Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156, June 25, 1919 by Various
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156, June 25, 1919
The Commander of His Majesty's Battleship _Ermyntrude_ is far from being
an exception to the rule; he is a martyr to it. So are his officers. In
their enthusiasm they have let the rule run riot. You will soon see that
for yourself.
The idea germinated in the practical head of the gunner. It pushed its
way into the upper air under the plain cap of the A.P. It budded under
the (slighted tilted) head-dress of Number One, and blossomed forth into
a full-blown project under the gilded oak-leaves that thatch the Bloke.
He said, "The ship's company will run across country."
The ship's company girded up its loins and awaited further orders.
The course was decided upon. It ran from the signalling station on the
south of the island straight to the town on the north. There was no
possibility of making a mistake, because you could see the semaphore
from anywhere, and you would know when you got to the town because the
road stopped there. The various divisions of the ship were to compete
against each other. If you came in first you were to be given a ticket
numbered "one"; if second, a ticket numbered "two," and so on; and the
division which had the smallest total of pips at the end would be the
winner.
At 8.15 the ship's pinnace landed the gunner on the town jetty at the
north end of the island. He had come to deal with the competitors when
they arrived at the winning-post. He had brought with him the bo'sun and
the carpenter, his own mate, the bo'sun's mate and the carpenter's
mate, four P.O.'s, the sergeant of Marines, a few leading stokers and
half-a-dozen hands; fifty fathoms of hawser-laid four-inch white rope;
six stout stakes (ash); bags, canvas, twelve (one to collect the tickets
earned by each division); and one thousand eight hundred tickets,
numbered from one to one thousand eight hundred. (There were only six
hundred and fifty runners, but it is well to be on the safe side.)
He dug his stakes into the ground in a V-shaped formation just beyond
the place where the road ended and almost opposite the first cottage.
Further north he posted his canvas bags, which he fixed at a convenient
height above the ground by depending them from the necks of his
subordinates. He then rigged his rope around the stakes in such a way
that the runners, entering the wide end of the V, would be shepherded
one by one through a narrow aperture at the bottom, thus avoiding all
suspicion of overcrowding in giving out the tickets. He explained his
plan of campaign to his party and took up his post at the foot of the V.
Scarcely had he done so when the A.P. appeared upon the scene. He had
brought with him a few friends--a couple of subs, two or three senior
snotties and the Captain's secretary, a brace of stewards with the
luncheon baskets, and the cutter's crew, who carried between them two
large trellis-work screens which the carpenter had knocked up for him.
He passed the time of day with the gunner, marched fifty yards further
down towards the starting-point and had his screens deposited in the
middle of the road, in such a way that several could enter one end of
the enclosure they formed, but only one at a time could go out at the
other; this, he explained, would enable the men to pass the winning-post
in single file. He then lit a cigarette and took his stand at the narrow
end, producing from his pocket seven hundred and fifty neat red tickets
(numbered from one to seven hundred and fifty) which the chief writer
had made out for him the night before.
At 8.45 Number One arrived. To help him he had brought a couple of
watch-keepers, a surgeon, three engineers, a naval instructor and the
captain of Marines. He only paused to borrow one side of the gunner's V
and all but forty of the A.P.'s tickets, and passed on down the road.
When he had reached a suitable point about a hundred yards south of the
A.P. he had the purloined rope stretched slantwise, in such a way that
the only means of passing it was a little passage a yard wide between
the rope and the ditch on the right of the road. A little nearer still
to the starting-point he had a large placard erected with the words
"Keep to the Right" painted on it.
Punctually at 9.0 the Commander arrived with a piece of string and the
P.M.O. They took up their stand one on each side of the road opposite
the placard. The Bloke produced a small gold pencil, but, as he had
forgotten to bring any paper, he commandeered the placard and began
feverishly to write down all the numbers he could think of from one to
six hundred and fifty.
You are no doubt anxiously awaiting the arrival of the Owner at 9.15.
Well, I'm afraid I must disappoint you. Still, although he did not come
in person, yet he made his presence felt, as every good skipper should.
At 9.15, as the ship's company were lining up for the start by the
semaphore, he made the signal from the ship:--
"Sailing at 13.30. Return immediately."
* * * * *
SONGS OF SIMLA.
V.--PELITI'S.
I troll you no song that will hinder you long,
I pen you no ponderous treatise,
The theme that I sing is a gossamer thing
As light as the cakes at PELITI'S.
Grey roofs mid the pines and a heaven that shines
As blue as the water where Crete is,
The malachite green of a misty ravine,
That's the balcony view at PELITI'S.
There are mortals, may be, who abominate tea
(One's poison another man's meat is),
Who shy at the touch of a crumpet--for such
There is music and love at PELITI'S.
See that G.S.O.2 with the lady in blue;
Has she noticed where one of his feet is,
Or the issue that hangs on the plate of meringues
Which he buys her each day at PELITI'S?
Here the rulers of Ind, from the Salween to Sind,
Take their ices and wafers (MCVITIE'S)
And elaborate schemes over chocolate creams
At five-o'clock tea at PELITI'S.
And I think, when we die and the wraiths of us fly
To that peace which depends not on treaties,
The joys which we find will but serve to remind
Of the hours that we spent at PELITI'S.
J.M.S.
* * * * *
"Thomas ---- was fined L5 Lat LOswestry yesterday for selling goods
to a German prisoner.
The chairman said defendant had sold goods to the value of 11s,
1-1/2d. Where the German had got that large sum of money from was
quite a mystery."--_Daily Paper_.
It seems pretty evident from the report that there was a good deal of
money about somewhere.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "I'M TOLD SHE'S ALWAYS WRITING TO HER DRESSMAKER ABOUT
NEW FROCKS."
"I SUPPOSE SHE ENCLOSED A STAMPED AND ADDRESSED ENVELOPE FOR THAT ONE."]
* * * * *
A CRUSADER.
One hears sometimes of pure altruists, but on analysing their purity an
alloy is perceptible. Although their work is for others, an element of
personal gratification is present.
Personal gratification or self-indulgence is of course inevitable; as it
can even enter into grief and pain; but now and then it is reduced to a
minimum: as, I hold, in the latest activities for her fellow-creatures
in which my friend Mrs. Delta has embarked.
During the War Mrs. Delta was indefatigable (I am not often sure of
my words, but I use this without a tremor of misgiving) in promoting
charities and collecting money to sustain them. At no time of day was
it safe to meet her, for you had to stand and deliver. There were no
privations due to the War which she was not out to mollify or remove,
and her ingenuity in discovering worthy objects was uncanny.
As, however, War was raging and most people are, underneath, kinder than
not, she escaped very severe criticism and amassed some good round
sums. And, since all her various Funds had committees and meetings and
minutes, Mrs. Delta, although that may have been only the least among
her motives, was the recipient of certain expressions of gratitude.
Organised charity cannot elude votes of thanks.
But that Mrs. Delta likes work for work's sake, apart altogether from
honeyed praises, is now beyond question, for the campaign she has just
inaugurated is unlikely to yield them.
"You must," she said to me yesterday, "give me something for my new
scheme."
"I hope I shall have enough strength of mind not to; but what is it?"
"You have noticed in what a dreadful state so many of the shop windows
in London now are?" she asked.
"The iniquitous prices of the goods?"
"Oh, no; I didn't mean that. I mean the dropped letters. Where they have
glass letters stuck on, you know, and some have gone. Surely you must
have noticed?"
"Yes, of course," I replied; "but I thought the shop-keepers were too
lazy or careless to bother. The War has increased carelessness, you
know."
"No, it isn't that," she said. "The poor fellows are so understaffed and
overworked that they can't find time. My idea is to raise a fund so
that it can be done for them. My heart aches. Only this morning I saw a
barber's with ASH AND RUSH UP on it; and a confectioner's"--she referred
to her notebook--"with ICE REAMS, and an undertaker's with PINKING ONE
ERE."
"What is pinking?" I asked. "I always wanted to know."
"And," she continued, again consulting her book, "a tobacconist's with
BEST OLDEN VIRGIN , and a dentist's with PA LESS EXTRACTION. Something
really must be done. Don't you agree?"
I murmured that there were other abuses that were possibly more in need
of immediate redress, but Mrs. Delta again turned to her book.
"And a dairyman with FAMILIES UP LIE , and a stationer's with LUE LACK
INK. Isn't it distressing?--and so bad for growing children to see so
much slovenliness. And what can foreigners think of us? The Americans,
for instance, who are always so spick and span, and--"
The means of rescue came to me in the shape, of a vast monster on
wheels, bright with yellow and scarlet, thundering over the road.
"That's my bus," I said, and ran.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Father (to troublesome small boy_). "NOW LOOK HERE,
TONY. I SHAN'T WARN YOU AGAIN. THE VERY _NEXT_ TIME YOU MISBEHAVE YOU
GO _STRAIGHT_ UPSTAIRS TO BED."
_Small Sister_. "AND THAT'S _THAT_. ISN'T IT, DADDY?"]
* * * * *
THOSE DRESSES.
_(Being a Midsummer Night's Dream, or thereabouts.)_
More gay than day and plumier
Than Birds of Paradise,
It was no Court Costumier
That made them look so nice;
No milliners nor drapers
On mortal business terms
Of those sweet modes were shapers,
Though several evening papers
Mention the actual firms.
But fairies wove that raiment
Of starshine and of flowers;
They asked no better payment,
They craved no shorter hours;
With eglantine and lilies
They worked a June night long,
And that is just where "Phyllis"
In "Ascot frocks and frillies"
Goes absolutely wrong.
'Neath beech-tree and 'neath cedar,
In rings of moonlit green....
What bilge, you say, good reader?
My very dear old bean,
Think of the state of Prices,
Think of the slump in Trade,
Turn to the Paris Crisis,
Ponder the cost of ices
And buns and gingerade.
New War-loans shriek for money;
All work is at an end;
It seems extremely funny
There's any cash to spend;
Yet still the tide of laces,
The foam of fluff and silk
Comes round in cardboard cases
To lots of people's places
As punctual as the milk.
While, sworn to get revenge in,
And waiting at the door,
That grim three-handed engine
Prepares to strike once more,
Who built these gowns we mutely
Admire on lawn and lea?
Who bought them (think acutely),
With England absolutely
As broke as she can be?
Therefore I say the fabric
Was wrought of faery woof,
Not made in walls of drab brick
Nor won with mortal oof;
Delicate, dream-like, pretty
As sunshine after rain,
Worn by Miss Hodgson ("Kitty")--
It seems a dreadful pity
She spilled the iced champagne.
Therefore I say that, toiling
With wild white roses' bloom--
No printers' vats a-boiling
Nor labour of the loom--
With fern and foxglove chalice
On tiny feet or wings
Titania's elves made sallies,
And that's how Lady Alice
Had on those lovely things.
EVOE.
* * * * *
A HAPPY THOUGHT.
"When the blessing had been pronounced and the bridal pair were
kneeling at the altar Dame Nellie Melba, wearing a blue dress and
hat, crept from the side chapel to the choir and to the joy of the
audience sang the pathetic 'Ave Maria' that Desdemona sings in the
last act of Verdi's _Othello_ when she feels her predestined doom
approaching."--"_Evening Standard" on a Society wedding_.
* * * * *
"Mr. Bottomley objects to By Jingo."
_Daily Paper_.
Yet in one or another of his "powerful" articles we seem to have seen
something like "Damn the Kaiser" and "To Hell with Hindenburg."
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE PHILANDERER.
SINN FEIN. "BE MINE."
PRESIDENT WILSON. "I DO HOPE I HAVEN'T GIVEN YOU TOO MUCH
ENCOURAGEMENT--BUT I CAN NEVER BE MORE THAN A BROTHER TO YOU."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _First Australian_. "'OO's YER SWELL PAL,
DIGGER?"
_Second Ditto_. "I DUNNO HIS NAME, BUT I REMEMBER HIS FACE. I GIVE HIM A
BIT OF BACON JUST OUTSIDE ST. QUENTIN."]
* * * * *
WHY DRAG IN MRS. SIDDONS?
DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Nothing annoys me more than the assumption that
wit, learning, fancy, etc., were the monopoly of the past. For
example, a correspondent of one of our leading dailies has
been trotting out Mrs. SIDDONS' use of blank verse in familiar
conversation, and quoting from LOCKHART:--
"John Kemble's most familiar table-talk often flowed into blank
verse; and so indeed did his sister's [Mrs. Siddons']. Scott (who
was a capital mimic) often repeated her tragic exclamation to a
foot-boy during a dinner at Ashestiel--
'You 've brought me water, boy,--I asked for beer!'
Another time, dining with a Provost of Edinburgh, she ejaculated, in
answer to her host's apology for his _piece de resistance_--
'Beef cannot be too salt for me, my lord.'"
This is all very well, but just as good blank verse is commonly used by
eminent men and women to-day; indeed some of them excel in impromptu
rhymes. Thus in Mr. HAROLD WESTMORELAND'S interesting volume,
_Eavesdroppings_, there is this charming story of the first meeting
of Madame CLARA BUTT and Miss CARRIE TUBB. They were introduced at a
garden-party at Fulham, and Mr. WESTMORELAND overheard the memorable
quatrain in which Madame CLARA BUTT greeted her sister-artist:--
"In our names we 're alike
But in minstrelsy--ah no!
For I'm a contralto
And you're a soprano."
To the same veracious chronicler I am indebted for a specimen of the
impromptus which Lord READING frequently throws off, to the delight of
his friends. Mr. WESTMORELAND was having a pair of boots tried on at
a famous Jermyn Street bootmaker's when Lord BEADING was undergoing a
similar ordeal, and electrified the courteous assistant by observing:--
"The right-foot boot to me seems rather tight;
The left, _per contra_, feels exactly right."
But perhaps the finest exponent of the art is a famous General, whose
_obiter dicta_ in verse are innumerable. I have only space to quote one,
spoken to a soldier with whom he had shaken hands:--
"You are the proudest man in France,
Or at any rate in Flanders,
For you've shaken hands, in a great advance,
With the greatest of Corps Commanders."
Surely in the light of these examples, which might be indefinitely
multiplied, there is no need for the present to fear comparison with the
past in the sphere of conversational verse?
I am, dear Mr. Punch,
Yours faithfully,
NOSTRI TEMPORIS LAUDATOR.
* * * * *
CULTURE IN THE STY.
"Yorkshire Pork Pies, possessing character and individuality, 5 lb.
Price, 15s.--_Daily Express_.
* * * * *
"COLUMBUS OF THE AIR.
Captain Alcock's Story of his Great Atlantic Flight."--_Dublin
Evening Telegraph_.
Would not Vimy-bus be better?
* * * * *
Slough Verdict: _Dulce est de-Cippenham in loco_.
* * * * *
AT THE PLAY.
"THE CINDERELLA MAN."
The importation of theatrical sweet-stuff from America is of course a
growing industry. The latest consignment, _The Cinderella Man_, first
arrived in this country in the form of a novel, and the difficulty it
offered was that the struggling hero, _Anthony Quintard_, whose fate
depended, in the absence of common-sense, on his winning a ten thousand
dollar prize for an opera libretto, seemed to me, from samples of his
work exhibited, to be an unlikely competitor. But I must say that when
at the play I saw our Mr. NARES in his garret sucking at his pipe in
that masterful manner and modifying what might so easily have been a too
sticky situation with a charmingly light touch, I began to think better
of _Anthony's_ chances and therefore necessarily of Mr. EDWARD CHILDS
CARPENTER'S general idea. For the author obviously may claim the credit
of this reading, even if I harbour an obstinate private suspicion that
it was only by a very deliberate and steadfast determination on the
part of Mr. NARES as hero and Mr. HOLMAN CLARK as matchmaker that this
particular reading prevailed.
Mr. CARPENTER doesn't believe in mystifications. He explains everything
with the completest candour in his first Act, from which you gather that
a millionaire's daughter, returning from Paris to the immense stuffy New
York mansion, is desperately lonely, and has also cut herself free from
an unsatisfactory affair of the heart; that a young poet, a friend
of the millionaire's sentimental lawyer, is also lonely, living like
_Cinderella_ (isn't this wrong?) in an attic next-door, proud as poor;
that another friend of the millionaire has offered a prize for a
libretto. Having thus put the rabbit, the bird-cage and the flowerpot
into the hat in front of you he proceeds in a leisurely manner to take
them out again.
The young millionairess, posing as a poor "companion," visits the
starveling poet _via_ the snow-covered roof and the attic window,
bringing food, stoves, coverlets, wool to mend his socks and ideas to
mend his opera. Naturally here were opportunities of unlimited business,
during which _Marjorie_ (Miss RENEE KELLY) looked perfectly sweet, as I
heard more than one ardent young lady declare to approving lieutenants.
Miss KELLY has indeed all the air of a heroine of honeyed romance. In
particular she played one episode, the trying over of a new song, in
a winningly natural manner. I found the way in which she flapped her
eyelids a subject of puzzled study. I have not observed that maidens in
real life indulge in these calisthenics. This is perhaps as well; they
are evidently very deadly. Within a fortnight of their being brought
into action poet _Quintard_ is in the _Kamerad_ stage. Not _Anne
Whitfield_ herself exhibits more explicitly the urgency of the life
force, the will to wed.
Mr. OWEN NARES, who has a following more than sufficient to justify his
recent assumption of management, gave a very attractive and indeed,
within the limits imposed by the piece, a distinguished performance
as the proud and hungry poet. An extreme naturalness of pose and
intonation, without over-stresses or affectations, characterised this
agreeable study. Mr. HOLMAN CLARK, that finished actor in the bland
manner, very adroitly, as I have hinted, settled the mood of the piece
and made the good appear the better line and the ordinary line good. Mr.
SYDNEY VALENTINE had a Valentine part ready made. It would take more
than an indisposition, which he pluckily ignored, to put him off his
stroke. Mr. TOM REYNOLDS was effective as a maudlin serving-man who
had once butled a real gentleman and could never forget it. Miss ANNIE
ESMOND gave a depressingly clever rendering of a quite unbelievably
appalling landlady.
[Illustration: A Fairy Godmother (Miss RENEE KELLY) reduced to tears by
the unsusceptibility of her Godchild (MR. OWEN NARES).]
Altogether a pleasant wholesome evening's entertainment. Young men and
maidens of our day needn't hesitate to take their parents.
"ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGONS."
There is much more of the substance of wit and truth in Mr. EDEN
PHILLPOTTS' "Devon comedy" at the Kingsway. The _St. George_ of the
title is not the Cappadocian, but that somewhat irreverent Father in
God, _St. George Loftus_, Bishop of Exeter; the dragons are two quite
unsuitable suitors for the hands of _Monica_ and _Eva_ (daughters of
his dull old friend, _Lord Sampford_), who don't believe in class
distinctions. _Monica's_ young man is the son of a yeoman farmer,
personable, certainly, on horseback and of a blood older than the
_Sampfords'_, but an essential resilient, and altogether impossible when
playing the concertina or after mixing his drinks (or both). _Eva's_
follower is a brilliant raw young man from Glasgow, recently ordained,
with professional ambitions as pronounced as his accent.
The parents try the now exploded method of direct opposition. _St.
George's_ weapons are smooth words and a heart chokefull of guile. Does
his god-daughter _Monica_ want to elope with her yeoman? By all means
let love have his sacred way. But his lordship will contrive in the
_role_ of a strayed and bogged fisherman to be at Stonelands Farm before
the young couple arrive _en route_ for London and the registry-office,
and he will see to it that _Monica_ learns what the daily life of a
working farmer is like, and what the beer (or bad champagne for festal
occasions) and rabbit pie in the kitchen; with sudden frank explanations
as to the imminence of the crisis in the interesting condition of
_Snowdrop_ the Alderney; what, too, is the Stonelands' notion of music
and the dance, with Teddy's braying concertina and cousin Unity's
quavering treble and the ragged bass and candid speech of old _Caunter_,
the head man.... So much for _Monica_.
And _Eva_ thinks she wants to tie herself to this crude Glaswegian.
Well, here it will be best to insinuate to the young man how unfortunate
it is that the vacant chaplaincy to the Bishop of Exeter is designed
for a celibate, and to the young woman that to marry so brilliant (and
ingenuous) a youth is to hang a millstone round his neck. For, after
all, muses the prelate, revealing dreadful depths of low cunning and
perfidy, it's easier to change a chaplain than a husband.
A thoroughly amusing affair. Of course Mr. PHILLPOTTS shirks his
problem, _Teddy Copplestone_ need not have been a bounder (the odds
indeed were against it), nor need his cigars, his champagne or his music
have been so bad. But then we should have missed a diverting piece of
fun and have been saddled with a solemn problem-play unsuited to the
(alleged) gaiety of the hour.
The general level of the playing was high, and, after a somewhat nervous
opening (and perhaps just a few affectations of the fourth-wall school),
the piece swung into a pleasant rhythm.
Mr. ERNEST THESIGER interprets with consummate ability Mr. PHILLPOTTS'
amusing and original creation, this puss-in-gaiters Machiavelli, _St.
George Exon_. Miss LILLAH MCCARTHY (_Monica_), in the familiar _role_ of
beauty in revolt, had an easy task, which she fulfilled very agreeably.
Miss ALBANESI (_Eva_) put brains and fire and (not at all a negligible
gift of the gods) precise enunciation into her work. Mr. FEWLASS
LLEWELLYN and Miss MARY BROUGH were quite delightful as old
_Copplestone_ and his wife. Mr. CLAUDE KING as _Teddy Copplestone_ had
perhaps the most difficult task, a part that by no means played itself,
but needed a sustained skill, duly forthcoming. But I think the
performance that pleased me most was that of Miss EVELYN WALSH HALL, a
name new to me, in the small part of _Unity Copplestone_, played with a
directness and sincerity which was quite distinguished.
Let me add that the flapping of eyelids (to which I have referred in my
remarks on _The Cinderella Man_) is here also a feature. One member
of the cast (of my own sex, too) gave a display of virtuosity in this
_genre_ which was technically superb.
Two insignificant details of management caused me some amusement.
The solemn clang of a gong presaging doom as dire as OEDIPUS'S (and
incidentally inaudible to cigarette smokers in the foyer) gives notice
of the resumption of the play, while at the end of the Acts the curtain
flutters up and down at a feverish pace as if the idea was to get in as
many "calls" as possible before the applause stops. Are we as guileless
as all that, I wonder? And, anyway, no such manoeuvre was necessary. The
applause was hearty, the laughter spontaneous, and anybody who cares for
plays made and played with brains should go and see this engaging piece.