Various - Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 158, February 18th, 1920
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 158, February 18th, 1920
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 158.
February 18th, 1920.
CHARIVARIA.
Writing in the _Echo de Paris_ "PERTINAX" asks Mr. LLOYD GEORGE to make
some quite clear statement regarding his advice to electors. There is more
innocence in Paris than you might suppose.
* * *
Professor WALLER has demonstrated by experiment that emotion can be
measured. At the same time he discouraged the man who asked for a couple of
yards of Mr. CHURCHILL'S feelings when reading _The Morning Post_.
* * *
Sir THOMAS LIPTON'S challenge for the America Cup has been accepted by the
New York Yacht Club. It appears that neither Mr. Secretary DANIELS nor
"President" DE VALERA was consulted.
* * *
Widespread alarm has been caused in London by the report that a certain
famous artist has threatened to paint a Futurist picture of a typical
O.B.E.
* * *
A Dutch paper reminds us that the ex-CROWN-PRINCE has taken a Berlin
University degree. We can only suppose that nobody saw him take it.
* * *
In the case of a will recently admitted to probate it was stated that the
testator had disposed of over seven hundred thousand pounds in less than a
hundred words. It is not expected that the Ministry of Munitions will take
this lying down.
* * *
It is said that unless the new Unemployment Insurance is an improvement on
the present rates quite a number of deserving people will be thrown into
work.
* * *
Much sympathy is felt for the burglars who broke into a house at Herne Hill
last week. Unfortunately for them the grocer's bill had been paid the
previous day.
* * *
We gather that, if DEMPSEY still refuses to come to London to fight
CARPENTIER, Mr. COCHRAN will arrange to take London out to him.
* * *
The Lobby Correspondent of _The Daily Express_ states that it has been
suggested that the PREMIER should take a long voyage round the world. It
would be interesting to know whether the proposal comes from England or the
world.
* * *
"The honest man in Germany," says Herr HAASE, "will not agree to hand over
the German officers to the British." We think it would be only fair if
Germany would send us the name and address of this honest man.
* * *
Leather is being used in the new Spring suits, says a daily newspaper.
Smith Minor informs us that he always derives greater protection from the
use of a piece of stout tin.
* * *
The collecting of moleskins has been forbidden by the Belgian Government
except in gardens. Lure the beast into the strawberry bed by imitating the
bark of the wild slug and the rest is mere spade-work.
* * *
We understand that there is some talk of Lord FISHER giving up work and
retiring into politics.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE CRIME WAVE.
_ALI BABA_ REPEATING ITSELF. FORTY THIEVES DISCOVERED AT A LONDON RAILWAY
STATION.]
* * * * *
MATRIMONIAL ECONOMY.
"Travelling in a becoming suit of Copenhagen blue with hat to match the
newly weds left on the Duluth train."--_Canadian Paper._
* * * * *
"She looked as Eurydice when her captor-King carried her away from
earth and gave her instead the queenship of Hell."--_"Daily Mail"
Feuilleton._
Presumably Persephone had secured a decree _nisi_.
* * * * *
"These cowardly murders and attempted assassinations are abhorrent to
the national mind, whatever its political views may be, and it will not
seek to exterminate in any way the position of those who have any share
in them."--_Provincial Paper._
We still think extermination is the best thing for them.
* * * * *
A SELFLESS PARTY.
["They (the electorate) know that we (the Labour Party) are not, and
never will be, merely concerned in the interests of one particular
class."--_Mr. THOMAS in "The Sunday Times."_
"Nationalization was proposed not to gain increased wages for workers,
but in the national interest.... They were prepared to produce to the
last ounce of their capacity to give to the nation and to humanity all
the coal they required. If he thought that this scheme was intended to
or would give the miners an advantage at the expense of the State he
would oppose it."--_Mr. BRACE, in the House of Commons._]
Though Comrade SMILLIE keeps a private passion
That yearns to see Sinn Fein upon its own,
Clearly we cannot put our Unions' cash on
Men with a motto like "OURSELVES ALONE;"
To us all folk are brothers
And on our bunting runs the rede, "FOR OTHERS."
Our hearts are ever with the poor consumer;
We long to give his sky a touch of blue;
To doubt this fact is to commit a bloomer,
To falsify our record, misconstrue
The ends we struggle for,
As illustrated in the recent War.
We struck from time to time, but not at Caesar,
Not to secure the highest pay we could;
Our loyalty kept gushing like a geyser;
We had for single aim the common good;
Who treads the path of duty
May well ignore the cry of "_Et tu, Brute!_"
Humanity's the cause for which we labour;
The hope that spurs us on to do our best
Is "O that I may truly serve my neighbour,
And prove the love that burns within my breast,
And save his precious soul
By a reduction in the cost of coal!"
Nationalize the mines, and there will follow
More zeal (if possible) in him that delves;
Our eager altruists will simply wallow
In work pursued for others (not themselves),
Thrilled with the noble thought--
"My Country's all to me and Class is naught!"
O.S.
* * * * *
A STORY WITH A POINT.
(_With Mr. Punch's apologies for not having sent it on to "The
Spectator."_)
Geoffrey has an Irish terrier that he swears by. I don't mean by this that
he invokes it when he becomes portentous, but he is always annoying me with
tales, usually untruthful, of the wonderful things this dog has done.
Now I have a pointer, Leopold, who really is a marvellous animal, and I
work off tales of his doings on Geoffrey when he is more than usually
unbearable.
Until a day or two ago we were about level.
Although Geoffrey knows far more dog stories than I do, and has what must
be a unique memory, I have a very fair power of invention, and by working
this gift to its utmost capacity I have usually been able to keep pace with
him.
As I said, the score up to a few days ago was about even; yesterday,
however, was a red-letter day and I scored an overwhelming victory. Bear
with me while I tell you the whole story.
I was struggling through the porridge of a late breakfast when Geoffrey
strolled in. I gave him a cigarette and went on eating. He wandered round
the room in a restless sort of way and I could see he was thinking out an
ending for his latest lie. I was well away with the toast and marmalade
when he started.
"You know that dog of mine, Rupert? Well, yesterday--"
I let him talk; I could afford to be generous this morning. He had hashed
up an old story of how this regrettable hound of his had saved the
household from being burnt to death in their beds the night before.
I did not listen very attentively, but I gathered it had smelt smoke, and,
going into the dining-room, had found the place on fire and had promptly
gone round to the police-station.
When he had finished I got up and lit a pipe.
"Not one of your best, Geoffrey, I'm afraid--not so good, for instance, as
that one about the coastguard and the sea-gulls; still, I could see you
were trying. Now I'll tell you about Leopold's extraordinary acuteness
yesterday afternoon.
"We--he and I--were out on the parade, taking a little gentle after-
luncheon exercise, when I saw him suddenly stop and start to point at a man
sitting on one of the benches a hundred yards in front of us; but not in
his usual rigid fashion; he seemed to be puzzled and uncertain whether,
after all, he wasn't making a mistake."
Here Geoffrey was unable to contain himself, as I knew he would be.
"Lord! That chestnut! You went and asked the man his name and he told you
that it was Partridge."
"No," I said, "you are wrong, Geoffrey; his name, on inquiry, proved to be
Quail. But that was only half the problem solved. Why, I thought, should
Leopold have been so puzzled? And then an idea struck me. I went back to
the man on the bench and, with renewed apologies, asked him if he would
mind telling me how he spelt his name. He put his hand into his pocket and
produced a card. On it was engraved, 'J.M. QUAYLE.' Then I understood. It
was the spelling that puzzled Leopold."
* * * * *
THE NEW APPEAL.
We observe with interest the latest development in the London Press--the
appearance of the new Labour journal, _The Daily Nail_.
In the past, attempts to found a daily newspaper for the propagation of
Labour views have not always met with success. Possibly the fault has been
that they made their appeal too exclusively to the Labour public. We
understand that every care will be taken that our contemporary shall under
no circumstances be a financial failure.
_The Daily Nail_ is a bright little sheet, giving well-selected news,
popular "magazine" and "home" features, and, on the back page, a number of
pictures. It has a strong financial section, a well-informed Society
column, and a catholic and plentiful display of advertisements, including
announcements of many of those costly luxuries which Labour to-day is able
to afford.
While in its editorial comments it suggests emphatically that the
Government of the day is not and never can be satisfactory, it refrains
from embarrassing our statesmen with too many concrete proposals for
alternative methods.
We learn that the new Labour daily is substantially backed by a nobleman of
pronounced democratic ideals. From his Lordship down to the humblest
employee there exists among the staff a beautiful spirit of fellowship
unmarked by social distinction.
"Good morning, comrade," is the daily greeting of his Lordship to the
lift-boy, who replies with the same greeting, untarnished by servility.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE NEW COALITION.
Mr. ASQUITH (_to Viscount CHAPLIN and Lord ROBERT CECIL_). "THANKS, MY
FRIENDS--THANKS FOR YOUR LOYAL SUPPORT. DO MY EYES DECEIVE ME, OR DO I SEE
BIG BEN?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Son of House_ (_entertaining famous explorer and
distinguished professor_). "IT WOULD ASTONISH YOU FELLOWS IF I TOLD YOU
SOME OF THE THINGS I'VE SEEN AND HEARD--THOUGH I'M, COMPARATIVELY SPEAKING,
A YOUNG MAN--TWENTY-TWO, TO BE EXACT."]
* * * * *
THE INSOMNIAC.
Miss Brown announced her intention of retiring to roost. Not that she was
likely to sleep a blink, she said; but she thought all early-Victorian old
ladies should act accordingly.
She asked Aunt Angela what she took for her insomnia. Aunt Angela said she
fed it exclusively on bromides. Edward said he gave his veronal and
SCHOPENHAUER, five grains of the former or a chapter of the latter.
They prattled of the dietary and idiosyncrasies of their several insomnias
as though they had been so many exacting pet animals. Miss Brown then asked
me what I did for mine.
Edward spluttered merrily. "He rises with the nightingale, comes bounding
downstairs some time after tea and wants to know why breakfast isn't ready.
Only last week I heard him exhorting Harriet to call him early next day as
he was going to a dance."
They all looked reproachfully at me because I didn't keep a pet insomnia
too. I spoke up for myself. I admitted I hadn't got one, and what was more
was proud of it. All healthy massive thinkers are heavy sleepers, I
insisted. They must sleep heavily to recuperate the enormous amount of
vitality expended by them in their waking hours. Sleep, I informed my
audience, is Nature's reward to the blameless and energetic liver. If they
could not sleep now they were but paying for past years of idleness and
excess, and they had only themselves to blame. I was going on to tell them
that an easy conscience is the best anodyne, etc., but they snatched up
their candles and went to bed. I went thither myself shortly afterwards.
I was awakened in the dead of night by a rapping at my door.
"Who's there?" I growled.
"I--Jane Brown," said a hollow voice.
"What's the matter?"
"Hush, there are men in the house."
"If they're burglars tell 'em the silver's in the sideboard."
"It's the police."
I sat up in bed. "The police!--why?--what?"
"Shissh! come quickly and don't make a noise," breathed Miss Brown.
I hurried into a shooting-jacket and slippers and joined the lady on the
landing. She carried a candle and was adequately if somewhat grotesquely
clad in a dressing-gown and an eider-down quilt secured about her waist by
a knotted bath-towel. On her head she wore a large black hat. She put her
finger to her lips and led the way downstairs. The hall was empty.
"That's curious," said Miss Brown. "There were eighteen mounted policemen
in here just now. I was talking to the Inspector--such a nice young man, an
intimate friend of the late Sir CHRISTOPHER WREN, who, he informs me
privately, did _not_ kill Cock Robin."
She paused, winked and then suddenly dealt me three hearty smacks--one on
the shoulder, one on the arm and one in the small of the back. I removed
myself hastily out of range.
"Tarantulas, or Peruvian ant-bears, crawling all over you," Miss Brown
explained. "Fortunate I saw them in time, as their suck is fatal in
ninety-nine cases out of a million, or so GARIBALDI says in the _Origin of
Species_." She sniffed. "Tell me, do you smell blood?"
I told her that I did not.
"I do," she said, "quite close at hand too. Yum-yum, I like warm blood."
She looked at me through half-closed eyelids. "I should think you'd bleed
very prettily, very prettily."
I removed myself still further out of range, assuring her that in spite of
my complexion I was in reality anaemic.
She pointed a finger at me. "I know where those policemen are. They're in
the garden digging for the body."
"What body?" I gasped.
"Why, EINSTEIN'S, of course," said Miss Brown. "Edward murdered him last
night for his theory. Didn't you suspect?"
I confessed that I had not.
"Oh, yes," she said; "smothered him with a pen-wiper. I saw him do it, but
I said nothing for Angela's sake, she's so refined."
She darted from me into the drawing-room. I followed and found her standing
before the fireplace waving the candle wildly in one hand, a poker in the
other and sniffing loudly.
"We must save Edward," she said; "we must find the body and hide it before
they can bring in a writ of _Habeas Corpus_. It is here. I can smell blood.
Look under the sofa."
She made a flourish at me with her weapon and I at once dived under the
sofa. I am a brave man, but I know better than to withstand people in Miss
Brown's state of mind.
"Is it there?" she inquired.
"No."
"Then search under the carpet--quickly!"
She swung the poker round her head and I searched quickly under the carpet.
During the next hour, at the dictates of her and her poker, I burrowed
under a score of carpets, swarmed numerous book-cases, explored a host of
cupboards, dived under a multitude of furniture and even climbed into the
open chimney-place of the study, because Miss Brown's nose imagined it
smelt roasting flesh up there. These people must be humoured. When I came
down (accompanied by a heavy fall of soot) the lady had vanished. I rushed
into the hall. She was mounting the stairs.
"Where are you going now?" I demanded.
She leaned over the balustrade and nodded to me, yawning broadly: "To
Edward's room. He must have taken the corpse to bed with him."
"Stop! Hold on! Come back," I implored, panic-stricken. Miss Brown held
imperviously on. I sped after her, but mercifully she had got the rooms
mixed in her decomposed brain and, instead of turning into Edward's, walked
straight into her own and shut the door behind her. I wedged a chair
against the handle to prevent any further excursions for the night and
crept softly away.
As I went I heard a soft chuckle from within, the senseless laughter, as I
diagnosed it, of a raving maniac.
* * * * *
I got down to breakfast early next morning, determined to tell the whole
sad story and have Miss Brown put under restraint without further ado.
Before I could get a word out, however, the lunatic herself appeared,
looking, I thought, absolutely full of beans. She and Aunt Angela exchanged
salutations.
"I hope you slept better last night, Jane."
"Splendidly, thank you, Angela, except for an hour or so; but I got up and
walked it off."
"Walked it off! Where?"
"All over the house. Most exciting."
"Do you mean to say you were walking about the house last night all by
yourself?" Aunt Angela exclaimed in horror.
Miss Brown shook her grey head. "Oh, no, not by myself. Our sympathetic
young friend had a touch of insomnia himself for once and was good enough
to keep me company." She smiled sweetly in my direction. "He was _most_
entertaining. I've been chuckling ever since."
PATLANDER.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Urchin_ (_who has been "moved on" by emaciated policeman_).
"AIN'T YER GOT A COOK ON YOUR BEAT?"]
* * * * *
OUR SPARTAN EDITORS.
"WANTED: THE CAT. By Horatio Bottomley."--_John Bull._
* * * * *
MARDI GRAS.
(_With the British Army in France._)
"Have you reflected, _mon chou_," said M'sieur Bonneton, complacently
regarding the green carnations on his carpet-slippers, "that to-morrow is
Mardi Gras?"
"I have," replied Madame shortly.
"One may expect then, _ma petite,_ that there will be _crepes_ for dinner?"
"With eggs at twelve francs the dozen?" said Madame decidedly. "One may
not."
On any other matter M'sieur would probably have taken his wife's decision
as final, but he had a consuming passion for _crepes_, and was moreover a
diplomat.
"_La vie chere!_" he said sadly; "it cuts at the very vitals of
hospitality. With what pleasure I could have presented myself to our
amiable neighbours, the Sergeant-Major Coghlan and his estimable wife, and
said, 'It is the custom in France for all the world to eat _crepes_ on
Mardi Gras. Accept these, then, made by Madame Bonneton herself, who in the
making of this national delicacy is an incomparable artist.' But when eggs
are twelve francs the dozen"--he shook his head gloomily--"generous
sentiments must perish."
Madame perceptibly softened.
"Perhaps, after all, I might persuade that miser Dobelle to sell me a few
at ten francs the dozen," she murmured; and M'sieur knew that diplomacy had
won another notable victory.
Curiously enough, at this precise moment the tenants of the _premier etage_
of 10 _bis_, rue de la Republique, were also engaged in a gastronomic
discussion.
"If almanacs in France count as they do in Aldershot," said Mrs. Coghlan,
"to-morrow will be Shrove Tuesday."
"An' what av it?" demanded Sergeant-Major Coghlan of the British Army.
"What of it? As though ye'd not been dreaming of pancakes this fortnight
an' more past--fearful to mention thim an' fearful lest I should forget.
Well, well, if ye'll bring a good flour ration in the marning I'll do me
best."
"I've been thinking, Peggy lass," said the gratified Sergeant-Major, "it
wud be the polite thing to make a few for thim dacent people on the
ground-flure. I'll wager they've niver seen th' taste av' a pancake in this
country."
Thus it was that when Hippolyte Lariviere, the cornet-player of the Palais
de Cinema, ascended the stairs to his eerie on the top-floor of 10 _bis_
the following evening the appetising odour of frying batter enveloped him
as a garment. He sniffed appreciatively.
"_Le gros_ Bonneton can eat _crepes_ freely without considering the effect
on his temperament," he said. "One sometimes regrets the demands of Art."
Outside the Coghlans' door another idea struck him. "The essence of a
present lies not in its value but its appropriateness. A few _crepes_ on
Mardi Gras would be a novel acknowledgment to the Sergeant-Major of his
liberality in the way of cigarettes. At present my case is empty."
Retracing his steps he went to the Cafe aux Gourmets and persuaded the
_proprietaire_ to prepare half-a-dozen _crepes_ with all possible speed and
send them piping-hot to his room in exchange for a promise of his influence
in getting her on the free list of the Cinema. Then, in a glow of virtue,
he returned to prepare his toilette for the evening performance.
It was while Hippolyte was dabbing his cheeks with a damp towel that
M'sieur Bonneton and Sergeant-Major Coghlan, having comfortably satisfied
their respective appetites with _crepes_ and pancakes, proceeded to call
upon each other, bearing gifts. The dignity of the presentations was
impaired by the fact that they almost collided on the stairs.
"Mrs. Coghlan wud like your opinion on these pancakes," said the Sergeant-
Major, dexterously fielding one that was sliding from the plate.
"And permit me to beg your acceptance of these _crepes_, a dish peculiar to
France and eaten as a matter of custom on Mardi Gras," said M'sieur in his
most correct English, producing his plate with a flourish worthy of a
head-waiter.
"'Tis with all the pleasure in life we'll be tasting thim--" commenced
Coghlan. Then his eye fell on the dish and his voice dropped. M'sieur was
also showing signs of embarrassment.
"It seems _crepes_ is but another name for pancakes," said the Sergeant-
Major heavily, after a pause.
"But yes--and I am already filled to repletion."
"We've aiten our fill too, Peggy an' me, an' they're spoilt whin they're
cowld. It's severely disappointed Peggy will be to find thim wasted."
"And Madame will be desolated to despair."
They stared blankly at each other for a few minutes. Then M'sieur took a
heroic resolve.
"We must not hurt the feelings of those excellent women," he said firmly.
"There is but one course open to us."
Coghlan nodded assent. Solemnly and without enthusiasm they sat on the
stairs and consumed the pancakes to the last crumb. Then, leaden-eyed and
breathing hard, they took their empty plates and entered their respective
flats.
A few minutes later they again encountered on the stairs. Once more they
were laden with comestibles.
"For Monsieur Lariviere," explained M'sieur. "Madame insisted. She has a
heart of gold, that woman."
"Peggy's sending these up too," said the Sergeant-Major. "I towld her thim
pancakes was the greatest surprise you iver tasted."
M'sieur nodded. In response to Hippolyte's invitation they entered the
room, and M'sieur took command of the conversation. The Sergeant-Major
stood stiffly to attention, feeling that the occasion demanded it.
"Two little gifts," said M'sieur, "of epicurean distinction. The _crepes_
of Madame Bonneton are an achievement, but the pancakes of Madame Coghlan
are irresistible."
"I thank you from the recesses of my heart," said Hippolyte with emotion;
"but--you understand me--as the slave of Art I am compelled to forgo such
pleasures."
"My friend," said M'sieur sternly, to refuse them would be an affront to
the cooking of these excellent ladies. A true housewife esteems her cooking
only next to her virtue. You must _eat_ them--while they are hot."
"But my _tremolo_--my _sostenuto_ will be ruined," said Hippolyte wildly.
"What is your _tremolo_ to a woman's tears?" said M'sieur, with an elegance
born of a fear that he might be compelled to eat the pancakes himself. "The
laws of hospitality--chivalry--_l'entente cordiale_ itself--demand that you
finish them."
When Hippolyte finally yielded, his rapid and efficient despatch of the
dainties excited the admiration of his hosts. They had collected their
plates and were taking their departure, with expressions of regard, when a
knock announced the arrival of a _garcon_ from the Cafe aux Gourmets,
bearing a dish of crisp hot _crepes_.
"One moment, Messieurs," said Hippolyte dramatically to his departing
visitors. "It must not be said that Hippolyte Lariviere lacks in
neighbourly feeling. Behold my seasonable gift!"
M'sieur groaned. The Sergeant-Major, being a soldier, concealed his
apprehensions. Wild thoughts of surreptitiously disposing of them in a
coal-bin whirled through their minds, but Hippolyte apparently divined
their thoughts.
"I regret that I must forgo the pleasure I promised myself of asking the
ladies to take _crepes_ with me," he said. "To offer these would be a poor
compliment to their superlative efforts. But there is no reason why _you_
should not eat them here."
"I have an excellent reason," said M'sieur, stroking his waistcoat. "And
the gallant Sergeant-Major, I imagine, has another."
"Bah! what is a little digestive inconvenience to a breach of courtesy?"
cried Hippolyte maliciously. "You must eat them. _The law of hospitality
demands it._"
