Various - Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 159, July 28th, 1920
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 159, July 28th, 1920
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 159.
July 28th, 1920.
CHARIVARIA.
"The public will not stand for increased railway fares," says a
contemporary. They have had too much standing at the old prices.
* * *
A Mile End man writes to _The Daily Express_ to say that one of his ducks
laid four eggs in one day. It seems about the most sensible thing the bird
could have done with them.
* * *
As a result of the recent Tube extension, passengers can now travel from
the Bank to Ealing in thirty-five minutes. It is further claimed that the
route passes under some of the most beautiful scenery in England.
* * *
Mersey shipyard workers have made a demand on their employers for five
pounds ten shillings a week when not working and seven pounds a week when
working. This proposal to discriminate between the men who work and those
who don't is condemned in more advanced trade union circles as savouring
dangerously of capitalism.
* * *
"One evening at Covent Garden," says M. ABEL HERMANT in _Le Temps_, "will
teach more correct behaviour than six months' lessons from a certified
professor of etiquette." Opinion among the smart set is divided as to
whether he means Covent Garden Theatre or Covent Garden Market.
* * *
The Bolshevists in Petrograd are finding a difficulty in the appointment of
a public executioner. This is just the chance for a man who wants a nice
steady job.
* * *
On looking up our diary we find that the MAD MULLAH is just about due to be
killed again. We wonder if anything is being done in the matter.
* * *
A German merchant is anxious to get into touch with a big stamp-dealer in
this country. Our feeling is that the POSTMASTER-GENERAL is the man he
wants.
* * *
We are asked to deny the rumour that Sir PHILIP SASSOON has been appointed
touring manager to the Peace Conference.
* * *
A Newbury man has succeeded in breeding pink-coated tame rats. It is said
that the Prohibitionists hope to exterminate these, as they did the green
ones.
* * *
A blunder of thirty million pounds in the estimates for British operations
in Russia is revealed in a White Paper. It is expected that the Government
will bequeath it to the nation.
* * *
Owing to the high cost of material we understand that a certain pill is
to-day worth L1 11s. 6d. a box.
* * *
The Sinn Feiners now threaten to capture one of our new battleships. We
sincerely hope that the Government will place a caretaker on board each of
our most valuable Dreadnoughts.
* * *
A Lanarkshire magistrate the other day doubted whether a miner could
remember details of an accident which happened two years ago. It is said
that the miner had vivid recollections of the affair as it happened to be
the day he was at work.
* * *
It is urged that all taxi-cabs should have a cowcatcher in front in case of
accidents. We gather that the drivers are quite willing provided they are
allowed to charge for anyone they pick up as an "extra."
* * *
It is reported that the muzzling order may come into force again in South
Wales. We understand that a dog which thoughtlessly attempted to bark in
Welsh in the main street of Cardiff was responsible for the belief that
rabies had broken out again.
* * *
During a brass-band contest a few days ago three members of the winning
band were taken ill just after they had finished playing. It was at first
feared that they had overblown themselves.
* * *
"A true lover of nature is nowadays very hard to find," complains a writer
in a Nature journal. Yet we know a golfer who always shouts "Fore!" on
slicing a ball into a spinney.
* * *
The two African lions which escaped from the Zoo in Portugal have not yet
been captured, and were last seen near the border-line of Switzerland. It
is thought that they are endeavouring to walk across Europe as a reprisal
for the flight across Africa by two Europeans.
* * *
The Dublin Trades Council called a one-day strike last week "to secure the
release of Mr. JAMES LARKIN." So successful was the strike, we understand,
that the United States authorities have decided that the presence of Mr.
LARKIN at forthcoming celebrations of a similar character would be quite
superfluous.
* * *
Speaking to an audience of miners at Morpeth Mr. RAMSAY MACDONALD said he
dreamed of a time when the miners would govern the country. Not even the
miners, on the other hand, would dream of letting Mr. RAMSAY MACDONALD
govern it.
* * *
"Does the Government realise," asks a newspaper correspondent, "that as
regards the situation in Ireland we are on the edge of a crater or with a
thunderbolt over our heads?" We rather imagine that the Government, like
the writer, isn't quite sure which.
* * *
Oswestry Guardians have accepted an offer to supply Bibles to tramps. This
is the first occasion on which the current belief that the tramp class is
nowadays being recruited largely from the ranks of the minor clergy has
received formal recognition.
* * *
A bricklayer has been summoned for not sending his son to school. It
appears that the father, finding his boy could count up to twenty and
wishing him to follow his own occupation, thought further schooling
unnecessary.
* * *
"When the country really understands the need of the Government," says an
essayist, "we shall travel far." But not at twopence a mile, thank you.
* * * * *
[Illustration: TRUE POLITENESS.
"YOUR EEL, I THINK, SIR?"]
* * * * *
A CRIMINAL TYPE.
To-day I am MAKing aN inno6Lvation. as you mayalready have gessed, I am
typlng this article myself Zz1/2lnstead of writing it, The idea is to save
time and exvBKpense, also to demonstyap demonBTrike= =damn, to demonstratO
that I can type /ust as well as any blessedgirl 1f I give my mInd to iT""
Typlng while you compose is realy extraoraordinarrily easy, though
composing whilr you typE is more difficult. I rather think my typing style
is going to be different froM my u6sual style, but Idaresay noone will mind
that much. looking back i see that we made rather a hash of that awfuul
wurd extraorordinnaryk? in the middle of a woRd like thaton N-e gets quite
lost? 2hy do I keep putting questionmarks instead of fulstopSI wonder. Now
you see i have put a fulllstop instead Of a question mark it nevvvver reins
but it pours.
the typewriter to me has always been a musteryL? and even now that I have
gained a perfect mastery over the machine in gront of me i have npt th3
faintest idea hoW it workss% &or instance why does the thingonthetop the
klnd of overhead Wailway arrrangement move along one pace afterr every
word; I haVe exam@aaa ined the mechanism from all points of view but there
seeems to be noreason atall whyit shouould do tLis . damn that L, it keeps
butting in: it is Just lik real life. then there are all kinds oF
attractive devisesand levers andbuttons of which is amanvel in itself, and
does somethI5g useful without lettin on how it does iT.
Forinstance on this machinE which is A mi/et a mijge7 imean a mi/dgt, made
of alumium,, and very light sothat you caN CARRY it about on your Lolidays
(there is that L again) and typeout your poems onthe Moon immmmediately,
and there is onely one lot of keys for capITals and ordinay latters; when
you want todoa Capital you press down a special key marked cap i mean CAP
with the lefft hand and yo7 press down the letter withthe other, like that
abcd, no, ABCDEFG . how jolly that looks . as a mattr of fact th is takes a
little gettingintoas all the letters on the keys are printed incapitals so
now and then one forgets topress downthe SPecial capit al key. not often,
though. on the other hand onceone Las got it down and has written anice nam
e in capitals like LLOYdgeORGE IT IS VERY DIFFICULT TO REmemBER TO PUT IT
DOWN AGAIN ANDTHE N YOU GET THIS SORT OF THING WICH SPOILS THE LOOOK OF THE
HOLE PAGE . or els insted of preSSing down the key marked CAP onepresses
down the key m arked FIG and then insted of LLOYDGEORGE you find that you
have written 1/21/296% :394:3. this is very dissheartening and Lt is no wonder
that typists are sooften sououred in ther youth.
Apart fromthat though the key marked FIG is rather fun, since you can rite
such amusing things withit, things like % and [Symbol: face] and dear old &
not to mention = and 1/4 and 3/4 and!!! i find that inones ordinarry (i never
get that word right) cor orrespondenLc one doesn't use expressions like @@
and % % % nearly enough. typewriting gives you a new ideaof possibilities
of the engliLh language; thE more i look at % the more beautiful it seems
to Be: and like the simple flowers of england itis perLaps most beautiLul
when seeen in the masss, Look atit
% % % % % % % % % % % %
% % % % % % % % % % % %
% % % % % % % % % % % %
% % % % % % % % % % % %
how would thatdo for a BAThrooM wallpaper? it could be produced verery
cheaply and itcould be calld the CHER RYdesigN damn, imeant to put all that
in capitals. iam afraid this articleis spoilt now but butt bUt curse . But
perhaps the most excitingthing aLout this macLine is that you can by
presssing alittle switch suddenly writein redor green instead of in black;
I donvt understanh how Lt is done butit is very jollY? busisisness men us e
the device a gre t deal wen writing to their membersof PARLIAment, in order
to emphasasise the pointin wich theLr inLustice is worSe than anyone elses
inLustice . wen they come to WE ARE RUINED they burst out into red and wen
they come to WE w WOULD remIND YOU tHAT ATtHE LAST ELECTION yoU UNDERTOOk
they burst into GReeN. thei r typists must enjoy doing those letters. with
this arrang ment of corse one coul d do allkinds of capital wallpapers. for
|nstance wat about a scheme of red L's and black %'s and gReen &'s? this
sort of thing
L % L % L % L % L %
& L & L & L & L & L
L % L % L % L % L %
& L & L & L & L & L
Manya poor man would be glad to Lave that in his parLour ratherthan wat he
has got now. of corse, you wont be ab?e to apreciate the fulll bauty of the
design since i underst and that the retched paper which is going to print
this has no redink and no green inq either; so you must Lust immagine that
the L's are red and the &'s are green. it is extroarordinarry (wat a t
erribleword!!!) how backward in MAny waYs these uptodate papers are
wwww1/41/41/41/41/41/41/2=3/4 now how did that happen i wond er; i was experimenting with
the BACK SPACE key; if that is wat it is for i dont thinq i shall use it
again. iI wonder if i am impriving at this1/2 sometimes i thinq i am and so
metimes i thinq iam not . we have not had so many L's lately but i notice
that theere have been one or two misplaced q's & icannot remember to write
i in capital s there it goes again.
Of curse the typewriter itself is not wolly giltless 1/2ike all mac&ines it
has amind of it sown and is of like passsions with ourselves. i could put
that into greek if only the machine was not so hopelessly MOdern. it 's
chief failing is that it cannot write m'sdecently and instead of h it will
keep putting that confounded L. as amatter of fact ithas been doing m's
rather better today butthat is only its cusssedussedness and because i have
been opening my shoul ders wenever we have come to an m; or should it be A
m? who can tell; little peculiuliarities like making indifferent m's are
very important & wLen one is bying a typewiter one sLould make careful
enquiries about themc; because it is things of that sort wich so often give
criminals away. there is notHing a detective likes so much as a type riter
with an idiosxz an idioynq damit an idiotyncrasy . for instance if i commit
a murder i sLould not thinq of writing a litter about it with this of all
typewriters becusa because that fool ofa L would give me away at once I
daresay scotland Yard have got specimens of my trypewriting locked up in
some pigeonhole allready. if they Lavent they ought to; it ought to be part
of my dosossier.
i thing the place of the hypewriter in ART is inshufficiently apreciated.
Modern art i understand is chiefly sumbolical expression and straigt lines.
a typwritr can do strait lines with the under lining mark) and there are
few more atractive symbols thaN the symbols i have used in this articel; i
merely thro out the sugestion
I dont tkink i shal do many more articles like this it is tooo much like
work? but I am glad I have got out of that L habit;
A.P.L.
* * * * *
"PRISON FOR FLAT LANDLORDS."--_Evening Paper._
Good. But is nothing going to be done about the landlords with round
figures?
* * * * *
"With favourable weather, Thatcham can look forward to a pre-war show
this year."--_Local Paper._
Apparently Thatcham carries its eyes in the back of its head.
[Illustration: A SEA-VIEW OF THE SITUATION.
INDIGNANT LODGING-HOUSE KEEPER. "AND TO THINK OF THAT THERE ERIC WANTING TO
SQUEEZE THE POOR HOLIDAY-MAKERS BEFORE I GETS AT 'EM."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Outraged Batsman._ "JARGE, OI DO BELIEVE YOU'M BOWLIN'
DELIBERATE AT MOI GAMMY LEG."
_Jarge (feeling that something ought to be said)._ "WHY, WILLYUM, OI
THOUGHT THEY WAS BOTH GAMMY."]
* * * * *
ELIZABETH GOES ON HOLIDAY.
"Please, 'm, may I go for my 'olidays a week come Thursday?" asked
Elizabeth. She was evidently labouring under some strong excitement, for
she panted as she spoke and so far forgot herself in her agitation as to
take up the dust in the hall instead of sweeping it under the mat.
"But you promised to go on your holiday when we have ours in September," I
protested, aghast. (You will shortly understand the reason of my dismay.)
"I don't see how I can possibly manage--"
"I'm sorry, 'm, but I _must_ take 'em then," interposed Elizabeth with a
horrid giving-notice gleam in her eye which I have learnt to dread. "You
see, my young man is 'avin' 'is 'olidays then an'--an'"--she drew up her
lank form and a look that was almost human came into her face--"'e's arsked
me to go with 'im," she finished with ineffable pride.
I am aware that this is not an unusual arrangement amongst engaged couples
in the class to which Elizabeth belongs; nevertheless I felt it was the
moment for judicious advice, knowing how ephemeral are the love-affairs of
Elizabeth. No butterfly that flits from flower to flower could be more
elusive than her young men. Our district must swarm with this fickle type.
"Do you think it right to go off on a holiday with a stranger?" I began
diffidently.
"'Im! 'E isn't a stranger," broke in Elizabeth. "'E's my young man."
"Which young man?"
"My _new_ young man."
"But don't you think it would be better if he were not such a new young
man--I mean, if he were an old young man--er--perhaps I ought to say you
should know him longer before you go away with him. It's not quite the
thing--"
"Why, wot's wrong with it?" demanded Elizabeth, puzzled. "All the girls I
know spends their 'olidays with their young men, an' then it doesn't cost
them nothink. That's the best of it. But it's the first time I've ever been
arsked," she admitted, "an' I wouldn't lose a charnce like this for
anythink."
Further appeal was useless, and with a sigh I resigned myself to the
inevitable; but when, ten days later, Elizabeth departed in a whirl of
enthusiasm and brown paper parcels I turned dejectedly to the loathsome
business of housework.
It is a form of labour which above all others I detest. My _metier_ is to
write--one day I even hope to become a great writer. But what I never hope
to become is a culinary expert. Should you command your cook to turn out a
short story she could not suffer more in the agonies of composition than I
do in making a simple Yorkshire pudding.
My household now passed into a condition of settled gloom. My nerves began
to suffer from the strain, and I came gradually to regard Henry as less of
a helpmate and more of a voracious monster demanding meals at too frequent
intervals. It made me peevish with him.
He too was far from forbearing in this crisis. In fact we were getting
disillusioned with each other.
One evening I was reflecting bitterly on matters like washing-up when Henry
came in. Only a short time before we should have greeted each other
cordially in a spirit of _camaraderie_ and affection. Now our conversation
was something like this:--
_Henry (gruffly)._ Hullo, no signs of dinner yet! Do you know the time?
_Me (snappily)._ You needn't be so impatient. I expect you've gorged
yourself on a good lunch in town. Anyhow it won't take long to get dinner,
as we are having tinned soup and eggs.
_Henry._ Oh, damn eggs. I'm sick of the sight of 'em.
You can see for yourself how unrestrained we were getting. The thin veneer
of civilisation (thinner than ever when Henry is hungry) was fast wearing
into holes.
The subsequent meal was eaten in silence. The hay-fever from which I am
prone to suffer at all seasons of the year was particularly persistent that
evening. A rising irritability engendered by leathery eggs and fostered by
Henry's face was taking possession of me. Quite suddenly I discovered that
the way he held his knife annoyed me. Further I was maddened by his manner
of taking soup. But I restrained myself. I merely remarked, "You have
finished your soup, I _hear_, love."
Henry, though feeling the strain, had not quite lost his fortitude. My
hay-fever was obviously annoying him, but he only commented, "Don't you
think you ought to see a doctor about that distressing nasal complaint, my
dear?" I knew, however, that he was longing to bark out, "Can't you stop
that everlasting sniffing? It's driving me mad, woman."
How long would it be before we reached that stage of candour? I was
brooding on this when the front-door bell rang.
"You go," I said to Henry.
"No, you go," he replied. "It looks bad for the man of the house to answer
the door."
I do not know why it should look bad for a man to answer his own door,
unless he is a bad man. But there are some things in our English social
system which no one can understand. I rose and went to open the front-door.
Then my heart leapt in sudden joy. The light from the hall lamp fell on the
lank form of Elizabeth.
"You've come back!" I exclaimed.
"I suppose you didn't expect to see me inside of a week," she remarked.
"I didn't; but oh, Elizabeth, I'm so glad to see you," I said as I drew her
in. Tears that strong men weep rose to my eyes, while Henry, at this moment
emerging from the study, uttered an ejaculation of joy (it sounded like
"Thank God!") at the sight of Elizabeth.
"An' 'ow 'ave you got on while I've bin away?" she inquired, eyeing us both
closely. "Did every think go orf orl right?"
I hesitated. How was I to confess my failures and muddling in her absence
and hope to have authority over her in future? Would she not become still
more difficult to manage if she knew how indispensable she was? I continued
to hesitate. Then Henry spoke. "We've managed admirably," he said. "Your
mistress has been wonderful. Her cooking has absolutely surprised me."
I blessed Henry (the devil!) in that moment. "Thank you, dear," I murmured.
Then Elizabeth spoke and there was a note of relief in her voice. "Well,
I'm reerly glad to 'ear that, as I can go off to-morrer after all. I
'aven't been for my 'oliday yet, like."
"What do you mean?" I gasped.
"Well, you see, 'm, my young man didn't turn up at the station, so I went
and stayed with my sister-in-law at Islington. She wants me to go with 'er
to Southend early to-morrer, but I thort as 'ow I'd better come back 'ere
first and see if you reerly could manage without me, for I 'ad my doubts.
'Owever, as everythink's goin' on orl right I can go with an easy mind."
I remained speechless. So did Henry. Elizabeth went out again into the
darkness. There was a long pause, broken only by my hay fever. Then Henry
spoke. "Can't you stop that everlasting sniffing?" he barked out. "It's
driving me mad, woman."
* * * * *
[Illustration: OUR VILLAGE SOLOMON.
_First Rustic._ "D'YE 'EAR OLD DADDY SMITH'S COTTAGE WAS BURNT DOWN LAST
NIGHT?"
_Second Rustic (of matured wisdom)._ "I BEAN'T SURPRISED. WHEN I SEES THE
SMOKE A-COMING THROUGH THE THATCH I SEZ TO MYSELF, 'THERE'S SELDOM SMOKE
WITHOUT FIRE.'"]
* * * * *
"REQUIRED an English or French resident governess for children from 30
to 45 years old, having notions of music."--_Standard (Buenos Ayres)._
We are glad they have picked up something during their prolonged
juvenescence.
* * * * *
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.]
IV.--WHAT'S WRONG WITH THE DRAMA?
_By Marcus P. Brimston, the gifted producer of "Shoo, Charlotte!"_
I have been invited to say a few words to readers of _The Sabbath Scoop_ on
the alleged decay of the British drama. There is indeed some apparent truth
in this allegation. On all sides I hear managers sending up the same old
wail of dwindling box-office receipts and houses packed with ghastly rows
of deadheads. No "paper" shortage there, at any rate.
Sometimes these unfortunate people come to me for counsel, and invariably I
give them the same admonition, "Study your public."
There is no doubt that, with a few brilliant exceptions (among which my own
present production is happily enrolled), the playhouses have recently
struck a rather bad patch. Useless to lay the blame either on the
CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER or on the weather. Give the playgoing public
what it wants and no consideration of National Waste or of Daylight Saving
will keep it from the theatre.
And that brings me to my point. Whence comes the playgoing public of
to-day, and what does it want?
From the commercial point of view (and in the long run as in the short all
art must be judged by its monetary value) the drama depends for its support
on what used to be known as the better-dressed parts of the house.
Now-a-days the majority of the paying patrons of these seats come from the
ranks of the new custodians of the nation's wealth. These people, who have
the business instinct very strongly developed, insistently and very rightly
demand value for their money; and the problem is how to give them value as
they understand the meaning of the word. My friend Mr. ARTHUR COLLINS gives
it to them in sand; but that is a shifting foundation on which to build up
a prosperous run.
Those who, like myself, have studied closely the tastes and intelligence of
this new force that is directing the destiny of the modern theatre must
have come to the conclusion that the essential factor in dramatic success
is "punch," or, as our cross-Atlantic cousins would term it, "pep." The day
of anaemic characterisation and subtle dissection of motives is past. The
audience (or the only part that really counts) has no desire to be called
upon to think; it can afford to pay others to do its thinking for it. There
is much to be said for this point of view. The War and its effects
(especially the Excess Profits Duty) have imposed on us all far too many
and too severe mental jerks; in the theatre we may well forget that we
possess such a thing as a mind.
As a charming and gifted little actress said to me only yesterday, "We want
something a bit meatier than the dry old bones of IBSEN'S ghosts." Well, I
am out to provide that something; my present success certainly does not
lack for flesh.
In producing _Shoo, Charlotte!_ I have taken several hints from that
formidable young rival of the articulate stage known as the Silent Drama.
There effects are flung at the spectator's head like balls at a cocoanut;
if they fail to register a hit it is the fault of the shier, not of the
nut. My aim throughout has been to throw hard and true, so that even the
thickest nut is left in no doubt as to the actuality of the impact. _Shoo,
Charlotte!_ makes no high-sounding attempt at improving the public taste.
As the dramatic critic of _The Sabbath Scoop_ pithily remarked, it is just
"one long feast of laughter and _lingerie_," and its nightly triumph is the
only vindication it requires.
The fundamental mistake of the British drama of to-day lies, in my humble
opinion, in its perpetual striving after the unexpected. The public, such
as I have described it, fights shy of novel situations; it isn't sure how
they ought to be taken. But give it a play where it knows exactly what is
going to happen next and you are rewarded with the delighted applause that
comes of prophecy fulfilled. The thrill or chuckle of anticipation is
succeeded by the shudder or guffaw of realisation. Father nudges Mother and
says, "Look, Emma, he's going to fall into the flour-bin." He does fall
into the flour-bin, and Father slaps his own or Mother's knee with a roar
of triumph. After all, the old dramatic formulae were not drawn up without a
profound knowledge of human nature.