"--_Canadian Paper_.
Quite a new "creation."
* * * * *
[Illustration: CASTING PEARLS.
_Philistine_ (_who has been dragged by wife to Jazz tea-shop_). "WHAT
IS IT THEY'BE TRYING TO PLAY, DEAR?"
_Modern Wife_. "OH, YOU WOULDN'T BE ANY THE WISER.--NOTHING OUT OF
'THE BOHEMIAN GIRL.'"]
* * * * *
THE HOUSE HISTRIONIC.
The enterprise of Mr. C.B. COCHRAN, who announces that the oak-parlour
used in his play at the St. Martin's Theatre will be sold by auction
at the conclusion of the run, has not unnaturally provoked a certain
liveliness in architectural circles. Should advertisements of houses
for sale ever reappear in the newspapers, it is thought likely that
they may include something like this:--
Desirable Family Mansion of unique interest, suit dramatist seeking
congenial associations. Exceptionally fine dining-hall, as used in
the supper scene in _Macbeth_, and equipped with convenient _Banquo_
sliding-panel to kitchen. The latter apartment deserves the epithet
Baronial, being transported direct from the successful pantomime,
_Puss-in-Boots_, and capable of accommodating a ballet of two hundred
cooks. The elegantly proportioned drawing-room (to which a fourth wall
has been since added) was the subject of special mention in several
leading newspapers after the production of _Epigrams_ at the Niobe
Theatre; while each of the twelve bedrooms represents some recent
triumph in the Problematical Drama. An attractive feature is the
fitting of an artificial sunlight attachment to the outside of each
window; while every room is provided with one or more telephones.
Snug Bachelor Flat, direct from the phenomenally successful farce,
_Peers and Pyjamas_, at the Plenipotentiaries Theatre. The fine
central living-room contains sixteen doors, opening into bedrooms,
kitchen, coal-cellar, etc. May be as conveniently entered by the
window as by the doors. All the latter work upon the well-known
dramatic hinge, by which as soon as one shuts another opens. Unlimited
facilities for hide-and-seek. Exceptional opportunity for active
tenant.
* * * * *
From _The Mistress of Court Regina_, by Mr. CHARLES GARVICE:--
"He kissed her, taking his cigarette out of his mouth to do so."
This courteous consideration is invariably shown in the best circles.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Geordie_. "WELL, AH'M BLOWED! THEY'M NAMED YON PLAACE
AFTER T'OWD DOOG-OUT ON T' SOMME!"]
* * * * *
THE SUBALTERNS' PARADISE.
I met Bilsden and congratulated him on being in "civvies."
"What are you going to do now?" I asked. "Back to the old firm?"
"No," said Bilsden gravely; "when a man has acquired the power of
leading men he's thrown away in an accountant's office, especially as
the junior member of the staff. I see no prospect in England. I have
offered to take charge of large departments of English firms, and be
responsible for entire supervision, but they fail to recognise what
the capacity for leadership gained in the army will do. I'm off to
Ceylon--tea-planting. Just to control big gangs of coolies and see
that they work. It will be child's play for me. Lovely climate;
elephants. An absolutely ideal job."
It seemed to me on that foggy frosty day, that to lie in a hammock in
the shade, with the temperature about ninety, watching coolies work,
would be the perfect form of labour.
I congratulated Bilsden on having found his _metier_.
Half-an-hour later I met Parkinson, another second-loot who had just
shed his pip.
"Well, what are you going to do now?" I asked.
"I'm a bit dubious," he said.
"Try tea-planting in Ceylon," I suggested. "Elephants, spicy breezes,
swing in a hammock all day watching coolies. My dear boy, were I
twenty years younger I should be inquiring about a berth on the next
steamer."
"Ah," said Parkinson, "of course Ceylon's all right, and I've a lot
of pals going out there; but what about rubber-planting in the Malay
Peninsula? They've got tigers there. That's rather a pull."
I admitted the attraction of tigers to certain tastes, but not to
mine. In my case the pull, I thought, might be on the tiger's side.
Since these interviews I have been going the rounds of my military
acquaintances and I find a general feeling in favour of Ceylon or the
Malay Peninsula.
Of course it's an excellent thing that they should take up the white
man's burden and make the coolies work, only I'm in dread lest the
overcrowding we suffer from in England may be extended to the Orient.
Will there be enough plantations, coolies and big game to go round
amongst our subalterns?
I can see the Government introducing several Bills--
(1) For the extension of the Isle of Ceylon;
(2) For the lengthening of the Malay Peninsula;
(3) For the importation of five million coolies, estimated at the
rate of five hundred coolies each, to give employment to ten thousand
second-loots;
(4) For the importation of elephants, tigers, lions, buffalo,
hippopotami, giraffes and capercailzie.
* * * * *
AT PRINTING-HOUSE SQUARE.
[Mr. GEOFFREY DAWSON has resigned the Editorship of _The Times_,
owing to a disagreement with Lord NORTHCLIFFE over matters of
policy, and has been succeeded by Mr. H. WICKHAM STEED, formerly
foreign editor.]