Various - Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 158, January 28th, 1920
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 158, January 28th, 1920
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 158.
January 28th, 1920.
CHARIVARIA.
Now that petrol is being increased by eightpence a gallon, pedestrians will
shortly have to be content to be knocked down by horsed vehicles or hand
trucks.
* * *
Moleskins, says a news item, are now worth eighteen-pence each. It is only
fair to add that the moles do not admit the accuracy of these figures.
* * *
Three hundred pounds is the price asked by an advertiser in _The Times_ for
a motor-coat lined with Persian lamb. It is still possible to get a
waistcoat lined with English lamb (or even good capon) for a mere fraction
of that sum.
* * *
Charged with impersonation at a municipal election a defendant told the
Carlisle Bench that it was only a frolic. The Bench, entering into the
spirit of the thing, told the man to go and have a good frisk in the second
division.
* * *
"Steamers carrying coal from Dover to Calais," says a news item, "are
bringing back champagne." It is characteristic of the period that we should
thus exchange the luxuries of life for its necessities.
* * *
Charged at Willesden with travelling without a ticket a Walworth girl was
stated to have a mania for travelling on the Tube. The Court missionary
thought that a position could probably be obtained for her as scrum-half at
a West End bargain-counter.
* * *
A correspondent writes to a London paper to say that he heard a lark in
full song on Sunday. We can only suppose that the misguided bird did not
know it was Sunday.
* * *
A medical man refers to the case of a woman who has no sense of time,
proportion or numbers. There should be a great chance for her as a
telephone operator.
* * *
"Owing to its weed-choked condition," says _The Evening News_, "the Thames
is going to ruin." Unless something is done at once it is feared that this
famous river may have to be abolished.
* * *
As the supply of foodstuffs will probably be normal in August next, the
Food Ministry will cease to exist, its business being finished. This seems
a pretty poor excuse for a Government Department to give for closing down.
* * *
"Music is not heard by the ear alone," says M. JACQUES DALCROZE. Experience
proves that when the piano is going next door it is heard by the whole of
the neighbour at once.
* * *
A weekly paper points out that there are at least thirty thousand
unemployed persons in this country. This of course is very serious. After
all you cannot have strikes unless the people are in work.
* * *
It appears that the dog (since destroyed) which was found wandering outside
No. 10, Downing Street, had never tasted Prime Minister.
* * *
It is reported that when Sir DAVID BURNETT put up Drury Lane Theatre for
sale under the hammer the other day one gentleman offered to buy it on
condition that the vendor papered the principal room and put a bath in.
* * *
A Bolton labourer who picked up twenty-five one-pound Treasury notes and
restored them to the proper owner was rewarded with a shilling. It is only
fair to say that the lady also said, "Thank you."
* * *
Asked what he would give towards a testimonial fund for a local hero one
hardy Scot is reported to have said that he would give three cheers.
* * *
We learn on good authority that should a General Election take place during
one of Mr. LLOYD GEORGE'S visits to Paris _The Daily Mail_ will undertake
to keep him informed regarding the results by means of its Continental
edition.
* * *
A sad story reaches us from South-West London. It appears that a girl of
twenty attempted suicide because she realised she was too old to write
either a popular novel or a book of poems.
* * *
The Guards, it is stated, are to revert to the pre-war scarlet tunic and
busby. Pre-war head-pieces, it may be added, are now worn exclusively at
the War Office.
* * *
At the Independent Labour Party's Victory dance it was stipulated that
"evening dress and shirt sleeves are barred." This challenge to the upper
classes (with whom shirt-sleeves are of course _de rigueur_) is not without
its significance.
* * *
As much alarm was caused by the announcement in these columns last week
that the collapse of a wooden house was caused by a sparrow stepping on it,
we feel we ought to mention that, owing to a sudden gust of wind, the bird
in question leaned to one side, and it was simply this movement which
caused the house to overbalance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE WAVE OF CRIME.
_Gent._ "WHAT MADE YOU PUT YOUR HAND INTO MY POCKET?"
_Doubtful Character._ "JUST ABSENT-MINDEDNESS. I ONCE 'AD A PAIR OF PANTS
EXACTLY LIKE THOSE YOU'RE WEARING."]
* * * * *
"The eternal combustion engine has become recognised the world over as
a factor in modern civilisation."--_Provincial Paper._
But surely it is many years since Lord WESTBURY in the GORHAM case was said
to have "dismissed h---- with costs?"
* * * * *
THE SWEET INFLUENCES OF TRADE.
[The revival, in certain quarters, of commercial relations with Germany
has already begun to blunt the memory of the War. And now the proposal
to open up trade with the Co-operative Societies in Russia, to the
obvious benefit of the Bolshevists, who practically control the whole
country, looks like an attempt to bring about indirectly a peace which
we cannot in decency negotiate through the ordinary channels of
diplomacy.]
They are coming, the carpet-baggers, their voices are heard in the land,
Guttural Teuton organs, but very polite and bland;
And our arms are stretched for their welcome; we've buried the past like
a dud;
For blood may be thicker than water, but Trade is thicker than blood.
The Winter of war is over, and lo! with the dawn of Spring
They come, and we greet them coming, like swallows that homeward swing,
Fair as the violet's waking, swift as the snows in flood,
For blood may be thicker than water, but Trade is thicker than blood.
Likewise with Soviet Russia--we've done with the need to fight;
There are gentler methods (and cheaper) of putting the whole thing right;
The palms of the dealers are plying the soap's invisible sud,
For blood may be thicker than water, but Trade is thicker than blood.
Of Peace there can be no parley with LENIN'S _regime_, as such,
But Business can easily tackle what Honour declines to touch,
Making the sewage to blossom, sampling the septic mud,
For blood may be thicker than water, but Trade is thicker than blood.
Thus may our merchant princes modestly play their part,
Speeding the silent process of soldering heart to heart,
Just as the forces of Nature silently swell the bud,
For blood may be thicker than water, but Trade is thicker than blood.
So in the hands of the Bolshie our hands shall at last be laid;
Deep unto deep is calling to lift the long blockade;
"No truck," we had sworn, "with murder;" but God will forget that oath,
For blood is thicker than water, but Trade is thicker than both.
O.S.
* * * * *
WITH THE AUXILIARY PATROL.
AN HONOURABLE RECORD.
Many years ago, in the reign of good QUEEN VICTORIA, a little ship sailed
out of Grimsby Docks in all the proud bravery of new paint and snow-white
decks, and passed the Newsand bound for the Dogger Bank. They had
christened her the _King George_, and, though her feminine susceptibilities
were perhaps a trifle piqued at this affront to her sex, it was a right
royal name, and her brand-new boilers swelled with loyal fervour. She was a
steam trawler--at that time one of the smartest steam trawlers afloat, and
she knew it; she held her headlights very high indeed, you may be sure.
Time passed, and the winds and waters of the North Sea dealt all too rudely
with the fair freshness of her exterior; she grew worn and weather-stained,
and it was apparent even to the casual eye of a landsman that she had left
her girlhood behind her out on the Nor'-East Rough. Some of the younger
trawlers would jeeringly refer to her behind her back as "Auntie," and
affected to regard her as an antediluvian old dowager, which of course was
mainly due to jealousy. But she still pegged away at her work, bringing in
from the Dogger week by week her cargoes of fish, regardless alike of the
ravages of time and the jibes of her upstart rivals. As long as her owners
were satisfied she was happy, for she cherished first and last a sense of
duty, as all good ships do.
And then suddenly came the War, infesting the seas with unaccustomed and
nerve-racking dangers. I must apologise for mentioning this, as everybody
knows that we ought now to forget about the War as quickly as possible and
get on with more important matters, but at the time it had a certain effect
upon us all, not excluding the _King George_. Scorning the menaces that
lurked about her path she carried on the pursuit of the cod and haddock in
her old undemonstrative fashion, for she was a British ship from stem to
stern and conscious of the tradition behind her.
Then one day they hauled her up in dock, gave her a six-pounder astern,
fitted her with wireless and sent her out to take care of her unarmed
sisters on the fishing-grounds. She flew the White Ensign.
These were the proudest days of her life: she was helping to keep the seas.
It is true the big ships of the Fleet might laugh at her in a good-natured
way and pass uncomplimentary remarks about her personal appearance, but
they had to acknowledge her seamanship and her pluck. She could buffet her
way through weather that no destroyer dare face, and mines had no terrors
for her, for even if she were to bump a tin-fish it only meant one old
trawler the less, and the Navy could afford it.
It was during these days, too, that she became known, though not by name,
to readers of _Punch_, for her adventures and those of her crew were often
chronicled in his tales of the "Auxiliary Patrol." And when she had seen
the War through she said Good-bye to his pages and made ready to return
again to the ways of peace. She was quite satisfied; she never thought of
giving up her job, though she was now a very old ship, and it would have
been no shame to her. She just took a fresh coat of paint and steamed away
to the Dogger Bank once more.
* * * * *
The other day a small paragraph appeared in some of the newspapers that
were not too busy discussing the possibilities of another railway strike:
"The Grimsby trawler _King George_," it said, "is reported long over-due
from the fishing-grounds, and the owners say that there is no hope of her
return." No one would notice this, because the first round of the English
Cup was to be played that week, and besides it was not as though it were a
battleship or a big liner that had gone down. It was just the old _King
George_.
And that, I suppose, is the end of her, except that she may continue to be
remembered by one or two who served aboard her in the days of the Auxiliary
Patrol--remembered as a gallant little ship that served her country in its
hour of need, and did not hold that hour the limit of her service. Well
played, _King George_!
* * * * *
"THE DRINKWATER TRAGEDY."--_Heading in "New York Times."_
This comes from dry America, but it is not the wail of a "Wet"; merely the
heading of an article on _Abraham Lincoln_.
* * * * *
"Wales has its Ulster just as Ireland had, and it was a question
whether Wales was going to be conquered by the industrial area of
Cardiff and the district, or whether the industrial area was going to
conquer Wales."--_Western Mail._
We shall put our money on "the industrial area."
* * * * *
[Illustration: A POPULAR REAPPEARANCE.
MR. ASQUITH (_the Veteran Scots Impersonator_) _sings_:--
"I LOVE A LASSIE,
ANITHER LOWLAN' LASSIE."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Officer._ "WELL, PETERS, HOW DID YOU GET ON?"
_Steward_ (_who has asked for special leave_). "NOTHIN' DOIN', SIR. THE
SKIPPER 'E SEZ TO ME, 'E SEZ, 'IT'LL COST THE COUNTRY FOUR-AN'-SEVENPENCE
TO SEND YOU 'OME, AN' AS THE NAVY 'AS GOT TO ECONOMISE YOU'LL DO TO BEGIN
ON,' 'E SEZ."]
* * * * *
A LIMPET OF WAR.
(_With the British Army in France._)
The day on which that fine old crusted warrior, Major Slingswivel, quits
the hospitable confines of Nullepart Camp will be the signal that the
British Army in France has completed its work, even to the labelling and
despatching of the last bundle of assorted howitzers. A British army in
France without Major Slingswivel would be unthinkable. It is confidently
asserted that Nullepart Camp was built round him when he landed in '14, and
that he has only emerged from it on annual visits to his tailor for the
purpose of affixing an additional chevron and having another inch let into
his tunic. Latest reports state that he is still going strong, and
indenting for ice-cream freezers in anticipation of a hot summer.
But for an unforgivable error of tact I might have stood by the old
brontosaurus to the bitter end. One evening he and I were listening to a
concert given by the "Fluffy Furbelows" in the camp Nissen Coliseum, and a
Miss Gwennie Gwillis was expressing an ardent desire to get back to Alabama
and dear ole Mammy and Dad, not to speak of the rooster and the lil
melon-patch way down by the swamp. The prospect as painted by her was so
alluring that by the end of the first verse all the troops were infected
with trans-Atlantic yearnings and voiced them in a manner that would have
made an emigration agent rub his hands and start chartering transport right
away. She had an enticing twinkle which lighted on the Major a few times,
so that I wasn't surprised when the second chorus found him roaring out
that he too was going to take a long lease of a shack down Alabama way.
"Gad--she's immense! We must invite her to tea to-morrow," he said to me in
a whisper that shook the Nissen hut to its foundations. Slingswivel was no
vocal lightweight. Those people in Thanet and Kent who used to write to the
papers saying they could hear the guns in the Vimy Ridge and Messines
offensives were wrong. What they really heard was Major Slingswivel at
Nullepart expostulating with his partner for declaring clubs on a no-trump
hand.
"Very well," I answered sulkily. It wasn't the first time the Major had
been captivated by ladies with Southern syncopated tastes, and I knew I
should be expected to complete the party with the other lady member of the
troupe, Miss Dulcie Demiton, and listen to the old boy making very small
talk in a very large voice. I could see myself balancing a teacup and
trying to get in a word here and there through the barrage.
Still, there was no getting out of it, and next afternoon found our
quartette nibbling _petits gateaux_ in the only _patisserie_ in the
village. The Major was in fine fettle as the war-worn old veteran, and
Gwennie and Dulcie spurred him on with open and undisguised admiration.
"Now I'm in France," gushed Gwennie, "I want to see _everything_--where the
trenches were and where you fought your terrible battles."
"Delighted to show you," said Slingswivel, bursting with pride at being
taken for a combatant officer. "How about to-morrow?"
"Just lovely," cooed Gwennie. "We're showing at Petiteville in the evening,
but we shan't be starting before lunch."
"That gives us all morning," said the Major enthusiastically. "Miss
Gwennie, Miss Dulcie, Spenlow, we will parade to-morrow at 9.30."
I couldn't understand it. Naturally Gwennie, with her mind constantly set
on Alabama, couldn't be expected to be up in war geography, but the Major
knew jolly well that all the battles within reasonable distance of
Nullepart had been fought out with chits and indents. I put it to him that
it wasn't likely country for war thrills.
"Leave it to me," he said confidently.
So I left it, and when we paraded next morning where do you think the wily
old bird led us? Why, to the old training ground on the edge of the camp,
where the R.E.'s used to lay out beautifully revetted geometrical trenches
as models of what we were supposed to imitate in the front line between
hates. Having been neglected since the Armistice they had caved in a bit
and sagged round the corners till they were a very passable imitation of
the crump-battered thing.
Old Slingswivel so arranged the itinerary that the girls didn't perceive
that the sector was bounded on one side by Pere Popeau's turnip field and
on the other by a duck-pond, and he showed a tactical knowledge of the
value of cover in getting us into a trench out of view of certain stakes
and pickets that were obviously used by Mere Popeau as a drying-ground. To
divert attention he gave a vivid demonstration of bombing along a C.T. with
clods of earth, with myself as bayonet-man nipping round traverses and
mortally puncturing sand-bags with a walking-stick. It must have been a
pretty nervy business for the Major, for any minute we might have come
across a notice-board about the hours of working parties knocking off for
dinner that would have given the whole show away. But he displayed fine
qualities of leadership and presence of mind at critical moments, notably
when Gwennie showed a disposition to explore a particular dug-out.
"I shouldn't advise you to go in there, Miss Gwennie," he said gravely.
"Why?" asked Gwennie apprehensively.
"Not a pleasant sight for a lady," said the Major gruffly. "It upset _me_
one day when I looked in."
This was probable enough, for the Mess steward used it as a store for empty
bottles.
Gwennie shuddered and passed on.
The Major mopped his forehead with relief and set the ladies souveniring
among old water-tin stoppers, which he alleged to be the plugs of
hand-grenades.
Taking it all round, it was a successful morning's show, which did credit
to the producer, and it was only spoiled when, so to speak, the curtain
rolled down amidst thunders of applause.
"We don't realize what we owe to gallant soldiers like you," said Gwennie
admiringly.
The Major waved a fat deprecating hand.
"And Captain Spenlow has just been telling me," continued Gwennie, "that
you occupied this sector all through the War and that you hung on right to
the very last, _notwithstanding incredible efforts to dislodge you_."
At this crude statement of the naked facts Slingswivel's face went a deeper
shade of purple, and you can appreciate why I put in an urgent application
for immediate release, on compassionate grounds, and why the Major gladly
endorsed it.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _The New Minister._ "BOY, DO YE NO KEN IT'S THE SAWBATH?"
_Boy._ "OH AY, FINE. BUT THIS IS WORK O' NECESSITY."
_Minister._ "AN' HOO IS THAT?"
_Boy._ "THE MEENISTER'S COMIN' TAE DINNER AN' WE'VE NAETHIN' TAE GIE 'IM."]
* * * * *
"WAR CRIMINALS.
THE THREE PREMIERS MEET ALONE TO-DAY."--_Evening Paper._
We suspect Mr. KEYNES' hand in these headlines.
* * * * *
"Information wanted as to whereabouts of Mrs. J.O. Plonk (Blonk) wife
of J.O. Plonk (Clonk)."--_Advt. in Chinese Paper._
This should go very well with a banjo accompaniment.
* * * * *
THE TRAGEDY OF AN AUTHOR'S WIFE.
"I won't stand it any longer," said Janet intensely, meeting me in the
hall. "Take off your umbrella and listen to me."
"It's off," I replied faintly, perceiving that something was all my fault.
"Can't you hear it singing 'Niagara' in the porch?"
I dropped the shopping on the floor and sat down to watch Janet walking up
and down the room.
"I want," she continued in the tone of one who has had nobody to be
indignant with all day, "a divorce."
"Who for?" I inquired. "Really, darling, we can't afford any more presents
this--"
"Me," she interrupted, frowning.
"Couldn't you have it for your birthday?" I suggested. "I may have some
more money by then. Besides, I gave you--"
"No, I could not," replied Janet in a voice like the end of the world; "I
want it now. I will not wear myself out trying to live up to an impossible
ideal, and lose all my friends because they can't help comparing me with
it. And it isn't even as if it were my own ideal. I never know what I've
got to be like from one week to another. And what do I get for my
struggles? Not even recognition, much less gratitude."
"Janet," I said kindly, "I don't know _what_ you're talking about. Who are
these people who keep idealising you? I will not have you annoyed in this
way. Send them to me and I'll put a little solid realism into their heads.
I'll tell them what you really are, and that'll settle their unfortunate
illusions. Dear old girl, don't worry so.... I'll soon put it right."
Janet looked at me piercingly.
"It's this," she said; "I keep having people to call on me."
"I know," I answered, shuddering; "but I can't help it, can I? You
shouldn't be so attractive."
"Dear Willyum," she replied, "that's just the point; you _can_ help it."
"Stop calling me names and I'll see what can be done."
"But it's part of my 'whimsical wit' to call you Willyum," she said grimly.
"I understand that I am like that. People realise this when they read your
articles, and immediately call to see if I'm true. I've read through nearly
all your stories to-day, in between the visitors, and--and--"
I gripped her hand in silence.
"I'm losing all my friends," she mourned, touched by my sympathy, "even
those who used to like me long ago. Girls who knew me at school say to
themselves, 'Fancy poor old Janet being like that all the time, and we
never knew!' and they rush down to see me again. They sit hopefully round
me as long as they can bear it; then, after the breakdown, they go away
indignant and never think kindly of me again."
She gloomed.
"And all the cousins and nice young men who used to think I was quite jolly
have suddenly noticed how much jollier I might be if only I could say the
things they say you say I say...."
"Hush, hush," I whispered; "have an aspirin."
"But it's quite _true_," she cried hopelessly. "And She's just what I ought
to be. She says everything just in the right place. When I compare myself
with Her, I know I'm not a bit the kind of person you admire, and--and it's
no good pretending any longer. I'm not jealous, only--sort of misrubble."
She rose with a pale smile and, hushing my protestations, arrived at her
conclusion.
"We must part," she said, throwing her cigarette into the fire and walking
to the window; "I can't help it. I suppose I'm not good enough for you. You
must be free to marry Her when we find Her. I too," she sighed, "must be
free...."
"I now call upon myself to speak," I remarked, rising hurriedly. "Janet," I
continued, arriving at her side, "keep perfectly still and do not attempt
to breathe, because you will not be able to, and look as pleasant as you
can while I tell you truthfully what I think you are really like."
(I have been compelled to delete this passage on the ground that even if
people believed me it would only attract more callers.)
"All right," she continued, unruffling her hair; "but if I do you must
promise to leave off writing stories about me. Will you?"
"But, darling," I objected, "consider the bread-and-jam."
She was silent.
"Well, then," she said at last, "you must only write careful ones that I
can live up to."
"I'll try," I agreed remorsefully; "I'll go and do one now--all about this.
And you can censor it." I left the room jauntily.
Janet's voice, suddenly repentant, followed me.
"No," she called, "that won't do either. Because if it's a true one you
won't sell it."
"But if it isn't," I called back, "and I do, we can put the money in the
Divorce Fund."
* * * * *
THE SORROWS OF A SUPER-PROFITEER.
[Bradford wool-spinners are stated to be unable to escape from the
deluge of wealth that pours upon them or avoid making profits of three
thousand two hundred per cent.]
And so you thought we simply steered
Great motor-cars to champagne dinners
And bought tiaras and were cheered
By hopes of breeding Epsom winners;
Eh, lad, you little knew the weird
Dreed by the Yorkshire spinners.
How hollow are those marble halls,
The place I built and deemed a show-thing,
Its terraces, its waterfalls--
Once more I hear that sound of loathing,
The bell rings and a stranger calls
To speak of underclothing.
They've bashed my offices to wrecks,
They've broke their way beyond the warders,
And now my country seat they vex,
They trample my herbaceous borders;
They chase me up and down with cheques,
They flummox me with orders.
They bolt me to the billiard-room,
Where chaps are playing five-bob snooker;
They see me dodging from the doom,
They heed no threats and no rebuker;
"We've got thee now," they say, "ba goom!"
And pelt me with their lucre.