Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156., March 5, 1919 by Various
V >>
Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156., March 5, 1919
"'Red wine!' says he. 'I haven't a litre o' red wine in the cellars.'
"'Holy Powers!' says I, 'an' you wid "Marchand de Vins" on yer door.'
The shock of it took the breath out o' me entirely. So I sat up on the
counter to think.
"''Tis a matther,' says I, 'that concerns the Rig'mint, a rig'mint
that was niver bate yet.' An' I explained about the Gin'ral an' what
the O.C. tould me. An' thin I tuk the notes from me pocket an' put
thim on the counther undher his eyes.
"'Ach,' says he, ''tisn't money I want from ye, but to hilp a frind.'
Then he folded his arms an' his forehead wint up into a puzzle o'
wrinkles.
"'An' why wouldn't white wine do?' says he.
"'Is it offer white wine to a Gin'ral an' him wid a taste for red?'
says I. 'It might rouse him terrible. Now, Achille,' says I, 'would
there be no way of makin' the white red?'"
O'Reilly put a persuasiveness into the last words that revealed
Achille to me as an honest merchant confronted with the most subtle of
temptations.
"O'Reilly," I said, "was that fair?"
"Maybe not, but I'd the Gin'ral an' the honour o' the Rig'mint fixed
in me mind. 'That's a good joke, very good,' says Achille; but thore
was niver a smile on his face.
"'I 'd no intintion to make anny joke,' says I. 'Come, Achille, you're
a knowin' man. Would there be no way at all?'
"Now it happened that he'd lift the door o' the little room open, an'
I could see a bit o' a garden through the window. 'What's the shtuff
growin' out there,' says I, 'wid the dark red leaves to it, or maybe
ye'd call thim purple?'
"'That's beet,' says he with a kind of a groan.
"'Beet,' says I. 'An' isn't beet a red kind of a thing an' mighty full
o' juice?'
"'It is that,' says he, wid the eyes of him almost out o' his head.
"'Then how would it be,' says I, 'to touch up the white wine wid some
o' that same juice?'
"'The thought was in me mind, God help me,' says he, an' wid that he
sat up on the counther forninst me, an' we shtared into the garden
like two men in a play.
"'Would it make the wine cloudy?' says I.
"'I could filter it so's it'd come as clear as sunshine,' says he.
"'An' how would it be for taste?' says I.
"Achille put a hand on me arm an' I could feel him shakin' like a man
wid the ague.
"'Heaven forgive me,' says he, 'but ye might say it was the wine o'
the counthry, an' that taste was the mark of it.' 'Tis my belief he
was near cryin', for he was an honest man, an' 'twas for me he was
lowerin' himself to deceit."
"You were a nice pair," I said.
"'Twas a beautiful schame," O'Reilly went on. "I was niver concerned
in a betther."
"Did it come off?" I asked.
"To a turn," said O'Reilly. "We was docthorin' that blissed wine for
the best part o' the day, an' I tuk back a dozen bottles to camp. The
O.C. was hangin' round, as anxious as a dog for his master.
"'Have ye the wine, O'Reilly?' says he.
"'I have, sorr,' says I; 'but I'd be glad if ye'd ask me no questions
about it.'
"'Not for the world,' says he, givin' me a queer look, an' was off
like a mountain hare."
"Did the General recover?" I asked.
"That wine made a new man of him. He praised the Rig'mint up to the
heighths. We was the pink o' the Army, bedad! The throuble was he
wanted to know where he'd get more o' that same wine.
"'There's no more to be had,' says I to the O.C., for I was done wid
the job.
"'He says it has a powerful bouquet,' says the O.C.
"'That may be,' says I, 'but he'll niver taste the like of it agin.
'Twas an ould wine o' the counthry, an' there's niver been the match
of it before or since.'
"'Couldn't it be managed annyhow?' says the O.C.
"'Not for all the Gin'rals in the British army,' says I. 'Twas for the
love o' the Rig'mint I got that wine, an' I 'm done wid the job.'"
"Is that the end?" I asked.
"Barrin' this," said O'Reilly. And he produced from his pocket a
silver cigarette case, inside which was engraved, "To Sergeant Dennis
O'Reilly, who saved the situation, October 15th, 1917."
* * * * *
[Illustration: BACK TO THE LAND.
_Ex-Air-Mechanic (in difficulties)._ "SEEMS TO BE A RARE OLD BUS FOR
NOSE-DIVING."]
* * * * *
"No, thank you; I hate publicity.--Lord Jellicoe, in reply to a
request for a farewell massage."--_Provincial Paper_.
We agree with the gallant Admiral that such operations are better
conducted in private.
* * * * *
"It was stated that the cow took ill, and died on 23rd June last,
and the purser now claimed the value of the animal, namely, L5O,
and also a further sum of L5, being the loss which he sustained
through the want of milk, butter, and cheese, supplied by said
cow from the date of her death to the date of the raising of the
action."--_Scots Paper_.
"Faithful unto death"--and a bit over.
* * * * *
[Illustration: SARTORIAL CONTRASTS.
THE DUKE OF WESSEX WELCOMES THE LEADING FINANCIAL MAGNATE OF A
FRIENDLY NATION ON HIS ARRIVAL AT VICTORIA STATION.
UPPER-CUT BILL OF STEPNEY, THE WEST OF EUROPE HEAVYWEIGHT, WELCOMES
BASHER SCROGGINS OF VALPARAISO ON HIS ARRIVAL AT LIVERPOOL.]
* * * * *
THE ART OF LEAVING.
If I had a son one of the first things I should teach him would be the
art of leaving. I would have him swift in all ways, but swiftest when
the time came to go. And when he went he should go absolutely. For
although the people who leave slowly are bad enough, they are as
nothing compared with the people who make false exits and return with
afterthoughts.
The other day the necessity came for me to visit a house agent. Life
has these chequered moments. There is something of despatch and order
wanting about most house-agents, possibly the result of their very odd
and difficult business, which is for the greater part carried on with
people who don't know their own minds and apparently are least likely
to take an eligible residence when they most profess satisfaction with
it. Be that as it may, house agents' offices in general have a want of
definiteness unknown to, say, banks or pawnbrokers'. There is no exact
spot for you to stand or sit; you are unaware as to which of the
clerks is going to attend to you, and the odds are heavy that the one
you approach will transfer you to another. There is also a certain
air of familiarity or friendliness: not, of course, approaching the
camaraderie of the dealer in motor cars, who leans against the wall
with his hands in his pockets and talks to customers through a
cigarette; but something much more human than the attitude of a female
clerk in a post-office.
Being pressed for time and having only the very briefest transaction
to perform, it follows that I was kept waiting for my turn with "our
Mr. Plausible," in whose optimistic hands my affairs at the moment
repose.
Occupying his far too tolerant ear was another client, whose need was
a country house surrounded by enough grass-land for a small stud farm.
This is what happened (he had, by the way, the only chair at that
desk):--
_Our Mr. Plausible (for the fortieth time)._ I understand perfectly. A
nice house, out-buildings and about twenty acres of meadow.
_Client_. Twenty to thirty.
_Our Mr. P_. Yes, or thirty.
_C_. You see, what I want is to breed stock--cattle and horses too.
_Our Mr. P_. Exactly. Well, the three places I have given you are all
well-adapted.
_C_. When a man gets to my age and has put a little money by he may
just as well take it quietly as not. I don't want a real farm; I want
just a smallish place where I can play at raising pedigree animals.
_Our Mr. P_. That's just the kind of place I've given you. The one
near Newbury is probably the most suitable. I should see that first,
and then the one near Alton.
_C_. You understand, I don't want a big farm. Anybody else can have
the arable. Just a comfortable house and some meadows; about twenty
acres or even thirty.
_Our Mr. P_. The biggest one I've given you is thirty. The place near
Newbury is twenty-three.
_C_. Well, I'11 go and see them as soon as I can. _[Gets up_.
_Our Mr. P_. The sooner the better, I should advise. There's a great
demand for country-houses just now.
_C.(sitting solidly down again)._ Ah, yes, but this is different. What
I want is not so much a country-house in the ordinary meaning of the
term as a farm-house, but without possessing a farm. Just enough
buildings and meadow-land to breed a few shorthorns and a yearling or
two. The house must be comfortable, you know, roomy, but not anything
pretentious. _[Gets up again_.
_Our Mr.P._ I quite understand. That's just what I've given you.
_C. (again seating himself)._ The whole scheme may be foolishness. My
wife says it is. But _(here I believe I groaned audibly; at any rate
all the other clerks looked up)_ there it is. When a man has enough to
retire on and pay the piper he's entitled to call the tune; isn't he?
_[At this point I resist the temptation to take him by the shoulders
and push him out_.
_Our Mr. P_. Quite, quite. Well, Sir, if you take my advice you'11 go
to Newbury as quickly as you can. It's a first-rate place--most highly
recommended.
_[Here the client very deliberately puts the three "orders to view" in
his inside pocket and slowly buttons his coat. I flutter on tiptoe,
eager for his chair._
_C_. If these won't do you'11 find me some more?
_Our Mr. P_. With pleasure.
_C_. Very well; good morning.
_[Moves away. I have just begun to speak when he returns._
_C_. Don't forget what I want it for. And not too far from London or
my wife will dislike it.
_Our Mr. P_. Yes, you told me that. I've got a note of it here.
_C_. And you won't forget about the acreage?
_Our Mr. P_. No."
_C.(addressing me)._ I'm afraid I've kept you waiting.
_I (like the craven liar I am)._ It's all right.
_[Client ultimately withdraws, but still with reluctance, and after
two or three hesitations and half-turns back_.
And the tragic part of it is that his name is Legion.
That is why if I had a boy I should teach him the art of leaving.
Almost nothing else matters.
* * * * *
OFFICIAL EUPHEMISM.
DR. ADDISON has stated that for some time past it has been the
practice riot to use the word "pauper" in official documents when it
was possible to use another expression; and no well-conditioned
person will cavil at the spirit which has prompted the use of a less
invidious substitute. But surely the process might be carried a good
deal further. The practice of giving a dog a bad name is not only
condemned by the proverbial philosophy of the ancients but by the most
emancipated of the orthopsychical educationists of to-day.
If you keep on calling a man a "criminal," you will end by making
him one. How much wiser it would be to refer to the impulses which
occasionally bring him into conflict with the custodians of law and
order as emanating from a dynamic individualism! In that way you may
very possibly convert him into a static individualist and sterilize
his potential malignance by a subliminal _serum._.
The amount of harm done by disparaging nomenclature is incalculable.
Take the word "thief," for example. Its meaning can be expressed with
infinitely greater precision and delicacy in the phrase, "one who is
unable to discriminate between _meum_ and _tuum_." Here you have in
place of one mean little word a well-cadenced phrase of ten. Euphony
as well as humanity prompts the variation.
Classical writers may have objected to the use of sesquipedalian
words, but we know better, and Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL'S famous synonym
for "lie" is permanently enshrined in the annals of circumlocution.
One of the most offensive words in the language is "idiot"; yet it can
be shorn of nearly all its sting when replaced by the definition, "a
person of infra-normal mentality."
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Demolilisation Officer_. "WHAT IS THE NUMBER OF YOUR
GROUP?"
_Private_. "I DON'T KNOW, SIR. I WAS A TURF ACCOUNTANT."
_Demobilisation Officer_. "AH! AGRICULTURE--GROUP 1."]
* * * * *
"London, Dec. 16.--At a meeting of the County Cricket Advisory
Committee it was decided to run the County Championship during
1919, the matches to be limited to two days. There will be no
change in the number of balls in the over.--Reuter's.
The Soviets are preparing the sharpest
counter-measure.--Reuter's."--_Canton Times_.
But we are confident that whatever the Soviets' little game is it will
not be cricket.
* * * * *
STATE LOTTERIES.
[An Equality Theatre is being-run in Munich, where the public pays
a fixed price and is allotted by chance a seat in the stalls or
the gallery.]
The Equality plan we will run if we can
So that never a man or a woman need grumble--
If theatres, should the idea not include
Books, clothing and food for the great and the humble?
You will pay a fixed sum and accept what may come,
Be it loser or plum; and, to shun all that vexes,
We'll even eliminate what modern women hate,
And will not discriminate as to the sexes.
The question of dress may at first, I confess,
Make a sort of a mess of our smart Small-and-Earlies,
Where the First Footman John wears the garb of a don,
And Lord CURZON comes on from the House in his pearlies;
But when our char kneels on the steps and reveals
The last word in "Lucilles," will she not put her heart more
And more in her duties while great social beauties
Slink by in "pampooties" and arrows from Dartmoor?
Our tastes and our breeding no more will be leading
The paths of our reading; we'll read what we've got to
(And it _will_ be a sell for Mamma if her Nell
Gets the last ETHEL DELL, when Mamma told her _not_ to);
It may be a worry to poor GILBERT MURRAY
To read Hints on Curry and Blouses and Batter
In _Home Chat_, it's true; but still more of a stew
_The Occult Review_ may appear to his hatter.
In the matter of meals, since the rations one feels
Hedonistic ideals have so soundly been shaken
That even the swankiest Duke might say, "Thankee!"
For Hodge's red hanky of bread and cold bacon;
But if in the sequel all chances are equal
You'll have to see me quell a volume of curses
When our "jobs" they allot, and I _still_ have to swot,
If I like it or not, writing topical verses.
* * * * *
A HARDY ANNUAL.
The butler, John Binns, who is an old and faithful retainer to this
household, is now suffering from his annual cough. It is a terrific
cough, capable of disputing supremacy with all other coughs of which
the world has heard. The special points about this cough are (1) its
loudness; (2) its combination of the noises made by all other
coughs; (3) its depth; (4) its shriek of despair as it trembles
and reverberates through the house; (5) its capacity to repel and
annihilate sympathy. It is true that I have interviewed Binns with
regard to his cough--it is an annual interview and is expected of me.
I have urged him as he values our friendship not to neglect his cough,
and he has assured me in return that the doctor has prepared for him a
draught which possesses the supreme quality of being absolutely unable
to effect the purpose for which it was devised.
"I shall drink 'is stuff," says Binns, "but I 'aven't any 'opes of its
doing me any good. It doesn't seem to get me _be'ind_ the eough. If
once I could really get be'ind it I should soon finish it. But yon
can't expect to do anything with a cough unless you're be'ind it."
"Have you tried chloraline?" I venture to suggest, mentioning not by
that name, but by another, a much-advertised specific.
"I've been living on chloraline--that is when I wasn't taking camphor
lozenges. But my symptoms are too strong for that kind o' stuff.
Besides, I find that it's no use to fill yerself up with remedies,
because they only weigh down the cough unnaturally, and then when it
does bust out it's fit to tear yer throat in pieces. But none of them
get be'ind it--no, not once."
It will be observed that Binns has almost a superstition in regard to
"getting be'ind." If he got rid of his cough with everything still in
front, he would take no satisfaction whatever in his malady; but as
it is he feels a legitimate pride in it. He has been a member of this
household for forty years, and punctually on the Kalends of March in
every year his cough turns up. It never reduces his efficiency, but,
while it alienates affection, it makes him more valuable to himself as
being one who has symptoms capable of being related at full length
to Mrs. Hankinson, the cook, or to any of the maids who have not
yet experienced it and must be made aware that they belong to an
establishment which has the high merit of accommodating John Binns's
annual cough.
It is something to have a butler who has coughed his irresistible
way through two-and-a-half generations. It is a perfectly harmless
affliction, but it gets on nerves in the same way as it did when first
it huicked and honked and strangled and choked in the seventies of
last century. I can see no decrease in its vigour or its variety. It
deserves the chance of immortality that I hereby offer it, thus giving
it a place beside the cough that _Johnson_ coughed at _Dr. Blimber's_
famous establishment. It will be remembered that, when the _Doctor_
began an excursus on the Romans, _Johnson_, "who happened to be
drinking and who caught the Doctor's eye glaring at him through the
side of his tumbler, left off so hastily that he was convulsed for
some moments and in the sequel ruined Dr. Blimber's point." He
struggled gallantly, but had in the end to give way to an overwhelming
paroxysm of coughing. It was a good cough, but an isolated one, and
was perhaps, after all, not equal to Binns's.
* * * * *
THE GOOD OLD TIMES.
Captain Reginald Jones _and_ Captain James Smith, _demobilised,
meet accidentally in the waiting-room of a Government office. Their
acquaintanceship had originated in a shell-hole near Plum-Tree Farm in
1916._
_Reggie_. Cheerio, old egg.
_Jimmy_. Same to you. Doing anything?
_Reggie_. Lord, yes! I've been pushed on to the directorate of the
pater's firm.
_Jimmy_. Congrats!
_Reggie_. Stow it, old man; I'm simply worried to death. The whole
cabush is on strike.
_Jimmy_. The blighters! What bunch are they?
_Reggie_. Stone-breakers.
_Jimmy_. Not the stone-breakers, surely?
_Reggie_. Yes, the stone-breakers, perish them!
_Jimmy_. And are you here about it?
_Reggie_. Sure. The junior director gets all the dirty work to do.
_Jimmy_. What a coincidence! I'm on the same stunt, old thing.
_Reggie_. Board of Trade?
_Jimmy_. Rats! Organising secretary of the Stone-breakers' Union.
_Reggie (after, gasp of surprise)._ Lucky devil.
_Jimmy_. Rot! I'd chuck it if I could afford to. Don't you wish
sometimes you were back at Plum-Tree Farm?
_Reggie_. Crumbs, Jimmy; but weren't those the glorious days?
* * * * *
"EX-CROWN PRINCE'S HORSE TO RUN."--_Heading in "The Times_."
Like master like horse.
* * * * *
[Illustration: FOR ENTERPRISING DISPERSAL STATIONS. SPEED UP YOUR
OUTPUT BY INSTALLING THE MOVING-STAIRCASE SYSTEM. NO TIME LOST.
GOVERNMENT SUITS "ASSEMBLED" BY SKILLED WORKMEN IN RECORD TIME.]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks_.)
I SHALL begin by saying straight out that Miss CICELY HAMILTON'S new
book, _William--an Englishman_ (SKEFFINGTON), is one of the finest
war-stories that anyone has yet given us. You know already what
qualities the author brings to her writing; you may believe me
that she has done nothing more real, more nobly conceived, and by
consequence more moving than this short tale. It opens, in a style
of half-humorous irony, with an account of the youth, early life and
courtship of _William_, who, with the girl whom he married, belonged
to the vehement circles of the Labour-Suffragist group, spending a
cheerfully ignorant life in a round of meetings, in hunger-striking
and whole-hearted support of the pacifism that "seeks peace and ensues
it by insisting firmly, and even to blood, that it is the other
side's duty to give way." One small concession you must make to
Miss HAMILTON'S plot. It is improbable that, when such a couple as
_William_ and _Griselda_ left England in July 1914 to take their
honeymoon in a remote valley of the Belgian Ardennes, their friends,
knowing them to be without news and ignorant of all speech save
English, should have made no effort to warn them. But, this granted,
the tragedy that follows becomes inevitable. It is so finely told and
so horrible (the more so for the deliberate restraint of the telling)
that I will say nothing to weaken its effect. From one scene, however,
I cannot withhold my tribute of admiration--that in which _William_,
alone, brokenhearted, and almost crazed with the ruin of everything
that made up his life, creeps home to find his old associates still
glibly echoing the platitudes in which he once believed. A hint here
of insincerity or conscious arrangement would have ruined all; as it
is, the scene holds and haunts one with an impression of absolute
truth, For the end, marked like all by an almost grim avoidance of
sentimentality, I shall only refer you to the book itself. After
reading it you will, I hope, not think me guilty of exaggeration when
I call it, slight though it is, one for which its author has deserved
well of the State.
* * * * *
The dominant impression left upon me by Miss MERIEL BUCHANAN'S
_Petrograd the City of Trouble_ (COLLINS) is that its author is a
sportswoman of the first order. You see her pressing to the windows to
observe the shooting in the streets, going out to shop, to dine, to
dance, during the stormy months of the various phases of the
various Russian Revolutions. And I hasten to add, for fear of
misunderstanding, that there is no suggestion of pose as the heroic
Englishwoman. It was not till the end of 1918 that Sir GEORGE BUCHANAN
withdrew from a country in which ambassadorial functions had obviously
no reasonable scope. But he and his family, including our chronicler,
his spirited daughter, remained long after there was any plausible
reason to hope for the restoration of order and very long after
considerations of personal safety might well have dictated and
justified retreat. Mr. HUGH WALPOLE in his preface points out that
Miss BUCHANAN is the first English writer to give a sense of the
atmosphere of Russia during the New Terror. It is curious, but the
impression she conveys is of something far less formidable than
we have imagined. That may well be due to her high courage which
minimised the ever-present dangers. Another odd impression is that her
accounts of current events, e.g. of the death of RASPUTIN, seem to be
as unplausible as those which have been patched from various reports
and guesses by writers far from the actual scene. It is perhaps the
very nearness of the author to the source of the host of wild rumours
and speculations concerning this strange tragedy that conveys this
sense of the impossible. Have I thereby suggested that the book lacks
interest? On the contrary, it hasn't a dull or insincere page.
* * * * *
_Little Houses_ (METHUEN) is not, as you might excusably suppose, a
treatise upon the problem of the hour, but a novel. I confess that,
when I read in the puff preliminary that it was "minutely observed"
and "drab" in setting, my heart sank. But Mr. WODEN'S book is not made
after that sufficiently-exploited fashion. He has a definite scheme,
and (but for the fault of creating more characters than he can
conveniently manage) tells his simple tale with a mature ease
remarkable in a first novel. The plan of it is the life-story of a
group of persons in a provincial factory town in those Victorian days
when trade-unions were first starting, when the caricaturists lived
upon Mr. GLADSTONE'S collars and the Irish Question was very much in
the same state as it is to-day. We watch the hero, _John Allday_,
developing from a Sunday-school urchin to flourishing owner of his
own business and prospective alderman. Of course I admit that this
synopsis does not sound peculiarly thrilling; also that as a tale it
is by now considerably more than twice told. But I can only repeat
that, for those with a taste for such stories, here is one excellent
of its kind. Whether Mr. WODEN has been drawing upon personal memories
for it, writing in fact that one novel of which every man is said to
be capable, time and the publishing lists will show. I shall certainly
be interested to see. Meanwhile the fact that despite his name
GEORGE--always an object of the gravest suspicion--I accept his
masculinity without question is my tribute both to the balance of his
style and to the admirable drawing of his hero.