Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156, May 14, 1919 by Various
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156, May 14, 1919
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 156.
May 14, 1919.
CHARIVARIA.
"Where Stands Germany To-day?" asks a headline. She doesn't. At least
Count BROCKDORFF-RANTZAU kept his seat while addressing the Peace
Conference. This discourtesy however need not be taken too seriously.
It is pointed out that by the time Germany has complied with the Peace
terms she may not be able to sit down.
***
The Soviet Government has adopted a new calendar, in which the year
will commence on October 25th. We ourselves have always, associated
the first day of January with some of the most repugnant features of
capitalism.
***
A resident of Balham who was last week bitten by a member of a Jazz
band is now wondering whether he ought to submit to the PASTEUR
treatment or just allow the thing to run its own course.
***
Several of our migratory birds have not yet returned to these shores.
It is supposed that the spirit of competition has been aroused in them
by the repeated rumours of a Trans-Atlantic flight and that they have
started to race on foot across Europe.
***
"Where is all the Cheese?" asks an _Evening News'_ headline. A
correspondent has suggested that it might be nesting-time.
***
Wallasey's Corporation has decided to exclude boys under sixteen from
the municipal golf course. No child, the Mayor explains, should be
allowed to witness its father's shame.
***
"Steps should be taken to make the clergy presentable and attractive,"
says the Vicar of St. Jude's, Hampstead. A little baby ribbon
insertion, it is suggested, would give a certain dash to the carpet
slippers without impairing their essential dignity.
***
The Ebbw Vale cat that is suspected of having rabies is still under
observation. The belief is gaining ground, however, that she was
merely trying to purr in Welsh.
***
North of England gas managers have passed a resolution urging the
appointment of a Director-General of Light, Heat and Power. But surely
the functions of such an office are already performed by Mr. SPEAKER.
***
Swallows, says a contemporary, have been seen flying over the
Serpentine. Most of the snap was taken out of the performance by the
fact that none of them delivered _The Daily Mail_.
***
A fine specimen of the rare white female dolphin, a very infrequent
visitor to our shores, has been killed off Yarmouth. We'll learn white
female dolphins to visit us!
***
The National Historical Society have cabled to Mr. WILSON that they
are supporting Italy's claim to Fiume. It is only fair to point out
that Mr. Smith of Norwood has not yet reached a decision on the point.
***
A Sinn Fein M.P. has been recaptured at Finglas, co. Dublin. It would
be interesting to know why.
***
The Board of Agriculture are of the opinion that rabies might be
spread by rats. In view of this there is some talk of calling upon
householders to muzzle their rats.
***
According to a Sunday paper a husband recently stated that a former
lodger ran away with his wife. She was a German, and nobody can
understand why they ran.
***
An anarchist arrested in Holland with a bomb in his possession
explained that it was for the ex-Kaiser. We have since been informed
that the retired monarch denies that he ever placed such an order with
the gentleman.
***
A well-known golf club has recently engaged a totally deaf caddy. The
idea is to induce more clergymen to join the club.
***
As no joke about the Isle of Wight Railway has appeared in any comic
paper for at least a month, it is supposed that either a new engine
has been bought or that the old one has been thoroughly overhauled.
***
A picture post-card sent off in 1910 has just arrived at its
destination. It is presumed that one of the sorters who originally
handled it is breaking up his collection.
***
It will take ten years, says a Post Office official, to replace the
present telephone system with automatic exchanges. Persons who have
already registered calls are urged not to make too much of this slight
additional delay.
***
Every one, says the Secretary of the National Federation of Fish
Friers, wants the trade to be a respectable one. On the other hand it
is just that smack which it has of Oriental debauchery that makes it
appeal so strongly to the idle rich.
***
Salmon taken from some parts of the Tyne are alleged to smell of
petrol and taste like tar. Otherwise they are quite all right.
***
An American doctor states that British people sleep too much. No
blame, however, attaches to America. After all, she invented the
gramophone.
***
"The end of the dog," says a contemporary, "is in sight." Then it
can't be a dachshund.
* * * * *
[Illustration: PROTECT OUR PROTECTORS.
BARBED WIRE-MESH OVERALLS DESIGNED TO PREVENT THE POLICE FROM STRIKING
AS A PROTEST AGAINST HAVING TO INTERN UNMUZZLED DOGS.]
* * * * *
"Unionist Agent wanted ... Liberal salary offered."--_Times_.
Just the job for a Coalitionist.
* * * * *
"One must, however, remember that the Turk--and hurl upon
him what execrations you may--is still the [text upside down:
gentleman of the Near] East."--_Weekly Paper_.
He may be the "gentleman of the Near East," but that has not saved him
from being turned down.
* * * * *
THE COUNTER-ORDER OF THE BATH.
[A Standing Committee of the House of Commons has refused to
vote L3,800 for a lift and a second bathroom in the proposed
official residence of the LORD CHANCELLOR within the precincts
of the House of Lords. In a letter to Sir ALFRED MOND Lord
BIRKENHEAD wrote: "I am sure both yourself and the Committee
will understand that my object in writing is to make it plain
that I never asked anyone to provide me with a residence,
and that I am both able and willing, in a house of my own,
to provide my family and myself with such bathroom and other
accommodation as may be reasonably necessary."]
I did not ask for it; I never yearned
Within the Royal Court to board and bed;
Like all the other honours I have earned,
I had this greatness thrust upon my head;
But if the Precincts are to be my lair
Then for my comfort Ministers must cater;
I want a second bath inserted there,
Also an elevator.
Daily fatigued by those official cares
Which my exalted dignity assumes,
I could not ask my feet to climb the stairs
Which link that mansion's three-and-thirty rooms;
And, if the Law must have so clean a fame
That none can point to where a speck of dust is,
A single bathroom cannot meet the claim
Of equitable Justice.
My wants are modest, you will please remark;
I crave no vintage of the Champagne zone,
No stalled chargers neighing for the Park,
No 9.5 cigars (I have my own);
I do not ask, who am the flower of thrift,
For Orient-rugs or "Persian apparatus";
Nothing is lacking save a bath and lift
To fill my soul's hiatus.
And, should my plea for reasonable perks
(Barely four thousand pounds) be flatly quashed;
Should kind Sir ALF, Commissioner of Works,
Be forced to leave me liftless and half-washed;
Then for these homely needs of which I speak,
Content with my old pittance from the nation,
In Grosvenor Square (or Berkeley) I will seek
Private accommodation.
O.S.
* * * * *
BACK TO THE CAM.
College head-porters as a class assuredly rank amongst the dignified
things of the earth. One may admire the martial splendour of a
Brigadier-General, and it is not to be denied that Rear-Admirals have
a certain something about them which excites both awe and delight, but
they are never quite the same thing as a college head-porter. There
may be weak spots in the profession, and indeed in one or two of the
less self-respecting colleges the head-porters scarcely rise above the
level of the Dons; but these are distinctly exceptional. As a class
they stand, as I said, amongst the dignified things of life.
Parsons is our head-porter, and perhaps he is the sublimest of them
all. Freshmen raise their squares to him, and Oriental students can
rarely bring themselves to enter the porter's lodge during their first
term without previously removing their shoes. Few except fourth-year
men have the temerity to address him as "Parsons" to his face; it
seems such an awful thing to do, like keeping a chapel in bedroom
slippers or walking arm-in-arm with a Blue. You feel awkward about it.
In order to give you a shadowy idea of Parsons' majesty I must hark
back for a moment to a certain day in November, 1914, when Biffin and
I, after a brief dalliance with the C.U.O.T.C., left Cambridge to join
our regiments. It was pouring with rain, but we were elated in spirit;
we had our commissions; things were going to happen; we felt almost
in case to jostle a constable. As we passed out through the porter's
lodge Parsons sat at his table, imperturbable and austere, his eagle
eyes flashing from beneath his bushy brows and his venerable
beard sweeping his breast. At that moment Biffin, overwrought with
excitement, forgot himself.
"Cheerio, Parsons, old cracker," he shouted wildly; "how's the weather
suit your whiskers?"
Then, realising the enormity of his act, he turned suddenly pale,
dashed out into the road and dived panic-stricken into the waiting
taxi. We made good our escape.
* * * * *
Those seven stars represent the War. I take a childlike pleasure
in dismissing Armageddon in this brusque fashion. If you have had
anything at all to do with it you will understand.
Having been demobilised at a relatively early date, out of respect for
our pivotal intellects, Biffin and I were bound for Cambridge, to take
up the threads of learning where WILHELM had snapped them some years
previously. Both of us have changed a little. Biffin has been burnt
brown by the suns of Egypt, while I wear a small souvenir of Flanders
on my upper lip.
"I wonder if Parsons will remember us," said Biffin as the train
thundered into the station.
"Of course he will," I replied. "Parsons never forgets anything."
"I doubt it," said Biffin.
As our taxi drew up before the portals of Alma Mater the first person
we saw, standing on the steps of the porter's lodge, was Parsons. He
was as Olympian as ever. As soon as you saw him you felt that, though
they might abolish compulsory Greek or introduce a Finance Tripos,
they would never be able to subdue the ancient spirit of the
University. A single glimpse of Parsons, standing erect in all his
traditional glory, showed up people like Mr. H.G. WELLS in their true
perspective in a moment. It did one good.
We approached him. "Good afternoon, Parsons," we said, with a brave
attempt at _sang-froid_.
Parsons regarded us. "Good afternoon, Mr. Jones," he said to me. Then
his eyes rested on Biffin. "Good afternoon, Sir," he said.
Biffin nudged me, "He's forgotten me," he whispered. Parsons continued
to subject him to an implacable scrutiny. At length he spoke again.
"As to your question, Mr. Biffin, which I have had no earlier
opportunity of answering, I may say that what you were pleased to
allude to as my whiskers--a colloquialism I do not myself employ--are
entirely impervious to and unaffected by any climatic variations
whatsoever. Your rooms, Sir, are on Staircase B."
* * * * *
TRUE HOSPITALITY.
"Lecture by Rev. W. ----. 'The Dragon, The Beast and The False
Prophet.' All welcome."--_Scotsman_.
* * * * *
"Scotch reels, corner dances, and waltzes were favourites at
the Masons' ball on Tuesday evening. Dancers fought shy of the
fog-trot which has proved so popular at other dances."--_Scots
Paper_.
Perhaps they were afraid of missing their steps in the dark.
* * * * *
"Detroit to-day completed its first year as the world's
largest 'dry' city. The city has prospered during the past
year both financially and industrially. Murders, suicides,
embezzlements, assaults, robberies and drunkenness were
reduced by half."--_Daily Mail_.
The record of drunkenness seems still rather high for a teetotal city.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A CAUTIOUS DICTATOR.
PRESIDENT WILSON (_dictating a message to the American Nation_). "AT
LAST WE MAY FAIRLY SAY THAT THE DOVE OF PEACE HAS SIGHTED DRY LAND."
(_Pauses_). "ONE MOMENT--I'M NOT QUITE SURE THEY'LL LIKE THAT WORD
'DRY.'"
[The New York _World_ asserts that President WILSON has promised to
set aside the Prohibition Law if he finds that popular opinion is
opposed to it.]]
* * * * *
[Illustration: MR. WILL JONES, M.C., D.C.M., AND MR. RONALD
MONTMORENCY (TOTAL EXEMPTION 1917--WORK OF NATIONAL IMPORTANCE) AS
THEY APPEAR IN THE LEADING PARTS OF THE MELODRAMA "IN HIS COUNTRY'S
NEED."
Reading from left to right: MR. MONTMORENCY, MR. JONES.]
* * * * *
SAFETY FIRST.
The fact being now established to the satisfaction of the authorities
that the public is composed almost exclusively of drivelling idiots,
a campaign has been instituted for adding to the decorations of London
by placarding the walls with hints on how to avoid various violent
deaths.
We are surrounded now by blood-curdling photographs of people being
run over by omnibuses or dribbled along the street by horses
attached to brewers' drays, these illustrations being accompanied by
explanatory notes as to the inevitable result of crossing roads with
your eyes shut or your fingers in your ears and endeavouring to alight
from moving omnibuses by means of the back somersault or the swallow
dive. We are also implored to make quite sure, before alighting from a
train, that it is really at a station.
As this admirable propaganda is only in its infancy, I submit the
following additions to its collection of horrors, which may perhaps
inspire others even cleverer than myself to evolve new methods of
protecting the public from themselves.
TUBES.
A picture of a widow wringing her hands with grief, and under it
this pungent hint: "This is the widow of a man who tried to light his
cigarette on the 'live rail.'"
A picture of a man who has been cut in half, with, say, a crisp little
couplet:--
"Here are two portions of Benjamin Yates
Who scorned the request to 'stand clear of the gates.'"
A photograph of the interior of a hospital ward full of patients,
with the following: "Interior of a ward in the Bakerdilly Hospital,
exclusively for patients who stepped off the moving staircase with the
wrong foot."
TRAINS.
A picture of a stately building standing in its own grounds with the
description: "The N.S.E. & W. Railway Orphanage for children whose
parents crossed the line by the track instead of the footbridge."
A picture of a decapitated body with the poignant comment:--
"Be warned by the ending
Of Ferdinand Goschen
Who leaned out of window
While the train was in motion."
And perhaps a few general hints such as:--
(1) In stepping off an omnibus always alight feet first.
(2) In crossing crowded thoroughfares, proceed through the traffic,
not under it.
(3) Before stepping from the pavement make quite sure that there is a
road there, etc., etc.
Imagination, colour--that's all that's wanted, and if this propaganda
is carried far enough the safety of the public will be assured, for
either they really will try not to be killed while travelling or
walking in the streets, or they will stay indoors altogether.
* * * * *
A DISCIPLINARIAN.
"SCHOOLMISTRESS'S RESIGNATION."
Miss ---- will have the satisfaction of knowing that she
has left her mark on those who have passed through her
hands."--_Provincial Paper_.
* * * * *
"Closing scores in the professional golf match were Newman
14,835; Inman 13,343."--_Provincial Paper_.
This high scoring was due, we understand, to the large number of
losing hazards which had to be negotiated.
* * * * *
"Aerial fights to and from towns on the coast are to be a
feature of Hythe's holiday season."--_Belfast Weekly News_.
We are all in favour of popularising aviation, but we think this is
over-doing it.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Director of old-established firm_. "I HOPE YOU DON'T
SMOKE?"
_The new "Boy_." "NO--GIVEN IT UP. FIND IT 'PUFFS' ME FOR JAZZIN'."]
* * * * *
SPRING CLEANING
The hailstorm stopped; a watery sun came out,
And late that night I clearly saw the moon;
The lilac did not actually sprout,
But looked as if it ought to do in June.
I did not say, "My love, it is the Spring;"
I rubbed my chilblains in a cheerful way
And asked if there was some warm woollen thing
My wife had bought me for the first of May;
And, just to keep the ancient customs green,
We said we 'd give the poor old house a clean.
Good Mr. Ware came down with all his men,
And filled the house with lovely oily pails,
And went away to lunch at half-past ten,
And came again at tea-time with some nails,
And laid a ladder on the daffodil,
And opened all the windows they could see,
And glowered fiercely from the window-sill
On me and Mrs. Tompkinson at tea,
And set large quantities of booby-traps
And then went home--a little tired, perhaps.
They left their paint-pots strewn about the stair,
And switched the lights off--but I knew the game;
They took the geyser--none could tell me where;
It was impossible to wash my frame.
The painted windows would not shut again,
But gaped for ever at the Eastern skies;
The house was full of icicles and rain;
The bedrooms smelled of turpentine and size;
And if there be a more unpleasant smell
I have no doubt that that was there as well.
My wife went out and left me all alone,
While more men came and clamoured at the door
To strip the house of everything I own,
The curtains and the carpets from the floor,
The kitchen range, the cushions and the stove,
And ask me things that husbands never know,
"Is this 'ere paint the proper shade of mauve?"
Or "Where is it this lino has to go?"
I slunk into the cellar with the cat,
This being where the men had put my hat.
I cowered in the smoking-room, unmanned;
The days dragged by and still the men were here.
And then I said, "I too will take a hand,"
And borrowed lots of decorating gear.
I painted the conservatory blue;
I painted all the rabbit-hutches red;
I painted chairs in every kind of hue,
A summer-house, a table and a shed;
And all of it was very much more fair
Than any of the work of Mr. Ware.
But all his men were stung with sudden pique
And worked as never a worker worked before;
They decorated madly for a week
And then the last one tottered from the door,
And I was left, still working day and night,
For I have found a way of keeping warm,
And putting paint on everything in sight
Is surely Art's most satisfying form;
I know no joy so simple and so true
As painting the conservatory blue.
A.P.H.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE PROFESSOR, IN HIS CAGE, INTENDED TO STUDY THE
LANGUAGE OF MONKEYS. BUT, WHEN THE KETTLE UPSET, THE MONKEYS HAD AN
OPPORTUNITY OF STUDYING THE LANGUAGE OF PROFESSORS.]
* * * * *
THE LAST OF HIS RACE.
IT is interesting, though ill-mannered, to watch other people at a
railway bookstall and guess their choice of literature from their
outward appearance.
Had you pursued this diversion, however, in the case of Mr. Harringay
Jones as he stood before the bookstall at Paddington, you would, I
fear, have been far out in your conjecture. For Mr. Jones, who had the
indeterminate baldheadedness of the bank cashier and might have been
anything from thirty-five to sixty, did not purchase a volume
of essays or a political autobiography, but selected a flaming
one-and-sixpenny narrative of spy hunts and secret service intrigue.
Still, how could you have guessed that Mr. Jones's placid countenance
and rotund frame concealed an imagination that was almost boyish in
its unsatisfied craving for adventure? Humdrum year had succeeded
humdrum year, yet he had never despaired. Some day would come that
great moment when the limelight of the world's wonder would centre on
him, and he would hold the stage alone.
But till its arrival he consoled himself with literature and found
vicarious enjoyment in the deeds of others. As long as his imagination
could grow lean in its search for treasure amid Alaskan snows, he
recked not if reality added an inch or two to his circumference.
While he could solve, in fancy, problems that had baffled the acutest
investigators, what matter if his tie-pin got mislaid?
And then came war to deposit romance and adventure upon our doorsteps.
Mr. Jones was agog with excitement.
Espionage, treachery in high places, the hidden hand--Mr. Jones read
about them all and shuddered with unholy joy. Perhaps he, an obscure
cashier--who could tell? Stranger things had happened.
Meanwhile he devoured all the spy literature he could find, for, as he
once remarked to himself, in dealing with such gentry you have to mind
your P's and QUEUX. It was his only joke.
His literary choice dictated by such considerations, Mr. Jones
picked his way delicately across the platforms till he reached his
compartment, into the corner of which he stretched himself luxuriously
and prepared to enjoy his book.
Just before the train started a lady entered carrying a baby
and--greatly to Mr. Jones's annoyance--took the corner seat opposite
him. Being a confirmed bachelor, he had a horror of all babies,
but this child in particular struck him with disfavour; seldom, he
thought, had he seen such a peevish discontented expression on any
human face.
Close on the lady's heels followed a withered old man of the
traditional professorial type, who seated himself at the other end of
the compartment.
Mr. Jones buried himself in his book. For once, however, the narrative
failed to entertain him. Beautiful spies lavished their witchery in
vain; the sagacity of the hero left him cold.
Suddenly an atmosphere of unrest and agitation conveyed itself to
him. The train was slowing down in the darkness; the lady opposite
was leaning forward, her face pale, her whole attitude tense with
excitement. The train stopped; outside someone was walking along the
metals; there came the sound of a guttural remark.
The lady put her hand to her heart and, turning to the elderly
gentleman, gasped, "Doctor, that was his voice. They have tracked us."
The old man rose quietly and, opening the far door, stood waiting.
"But the child?" she cried with a sob.
"He must be left behind, Madame. There is less danger thus."
"But what am I to do?" She turned to Mr. Jones, looked at him steadily
and fixedly, and then, as if satisfied with what she read in him,
exclaimed, "You have a good heart. You must keep him. Do not let them
have him; too much depends upon it."
And before the astonished cashier had time to protest his
fellow-travellers had gone and he was alone with the child.
But not for long. Just as the train commenced to move again three men
entered the compartment; two appeared to be servants, but the third
was a young man of distinguished appearance, the most conspicuous
items of whose attire were a dark Homburg hat and a long cape of
Continental cut.
Mr. Jones's heart missed a beat.
Throwing a searching glance around the compartment the stranger rapped
out, "There has been a lady in here?"
"No," replied Mr. Jones, on general principles.
For answer the stranger picked a cambric handkerchief off the floor.
"That's mine," said Mr. Jones hastily.
"Perhaps," was the sneering reply, "you will tell me also that the
child is yours."
"Certainly," said Mr. Jones, ruffled by his cross-examination; "it
always has been."
The stranger snorted contemptuously. "You are good at explanations.
Perhaps you can explain this."
Mr. Jones looked down at the baby's coat. To his amazement he beheld a
crown and monogram embroidered on it.
"That," he replied, taking refuge in fatuity, "is the laundry mark."
"Come, come, enough of this fooling. Give me the child."
Mr. Jones took no notice.
"Give me the child, I say."
Mr. Jones paled but did not move.
"Very good, then." The stranger turned to his attendants. "Rupert,
Rudolph," he said.
Two revolver barrels flashed out.
Mr. Jones stood up hastily, the child clutched tightly in his arms.
"What do you mean by threatening me like this? What right have you to
the child? I never heard of such a thing; I shall inform the police."