Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156, May 7, 1919. by Various
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156, May 7, 1919.
"I 'm afraid I know nothing about mushrooms, with the exception of the
one I nearly died of," I replied, "and I'm not sufficiently acquainted
with Mr. Diggles to venture to invite his confidence respecting his
business."
"My dear man, I don't ask you to tell Diggles you're going to write
him up in the newspapers; he'd kick you off the premises; he doesn't
want his secrets given away to competitors. Just dodge the old man
round the sheds, get into conversation with his staff, keep your
eyes open generally and you'll pick up as much as you want for half a
column. And when you've got your notes together bring 'em along to me.
I'll put 'em shipshape for you."
I thanked him very gratefully.
The mushroom-sheds are situated in a field some distance from my
residence, and I found it rather a fatiguing walk. After tedious
watching in a cramped position through a gap in the hedge I saw Mr.
Diggles emerge from a shed and move away from my direction. I lost
no time in creeping forward under cover of my umbrella towards an
employee, who was engaged in tossing manure. I drew out my note-book
and interrogated him briefly and briskly.
"Do you rear from seeds or from cuttings?" I asked him. He scratched
his head and appeared in doubt. "Are your plants self-supporting," I
went on, "or do you train them on twigs? What would be the diameter
of your finest specimen?" He continued in doubt. I adopted a
conversational manner. "I suppose you'll be potting off soon? You
must get very fond of your mushrooms. I think one always gets fond of
anything which demands one's whole care and attention. I wonder if I
might have a peep at your _proteges_?"
I edged towards the door of one of the sheds, but he made no attempt
to accompany me. Instead he put his hands to his mouth and shouted,
"Hi, maister!"
Mr. Diggles promptly responded to the summons. There was no eluding
him. I put my note-book out of sight and inquired if he could oblige
me with a pound of fresh-culled mushrooms. He could, and he did. I
paid him four-and-sixpence for them, the control price presumably,
but he gave me no invitation to view the growing crops. I retraced
my steps without having collected even an opening paragraph for "A
Fortune in Fungus."
The next day found me again near the sheds. Mr. Diggles was nowhere
in sight. I approached unobtrusively through the hedge and accosted a
small boy.
"Hulloa, my little man," I said, "what is your department in this
hive of industry? You weed the mushrooms, perhaps, or prune them?" He
seemed shy and offered no answer. "Perhaps you hoe between the plants
or syringe them with insecticide?"
Still I could not win his confidence, so I tried pressing sixpence
into his palm. "Between ourselves, what are the weekly takings?" I
said. He pocketed the coin and put his finger on his lips.
"_Belge,"_ he said. Then he bolted into a shed and returned
accompanied by Mr. Diggles. There was nothing for it but to purchase
another pound of mushrooms. I was no nearer "A Fortune in Fungus" than
before.
Two days later, having received apparently reliable information that
Mr. Diggles was confined to his bed with influenza, I ventured again
to visit the sheds. I was advancing boldly across the field when to
my consternation he suddenly appeared from behind a hayrick. I was
so startled that I turned to fly, and in my precipitancy tripped on a
tussock and fell. Mr. Diggles came to my assistance, and, when he had
helped me to my feet and brushed me down with a birch broom he was
carrying, I could do nothing less than buy another pound of his
mushrooms.
I felt it was time to consult Biddick. He was sitting at his desk
staring at a blank sheet of paper. His fingers were harrowing his hair
and he looked distraught.
"Excuse the interruption," I said, "but this 'Fortune in Fungus' is
ruining me;" and I related my experience.
At the finish Biddick gripped my hand and spoke with some emotion.
"Dear old chap," he said, "it's my line, after all. It's funny. If
only I can do it justice;" and he shook his fountain-pen.
This morning I received a guinea and a newspaper cutting entitled "A
Cadger for Copy," which may appeal to some people's sense of humour.
It makes none to mine. In the flap of the envelope Biddick writes:
"Halves, with best thanks."
Upon consideration I shall forward him a simple formal receipt.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "IT LOOKS QUITE LIKE PRE-WAR BACON."
"ON THE CONTRARY, MADAM, PERMIT ME TO ASSURE YOU IT IS OUR FINEST
'POST-BELLUM STREAKY.'"]
* * * * *
From a bookseller's catalogue:--
"THE ART OF TATTING.
This book is intended for the woman who has time to spare
for reading, Tatting being such quick and easy work that busy
fingers can do both at the same time."
An edition in Braille would appear to be contemplated.
* * * * *
THE GERM.
The great Bacteriologist entered the lecture-room and ascended the
platform. A murmur of astonishment ran round the audience as they
beheld, not the haggard face of a man who daily risked the possibility
of being awarded the O.B.E., but the calm and smiling countenance of
one who had succeeded where other scientists, even of Anglo-American
reputation, had failed.
In an awed silence this remarkable man placed on the table a dish,
somewhat like a soup-plate in appearance, and carefully removed its
glass cover.
"In this dish, gentlemen," said the Professor, "we have the Agar-Agar,
which is without doubt the best bacteriological culture medium yet
discovered and is especially useful in growing a pathogenic organism
such as we are about to test this afternoon."
Then taking a glass rod, to the end of which was attached a small
piece of platinum wire, the lecturer proceeded to scrape a little
of the growth from off the Agar-Agar. Having done this he quickly
deposited it in a test-tube half full of distilled water, which
he then heated over a Bunsen burner. Finally, with the aid of a
hypodermic syringe, a little of the liquid was injected into two
sleepy-looking guinea-pigs, and with bated breath the result of the
test was awaited.
Suddenly, without any warning, the two little animals rose on their
hind legs and violently clutched each other by any part of the body
on which they could get a grip. Before the astounded gaze of the
onlookers they swayed, nearly fell, then went round in circles, at the
same time executing every sort of conceivable contortion.
A great cheer burst from the audience. From all sides a rush was made
for the platform, and the Professor was carried shoulder-high round
the room.
The Jazz germ had been discovered at last.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Pekinese (who has been accidentally pushed into the
gutter by gigantic bloodhound)._ "AND YOU MAY THANK YOUR STARS I'VE
GOT A MUZZLE ON!"
* * * * *
A FRIENDLY OFFER.
"A French Gentleman would like to make acquaintance with
and English one to improve the English language."--_French
Provincial Paper_.
* * * * *
"Ste. Genevieve (422-572), born just outside Paris, spent a
long life in the city."--_Daily Paper._
Wherever it was spent, it was clearly a long life.
* * * * *
"---- College is the chosen home, the favoured haunt
of educational success. Our staff is composed of lineal
descendants of poets, seers, or savants, and it is the
intention of this formidable phalanx of intellectuals to drive
the whole world before them! We, of course, will say that
these classes will be famous, and well worth attending. In
Carlyle especially, the undersigned, with due modesty, expects
to constitute himself a Memnon, and to receive the sage of
Chelsea's martial pibroch from Hades, transmit it to the
listeners, and to thrill them to the very marrow of their
bones!"--_Advt. in Indian Paper_.
We should like to hear what the sage's martial pibroch has to say
about the advertiser's "due modesty."
* * * * *
LAXITY IN QUOTATIONS.
Among the many privileges which I propose to claim as a set-off for
what are called advancing years is a greater laxity in quotation. When
I have made a quotation I mean that that shall _be_ the quotation,
and I don't intend to be driven either to the original source or to
cyclopaedias of literature for verification. DANTE, for instance, is
a most prolific fount of quotations, especially for those who do not
know the original Italian. If I have quoted the words "_Galeotto fu
il libro e chi lo scrisse_" once, I have quoted them a hundred times,
always with an excellent effect and often giving the impression that
I am an Italian scholar, which I am not. But surely it is not usual
to abstain from a quotation because to use it would give a false
impression? I am perfectly certain, for instance, that there are
plenty of Italians who quote _Hamlet_, but know no more of English
than the words they quote, so I dare say that brings us right in the
end.
Then there is the quotation about "a very parfitt gentil knight," or
words to that effect. At the moment of writing it down I felt that my
version was so correct that I would go to the scaffold for it; but
at this very instant a doubt insinuates itself. Is "parfitt" with two
"t's" the right spelling?
It is related somewhere that TENNYSON and EDWARD FITZGERALD once
conspired together to see which of them could write the most
Wordsworthian line, and that the result was:--
"A Mr. Wilkinson, a clergyman."
But there was no need for TENNYSON to go beyond his own works in
search of such an effect. He had already done the thing; and this was
his effort, which occurs in _The May Queen_:--
"And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace."
This sounds as if it could not be defeated or matched, but matched it
certainly was in _Enoch Arden_. After describing _Enoch Arden's_ death
and the manner in which he "roll'd his eyes" upon _Miriam_, the bard
informs us:--
"So past the strong heroic soul away.
And when they buried him the little port
Had seldom seen a costlier funeral."
But I feel that I have strayed beyond my purpose, which was to claim
a certain mitigated accuracy in quotation for those who suffer from
advancing years.
* * * * *
"----, chambermaid at the ---- Hotel, ----, was charged
yesterday with stealing two diamond rings and a diamond and
sapphire broom worth L80."--_Daily Paper_.
Yet Mr. CHAMBERLAIN refuses to impose a Luxury Tax.
* * * * *
From a list of the German Peace-delegates:--"Baron von
Lersner, chief of the preliminary mission and ex-secretary
of the German Embassy in Washington. He was also formerly
attached to the German Embassy in Wales."--_Belfast News
Letter_.
This sounds like another injustice to Ireland.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Scientific Uncle_. "DO YOU KNOW, CHILDREN, THAT AT ONE
TIME, LONG AGO, WE USED TO HAVE FIVE TOES ON EACH HAND, AND LIVE IN
TREES?"
_Niece_. "WE WON'T TELL ANYBODY, UNCLE."]
* * * * *
THE ANNIVERSARY.
The 23rd. To-day, my son,
Two turgid years ago,
Your father battled with the Hun
At five A.M. or so;
This was the day (if I exclude
A year of painful servitude
Under the Ministry of Food)
I struck my final blow.
Ah, what a night! The cannon roared;
There was no food to spare;
And first it froze and then it poured;
Were we dismayed? We were.
Three hundred yards we went or more,
And, when we reached, through seas of gore,
The village we were fighting for,
The Germans were not there.
But miles behind a 9.2
Blew up a ration dump;
Far, far and wide the tinned food flew
From that tremendous crump:
And one immense and sharp-toothed tin
Came whistling down, to my chagrin,
And caught me smartly on the shin--
By Jove, it made me jump.
A hideous wound. The blood that flowed!
It was a job to dress;
I hobbled bravely down the road
And reached a C.C.S.;
Nor was I so obsessed with gloom
At leaving thus the field of doom
As one might easily assume
From stories in the Press.
Though other soldiers as they fell--
Or so the papers say--
Cried, "GEORGE for England! Give 'em hell!"
(It was ST. GEORGE'S Day),
Inspiring as a Saint can be,
I should not readily agree
That anyone detected me
Behaving in that way.
Such is the tale. And, year by year,
I shall no doubt relate
For your fatigued but filial ear
The history of this date;
Yet, though I do not now enhance
The crude events of that advance,
There is a wild fantastic chance
That they will grow more great.
So be you certain while you may
Of what in fact occurred,
And if I have the face to say
On some far 23rd
That on this day the war was won,
That I despatched a single Hun,
Or even caught a glimpse of one--
_Don't you believe a word_.
A.P.H.
* * * * *
ANOTHER IMPENDING APOLOGY.
"Miss ---- looked sweetly pretty in an emerald-green satin
(very short) skirt, white blouse, and emerald handkerchief
tied over her head--an Irish Colleen, and a bonie one
too!"--_Colonial Paper_.
* * * * *
"According to a Vienna message, the Government has
introduced a Bill dealing with the former reigning Mouse of
Austria."--_Provincial Paper_.
Alas, poor KARL! _Ridiculus mus_.
* * * * *
"Wanted one hour daily from ten to eleven morning at
convenience an English Talking Family for practice of talking.
Remuneration twenty rupees per mensem."--_Times of India_.
We know one or two "talking families" that we should be glad to
export.
* * * * *
"In finding the defendant L3, Mr. Price told the defendant
that he would get into serious trouble if he persisted in his
conduct."--_Evening Paper_.
And he may not meet such a generous magistrate next time.
* * * * *
"Englishman, well educated, desires afternoon engagement;
experienced in the care of children; good needlewoman; or
would assist light housework."--_Canadian Paper_.
We hope we shall hear no further complaints from Canada that
Englishmen are not adaptable.
* * * * *
COMMUNICATIONS.
I was sitting in the Club, comfortably concealed by sheets of a
well-known journal, when two voices, somewhere over the parados of the
deep arm-chair, broke in upon my semi-consciousness.
"... Then poor old Tubby, who hasn't recovered from his 1918 dose of
shell-shock, got a go of claustrophobia and felt he simply had to get
out of the train."
The speaker paused and I heard the clink of glass.
"Well?" said the other voice.
"So, before we could flatten him out, he skipped up and pulled the
communicator thing and stopped the train; consequently we ran into
Town five minutes behind time. There was the deuce of a buzz about
it."
"What's five minutes in this blissful land of lotus-eaters? Why, I've
known the Calais-Wipers express lose itself for half-a-day without a
murmur from anyone, unless the Brigadier had run out of bottled Bass."
"But, my dear fellow," the first voice expostulated, "this was the
great West of England non-stop Swallowtail; runs into Town three
minutes ahead of time every trip. Habitues of the line often turn an
honest penny by laying odds on its punctuality with people who are
strangers to the reputation of this flier."
"A pretty safe thing to bet on, eh?" said the other voice. Again there
was the faint clink of glass and then the voices drifted into other
topics, to which, having re-enveloped myself in my paper, I became
oblivious.
A few days later I was called away from London, with Mr. Westaby
Jones, to consult in a matter of business. Mr. Westaby Jones is a
member of the Stock Exchange and, amongst other trivial failings, he
possesses one which is not altogether unknown in his profession. He
cannot resist a small wager. On several occasions he has gambled with
me and shown himself to be a gentleman of considerable acumen.
Our business was finished and we were on the way back to Town by the
great West of England non-stop Swallowtail. We had lunched well and
discussed everything there was to discuss. It was a moment for rest. I
unfolded my paper and proceeded to envelop myself in the usual way.
I seemed to hear the chink of glasses ... a voice murmured, "A pretty
safe thing to bet on."
Then in a dreamy sort of manner I realised that Fate had delivered
Westaby Jones into my hands. When we were within twenty miles of
London I opened the campaign. I grossly abused the line on which we
were travelling and suggested that anybody could make a fortune by
assuming that its best train would roll in well after the scheduled
time.
Westaby Jones, having privily ascertained that the engine-driver had
a minute or so in hand, immediately pinned me down to what he thought
(but wisely did not say) were the wild inaccuracies of an imbecile.
He did it to the extent of twenty-five pounds, and I sat back with the
comfortable feeling of a man who will shortly have a small legacy to
expend. At the moment which I had calculated to be most auspicious I
suddenly threw off the semblance of boredom, rose up, lurched across
the carriage and pulled the communication cord. (For the benefit
of those who have not done this I may say that the cord comes away
pleasantly in the hand and, at the same time, gives one a piquant
feeling of unofficial responsibility.) Westaby Jones was, for a
stockbroker, obviously astonished.
"What on earth are you doing?" he exclaimed.
"Sit down," I said; "this is my improved exerciser."
"But you'll stop the train," he shouted.
"Never mind," I replied; "what's a fine of five pounds compared to
physical fitness? Besides," I added significantly, "it may be a good
investment after all."
For perhaps twenty seconds there was the silent tension of expectation
in the air and then I realised with a shock that the train did not
show any signs of slackening speed. It was, if anything, going faster.
I snatched frantically at the cord and pulled about half-a-furlong
into the carriage. We flashed past Ealing like a rocket, and I
desperately drew in coils and coils of the communicator until I and
Westaby Jones resembled the Laocoon. It was no good. Smoothly and
irresistibly we glided into the terminus and drew up at the platform
three minutes ahead of time.
I have paid Westaby Jones, who was unmannerly enough to look pleased.
I have also corresponded with the railway company, claiming damages
on the grounds of culpable negligence. Unfortunately they require more
evidence than I am prepared to supply of the reasonable urgency of my
action.
* * * * *
From a theatre programme:--
"The name of the actual and responsible Manager of the
premises must be printed at least once during every
performance to ensure its being in proper order."
So that explains the noise going on behind the scenes.
* * * * *
NATURE NOTES.
The Cuckoo has arrived and will sing as announced.
* * * * *
One of the results of the arrival of the Cuckoo is the prevalence of
notices, for those that have eyes to see, drawing attention to the
ineligible character of nests. These take a variety of forms--such as
"All the discomforts of home," "Beware of mumps," "We have lost our
worm cards," "Serious lining-shortage"--but the purpose of each is to
discourage the Cuckoo from depositing an egg where it is not wanted.
* * * * *
From all parts of the country information reaches us as to the odd
nesting-places of wrens and robins. A curious feature is the number
of cases where letter-boxes have been chosen, thus preventing the
delivery of letters, and in consequence explaining why so many letters
have not been answered. Even the biggest dilatory correspondent is not
ashamed to take advantage of the smallest bird.
* * * * *
The difficulty of obtaining muzzles is very general and many
dog-owners have been hard put to it to comply with the regulation.
From these, however, must be excepted those who possess wire-haired
terriers, from whose coats an admirable muzzle can be extracted in a
few minutes.
* * * * *
The statement of a telephone operator, that "everything gives way to
trunks," is said to have caused great satisfaction in the elephant
house at the Zoo.
* * * * *
PLEASE.
Please be careful where you tread,
The fairies are about;
Last night, when I had gone to bed,
I heard them creeping out.
And wouldn't it be a dreadful thing
To do a fairy harm?
To crush a little delicate wing
Or bruise a tiny arm?
They 're all about the place, I know,
So do be careful where you go.
Please be careful what you say,
They're often very near,
And though they turn their heads away
They cannot help but hear.
And think how terribly you would mind
If, even for a joke,
You said a thing that seemed unkind
To the dear little fairy folk.
I'm sure they're simply everywhere,
So _promise_ me that you'll take care.
R.F.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Harold (_after a violent display of affection)._
"'TISN'T 'COS I LOVE YOU--IT'S 'COS YOU SMELL SO NICE."]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks_.)
The Great Man is, I suppose, among the most difficult themes to treat
convincingly in fiction. To name but one handicap, the author has in
such cases to postulate at least some degree of acquaintance on the
part of the reader with his celebrated subject. "Everyone is now
familiar," he will observe, "with the sensational triumph achieved by
the work of X----;" whereat the reader, uneasily conscious of never
having heard of him, inclines to condemn the whole business beforehand
as an impossible fable. I fancy Mr. SOMERSET MAUGHAM felt something of
this difficulty with regard to the protagonist of his quaintly-called
_The Moon and Sixpence_ (HEINEMANN), since, for all his sly pretence
of quoting imaginary authorities, we have really only his unsupported
word for the superlative genius of _Charles Strickland_,
the stockbroker who abandoned respectable London to become a
Post-impressionist master, a vagabond and ultimately a Pacific
Islander. The more credit then to Mr. MAUGHAM that he does quite
definitely make us accept the fellow at his valuation. He owes this,
perhaps, to the unsparing realism of the portrait. Heartless, utterly
egotistical, without conscience or scruple or a single redeeming
feature beyond the one consuming purpose of his art, _Strickland_ is
alive as few figures in recent fiction have been; a genuinely great
though repellent personality--a man whom it would have been at once
an event to have met and a pleasure to have kicked. Mr. MAUGHAM has
certainly done nothing better than this book about him; the drily
sardonic humour of his method makes the picture not only credible but
compelling. I liked especially the characteristic touch that
shows _Strickland_ escaping, not so much from the dull routine of
stockbroking (genius has done that often enough in stories before now)
as from the pseudo-artistic atmosphere of a flat in Westminster and a
wife who collected blue china and mild celebrities. _Mrs. Strickland_
indeed is among the best of the slighter characters in a tale with a
singularly small cast; though it is, of course, by the central figure
that it stands or falls. My own verdict is an unhesitating _stet_.
* * * * *
If there be any who still cherish a pleasant memory of the Bonnie
Prince CHARLIE of the Jacobite legend, Miss MARJORIE BOWEN'S _Mr.
Misfortunate_ (COLLINS) will dispose of it. She gives us a study of
the YOUNG PRETENDER in the decade following Culloden. Figures such as
LOCHIEL, KEITH, GORING, the dour KELLY, HENRY STUART, LOUIS XV., with
sundry courtiers and mistresses, move across the film. I should say
the author's sympathy is with her main subject, but her conscience
is too much for her. I find myself increasingly exercised over
this conscience of Miss BOWEN'S. She seems to me to be deliberately
committing herself to what I can only describe as a staccato method.
This was notably the case with _The Burning Glass_, her last novel.
Her narratives no longer seem to flow. She will give you catalogues
of furniture and raiment, with short scenes interspersed, for all the
world as if she were transcribing from carefully taken notes. Quite
probably she is, and I am being authentically instructed and should
be duly grateful, but I find myself longing for the exuberance of her
earlier method. I feel quite sure this competent author can find a
way of respecting historical truth without killing the full-blooded
flavour of romance.