Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156, April 23, 1919 by Various
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156, April 23, 1919
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE QUESTION OF PEACE CELEBRATIONS IS BEING CONSIDERED
BY A COMMITTEE OF THE CABINET.]
* * * * *
RAPID PROMOTION.
"Cpl. A.A.C. Earl of Shaftesbury, K.P., K.C.V.O., relinquishes
his appt. (March 1), and is granted the hon. rank of
Brig.-Gen."--_Daily Paper_.
* * * * *
FROM THE STREET OF ADVENTURE.
Journalistic reconstructions and amalgamations have been proceeding
so rapidly and extensively of late that there seems no end to the
kaleidoscopic possibilities of the future.
Up to the present, however, no confirmation can be obtained of
the startling rumor that _The Spectator_ has been purchased by the
proprietors of _The Kennel Gazette_, and will henceforth be devoted
to the interests of our four-footed friends, the supplements being
restricted to purely feline amenities.
Another persistent rumour, which hitherto lacks the seal of official
corroboration, is to the effect that _The Guardian_ is to be given a
new range of activity as the organ of scientific spiritualism, under
the title of _The Guardian Angel_ and the joint editorship of Sir
Oliver Doyle and Sir Conan Lodge. The investigations into multiple
consciousness conducted by these two eminent _savants_ have proved
their mutual convertibility to such an extent that they have decided
upon this rearrangement of their names. If the scheme materialises
the stimulating collaboration of Mr. HAROLD BEGBIE is a foregone
conclusion, and there is even a possibility of contributions from
an August Exile somewhere in Holland.
A third report maintains with minute circumstantiality that the
proprietors of _The Economist_, having come to the conclusion that
this journal needs brightening, have decided to entrust the post of
principal leader-writer to "CALLISTHENES," and retain the services of
the authoress of _The Tunnel_ as financial _feuilleton_ writer. But
on enquiry at the London School of Economics we could not obtain any
definite information.
The rumours that _The Morning Post_ is about to be merged in _The
Winning Post_, and that Mr. MAXSE is starting an evening paper, to be
called _The Job and Caviller_, are extremely interesting, but need to
be received with a certain amount of caution.
* * * * *
"Two-seater Motor-car. 7-9 h.p., in perfect running order,
Bosch magneto, Michelin tyres, spare wheel and accessories,
Axminster and Brussels carpets, stair carpeting, lino.,
kitchen utensils, dinner service, copper chafing dish, pots,
pans, lawn mower, deck chairs, &c., nearly new mangle, and
numerous other effects."--_Local Paper_.
Just the car for the _White Knight_ when he takes to motoring.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Excited Officer_ (_in demobilisation special_). "I
_KNEW_ THE COUNTRY WAS GRATEFUL! LOOK AT THAT OLD CHAP WAVING HIS HOE
AT US!"]
* * * * *
BABLINGO.
It has been suggested to me that the time has come for a comprehensive
investigation of the interesting language known as Bablingo. Materials
for this are ready for use in every home that still possesses a
nursery with an inmate not more than two years of age. I must premise
that it is the inmate's mother and the inmate's nurse, not the actual
inmate, who use the language. Some day, no doubt, there will arise
an investigator who will reduce to order and catalogue the inchoate
efforts of an infant to make itself understood by talking. These
efforts are doubtless of high interest to the etymologist, but the
difficulties of the task are at present too great, and in any case I
am not the man to undertake it.
I shall content myself for the moment with setting an examination
paper in Bablingo for the purpose of testing knowledge. It will differ
from most other examinations in having a further object--namely to
supply instruction and information to the examiner. Later on it may
be possible to construct a grammar, and to append to this a few
easy exercises. It must be remembered, however, that there are great
difficulties to be overcome in such a task. Every home, for instance,
has its own rules for pronunciation. Of these I do not for my
immediate purpose propose to take cognisance.
Here, then, is a short Bablingo examination paper for the use of
mothers and nurses. I do not at present see my way to including
fathers.
(1) On what principles is the language which you use in your nursery
formed? Did you (a) acquire it, or (b) find yourself unconsciously in
possession of it?
(2) Give a list of the characteristic features which distinguish
Bablingo from the dialects employed by Prehistoric Man.
(3) What justification can you allege for the conversion of the words
_little thing_ into the words _ickle sing_? Are the spelling and
pronunciation of these two words intended to be a concession to the
feeble understanding of an infant?
(4) _Wasums and didums, then? Was it a ickle birdie, then?_ Expand the
above into a four-line verse with rhymes, and explain why the language
as spoken and written is nearly always in the past tense, and rarely
in the present or future.
(5)(a) _Did he woz-a-woz, then; a Mum's own woz-man?_ (b) _'Oose
queenie-mouse was 'oo?_ Write a short story on one of the above texts.
(6) _Did she try to hit her ickle bruzzer on his nosie-posie wiz
a mug? She was a Tartar, and did she want to break him up into
bitsy-witsies?_ Construct a scene from a typical nursery drama on the
above motive. What theories do you base on the extract with regard to
the girl's temper and the boy's courage and endurance?
* * * * *
A REALLY CANDID CANDIDATE.
"TO THE ELECTORS OF ---- WARD.
"Ladies and Gentlemen,--I beg to thank you for returning me
as your member at the Election on Monday last. Nothing shall
be wanting on my part to betray the confidence thus reposed
in me."--_Provincial Paper_.
* * * * *
A YEAR'S REPRISALS.
When I sent Aunt Emily--from whom I have expectations--a pincushion
at Christmas and she retaliated with a pen-wiper on New Year's Day,
I thought that was the end of it.
Not so.
Aunt Emily reopened hostilities on my birthday with a purple satin
letter-case embroidered with a sprig of rosemary and the word
"Remembrance." That fresh offensive occurred on January 27th, which,
I repeat, is my birthday. Readers please note.
When was Aunt Emily's birthday? Frenzied search in antique birthday
books revealed not the horrid secret. Probing my diary for other
suitable anniversaries, I came to February 1st--"Partridge and
Pheasant Shooting ends."
I passed this as being inappropriate, and then--the very
thing--February 14th, St. Valentine's. Also Full Moon.
To arrive on that day, I despatched, carefully packed, the white
marble clock from the spare-room. When well shaken it will tick for
an hour. Aunt Emily had never seen it, I knew.
Then I sounded the All Clear.
But on Easter Eve a heavy packing-case was bumped onto my doorstep.
From wrappings of sacking there emerged a large model of Eddystone
lighthouse; a thermometer was embedded in its chest, minus the
mercury, I noted. And Aunt Emily wished me as per enclosed card "A
joyous Easter."
With groans and lamentations another anniversary must be found by me.
Ah! Here we have it! KING GEOKGE V. born June 3rd. On the dark roof
of my spare-room wardrobe loomed an Indian vase--bright yellow with
red blobs--very rare and very hideous, with a bulge in its middle.
Obviously unique, because when the Indian made it his fellow-Indians
slew him to prevent repetitions of the offence. I packed it in the
middle of a crate and much straw, calculated to make an appalling mess
when released.
To dear Aunt Emily it went, with love, and a few topical remarks about
the Monarchy.
But Aunt Emily evidently had a diary too. On the 21st of
October--anniversary of Trafalgar--my heart sank as the railway
delivery van drew up at my door. The angry driver toiled into my
passage with a packing-case (bristling with splinters and nails). When
it was open and the chisel broken I picked the splinters out of my
fingers and contemplated the battered horn of a gramophone emerging
from sawdust and shavings.
The mess created was indescribable when the horn was drawn forth.
Shavings flew everywhere. The sawdust was like a butcher's shop. There
were records too, some broken, all scratched. When set going it made
a noise like a cockatoo with a cold. Decently covered with a cloth it
was interned in the loft.
Next please. One more effort and I should be one up and Aunt Emily to
play. And her turn would be Christmas. Once she sent me five pounds at
Christmas.
The diary again. A poor hatch of anniversaries for November. A partial
eclipse of the moon, partially visible at Greenwich, was down for the
22nd. But eclipses are too ominous.
I fell back on KING EDWARD VII., born November 9th, 1841. Twenty-three
volumes of Goodworthy's _History of England_ should commemorate this.
There had once been twenty-four, but the puppy ate one.
Gratitude came by return of post, and I sat down in peace to await
Christmas and a cheque.
But on December 19th came another dreadful and splintery packing-case.
Desperately I gouged it open. Out of it, through a cloud of shavings,
emerged my own loathsome yellow-and-red Indian vase! No word with
it--not a word, not a note. Not a funeral note.
Rage overtook me. I disinterred Aunt Emily's own gramophone and
records. I packed the horn anyhow. Such of the records as seemed
difficult to get in I broke into small pieces and shoved in corners.
I nailed the packing-case up with the same nails and addressed it in
the boldest and fiercest of characters to Aunt Emily and caught the
railway-van on the rebound. The deed was done.
I laughed "Ha, ha!" I laughed "Ho, ho!" I would teach Aunt Emily to
return me my own vase.
Next morning came a letter. As I read it perspiration burst out on my
forehead. Language the most awful burst from my lips.
And yet it was a simple letter--from my little cousin Dolly.
"DEAR BOB," it said,--"I sent you a yellow-and-red vase for Christmas.
Your Aunt Emily gave it me as a wedding present. It is not my style and
must be yours, because I have seen one like it in your house. Perhaps
you collect them. Don't tell your Aunt, but I really couldn't bear it.
I forgot to put any note in the box. Happy Christmas.
"Love, DOLLY."
And Aunt Emily would have opened my case by now.
On Christmas Day I received a letter from her which I opened with
cold and clammy fingers.
She thanked me for sending back the gramophone. She was sorry I
did not care for it. She was now sending it to a hospital for
shell-shocked officers. And she wished me a Blithe Yuletide on a
penny card. And she was very sincerely mine.
Anyone can have her for aught I care.
[Illustration: _Unsuccessful House-huntress_. "REALLY ONE SEES SO
FEW OF THE SORT OF MEN WHO USED TO _BUILD_ HOUSES. WHY DOESN'T THE
GOVERNMENT RELEASE MORE CORDUROY TROUSERS AND ENTICE THE LABOURERS
BACK?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE SUPER-HUMAN DOG.
WHEN YOU CAME HOME ON LEAVE YOUR DOG, UNLIKE SOME
HUMANS, NEVER EXPRESSED SURPRISE AT SEEING YOU _STILL IN ENGLAND_.
NEVER INDULGED IN DEMOBILISATION TALK.
OR HANDED OUT "CHESTNUTS."
OR INTRODUCED YOU TO YOUR C.O. (ALSO ON PASS).
OR BORED YOU WITH HIS OWN DOMESTIC TROUBLES ("LEFT A BOOT-JACK IN
MY DRINKING-TROUGH, SHE DID").
OR INTRUDED HIS PRESENCE AT INOPPORTUNE MOMENTS.
BUT SIMPLY WELCOMED YOU--
--IN HIS OWN--
--INIMITABLE MANNER.]
* * * * *
A SOUTH SEA BUBBLE.
"I want you," said my hostess, "to take in Mrs. Blank. She is
charming. All through the War she has been with her husband in the
South Seas. London is a new place to her."
Mrs. Blank did not look too promising. She was pretty in her
way--"elegant" an American would have called her--but she lacked
animation. However, the South Seas...! Anyone fresh from the Pacific
must have enough to tell to see soup, fish and _entree_ safely
through.
I began by remarking that she must find London a very complete change
after the sun and placidity that she had come from.
"It's certainly noisier," she said; "but we had our share of rain."
"I thought it was always fine there," I remarked; but she laughed a
denial and relapsed into silence.
She was one of those women who don't take soup, and this made the
economy of her utterances the more unfair.
Racking my brain for a new start I fell back on those useful fellows,
the authors. Presuming that anyone who had lived in that fascinating
region--the promised land (if land is the word) of so many of us who
are weary of English climatic treacheries--would be familiar with the
literature of it. I went boldly to work.
"The first book about the South Seas that I ever read," I said, "was
BALLANTYNE'S _Coral Island_."
"Indeed!" she replied.
I asked her if she too had not been brought up on BALLANTYNE, and she
said no. She did not even know his name.
"He wrote for boys," I explained rather lamely.
"I read poetry chiefly as a girl," she said.
"But surely you know STEVENSON'S _Island Nights' Entertainment_?"
I said.
No, she did not. Was it nice?
"It's extraordinary," I said. "It gives you more of the atmosphere
of the South Seas than any other work. And Louis BECKE--you must have
read him?" I continued.
No, she had not. She read very little. The last book she had read was
on spiritualism.
"Not even CONRAD?" I pursued. "No one has so described the calms and
storms of the Pacific."
No, she remembered no story called _Conrad_.
I was about to explain that CONRAD was the writer, not the written;
but it seemed a waste of words, and we fell into a stillness broken
only by the sound of knife and fork.
"Hang it! you shall talk," I said to myself; and then aloud, "Tell me
all about copra. I have longed to know what copra is; how it grows,
what it looks like, what it is for."
"You have come to the wrong person," she replied, with wide eyes. "I
never heard of it. Or did you say 'cobra'? Of course I know what a
cobra is--it's a snake. I've seen them at the Zoo."
I put her right. "Copra, the stuff that the traders in the South Seas
deal in."
"I never heard of it," she said. "But then why should I? I know
nothing about the South Seas."
My stock fell thirty points and I crumbled bread nervously, hoping for
something sensible to say; but at this moment "half-time" mercifully
set in. My partner on the other side turned to me suavely and asked if
I thought the verses in _Abraham Lincoln_ were a beauty or a blemish;
and with the assistance of the London stage, the flight to America,
Mrs. FULTON'S _Blight_, Mr. WALPOLE'S _Secret City_ and the prospects
of the new Academy, I sailed serenely into port. She was as easy and
agreeable a woman as that other was difficult, and before she left for
the drawing-room she had invited me to lunch and I had accepted.
As I said Good-night to my hostess I asked why she had told me that my
first partner had been in the South Seas. She said that she had said
nothing of the sort; what she had said was that during the War she had
been stationed with her husband, Colonel Blank, at Southsea.
* * * * *
THE MESSAGE OF HULL.
The Hull Election has been keenly discussed in various papers, but by
none with more enthusiasm than _The Daily News_. In a special article
from the luminous pen of "A.G.G.," in the issue of April 12th, the
true inwardness of the portent is thus revealed:--
"The message of Hull is a message for all the world. It is the
announcement that this country, whatever its Government may do, will
not have a French peace. It is a declaration to America that the
English people are with her in her determination to have a League
of Nations' settlement and no other. It is the repudiation of
Conscription, of war on Russia, of the permanent military occupation
of Germany, of imperialism and grab, of war policy in Ireland, of
repression in Egypt, of the reckless profligacy and corruption that
are plunging Europe into Bolshevism and hurrying this country to
irretrievable ruin."
We confess that we are staggered by the moderation, not to say
modesty, of "A.G.G." as an interpreter of the meaning of the Hull
Election. He has omitted infinitely more than he has inscribed in
his list.
The return of Commander KENWORTHY stands, of course, for all these
things, but for many others of at least equal importance.
It means the disappearance of influenza, the ravages of which
are clearly traceable to the political virus disseminated by the
Coalition.
It means the rehabilitation of Mr. BIRRELL and his return to public
life as English Ambassador to the Court of King Valeroso I.
It foreshadows the wholesale gratuitous distribution of cigarettes,
marmalade and gramophones.
It means the prohibition of the use of the French horn in orchestras
and all places where they play, the reinstatement of the German flute
and the restoration of the German Fleet.
Lastly, it means the compulsory prohibition of all Greek except "Alpha
of the Plough."
* * * * *
TO A SEVEN-YEAR-OLD
(_WITH HIS FIRST CRICKET SET_).
Here's a gift to take and treasure,
England's gift as well as mine,
Symbol of her clean-spent leisure,
Of her youth and strength a sign;
Gleams of sunlight on old meadows
O'er these varnished toys are cast,
And within that box's shadows
Stir the triumphs of the Past.
Still the ancient tale entrances,
Giving us in golden dower
ULYETT'S drives and IVO's glances,
JACKSON'S dash and THORNTON'S power;
Skill of LYTTELTONS and LACEYS,
Grit of SHREWSBURYS and GUNNS;
Pride of STUDDS and STEELS and GRACES
Piling up their English runs.
Take these simple toys as token
Of the champions that have been,
Stalwart in defence unbroken,
Hefty hitters, hitting clean;
And, when capped in Life's eleven,
May you stand as firm as they;
May you, little son of seven,
Play the game the English way.
W.H.O.
* * * * *
"It seems to be a ruling passion amongst certain writers
to portray anybody connected with commerce as being an
ungrammatical ignoramus. Even Kipling panders to this notion
in his conception of a drapery assistant in the person of
'Kipps.'"--_Draper's Organiser_.
But did not Mr. WELLS do something to redress the balance in _Kim_?
* * * * *
[Illustration: "WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO, NO. 4?"
"IT'S NO GOOD, INSTRUCTOR; I AIN'T GOT NO HEAD FOR HEIGHTS."]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(_BY MR. PUNCH'S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERKS._)
The latest of the now so fashionable short-story volumes to come my
way is one called _Our Casualty, Etc._ (SKEFFINGTON). Much virtue in
that "_Etc._," which covers other fifteen little tales in the best, or
nearly the best, "Birmingham" manner. I say "nearly," because for its
happiest expression the art of "Mr. GEORGE BIRMINGHAM" demands space
to tangle events into more complicated confusion than can be contrived
in the dozen pages of these episodes. But within their limitations
they are all excellent fun, partly concerned with the War (usually
with an Irishman involved), partly recalled from the piping and
whisky-drinking times of peace, at Inishmore and elsewhere. One
can only treat them after the manner of the schoolboy who declined
to distinguish between the Major and Minor Prophets. But I
rather specially enjoyed the title-piece, which tells how the
super-patriotism of an aged volunteer defeated the kindly plans of
those who would have saved him fatigue by assigning to him the role
of casualty in a trench-relief practice. Casualties also figure in
"Getting Even," an improbable but highly entertaining fiction of the
score practised by an ingenious Medical Officer (Irish, I need hardly
say) upon an over-zealous C.O., who, to keep him busy during a field
day, flooded his "clearing station" with all sorts of complicated
imaginary cases, only to find the fictitious victims arranged
comfortably in rows under the shade of the trees to await the Padre
and a burying party, the M.O. reporting that they had all died before
reaching him. It couldn't possibly happen as here told, but that
matters little, since, so far as I am concerned, a "Birmingham" tale
can always well afford to dispense with credibility.
* * * * *
I am distinctly grateful to ROSE MACAULAY for _What Not_ (CONSTABLE).
It brought me the pleasantest end to anything but a perfect English
Spring day. She has wit, not so common a gift that you can afford
just to take it for granted; she knows when to stop, selecting not
exhausting; and she makes her epigrams by the way, as it were,
without exposing the process of manufacture. (Other epigrammatists
please copy.) Miss MACAULAY'S "prophetic comedy" is a joyous rag
of Government office routine, flappery, Pelmania, Tribunals, State
advertising, the Lower Journalism and "What Not." That audacious
eugenist, _Nicky Chester_, first Minister of Brains in the post-war
period of official attempts to raise the nation from C3 to something
nearer A1 on the intellectual plane, happens, because of his family
history, to be uncertified for marriage. He also happens to fall very
desperately in love with his secretary, _Kitty Grammont_, and the
conflict between duty and desire becomes the theme--perhaps just a
little too heavy--of an extravaganza that is happiest in its lighter
and more irreverent moments. Which is to say that _What Not_ wanders
out of the key. But what on earth does that matter if one is made to
laugh quite often and to smile almost continuously at a very shrewd
piece of observation, whimsicality and tempered malice? And you will
like the serene _Pansy Ponsonby_ (out of "Hullo, Peace!"), who could
scarcely be called _Kitty's_ "sister-in-law," but was of the most
faithful. The odd thing is that under all her gibing the author
seems to have a queer furtive admiration for her precious Ministry
of Brains.
* * * * *
Among the many things I like in DORETHEA CONYERS' novels is the
artistic subtlety, achieved by few of our other novelists, with which
she manages to write them as it were in character. I am quite sure
that if _Berenice Ermyntrude Nicosia Nevin_, who is called by her
initials on the cover and inside by what they spell, had tried to
write a novel it would have been remarkably like _B.E.N._ (METHUEN).
There would have been the same keen delight in horses, hunting and
Irish scenery, and the same cheerful disregard for such trifles as
spelling or such conventions as making quite sure that your reader
knows which character is speaking at any given moment, and the same
excellent humour, which, if it is at the expense of the Irish, is
kindly enough for all that. It seems to me that in her new novel Mrs.
CONYERS, wisely refusing to stray to that suburbia in which her gifts
lack this charm, has recaptured much of the careless rapture of her
earliest books; and very careless and very rapturous they wore. But I
am not quite sure that in real life even _Ben_, when as second whip to
the East Cara hounds she lost her horse, would have found an aeroplane
useful to catch up with. In case it should be objected that anything
so funny as the tea at _Miss Talty's_ never could happen, even in the
Caher Valley district, I want to put it on record here and now that it
could and does.
* * * * *
_The Mystery Keepers_ (LANE), by MARION FOX, reminds me of the old
riddle, "What is it that has feathers and two legs, and barks like
a dog?"--the answer being a stork. People who protest that a stork
doesn't bark like a dog are told that that part is put in to make
it harder. I find that the greater part of the mystery kept by _The
Mystery Keepers_ is put in to make it harder. The Abbey at Clynch St.
Mary has a "coise" put on it by the last Abbess, and every direct
male heir expires punctually on his twenty-first birthday. The actual
agency is a poisoned ring concealed in the frame of a portrait of
the malevolent Abbess and is in the custody of the _Otway_ family,
who enjoy a prescriptive if nebulous right to be stewards of the
property. Just how or why the _Otways_--noble fellows, we are given to
understand--carry out the deceased Abbess's nefarious wishes with such
precision and despatch is not explained. Anyway the mother of the last
victim, who has found out the secret, steals the ring, murders the
_Otway_ of the period, and retires to a lunatic asylum after her son
has himself stolen the ring from her workbox and poisoned himself into
the next world. That finishes it. The ring retires to a museum and the
proper people marry each other. It is a slender and quite impossible
story, but told in a clever way which goes far to redeem its lack of
substance.