Various - Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 159, August 25th, 1920
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 159, August 25th, 1920
What do I intend to do with Bertram and Eunice? I am undecided whether to
place them in the vicinity of a volcano, which, unknown to Bertram, has
eruptive tendencies, or to send them up in an aeroplane and break the
propeller in mid-Atlantic just as the rescue party (including the
husband)--What? Do I understand anything about aeroplanes? Certainly not;
but I know everything about heroines.
* * * * *
EVIDENCE.
"What's all this I hear about the Abbey?" said my friend Truscott when I
met him yesterday.
Truscott has just returned from New Zealand and is for the moment a little
behind the times. But he can pick up the threads as quickly as most men.
"It's in a bad way," I told him. "All kinds of defects in the fabric, and
there's a public fund to make it sound again. You ought to subscribe."
"It may be in disrepair," he replied, "but it isn't going to fall down just
yet. I know; I went to see it this morning."
"But how do you know?" I asked. "You may guess; you can't know."
"I know," he said, "because I was told. A little bird told me, and there's
no authority half so good. Do you remember a few years ago a terrific storm
that blew down half the elms in Kensington Gardens?"
I remembered. I had reason; for the trunks and branches were all over the
road and my omnibus from Church Street to Piccadilly Circus had to make
wide detours.
"Well," Truscott continued, "someone wrote to the papers to say that two or
three days before the storm all the rooks left the trees and did not
return. They knew what was coming. Birds do know, you know, and that's why
I feel no immediate anxiety about the Abbey."
"Explain," I said.
"Well," he continued, "when I was there this morning I watched a sparrow
popping in and out of a nest built in a niche in the stonework over the
north door."
* * * * *
[Illustration: MANNERS AND MODES.
THEN AND NOW.
_From an Early-Victorian "Etiquette for Gentlemen_."--"A GENTLEMAN CANNOT
BE TOO CAREFUL TO AVOID STEPPING ON A LADY'S DRESS WHEN ABOUT TO GET IN OR
OUT OF A CARRIAGE."]
* * * * *
THOUGHTS ON "THE TIMES."
(FROM A TRAIN.)
Really the news is very bad this morning. On the front page there are two
Foreign crises and a Home one. On the next page there is one Grave Warning
and two probable strikes. On every other page there is either a political
murder or a new war. It is awful ...
Yet somehow I don't feel depressed. I rather feel like giggling. An empty
smoker in the Cornish express--_empty_ except for me! Extraordinary! And
all my luggage in the right van, labelled for Helston, and not for Hull or
Harwich or Hastings. That porter was a splendid fellow, so respectful, so
keen on his work--no Bolshevism about _him_. I gave him a shilling. I gave
the taxi-man a shilling too. That guard is a pleasant fellow also; I shall
give him two shillings, perhaps half-a-crown. Yet I see that the railways
are seething with unrest.
I have just read _The Times'_ leader. Everything seems to be coming undone
... Persia, Mesopotamia, Egypt, India. This Bolshevist business ...
dreadful. The guard has got me a ticket for the Second Luncheon. A capital
fellow. I gave him three shillings. Absurd. I have no more shillings now. I
am overdrawn. There is a financial crisis. But that, of course, is general.
I see that Mr. Iselbaum anticipates a general smash this winter. A terrible
winter it is going to be ... no coal, no food ... We ought to be in by
five, in time for a fat late tea ... Cornish cream ... jam. Gwen will be at
the station, with the children, all in blue ... or pink perhaps. How jolly
the country looks! Superficial, of course; the harvest's ruined; no wheat,
no fruit. And unemployment will be very bad. And the more people there are
unemployed the more people will strike ... Sounds funny, that; but true ...
Hope they've given us the usual table in the coffee-room, that jolly
window-table in the corner, where one can look across the bay to the cliffs
and the corn-fields and the hills ... Only there's no corn, I suppose, this
year ... And one has a good view of the rest of the room there ... can
study the new arrivals at dinner, instead of having to wait till
afterwards. Dinner is much the best time to study them; you can see at once
how they eat. And it is so much easier to decide which is the sister and
which the _fiancee_ of the young man when they are all stationary at a
table. When you only see them rushing about passages in ones it takes days.
All the usual families will be there, I suppose--the Bradleys and the
Clinks, old Mrs. Puntage and the kids--if they can afford it this year ...
Very likely they can't. I can't, certainly. But I'm going.
"Not since the fateful week-end of August, 1914, when the destinies of
Europe were decided in a few hours, have issues of such gravity engaged the
attention of the British race...." Dreadful. I shall get some tennis
tomorrow. I shan't be called. I shall get up when the sun is on my face and
not before. I shall dress very, very slowly, looking at the sea and the
sands and the sun, not rushing, not shaving properly, not thinking, not
washing a great deal, just sort of falling into an old coat and some grey
flannels.... Then I shall just sort of fall downstairs--about half-past
nine, and give the old barometer a bang. Then breakfast, very deliberate,
but cheerful, because the glass went up when I banged it--it always goes up
at that hotel ... like the cost of living. Up another five points to-day, I
see. Bread's going to be one-and-threepence. But of course there won't _be_
any bread this winter, so the price doesn't much matter. But what about
coal? and milk? and meat? "Several new sets of wage claims are due for
decision within the next few weeks, and it is possible that two of them at
least may not be determined without a cessation of work." More strikes ...
But not for a week or two. To-morrow there won't be any papers at
breakfast; there won't be any letters. I shan't catch the 9.5. After
breakfast I shall smoke on the cliff--then some tennis. Most of the balls
will go over the cliff, but when they have all gone one just slips down and
bathes, and picks them up on the way. Undress on the rocks--no machines, no
tents. Jolly bathing. Mixed, of course. This Tonbridge councillor is on
about that again, I see. He ought to come to Mullion. Mixed bathing depends
entirely on the mixture. He doesn't realise that. Of course, if he _will_
bathe at Tonbridge ...
"In diplomatic circles no one is attempting to conceal that the situation
is extremely grave." Now which situation is that? That must be one of these
world-plots. Don't really see how civilisation can carry on more than a
week or two now. Lucky I only took a single, perhaps. It was only two
pounds, but I hadn't enough for a return. Never shall have enough,
probably--but no matter. If the world is coming to an end, might as well be
in a good part of it at the time. And it would be sickening to be snuffed
out with an unused return-ticket in one's pocket.
On the sands after lunch--build a few castles and dams and things for the
children--at least, not altogether for the children, not so much as they
think, anyhow. Tea at the farm, with plenty of cream, possibly an egg ...
No eggs this winter, I see; some question of non-unionists. Then a little
golf before dinner--and perhaps a little dancing afterwards. Coffee, anyhow
...
Then _The Times_ arrives, all wrapped up, just as one is explaining about
the seventh hole. It is all stiff and crinkly, and one spends a long time
rearranging it, flattening out the folds ...
And one never reads it. That's the best of all.
A.P.H.
* * * * *
[Illustration: NATIONAL RESEARCH.
_THE DAILY QUEST_, EVER WITH ITS FINGER ON THE PUBLIC PULSE, SENDS A
SPECIAL COMMISSIONER TO OUR HOLIDAY RESORTS TO DISCOVER WHICH HAS THE
NICEST NECKS.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _The Cheerful One._ "CONGRATULATIONS, OLD CHAP, ON FINDING
YOUR GAME AGAIN."
_Club Grouser._ "FINDING MY GAME! WHY, I'VE JUST OFFERED TO SELL EVERY
DAMNED CLUB IN MY BAG."
_The Cheerful One._ "YES, I KNOW. BUT YESTERDAY YOU WERE _GIVING_ THEM
AWAY."]
* * * * *
PRONE.
_To the Editor of "Punch."_
SIR,--I am an architect (of forty-three years' standing) and I like to keep
_au courant_ with everything in the world of building (or of being about to
build). Consequently anything new in constructional material interests me,
and in this connection I would like to ask you what is or what are Prone? I
have only seen it (or them) mentioned once, and from the context I gather
that the word "prone" stands for the plural of "prone" (as "grouse" is the
plural of "grouse," and as "house" might well stand for the plural of
"house" nowadays, considering the shortage of dwellings), and that it (or
they) is (or are) used either as a floor covering or otherwise in
connection with working on the floor or ground.
My reason for so thinking is contained in the following interesting item,
culled from a well-known daily newspaper:--
"There is in London one man at least who works hard every day and has
to lay prone to do it.
He may be seen daily in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey re-cutting
the names on the flagged gravestones which have been worn by countless
pilgrims' feet. He has picked out many illustrious names, and others
are to follow."
The sex and species of this hard-worker preclude the notion of any
oviparous act, and I take it that one "lays prone" as one lays a mat or
strip of carpet, for the purpose of facilitating labour that is done on the
knees or stomach. If I am right I should like to get my builder to order
some for his workmen absolutely at once.
Anything which would help to defeat the Trade Unions in their fight against
speeding-up would be a blessing, especially to the architectural world, so
perhaps you will be good enough to enlighten me on the nature of Prone, and
where obtainable.
Believe me, Yours very gravely,
ONESIMUS STONE (F.R.I.B.A.).
* * * * *
From an American book on "How and What to Read":--
"Other great American short story writers include Bret Harte, Edward
Everett Hale, Frank Stockton, and Mary E. Wilkins. With these may be
included Thomas Hardy's 'Life's Little Ironies,' which are full of
fun."
Mr. HARDY will be glad, no doubt, to add this little irony to his
collection.
* * * * *
THE KELPIE.
The scoffer rails at ancient tales
Of lake and stream and river;
The wise man owns that in his bones
The kelpie makes him shiver.
Big salmon-flies the scoffer buys,
Long rods and wading stockings;
Unpicturesque he walks in Esk
With unbelief and mockings.
"A river-horse! O-ho, of course!"
And shouts with ribald laughter;
He does not see in his cheap glee
The kelpie trotting after.
The storm comes chill from off the hill;
An eerie wind doth holloa;
And near and near by surges drear
The water-horse doth follow.
A snort, a snuff; enough, enough;
Past prayer or human help he
Comes never more to mortal door
Who meets the water-kelpie.
* * * * *
"THE KING ARRIVES IN SCOTLAND
ASKED TO LEAVE."
_Consecutive Headlines in "The Daily Mirror."_
The habit of reading the headlines in our pictorial newspapers without
glancing at the pictures beneath them is liable to create false
impressions.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Mrs. Symons (wishing to draw attention, in the time-
honoured manner, to the amount of dust on the drawing-room furniture)._
"LOOK AT THAT, MARTHA; I CAN WRITE MY NAME ON THE PIANO."
_Martha._ "FANCY, NOW, YOU SPELLING IT WITH A 'Y.'"]
* * * * *
TO A MAKER OF PILLS.
"The Pill Trade has fallen on evil days; no ex-service men seem to
require pills."--_A pill manufacturer summoned for rates at Willesden._
O Benefactor of the British Tommy,
So often sick in far unfriendly climes,
What tears of sympathy are flowing from me
To learn that you have fallen on evil times!
Yea, to my mind 'tis little short of tragic
That men no longer buy your potent spheres of magic!
Scarce less detested than the Bulgar bullet
Your bitter pellets of Quin. Sulph. gr. 5
Have often stuck in my long-suffering gullet,
Leaving me barely more than half alive,
Whilst the accursed drug, whose taste I dread,
Hummed like an aeroplane within my throbbing head.
And what about Acetyl-Salicylic,
And what of Calomels and Soda Sals?
Existence had been even less idyllic
Without those powerful and faithful pals!
Why, midst the fevers of the Struma plain you
Furnished the greater part of Tommy's daily menu.
Or what of that infallible specific,
Your Pil. Cathartic Comp., or No. 9,
Whose world-wide influence must have been terrific
Since first it found its footing in the Line?
The British Tommy took it by the million--
Why should it fail to sell now he has turned civilian?
It is not base ingratitude that blinds him
To recognition of an ancient debt,
But rather that the sight of these reminds him
Of painful days which he would fain forget.
When life was one long round of guards and drills,
Marches, patrols, fatigues and sick parades--and pills.
Yet hear me, maker of the potent pilule:
Although my days of soldiering are o'er,
I'm fondly trusting that, when next I'm ill, you
Come to my rescue as you came of yore;
Meanwhile you'll understand that I, for one,
Refuse to buy your wares and eat them just for fun.
* * * * *
A DEAD HEAT.
"In the high jump final, Landen (U.S.A.) was first with a jump of 6ft.
4-1/2in.; Muller (U.S.A.) and E. Keleend (Sweeden) died for second
place."--_Provincial Paper._
* * * * *
"I heard Lord Rosebery say: 'Your little girl has got beautiful eyes.'
I repeated this upstairs with joy and excitement to the family, who ...
said they thought it was true enough if my eyes had not been so close
together."--_Extract from Autobiography of Margot Asquith._
Her "I's" are generally rather close together.
* * * * *
"The policy which should be adopted is first to take steps to prevent
prices continuing to rise, and then to endeavour to reduce them until
the purchasing power of the pound sterling is equal to the purchasing
power of the dollar."--_Financial Paper_.
Judging by the New York exchange good progress has been made in this
direction.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE "HOUSE"-BREAKER.
OVERTHROW OF THE PARLIAMENT OF DEMOCRACY; A DREAM OF THE "COUNCIL OF
ACTION."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Mother._ "YOUR COUSIN JIM HAS OFFERED TO TAKE YOU TO DINNER
AND A THEATRE TO-NIGHT. AREN'T YOU PLEASED?"
_Daughter._ "OH, IT'S ALL RIGHT, BUT HE LOOKS SO ROTTENLY RESPECTABLE."]
* * * * *
GEORGE, JANE AND LENIN.
Now that Soviet rule in England is apparently so imminent it seems to me
that we ought to consider a little more closely the application of its
practical machinery. The morning papers reach this village at three o'clock
in the afternoon, so that nobody is in to read them, and when one comes
back in the evening one is generally too lazy, but a couple of rather
startling sentences about the coming Communist _regime_ have recently
caught my eye.
"The people of England, like the people of Russia," runs the first, "will
soon be working under the lash." And the second, so far as I remember,
says, "Our rations will no doubt be reduced to half a herring and some
boiled bird-seed, which is all the unhappy Russians are getting to eat."
Before these changes fall suddenly upon us I think we should ponder a
little on the way in which they will affect our urban and agricultural
life.
Take the House of Commons. A very large and symbolic knout might occupy the
position of the present mace, and from time to time the SPEAKER could take
it up and crack it. As this needs a certain amount of practice it will be
necessary to select a fairly horsey man as Speaker, and the Whips, who will
follow the same procedure, should also be skilled practitioners. I see no
difficulty in applying the same method to commercial and factory life in
general, still less to the packing of the Underground Railway and the
loading of motor-omnibuses and trams.
It is rather when we come to scattered rural communities that the system
seems likely to break down. Take the case of George Harrison in this
village. When I first met George Harrison, and he said that he thought the
weather was lifting, he was carrying a basket of red plums which he offered
to sell me for an old song. On subsequent occasions I met him--
1. Driving cows. (At least I suppose he was driving them; he was sitting
sideways on a large horse doing nothing in particular, and some of the cows
were going into one field and some into another, and a dog was biting their
tails indiscriminately.)
2. Clearing muck and weeds out of the stream.
3. Setting a springe for rabbits.
4. Delivering letters, because the postman doesn't like walking up the
hill.
Now I maintain that there would be insuperable difficulties in making
George carry out all these various activities under the lash. Anyone, I
suppose, under a properly constituted Soviet _regime_ might be detailed as
George Harrison's lasher, Mr. SMILLIE, Mr. G.K. CHESTERTON, Lord CURZON,
Mr. CLYNES or the Duke of NORTHUMBERLAND. Can you imagine Mr. CHESTERTON
walking about on guard duty in a rabbit warren while George Harrison set
springes in accordance with the principles laid down by the Third
Internationale for rabbit-snaring? or the Duke of NORTHUMBERLAND standing
in gum-boots in the middle of a stream and flicking George Harrison about
the trousers if he didn't rake out old tin cans at forty to the minute as
laid down by the Moscow Code? Now I ask you.
And then there is this half a herring and boiled bird-seed arrangement.
George Harrison has a sister of eighteen who kindly comes in to do cooking
and housework for us every day. She thinks us frightfully queer, and if we
bought some herrings and bird-seed and asked her to cook them for us I have
no doubt she would oblige, but, though she doesn't much care what we eat,
there are a lot of things she doesn't eat herself, and fish is one of them.
Porridge, which, I suppose, is a kind of bird-seed, is another.
Not that Jane calls it eating, by the way. She calls it "touching," and
there are any number of things that she doesn't fancy touching. She will
touch enormous platefuls of bacon or sausages or almost any derivative of
the domestic pig, and the same applies to puddings and cake. But beef and
mutton she does not touch, nor margarine, and we have to be almost as
careful that Jane Harrison has plenty of the right things to touch as about
the whole of the rest of the family.
Now here again I think it would be quite possible to induce the people of
England in our large industrial centres to ration themselves on boiled
herring and bird-seed. We should not use those names, of course. The
advertisements on the hoardings would say:--
THE BOUNTIFUL HARVEST OF THE SEA BROUGHT TO THE BREAKFAST TABLE
or
WHAT MAKES THE SKYLARK SO HAPPY?
TRY HARRABY'S HEMP. A SONG IN EVERY SPOONFUL.
But propaganda of that sort would have no effect on Jane. She would simply
say that she never cared to touch herrings and that she did not fancy
hemp-seed.
When I consider the cases of George and Jane I am bound to believe either
that the Russian moujiks (if this is still the right word) are more docile
and tractable than ours, or else that the Soviet _regime_ will need a great
deal of adaptation before it can be extended to our English villages. Or,
of course, it may be possible that some of the minuter details of M.
LENIN'S administration have not been fully revealed to me. I shall find out
about this no doubt when I return to London. In the meantime I am banking
on George and Jane, whatever the COUNCIL OF ACTION may do.
EVOE.
* * * * *
THE OLD ORDER CHANGES.
"'He brightened up a lot when his mother-in-law arrived,' said an
onlooker.--"_Provincial Paper._
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Wee Donald Angus._ "PLEASE, SIRR, WHAT TIME WULL IT BE?"
_Literal Gentleman._ "WHEN?"]
* * * * *
LUCERNE.
O, every dog must have its day
And ev'ry town its turn;
For fair is fair ... and, anyway,
Let's talk about Lucerne.
Lucerne is in Switzerland, and I am in Lucerne. The moment I heard that Mr.
LLOYD GEORGE was coming to Lucerne I felt that a new importance was added
to Switzerland, to Lucerne, to me and, if I may say so, to Mr. LLOYD
GEORGE. But I felt that, if I didn't do something about it, Lucerne and Mr.
LLOYD GEORGE would get away with all the credit and my part in the affair
would be overlooked.
The question arose as to what to call that "something"? After a great deal
of thought I decided to try you with a short and simple "Lucerne," one of
my reasons being that, if you get down to the hard facts, there is no such
place.
Try (as the G.P.O. suggests to disappointed envelopes)--try
LUZERN.
Now don't let us have any argument about it, please. It makes no difference
how long you have called the place "Lucerne" or how many of you there are.
It is no good saying that English people and French people call it
"Lucerne" and as victors the Entente have the right to impose their wishes;
and it is no good quoting authorities at me. Luzern calls itself Luzern,
and, to satisfy myself that it is not mistaken on the point, I have
obtained complete corroboration from the _Amtliches Schweizerisches
Kursbuch_, an authority whose very name is enough to make your _Bradshaw_
look silly and shut up.
The avowed object of the PREMIER is to get away from people and politics
and to have at last a little uninterrupted holiday. Probably he counts on
the difficulty of getting at him there, having regard to that terrible bit
of the journey Bern--Luzern, which covers sixty miles, takes three hours
and involves twenty-four stops, even if you take the mid-day express. There
is a train in the afternoon (its number is 5666, and I warn you against it)
which takes four hours, though it only stops twenty-four times also. The
sinister fact is that all the trains on this route stop as often as they
can, which I attribute to that general wave of idleness which is to-day
spreading over Europe. But number 5666 is worse than others; or else it is
getting old and tired. I notice that among the trains doing the return
journey there is no number 5666; I suppose it has just as much as it can do
to get there and that it never does return.
The PREMIER was not far out to count on this protective element, and it is
still the fact that, if you approach Luzern carelessly, it is ninety-nine
to one that you will spend the best years of your young life on that
particular stretch of railway. But nowadays there is a back way round, by
Basel. Be quite firm in asking for your ticket. If the ticket man says,
"You mean Bale?" or, "You mean Basle?" say, "No, I don't. I mean Basel."
You have me and my friend, _Amtliches Schweizerisches Kursbuch_, behind
you. Stick firmly to your point, and by approaching Luzern from the North
you will approach it by a real express which only takes two hours to do its
sixty miles and hardly stops at all to take breath. So that finishes with
Bern, as to the spelling of which, though you would personally like to see
some more "e's," you now repose confidence in me. Would you like me to
quote my authority?... All right; I won't say it again if it frightens the
children.
In the old days of Peace, Luzern was full of honeymoon couples, and, when
Peace and honeymoons and all that sort of nonsense were put a stop to, it
became full of German interned prisoners of war. It boasts many first-class
hotels. One of them is patronised by the Greek ex-Royal Family. A little
unfortunate; but still you cannot expect to come and enjoy yourself in
Switzerland without the risk of running into an ex-Royal Family every
corner you go round, and, what is more, a Royal Family that wouldn't be ex-
if it wasn't for you. It is a very good hotel, and I recommend it for
anyone who proposes just to pop over here.
Get hold of L.G. while he is not busy and explain to him how thoroughly
misguided all his policies are, especially as to the Near East. My idea is
to group, according to subject and side, all those who intend to get hold
of the PREMIER, while he is alone, and to have a quiet chat with him. I
have my eye on a large hangar on the other side of the Lake, which was
built to house a dirigible and ought to hold the bulk of those who want a
word about Ireland, a place they could put right in five minutes if it was
left to them. Deputations which have some idea of declaring strikes,
general strikes and international strikes, if matters are not arranged to
their liking, will be received between the hours of ten and twelve, and two
and four, at the Kursaal. Saturday afternoons and Sundays will be reserved
for quiet walks. I am mapping out some interesting routes, marking with a
red dot the spots where the PREMIER is likely to stop and admire the view,
and where you can approach him quietly from behind and involve him in an
argument about Russia before he has time to get away.