Various - Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 159, July 21, 1920
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 159, July 21, 1920
PUNCH OR THE LONDON CHARIVARIA.
VOL. 159.
JULY 21, 1920
CHARIVARIA.
To judge by the Spa Conference it looks as if we might be going to have
a peace to end peace.
***
It will soon be necessary for the Government to arrange an old-age
pension scheme for Peace Conference delegates.
***
It is difficult to know whom or what to blame for the exceptionally wet
weather we have been having, says an evening paper. Pending a denial
from Mr. Lloyd George, _The Times_ has its own opinion as to
who is at the bottom of it.
***
Mr. Stanton pointed out in the House of Commons that, unless
increased salaries are given to Members, there will be a strike. Fears
are entertained, however, that a settlement will be reached.
***
"The Derry shirt-cutters," says a news item, "have decided to continue
to strike." The Derry throat-cutters, on the other hand, have postponed
striking to a more favourable opportunity.
***
The way to bring down the price of home-killed meat, the Ministry of
Food announces officially, is for the public not to buy it. You can't
have your cheap food and eat it.
***
Harborough Rocks, one of the few Druid Circles in the kingdom, has been
sold. Heading-for-the-Rocks, the famous Druid Circle at Westminster, has
also been sold on several occasions by the Chief Wizard.
***
A gossip writer states that he saw a man carrying two artificial legs
while travelling in a Tube train. There is nothing like being prepared
for all emergencies while travelling.
***
"The ex-Kaiser," says an American journal, "makes his own clothes to
pass the time away." This is better than his old hobby of making wars to
pass other people's time away.
***
"Danger of infection from Treasury notes," says _The Weekly Dispatch_,
"has been exaggerated." Whenever we see a germ on one of our notes we
pat it on the back and tell it to lie down.
***
A West Riding paper states that a postman picked up a pound Treasury
note last week. It is said that he intends to have it valued by an
expert.
***
An engineer suggests that all roads might be made of rubber. For
pedestrians who are knocked down by motor-cars the resilience of this
material would be a great boon.
***
According to _The Evening News_ a bishop was seen the other day passing
the House of Commons smoking a briar pipe. We can only suppose that he
did not recognise the House of Commons.
***
"We can find work for everybody and everything," says a Chicago journal.
But what about corkscrews?
***
How strong is the force of habit was illustrated at Liverpool Docks the
other day when two Americans, on reaching our shores, immediately
fainted, and only recovered when it was explained that spirits were not
sold here solely for medical purposes.
***
"Watches are often affected by electrical storms such as we have
experienced of late," states a science journal. Only yesterday we heard
of a plumber and his mate who arrived at a job simultaneously.
***
We sympathise with the unfortunate housewife who cannot obtain a servant
because her reference is considered unsatisfactory. It appears she was
only six weeks with her last maid.
***
A pedestrian knocked down by a taxi in Oxford Street last Tuesday
managed to regain his feet only to be again bowled over by a motor-bus.
Luckily, however, noticing a third vehicle standing by to complete the
job, the unfortunate fellow had the presence of mind to remain on the
ground.
***
According to a local paper cat-skins are worth about 51/2_d._ each. Of
course it must be plainly understood that the accuracy of this estimate
is not admitted by the cats themselves.
***
"Too much room is taken up by motor-vehicles when turning corners,"
declares a weekly journal. This is a most unfair charge against those
self-respecting motorists who negotiate all corners on the two inside
wheels only.
***
An American named J. Thomas Looney has written a book to prove that
Shakspeare was really the Earl of Oxford. We cannot help thinking that
Shakspeare, who went out of his way to prove that _Ophelia_ was one of
the original Looneys, has brought this on himself.
***
Fashionable Parisians, says a correspondent, have decided that the
correct thing this year is to be invited to Scotland for July. It may be
correct, but it won't be an easy matter if we know our Scotland.
***
American women-bathers with an inclination to embonpoint, it is stated,
have taken to painting dimples on their knees. The report that a
fashionable New Yorker who does not care for the water has created the
necessary illusion by having a lobster painted on her toe is probably
premature.
***
A Bridgewater, Somerset, man of eighty (or octogeranium) has cancelled
his wedding on the morning of the ceremony. A few more exhibitions of
that kind and he will end up by being a bachelor.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _First Indian Chief_ (_of travelling show_). "Brother
Bellowing-Papoose, which is the way back to the circus?"
_Second Ditto._ "I know not. Let us ask this paleface."]
* * * * *
There was a young lady of Beccles
Whose face was infested with freckles,
But nobody saw
Any facial flaw,
For she had an abundance of shekels.
* * * * *
THE GRASSHOPPER.
The Animal Kingdom may be divided into creatures which one can feed and
creatures which one cannot feed. Animals which one cannot feed are
nearly always unsatisfactory; and the grasshopper is no exception.
Anyone who has tried feeding a grasshopper will agree with me.
Yet he is one of the most interesting of British creatures. _The
Encyclopaedia Britannica_ is as terse and simple as ever about him.
"Grasshoppers," it says, "are specially remarkable for their saltatory
powers, due to the great development of the hind legs; and also for
their stridulation, which is not always an attribute of the male only."
To translate, grasshoppers have a habit of hopping ("saltatory powers")
and chirping ("stridulation").
It is commonly supposed that the grasshopper stridulates by rubbing his
back legs together; but this is not the case. For one thing I have tried
it myself and failed to make any kind of noise; and for another, after
exhaustive observations, I have established the fact that, though he
does move his back legs every time he stridulates, _his back legs do not
touch each other_. Now it is a law of friction that you cannot have
friction between two back legs if the back legs are not touching; in
other words the grasshopper does not rub his back legs together to
produce stridulation, or, to put it quite shortly, he does not rub his
back legs together _at all_. I hope I have made this point quite clear.
If not, a more detailed treatment will be found in the Paper which I
read to the Royal Society in 1912.
Nevertheless I have always felt that there was something fishy about the
grasshopper's back legs. I mean, why _should_ he wave his back legs
about when he is stridulating? My own theory is that it is purely due to
the nervous excitement produced by the act of singing. The same
phenomenon can be observed in many singers and public speakers. I do not
think myself that we need seek for a more elaborate hypothesis. _The
Encyclopaedia Britannica_, of course, says that "the stridulation or song
in the _Acridiidae_ is produced by friction of the hind legs against
portions of the wings or wing-covers," but that is just the sort of
statement which the scientific man thinks he can pass off on the public
with impunity. Considering that stridulation takes place about every ten
seconds, I calculate that the grasshopper must require a new set of
wings every ten days. It would be more in keeping with the traditions of
our public life if the scientific man simply confessed that he was
baffled by this problem of the grasshopper's back legs. Yet, as I have
said, if a public speaker may fidget with his back legs while he is
stridulating, why not a public grasshopper? The more I see of science
the more it strikes me as one large mystification.
But I ought to have mentioned that "the _Acridiidae_ have the auditory
organs on the first abdominal segment," while "the _Locustidae_ have the
auditory organ on the _tibia_ of the first leg." In other words one kind
of grasshopper hears with its stomach and the other kind listens with
its leg. When a scientific man has committed himself to that kind of
statement he would hardly have qualms about a little invention like the
back-legs legend.
With this scientific preliminary we now come to the really intriguing
part of our subject, and that is the place of the grasshopper in modern
politics. And the first question is, Why did Mr. Lloyd George call
Lord Northcliffe a grasshopper? I think it was in a speech about
Russia that Mr. Lloyd George said, in terms, that Lord Northcliffe
was a grasshopper. And he didn't leave it at that. He said that Lord
Northcliffe was not only a grasshopper but a something something
grasshopper, grasshopping here and grasshopping there--that sort of
thing. There was nothing much in the accusation, of course, and Lord
Northcliffe made no reply at the time; in fact, so far as I know, he has
never publicly stated that he is _not_ a grasshopper; for all we know it
may be true. But I know a man whose wife's sister was in service at a
place where there was a kitchen-maid whose young man was once a gardener
at Lord Northcliffe's, and this man told me--the first man, I mean--that
Lord Northcliffe took it to heart terribly. No grasshoppers were allowed
in the garden from that day forth; no green that was at all like
grasshopper-green was tolerated in the house, and the gardener used to
come upon his Lordship muttering in the West Walk: "A grasshopper! He
called me a grasshopper--me--a Grasshopper!" The gardener said that his
Lordship used to finish up with, "_I_'ll teach him;" but that is hardly
the kind of thing a lord would say, and I don't believe it. In fact I
don't believe any of it. It is a stupid story.
But this crisis we keep having with France owing to Mr. Lloyd George's
infamous conduct does make the story interesting. The suggestion is, you
see, that Lord Northcliffe lay low for a long time, till everybody had
forgotten about the grasshopper and Mr. Lloyd George thought that Lord
Northcliffe had forgotten about the grasshopper, and then, when Mr.
Lloyd George was in a hole, Lord Northcliffe said, "_Now_ we'll see if I
am a grasshopper or not," and started stridulating at high speed about
Mr. Lloyd George. A crude suggestion. But if it were true it would mean
that the grasshopper had become a figure of national and international
importance. It is wonderful to think that we might stop being friends
with France just because of a grasshopper; and, if Lord Northcliffe
arranged for a new Government to come in, it might very well be called
"The Grasshopper Government." That would look fine in the margins of the
history-books.
Yes, it is all very "dramatic." It is exciting to think of an English
lord nursing a grievance about a grasshopper for months and months,
seeing grasshoppers in every corner, dreaming about grasshoppers.... But
we must not waste time over the fantastic tale. We have not yet solved
our principal problem. Why did Mr. Lloyd George call him a
grasshopper--a modest friendly little grasshopper? Did he mean to
suggest that Lord Northcliffe hears with his stomach or stridulates with
his back legs?
Why not an earwig, or a black-beetle, or a wood-louse, or a centipede?
There are lots of insects more offensive than the grasshopper, and
personally I would much rather be called a grasshopper than an earwig,
which gets into people's sponges and frightens them to death.
Perhaps he had been reading that nice passage in the Prophet Nahum: "Thy
captains are as the great grasshoppers, which camp in the hedges in the
cold day, but when the sun ariseth they flee away, and their place is
not known where they are." I do not know. But _The Encyclopaedia_ has a
suggestive sentence: "All grasshoppers are vegetable feeders and have an
incomplete metamorphosis, so that _their destructive powers are
continuous from the moment of emergence from the egg until death_."
A.P.H.
* * * * *
"The Mayor gave details showing how the Engineer's salary had
increased from L285 when he was appointed in 1811 to L600 at the
present time."--_Local Paper._
And think what he must have saved the ratepayers by not taking a pension
years ago.
* * * * *
"Mr. ---- thought that the whole Committee would wish to
associate themselves with the Cemeteries Sub-Committee in their
congratulations to Alderman ---- upon his marriage."--_Local
Paper._
We do not quite see why this particular sub-committee should have taken
the initiative.
* * * * *
[Illustration: EVIL COMMUNICATIONS.
The Telephone. "I'M GOING TO COST YOU MORE."
Householder. "WHY?"
The Telephone. "OH, THE USUAL REASON--INCREASING
INEFFICIENCY."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: A QUESTION OF TASTE.
_The Wife._ "You Must Get Yourself a Straw 'at, George. A bowler
don't seem to go with a camembert."]
* * * * *
AT THE PLAY.
"French Leave."
The Mandarins of the Theatre, who are no wiser than other mandarins (on
the contrary), have been long repeating the formula that the public
won't look at a War play. If I'm not mistaken it will for many moons be
looking at Captain Reginald Berkeley's _French Leave_. He
labels it a "light comedy." That's an understatement. It is, as a matter
of fact, a very skilful, uproarious and plausible farce, almost too
successful in that you can't hear one-third of the jokes because of the
laughter at the other two-thirds (and a little because of the indistinct
articulation of one or two of the players). Of course when I say
"plausible" I don't exactly mean that any Brigade Headquarters was run
on the sketchy lines of _General Archibald Root's_, or that the gallant
author or anybody else who was in the beastly thing ever thought of the
Great War as a devastating joke, but rather that if it be true, as has
been rumoured, that not all generals were miracles of wisdom and
forbearance; that British subalterns and privates sometimes put on the
mask of humour; that _Venus_ did wander, as the observatories punctually
reported she did occasionally wander, into the orbit of _Mars_--then
_French Leave_ is a piece of artistically justifiable selection. Its
absurdity seems the most natural thing in the world and its machinery
(rare virtue!) does not creak.
_Rooty Tooty's_ brigade then was resting--if in the circumstances you
can call it resting. The rather stodgy Brigade-Major's leave being due,
his wife has come over to Paris to wait for him. The leave being
cancelled (and you could see how desperately overworked Headquarters
was) there suddenly appears what purports to be a niece of the billet
landlady's, a _Mdlle. Juliette_, of the Paris stage, with a distinctly
coming-on disposition (and frock). The uxorious Brigade-Major, weakly
consenting to the deception, suffers the tortures of the damned by
reason of the gallantries of the precocious Staff-Captain and the
old-enough-to-know-better Brigadier. There is marching and
counter-marching of detached units in the small hours; arrival of the
Brigade Interpreter with Intelligence's reports; sorrowful conviction in
the Brigadier's mind that _Juliette_ is _Olga--Olga Thingummy_, the
famous German spy. Confusions; explosions; solutions.
That's a dull account of a bright matter. The players were not, with the
exception of Miss Renee Kelly, of the star class and (I don't
necessarily say therefore) were almost uniformly admirable. I suppose
the honours must go to Mr. M.R. Morand's excellently studied
_Brigadier_--the most laughter-compelling performance I have seen on the
"legitimate" for some years. But the _Mess Corporal_ (Mr. Charles
Groves), the _Staff-Captain_ (Mr. Henry Kendall), the _Brigade-Major_
(Mr. Hylton Allen), the _Interpreter_ (Mr. George de Warfaz) and the
_Mess Waiter_ (Mr. Arthur Riscoe)--all deserve mention in despatches. As
for the "business" it was positively inspired at times, as when the
_Mess Corporal_ retrieved the red-hat (which the passionate
_Brigade-Major_ had kicked in his jealous fury) with an address which
would have done credit to the admirable Grock. Miss Renee Kelly had her
pretty and effective moments, but somebody should ask her (no doubt in
vain) to be less tearful in the tearful and just a little less bright in
the bright parts--a little less fidgetty and fidgetting and out of key,
in fact.
I should say in general that author and producer (Mr. Eille Norwood)
would do well to watch the serious passages--always the danger-points in
farce. As nobody on our side of the footlights takes these seriously the
folk on the other side must substantially dilute the seriousness. The
tragically uttered, "O God!" at the end of the Second Act ruined an
otherwise excellent curtain. But I must not end on a note of censure. I
was much too thoroughly entertained for that. Here's a quite first-rate
piece of fooling, with dialogue of humorous rather than smart sayings.
And humour's a much rarer and less cheap a gift than smartness.
T.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _First Newly-Rich._ "It's a great secret, but I must
tell you. My husband has been offered a peerage."
_Second ditto._ "Really! That's rather interesting. We thought of
having one, but they're so expensive and we are economising just now."]
* * * * *
Our Considerate Scribes.
"Presumptious is a hard word that I would not readily apply to
any man."--_Daily Paper._
* * * * *
"PASSIVE PESSIMISM.
BERLIN'S ATTITUDE TO THE SPAR CONDITIONS."
_Sunday Paper._
But, after all, Berlin does not seem to have taken them lying down.
* * * * *
"At the start he made most of his runs by clever strokes on the
leg side, but, once settled down, he drove with fin power."
_Sunday Paper._
Cricketers need to be amphibious in these days.
* * * * *
SONGS OF AN OVALITE.
There was a young man who said, "Hobbs
Should never be tempted with lobs;
He would knock them about
Till the bowlers gave out
And watered the pitch with their sobs."
There is no one so dreadful as Fender
For batmen whose bodies are tender;
He gets on their nerves
With his murderous swerves
That insist upon death or surrender.
When people try googlies on Sandham,
You can see he will soon understand 'em;
With a laugh at their slows
He will murmur, "Here goes,"
And over the railings will land 'em.
I am always attracted by Harrison
When arrayed in his batting caparison;
If others look worried
He never gets flurried,
But quite unconcernedly carries on.
All classes of bowlers have stuck at
Their efforts to dislocate Ducat;
Their wiliest tricks
He despatches for six,
Which is what they decidedly buck at.
You should never be down in the dumps
When Strudwick is guarding the stumps;
His opponents depart
One by one at the start,
But later in twos or in _clumps_.
"Like father like son," says the fable,
And is justified clearly in Abel;
No bowling he fears
And his surname appears
An extremely appropriate label.
If I were tremendously rich
I would buy a cathedral in which
I would build me a shrine
Of a noble design
And worship a statue of Hitch.
* * * * *
Our Sleuths Again.
"His wrists were tied together with a piece of webbing, two
bricks were in his coat pockets, and, most remarkable of all,
the soles of his boots were found to be nailed to his toes....
The police theory is that somebody 'owed the dead man a
grudge.'"--_Provincial Paper._
* * * * *
AUTHORSHIP FOR ALL.
[Being specimens of the work of Mr. Punch's newly-established Literary
Ghost Bureau, which supplies appropriate Press contributions on any
subject and over any signature.]
III.--Are we going to the Dogs?
_By Vice-Admiral (Retd.) Sir Boniface Bludger, K.C.B_.
I was standing the other day at the window of the only Club in London
where they understand (or used to understand) what devilled kidneys
really are, musing in post-prandial gloom on the vanished glories of
this England of ours. "_Ichabod!_" I cried aloud to the unheeding stream
of Piccadilly wayfarers; and echo answered, "_Bod_."
What is wrong with us? Or what is wrong with me? Are we actually going
to the dogs, or is it merely that the Club kidneys are going to the
devil? Jeremiah or _Mrs. Gummidge_--which am I? Let the facts
attest and let posterity decide; thank Heaven I shall not be there to
hear the verdict.
After our half-baked victory over the Hun the popular watchword was
"Reconstruction." We have now enjoyed a year and more of this
"building-up" process, and the net result is that houses for those that
lack them are as scarce as iced soda-fountains in the Sahara.
In this work of restoration, we were told, our women voters and
legislators would play a leading part. What part are they in truth
playing? Their main object apparently is still further to embitter the
Drink question, although if they would only put a little more bitter
into our national beverage they might help to lubricate matters. Is it
not a significant fact that the slackness evidenced in every phase of
industry manifests itself at a time when it becomes more and more
difficult to get a decent drink? In this respect our progress is not so
much to the dogs as to the cats, who sneak along on the padded paws of
Prohibition.
The crazy conditions to be observed in the industrial world are well
matched by the state of anarchy that prevails in the sphere of the arts.
Take music, for example. I do not lay claim to more than a nodding
acquaintance with Euterpe, and at a classical concert, I am afraid, the
nodding character of the relation becomes especially marked. To me the
sweetest music in the world is the roar of a fifteen-inch gun on a day
when the visibility is good and plentiful. But I do know enough to be
able to say that the wild asses who with their jazz-bands "stamp o'er
our heads and will not let us sleep" (slightly to amend my old friend
FitzGerald) are nothing less than musical Trotskys.
Music was once regarded as the staple nourishment of the tender passion,
and in my younger days the haunting strains of "The Blue Danube"
assisted many a budding love-affair to blossom. But these non-stop
stridencies of the modern ballroom, even if they left a man with breath
enough to propose, would effectually prevent the girl from catching the
drift of the avowal. You can't roar, "Will you be mine?" into a maiden's
ear as if you were conversing from the quarterdeck, and if you did she'd
only think you were ecstatically emulating the coloured gentleman in the
orchestra with the implements of torture and the misguided voice.
I will pass over in the silence of despair such other symptoms of
national decadence as zigzag painting, whirlpool poetry, cinema
star-gazing and the impossibility of procuring a self-respecting Stilton
(which assuredly is not "living at this hour"). Nor can I trust myself
to speak of the spirit of Bolshevism that seems to animate our so-called
Labour Party, though I comfort myself with the conviction that this
doctrine will not wash, any more than will its authors.
I will conclude these few reflections by drawing attention to the
manners of the modern girl, who is so busily engaged in kicking over the
traces that formerly kept her in her proper place. Nowadays flappers who
should still be in the schoolroom consider themselves called upon to
teach their grandmothers how to conduct their lives; and, to complete
the chaos, the grandmothers are eagerly lapping it up, and in the matter
of dress and deportment are even bettering the instruction. _Si
vieillesse savait!_
Oh for a prophet's tongue to lash our visionless leaders into a
realisation of the rocks on to which we are drifting! We need the
scourge of a Savonarola, but all we get is the boom of a
Bottomley.
"Gone are our country's glories.
_O tempora, O mores!_"
* * * * *
ALL SORTS.
It takes all sorts to make the world, an' the same to make a crew;
It takes the good an' middlin' an' the rotten bad uns too;
The same's there are on land (says Bill) you'll find 'em all at sea--
The freaks an' fads an' crooks an' cads an' ornery chaps like me.