Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156, June 18, 1919 by Various
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
VOL. 156
JUNE 18, 1919
CHARIVARIA.
Professor THATCHER of New York describes President WILSON as one of the
five greatest men in the world. Sir ERIC GEDDES is anxious to know who
the other three are.
***
"The Jazz boom is dying out," says Mr. HERMAN DAREWSKI, "but the next
boom will be an Oriental one." There seems nothing to do about it except
to bear up.
***
The fact that for some time no arrest was made for the Plaistow safe
robbery seems to indicate that the thieves desired to remain anonymous.
***
Like soothing balm from the dear old days comes the intimation that Sir
THOMAS LIPTON is confident of lifting the America Cup in 1920.
***
Up to the time of going to Press it had not been officially decided what
new uniform will be designed for the R.A.F. to be worn during the Peace
Celebrations.
***
The City of Philadelphia has decreed that sitting-out places in
ball-rooms must be adequately lighted. Following upon the unauthorised
publication of the Peace Terms, this is a further blow at secret
covenants.
***
Forty thousand children visited the Zoo on Whit-Monday, and one anxious
father who had mislaid a couple of infants stayed for a long time in the
reptile-house, looking suspiciously at the swollen appearance of the boa
constrictor.
***
"The people of London have never understood that wisdom is not
concentrated here," said Sir GEORGE LUNN at the conference of Associated
Education Committees. These cheap sneers at Sir FREDERICK BANBURY are
beneath his notice.
***
The Vicar of South Acton suggests that a huge prize should be offered
for the invention of a good temperance drink. We regret to say that this
is not the first studied insult that has been offered to Government ale.
***
A new race, who had never seen a white man before, is reported to have
been found on Prince Albert Land, and one of them is being taken to
Maine, U.S.A. That ought to teach them to be discovered again.
***
Incidentally so many errors have been made of late in executing people
in Russia that in future all orders for executions will be signed by
LENIN and will bear the words, "Errors and Omissions Excepted."
***
The Bolshevists have their trials just like human beings. One of them
last week was mistaken for a bourgeois and shot.
***
Civil servants engaged by the various Ministries will in future be
required to have special qualifications for their work. We have always
thought that this would be an advantage.
***
Senor FERNANDEZ denies the allegation that Mexico is not now at war with
any nation. It is supposed to have been spread by jealous rivals.
***
In the Isle of Sheppey there is not a single person who is drawing the
unemployment donation. There seems to be no excuse whatever for this
apathy. Full particulars have appeared in the Press.
***
The embargo on the export of gold from the United States is to be raised
almost immediately; meanwhile all shipments will be carefully watched,
the stuff being now nearly worth its weight in coal.
***
County Tyrone has a dog specially trained to trace whiskey. Several
people in this country have already offered it a good home, where it
will be treated as one of the family.
***
Asked to describe the cuckoo the other day, a small boy said it was the
bird which put its eggs out to be laid by another bird.
***
At last an obliging taxi-driver has been discovered. His clock
registered six shillings and his passenger had only five-and-sixpence,
so he offered to reverse his engine in order to wipe off the deficit.
***
We now hear that the authorities have decided that, if a child should
fall into any lake or river and be in peril of drowning, any dog may be
allowed to remove its muzzle for the purpose of effecting a rescue.
***
During the removal of a safe weighing three hundredweight some burglars
last week used cushions and mats to deaden the sound. We are greatly
pleased to note a tendency to study residents a little. After all it is
most irritating to be awakened by noisy burglars in the house.
***
The No-Treating Order was revoked on June 4th, and it is generally
expected that this date will be made an annual, public holiday in
Scotland.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Small Bagsnatcher_. "RIGHT-O, GUV'NOR. I SEE YER BEEN
WOUNDED. I SHAN'T KNOCK 'YER ABAHT."]
* * * * *
There was an impenitent duke
Who would not submit to rebuke--
Not even from SMILLIE,
But called him a wily
Text-mongering Bolshi-Bazouk.
* * * * *
"PERSONAL.
"Major C. ----, late R.A.V.C., who is now disembodied, has returned
to ----, and will resume his practice as heretofore."--_Yorkshire
Observer_.
Now then, Sir OLIVER LODGE and Sir ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE, get busy.
* * * * *
THE BALAAM STAKES.
They were speeding along in the train to the Dispersal Area, and, having
moved heaven and earth to achieve demobilisation, were now absolutely
miserable on nearing their goal.
"Like to pick your fancy for the Derby, Docker?" asked Jimmy Ferguson,
proffering his daily paper with an air of acute cheerfulness.
"Not fer me," said Docker Morgan dismally; "I sworn off after the Balaam
Stakes."
"I never 'eard tell of that race," said Jimmy.
"Well, it ain't one of the classic events. It were run over there."
Docker jerked a thumb vaguely in the direction of France. "At a
'Concours Hippique,' which is posh fer 'Race Meeting.' Our orficers
arranged it just afore our troops left the area, and nacherally fixed
it fer the most awkward time fer me an' Nigger Rolf, being just between
paydays. After payin' to go on the course we'd only got five francs
left fer investment purposes. Nigger wanted to plunge right away, but I
stopped 'im.
"'No,' says I; 'we don't know 'orses, but we does know mules, leastways
as much as anyone does know mules. Let's scoop on this.'
"'An' I showed 'im the programme, which said:--
"'5.30.--THE BALAAM STAKES. For Government Mules ridden or driven by
British N.C.O.'s and men during the War.'
"We walked round the course an' tumbled acrost Ping Brown, got up _ong
chevalier_.
"'Aw-aw, Donoghue' says I, 'is it worth while backing you for a cool
thou for the Balaam?'
"'Well,' says he, 'I'm riding Perishing Percy. If it wus a clog-dancing
competition it 'ud be easy money, but bein' a race, back any one, even
the starter, sooner than me.'
"Then I met Spruggy Boyce, who useter drive with me in the Umpteenth
Field Ambulance.
"'Glory, Docker,' says he, falling on my neck, his top-boots being a bit
loose, 'I was looking for you.'
"'I ain't got no money,' says I.
"'But you _can_ 'ave,' he whispers confidential, like they do in the
pictures. 'I'm riding Red Liz in the Balaam.'
"'Well,' I replies, 'I'm not denying that Red Liz is a perfect lady; but
that's 'er trouble--she's too ladylike to pass anyone.'
"'Docker,' he hisses, 'do you remember driving 'er one day down the
Menin Road when Fritz started shelling?'
"'Don't I just! Why, she didn't fetch up till nearly at St. Omer, and
the shells lost heart becos they couldn't catch 'er. But,' I says
regretfully, it takes shells to start Red Liz, an' we ain't got none.'
"'No, we 'aven't got shells,' whispers Spruggy, 'but I 've got some
crackers; an' if you sprinkle some on the course, it's a cert.'
"'Right-o!' says I. 'Me an' Nigger will see it through, if you'll lend
us another five francs to invest.'
"Then I went to _cherchay_ a bookie, but I couldn't find one anywheres.
"'They don't 'ave 'em 'ere,' says Nigger. 'You invests at the sheds over
there--the _Paree Mutual_.'
"'That's an insurance company,' answers I. 'I want to put a bit on, not
take out a life policy.'
"'That's the place, I tells you,' says Nigger; 'the _Paree Mutual_ or
the _Total Liza_. If you don't 'urry you won't get it on before the race
starts.'
"So I fights my way through the surging mob to the counter.
"'What odds for Red Liz in the five-thirty?' says I.
"'_Je ne comprong pas_,' says the bet merchant, and before I could say
another word the crowd swept me away. I went back to Nigger.
"'Look 'ere, Nigger,' says I indignantly, 'I don't like this way. I
likes to speckerlate with a bookie--one with a wooden leg as can't run
for preference--who tells you what odds 'e's going to give an' doesn't
'ave to work it out in vulgar fractions afterwards.'
"'You 'eart-breaking turnip!' says Nigger; 'give me the money.'
"'E came back in a few minutes with a bit o' card that looked like a
pawn-ticket.
"'That's done,' he says. 'If it wins we just takes this ticket an' 'e
pays out on it. An' now let's go an' see 'em come out.'
"There wus ten starters, and four changed their minds at the post.
Perishing Percy did some neat an' effective steps that would 'ave gone
better with music, an' then stopped dead to listen for the applause.
Whips nor spurs weren't allowed in the race, an' peaceful persuasion
don't go far with a mule; but about five of 'em pursued the narrow and
straight path that leads to the winning-post. A big, raw-boned animal,
named Gentle Maggot, floundering along with one foot in the franc side
an' tother in the enclosure, with two other feet that couldn't be
simultaneously located, was leading, an' a chestnut named Coughdrop was
a good second. Red Liz was flapping her long ears an' coming along very
genteelly in the rear. When they wus nearly level to us, Nigger whispers
to me to get the cracker ready; but me hands were trembling so with
excitement that I couldn't light it.
"'Give 'em to me, you idjut!' says Nigger, and he plunked one neatly by
Red Liz's ribs. She started, and Nigger plants another one behind 'er.
Then she put 'er 'ead down and tore along like mad. She passed three,
got level with Coughdrop, passed 'er, an' thirty yards from home was
neck with Gentle Maggot. Both Jocks were whooping like mad, but just as
everyone was swearing it was going to be a dead-heat, I thumped Nigger
hard on the back an' yelled out, 'We've won!'
"Spruggy 'ad jerked Red Liz's head down just at the post, an' she 'ad
won by an ear!"
"Well, that was good enough, wasn't it?" said Jimmy, as Docker finished
his narrative with a mournful downward inflexion of voice.
"It would 'ave been," replied Docker; "only Nigger 'ad put the ticket in
'is mouth while 'e lighted the cracker, an' when I thumped 'im on the
back it startled 'im, an'--'_e swallered it_."
* * * * *
SONGS OF SIMLA.
IV.--MRS. HAWKSBEE.
Hazards beset her social groove;
Dilemmas rise--she wriggles free;
Landslip or earthquake cannot move
Her imperturbability.
Where 'er she goes her presence thrills,
And in her youthfulness there shines
The everlasting of our hills,
The evergreenness of our pines.
Hung in a poise that knows no law
The kestrels watch above the trees,
But never was kestrel yet that saw
The half that Mrs. Hawksbee sees.
Rosy and smiling mid her furs
Along the Mall her way she trips
With subalterns whose worship stirs
The cynic swiftness of her lips.
When Jakko-wards her rickshaw sweeps,
The monkeys scamper o'er the grass,
And breathlessly each rascal peeps
To see the Queen of mischief pass.
Our Viceroys know the call of Fate;
Our Generals pass nor question why;
Councils dissolve and Staffs migrate,
But Mrs. Hawksbee shall not die.
J.M.S.
* * * * *
"So far from the wage-earning classes being shown the necessity for
a revival in our industry, the Prime Minister talks nonsense about
'removing the sceptre of unemployment.'"--_Morning Paper_.
This will comfort those who were afraid that it was permanently
enthroned.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE FINISHING TOUCH.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Small Brother (to rejected lover)._ "BUT JOHN, DIDN'T
YOU TELL HER YOU'D PLAYED FOR ESSEX?"]
* * * * *
THE POET.
In a distant country, at a remote epoch, was born of humble parents a
poet. "Born" advisedly, since the poet is always born, not made. Even
before he could write he composed little poems, which he would
recite aloud. The simple pleasures of the poor, among whom he grew
up--intoxication, pugilism, funeral merry-makings--furnished the themes
of his verse.
Upon reaching man's estate he adopted the calling of night-watchman,
an occupation which provided him at once with a livelihood and ample
opportunities for meditation. It is to this period that the "Nocturnes"
belong.
Now it happened that the poet's work reached the eye of the Prince, who,
anxious to encourage genius, appointed him to some minor place about
Court and endowed it with a pension. Moreover, to complete his happiness
he gave him in marriage a beautiful and accomplished maiden, for whom
the poet had long cherished an ardent but hopeless passion. So, as by
enchantment, the course of the poet's existence was changed. He no
longer waked while others slept. On the contrary he seldom left his
couch until a late hour in the morning, and when at last he rose it was
often to pass the rest of the day in a Turkish bath.
Yet in spite of altered circumstances he still remained a poet, for the
poet is born, not made, or unmade. The tenor of his poetry however
was changed. Instead of the rude and vigorous subjects which formerly
engaged his lyre he would now employ his art in verse of the daintiest,
to celebrate flowers, ladies' eyebrows and similar trivialities.
This style however was not altogether to the taste of the munificent
Prince. He had expected something stronger, something more in the grand
manner. So he consulted a Wise Man, an adept in the ways of poets, one
greatly in demand as a writer of biographical prefaces to poetical
reprints.
The Wise Man heard him to the end and replied as follows: "Sire, you
have been ill-advised. Who ever heard of a happy poet? Poetry and
prosperity are incompatible. Instead of trying to make your _protege_
joyful you should have heaped sorrow upon him. It is well known that
sorrow ennobles a man and enlarges his emotional experience. 'Poets
learn in suffering what they teach in song' sang one of them who knew.
"However it is not too late. When next he seeks your Presence, indicate
to him with that tact which is the birthright of princes that he no
longer enjoys your favour. At the same time stop his pension and allow
him to taste once more the life from which your bounty removed him.
Could you contrive that he loses the affection of his wife, and that he
falls into a consumption, so much the better. In addition, if it please
your Highness, I will arrange that all his work is unfavourably noticed
in the Press and that calumnies concerning his private life are
circulated in the personal paragraph columns."
"Thanks very much," said the Prince, and dismissed the Wise Man with a
handsome fee.
A few days later, when the poet presented himself at Court, the monarch
rose from his throne, took a short run and kicked him in a vulnerable
part. Breathless the poet was borne by lackeys from the royal presence,
wherein he never again showed himself. At the next meeting of the
Council the Prince annulled his pension by a stroke of the pen. Thus the
poet was thrust back into the cold world.
Now began a period for him of intense unhappiness. Having lost his old
business connection he could no longer obtain employment in his original
vocation. He had therefore no alternative to avert starvation but to
follow the precarious calling of a cab-runner. These events, it will
be recalled, happened in a bygone age, before the motor superseded
the horse. Often, after a weary trail half across the town behind a
luggage-laden Cab, only to find that the family kept a man-servant,
he would return to the cellar that was now his home, penniless and
exhausted.
Long hours spent over the washtub, to eke out their scanty earnings, had
rendered his wife--once the "Fay" of the "Love Songs"--both muscular and
short-tempered. On such occasions she would lay hands on the poet and
thrash him till he wept. But throughout all he remained a poet, for the
poet is born not made. Every tear in falling turned to a sonnet.
His sorrows were transmuted into poems--poems now suffused with the
concentrated emotions of the human race.
Nevertheless each one as it appeared was brutally slated in the organs
controlled by the literary adviser to the Crown, and himself belittled
and ridiculed. When, as luck would have it, his wife eloped with a
wrestler, a flood of melody poured from his soul which, connoisseurs
have assured us, ranks high amongst the lyrical masterpieces of the
world. These verses will be found amongst the collection known as
"Swan Songs," published posthumously, for, not long after, the poet
unfortunately developed phthisis and died.
But though he was thus cut-off in early manhood his name will live for
ever. It is borne by a square in the boarding-house quarter of the
capital and by a cravat which, though, alas, no longer in the fashion,
is still worn every Sunday by countless artisans.
His poems too have achieved immortality. Showily bound they make a
favourite school prize and have given entertainment to generations of
cultured refined persons, who have never paused in their reading to give
a thought to the author of their enjoyment, the sagacious Prince to
whose action they owe their emotional treat. His royal Highness's reward
was his own aesthetic satisfaction. "By Heaven, this is more like," he
rapturously exclaimed as he laid down the last volume of the collected
works; "this verse has got some stuff in it." And on the occasion of his
next birthday he conferred the Companionship of a Household Order upon
the poet's publisher.
* * * * *
"Lord Basil's scratching is said to be due to soreness."--_Daily
Sketch_.
It frequently is.
* * * * *
[Illustration: OUR WEALTHY WORKERS.
_Host (to guest with Socialistic opinions)._ "I hope you'll be careful
what you have to say about the moneyed classes. Our maid is very
sensitive."]
* * * * *
BIRD-LORE.
I.--THE CUCKOO.
The Cuckoo is a tell-tale,
A mischief-making bird;
She flies to East, she flies to West
And whispers into every nest
The wicked things she's heard;
She loves to spread her naughty lies;
She laughs about it as she flies:
"Cuckoo," she cries, "cuckoo, cuckoo,
It's true, it's true."
And when the fairies catch her
Her busy wings they dock,
They shut her up for evermore
(She may not go beyond the door)
Inside a German clock;
Inside a wooden clock she cowers
And has to tell the proper hours--
"Cuckoo," she cries, "cuckoo, cuckoo,
It's true, it's true."
R.F.
* * * * *
"THE SILENT SERVICE."
"Horace ----, labourer, was charged with using insulting language.
He was said to be training for the Navy and the case was accordingly
dismissed."--_Local Paper_.
* * * * *
"If people would wear the same underclothing all the year round,
and with or without the aid of a thermometer against their bedroom
window vary their outer garments only, they would never be
inconvenienced by changes of temperature."--_Letter in Daily Paper_.
And they would make an appreciable saving in their laundry bills.
* * * * *
THE MUD LARKS.
"_Gurr finny,"_ says T. Atkins, and there seems no doubt about the
well-known War being over at last. Home-keeping folk, who imagine it
ended when the whistle blew at the eleventh hour of November 11th, are
wide, very wide, of the mark. We have experienced some of its direst
horrors since then. Why, at one time (and not so long ago) we were
without the bare necessities of life itself.
I have seen hardy old soldiers; banded like zebras with wound-stripes
and field-service chevrons, offering to barter a perfectly good horse
for a packet of Ruby Queen cigarettes, or swap a battery of Howitzers
for a flagon of Scotch methylated. Then came the Great Downfall. Nabobs,
who for years had been purring about back areas in expensive cars,
dressed up like movie-kings, were suddenly debussed and dismantled.
Brigadiers sorrowfully plucked the batons from off their shoulder-straps
and replaced them in their knapsacks. The waste-paper baskets brimmed
with red flannelette and gilt edging. Field officers cast down their
golden crowns and crept slowly back to their original units as
substantive lieutenants.
And now all are gone, some home to England to write for _The Times_
(Appointments Required column) and some to watch the Rhine and see that
it gets up to no irregularities, such as running the wrong way or dry.
Here, on the fringe of the old battle-grounds, only the merest handful
of us remain, deserted by the field armies, apparently forgotten by the
management.
It has happened before. Bob, our Camp Commandant, swears that a
battalion of his regiment, while garrisoning some ocean isle, got
mislaid for years and years, and they would have been there to this day,
chatting to the crabs and watering the palm-trees with their tears, if
some junior subaltern had not sent his birthday-book to KITCHENER with
the request that the Field-Marshal would inscribe some verses therein.
Occasionally the boom of explosions coming from the devastated areas
tells us that our brave allies the Chinese are still on deck, salvaging
ammunition after their own unique fashion of rapping shells smartly over
the nose-caps with sledge-hammers to test whether they be really duds or
no.
Although a very courageous man, I do not linger in their whereabouts
unless I have to. I don't follow their line of thought. One of them
unearthed a MILLS bomb the other day. It gave off blue smoke and fizzed
prettily. When last seen he was holding it to the ear of a chum, who was
smiling entrancedly, as a child smiles at the croon of a conch-shell.
By the way, whilst we are on the subject, who is this MILLS? The
illustrated papers have shown us THE MAN WHO WON THE WAR, the
thousand-and-one sole and only inventors of Tinribs the Tank; their
prattle-pages are crammed daily with portraits of war-worn flag-sellers,
heroic O.B.E.'s, and so on; but what of our other benefactors, the names
of whom are far more familiar to the average Atkins than are those of
the Twelve Apostles or his own Generals? I confess, to a great desire
to behold the features of Mr. MILLS, the bombster (I picture him a
benevolent-looking old gentleman with a flowing white beard), Mr. STOKES
of the gun, Mrs. AYRTON of the gas-fan, and Messrs. ARMSTRONG and
NISSEN, the hutters. Can no enterprising picture-paper supply the want?
But to return to ourselves. With the exception of the faithful
Celestial, the land is empty of human interest. The roads that once
rumbled unceasingly with wheels and swarmed with merry men now run bare
under a sad sky. The deepway side drains, in which our lorries used to
play at submarines, now harbour nothing more exciting than tadpoles. We
are hard-pressed to find mischief for our idle hands to do.
Sherlock the Sleuth keeps himself in fair fettle by prowling round the
countryside and trying to restrain the aborigines from pinching what
little British material they have not already pinched. Yesterday he came
upon a fatigue party of Gauls staggering down a by-way under the shell
of an Armstrong hut. He whooped and gave chase. The Gauls, sighting the
A.P.M. brassard, promptly dumped the hut and dived through a wire fence.
Sherlock hitched his horse to a post and followed afoot, snorting fire
and brimstone. They led him at a smart trot over four acres of boggy
plough, through a brambly plantation, two prickly hedges and a
richly-perfumed drain and went to ground inextricably in some
mine buildings. He returned, blown, battered and baffled, to the
starting-point, to find that some third party had in the meantime
removed the Armstrong hut--also his horse.
Ronald, our only remaining Red Hat, saves his soul from boredom by
keeping all the H.Q. departments open and conducting, on his own, a
brisk correspondence between them. As there are about thirty of these
and he conducts them all himself it will be understood that this entails
a certain amount of movement on his part.
Bob, the Camp Commandant, spends his time trying to square his returns
and interviewing Violet. Violet is a middle-aged gentleman who came to
us from some Labour unit and refuses to leave. He has an enormous head,
a walrus moustache, a hairy nose, and feet which flap as they walk. His
_metier_ is to keep the place tidy and the incinerator fires burning. He
prowls about at night, accompanied by a large ginger tom-cat, harpooning
loose scraps of paper. Any dust he meets he deals with on the
blotting-paper principle, by rolling in it and absorbing it. When his
clothes are so stiff with dirt that they will stand up without any
inside assistance from Violet, they are sawn off him and consigned to
the incinerator and he is given a new suit. Whenever his back hair has
grown so long that it is liable to impede his movements, a _posse_ of
grooms is despatched to his lair to rope, throw and shear him with
horse-clippers. Last time they did it they swear they lost the
instrument twice and that two bats and an owl flew out of his tresses.