Various - Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 159, September 1st, 1920
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 159, September 1st, 1920
I am, Yours, etc.,
THE MARGOTIST.
_The Woop._
* * * * *
FROM "SADROCK: A DEFINITIVE BIOGRAPHY."
_Published in 1940._
Before leaving our consideration of Sadrock's Homeric studies it is however
necessary to point out that late in life he made a very curious
recantation. In a book of memoirs, published in 1920, by one who was in a
position to acquire special information, it is stated in his own words that
Sadrock preferred _Robert Elsmere_ to the _Iliad_; while during the same
conversation he confessed to a passion for the services of Dissenters,
which, he said, he often frequented _incognito_. No biographer can
disregard such admissions, and we must revise our opinion of the great
statesman accordingly.
E.V.L.
* * * * *
"SALE, Gent's Evening Suit, Tennis Trousers, Sweater, Black Silk Coat
suit elderly lady."--_Irish Paper._
The revolutionary movement in Ireland seems to have reached even the
fashions.
* * * * *
"LONDON, JULY 16.
It is reported on reliable authority that General Wrangel has refused
to withdraw to the Cinema in compliance with the terms of the proposed
armistice.--_Statesman_ (_Calcutta_).
It is believed that "MARY" and "DOUG." were greatly relieved to be rid of
so dangerous a rival.
* * * * *
"When is the demoralisation at some of our great London hotels to give
place to reasonable service and cleanliness? On every side I hear
complaints of inefficient attendance and dirty rooms. As for clean
towels in the bathroom, they appear on the Ides of March."--_Sunday
Paper._
At one hotel, we understand, they failed to remember the Ides of March and
are now waiting for the Greek Kalends.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE "DO-IT-YOURSELF" AGE.
FATHER'S HOME-MADE SWEATER.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: OUR SPORTING PURISTS.
_Urchin._ "COME AN' PLAY CRICKET, ALF."
_Alf._ "WOT! IN THE FOOTBALL SEASON?"]
* * * * *
THE REVOLT OF YOUTH.
We publish a few selected letters from the mass of correspondence which has
reached us in connection with the controversy initiated by "A Bewildered
Parent" in _The Morning Post_:
A LEGUMINOUS LAUDATION.
SIR,--I confess I cannot share the anxiety of the "Bewildered Parent" who
complains of the child of two and a half years who addressed her learned
parent as "Old bean." As a convinced Montessorian I recognise in the
appellation a gratifying evidence of that self-expression which cannot
begin too young. Moreover there is nothing derogatory in the phrase; on the
contrary I am assured on the best authority that it is a term of endearment
rather than reproach. But, above all, as a Vegetarian I welcome the choice
of the term as an indication of the growth of the revolt against
carnivorous brutality. If the child in question had called her parent a
"saucy kipper" or "a silly old sausage" there would have been reasonable
ground for resentment. But comparison with a bean involves no obloquy, but
rather panegyric. The bean is one of the noblest of vegetables and is
exceptionally rich in calories, protein, casein, carbo-hydrates, thymol,
hexamyl, piperazine, salicylic dioxide, and permanganate of popocatapetl.
This a learned parent, if his learning was real, ought to have recognised
at once, instead of foolishly exploiting a fancied grievance.
Yours farinaceously,
JOSIAH VEDGELEY.
THE OLD COMPLAINT.
SIR,--Some sixty years ago I was rebuked by my father for addressing him as
"Governor." Thirty years later I was seriously offended with my own son for
calling me an "old mug." He in turn, though not by any means a learned man,
has within the last few weeks been irritated by his school-boy son
derisively addressing him as an "old dud." The duel between fathers and
sons is as old as the everlasting hills, and the rebels of one generation
become the fogeys of the next. I have no doubt that in moments of expansion
the young Marcellus alluded to his august parent as "_faba antiqua_."
Yours faithfully,
SENEX.
A TRIPLE LIFE.
SIR,--As a middle-aged mother I do not appeal for your sympathy, I merely
wish to describe my position, the difficulties of which might no doubt be
paralleled in hundreds of other households. I have three children whose
characteristics may be thus briefly summarised:--
(1) Pamela, aged nineteen, is an ultra-modern young woman. She hates
politics of all shades, but adores SCRIABINE, STRAVINSKY and BENEDETTO
CROCE. She smokes cigars, wears male attire and has a perfect command of
the art of ornamental objurgation.
(2) Gerald, aged twenty-three, is war-weary; resentful of all authority;
"bored stiff" by any music save of the syncopated brand, and he divides his
time between Jazz-dancing with the dismal fervour of a gloomy dean and
attending meetings of pro-Bolshevist extremists.
(3) Anthony, aged twenty-six, is a soldier, a "regular"; restrained in
speech, somewhat old-fashioned in his tastes. This summer he spent his
leave fishing in Scotland and took with him two books--the _Life of
Stonewall Jackson_ and the _Bible_. It is hardly necessary to add that
Gerald is not on speaking terms with him.
As for myself, while anxious to keep in touch with my wayward brood, I find
the strain of accommodating myself to their varied requirements almost more
than I can stand. Pamela can only endure my companionship on the conditions
that I smoke (which makes me ill); that I emulate the excesses of her lurid
lingo (which makes me squirm), and that I paint my face (which makes me
look like a modern Messalina, which I am not). Gerald is prepared to accept
me as a "pal," provided that I play David to his Saul by regaling him on
Sunday mornings with negroid melodies, which he punctuates with snorts on
the trombone. If he knew that I went to early morning service all would be
at an end between us. Finally, Anthony wants me to remain as I was and
really am. So you see that I have to lead not a dual but a triple life, and
am only spared the necessity of making it quadruple by the fact that my
husband is fortunately dead. As Pamela gracefully remarked the other day,
"It was a good thing for poor father that he went West to sing bass in the
heavenly choir before we grew up." In conclusion I ought to admit that my
future is not without prospects of alleviation. Pamela has just announced
her engagement to an archdeacon of pronounced Evangelical views; Gerald is
meditating a prolonged tour in New Guinea with a Bolshevist mission;
Anthony contemplates neither matrimony nor expatriation.
I am, Sir, Yours respectfully,
A MIDDLE-AGED MOTHER.
THE CRY OF THE CHILD AUTHOR.
SIR,--As a novelist and dramatist whose work has met with high encomiums
from Mr. J.L. GARVIN, Mr. C.K. SHORTER, Mr. JAMES DOUGLAS and Lord HOWARD
DE WALDEN, I wish to impress upon you and your readers the hardships and
restrictions which the tyranny of parental control still imposes on
juvenile genius. Though I recently celebrated my seventh birthday, my
father and mother have firmly refused to provide me with either a latch-key
or a motor-bicycle. Owing to the lack of proper accommodation in my nursery
my literary labours are carried on under the greatest difficulties and
hampered by constant interruptions from my nurse, a vulgar woman with a
limited vocabulary and no aspirates. I say nothing, though I might say
much, of the jealousy of adult authors, the pusillanimity of unenterprising
publishers, the senile indifference of Parliament. But I warn them that,
unless the just claims of youth to economic and intellectual independence
are speedily acknowledged, the children of England will enforce them by
direct action of the most ruthless kind. The brain that rules the cradle
rocks the world.
Yours indignantly,
PANSY BASHFORD.
A DOGGEREL SUMMARY.
SIR,--I have followed the _Youth_ v. _Age_ controversy with interest and
venture to sum up its progress so far in ten of the worst lines in the
world:--
There was an old don so engrossed
In maintaining his rule of the roast
That he made quite a scene
When addressed as "Old bean,"
And wrote to complain in _The Post_.
Whereupon the disciples of WELLS
Emitted a chorus of yells,
And they fell upon Age
With unfilial rage
And gave it all manner of hells.
I am, Sir, Yours,
GALLIO JUNIOR.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Meanest Member_ (_seeking free advice, after driving out of
bounds, from professional who is giving a lesson to another player_).
"FUNNY THING, BUT EVERY TIME I DRIVE THIS MORNING I SLICE LIKE THAT. WHAT
DO YOU THINK IS THE CAUSE?"
_Professional_ (_after deep thought_). "WELL, SIR, MEBBE YE'RE NO' HITTIN'
'EM RIGHT."]
* * * * *
"SWITZERLAND AGAIN.
Fine weather has resigned with only brief interruptions since the
season began."--_Times._
Just as in England.
* * * * *
"Alice ----, a married woman, was charged with unlawfully wounding her
husband, Charles ----, a labourer, by striking him with a pair of
tongues."--_Local Paper._
CHARLES has our sympathy. He might just as well have been a bigamist.
* * * * *
WESTWARD HO!
James, if from life's little worries and trouble you
Sigh to be wafted afar,
Meet me at Paddington Station, G.W.
R.
Thence, if our plans be not baulked by some latterday
Railwayman-unionist freak,
We'll make a bold bid for freedom on Saturday
Week.
Care may ride pillion or on the ship's deck set her
Foot, but she'll hunt us in vain
Once we've set ours on the ten-thirty Exeter
Train.
Ours no "resort" where you run up iniquitous
Bills at the "Royal" or "Grand,"
Blatant with pier and parade and ubiquitous
Band.
No "silver sea" where the gaudy and giddy come;
We're for a peacefuller air
Breathing of _Uncle Tom Cobley_ and Widdicombe
Fair.
Warm as a welcome the red of the tillage is,
Green are the pastures, and deep
Down in the combes little thatch-covered villages
Sleep.
Far from society (praises to Allah be!),
Wearing demobilised boots,
Clad in our countrified (Deeley-cum-Mallaby)
Suits,
We'll o'er the moor where the ways never weary us,
Lunch at a primitive pub,
Loaf till it's time to get back to more serious
Grub.
Haply some neighbouring Dartymoor brooklet'll
Tempt us at eve to set out,
Greenheart in hand, and endeavour to hook little
Trout.
Well, there's a programme for three weeks of heaven, sheer
Bliss, if you add to the scheme
Farm eggs and bacon and junket and Devonshire
Cream.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Customer._ "I SAY--DO YOU EVER PLAY ANYTHING BY REQUEST?"
_Delighted Musician._ "CERTAINLY, SIR."
_Customer._ "THEN I WONDER IF YOU'D BE SO GOOD AS TO PLAY A GAME OF
DOMINOES UNTIL I'VE FINISHED MY LUNCH!"]
* * * * *
SAND SPORTS.
Two or three hundred yards behind the sandhills, which seem to be deserted
but are really full of sudden hollows, with embarrassing little bathing
tents in them, the village sports have just been held. They took place in a
sloping grass field kindly lent for the occasion by Mr. Bates. This means
that you paid a shilling to enter the field, whereas on other days you can
picnic in it or play cricket in it without paying anything at all. Mr.
Bates is a kind of absentee landlord so far as we are concerned, for he is
the butcher at Framford, four miles away, and only brings the proceeds of
his butchery to us on Tuesdays and Fridays, which is the reason why on
Mondays and Thursdays one usually has eggs and bacon for dinner.
It was an interesting afternoon for many reasons, most of all perhaps
because many of the visitors saw each other for the first time in
clothes--in land clothes, I mean--and it is wonderful how much smarter some
of them looked than when popping red or brown faces, with lank wisps of
hair on them, out of the brine.
Some of the athletic events were open, like the Atlantic Sea, and some
close, like the Conferences at Lympne, but very few of the visitors
competed in any of them. I don't think any of us fancied our chances
overmuch, but personally I was a little bitter about the three-mile bicycle
race, because there were three prizes and only three competitors. I am past
my prime at this particular sport, but as it happened one of the three
broke his gear-chain somewhere about the seventh lap, and it was a long
time before he mended it and rode triumphantly past the finishing flag. I
felt then that I had missed what was probably my first and last chance of
securing an Olympic palm.
The whole affair struck me as being very well managed; dull events, like
the high jump and putting the shot, being held quietly in a corner by the
hedge, whilst the really interesting things, like the sack race and the egg
and spoon race, went on in the middle. We used potatoes instead of eggs,
but whether there was a system of handicapping according to the weight and
age of the potatoes I was unable to determine. I do feel confident,
however, that that girl with the yellow hair and the striped skirt to whom
the first prize was quite incorrectly awarded by the judges had put some
treacle--But there, I will be magnanimous.
The postman was a great success. He had acquired a light suit of overalls,
on which he had painted three large red stars, using, I hope, Government
red ink, and with black cheeks and a floured nose footed it solemnly to the
music of the Framford Comrades' Band. He also ran underneath the lath at
the high jump and tumbled down in trying to put the shot. All round the
field children could be heard asking, "What _is_ he doing, Mummy?" and,
when they were told, "Hush, dears, he's doing it for a _joke_," their eyes
danced and they tried for a moment to control their emotion and then broke
into shrieks of laughter. All the difficult open events which were not won
by a young man in puce-coloured shorts were won by a friend of his in a
yellow shirt. I have an idea that these two young men came from Framford
and go round doing this kind of thing and getting prizes for it, just as
Mr. Bates goes round selling his beef.
Amidst all this fun and frolic, if you went up to the top of one of the
sandhills and looked across the blue bay to the little seaport opposite,
you saw that it was also emptied of its folk this pious afternoon and was
in fact holding aquatic revels. Little fishing-boats with brown sails were
turning about a given mark. There were rowing races and diving competitions
and a greasy pole and very probably a comic man dressed up as a buoy.
I have pondered deeply over these twin feasts, and it has occurred to me
that, whilst land sports and water sports are both of them very good things
in their way, neither expresses the real genius of a maritime resort, and
also that we visitors, if we are too shy to enter with gusto into the local
games, ought to provide some suitable entertainment in return. I have
compiled therefore a programme of a Grand Beach Gala for next week, and
have had a notice put up in the post-office window inviting entries. Not
many people buy stamps at the post-office, but, as you get bacon and spades
and buckets and jam there, it is a pretty popular emporium, and I think my
list of events should prove an attractive one. It runs as follows:--
1. _Pebble and Tent Competition._--Fathers of families only. To be run if
possible at low tide on a wet and windy day. Competitors to leave starting
post in ordinary attire, enter tent, emerge in bathing costume, strike
tents, sprint over shingle to the sea, swim to a given point, return, pitch
tents, dress and run to winning-post.
FIRST PRIZE, a ham sandwich, with real sand.
2. _Sock Race._--Under ten. Competitors to start barefooted in rock-pools
and race at the sound of a dinner-bell to nurses, have feet dried, put on
shoes and stockings and run to row of buns at top of beach. First bun down
wins. Points deducted for sand in socks.
3. _Hundred Yards Paddle Dash._--To be run along the edge of surf. Handicap
by position. Tallest competitor to have deepest station. Open to all ages
and sexes. Feet to be lifted clear of the water at every stride. Properly
raced this is a fine frothy event, productive of the greatest enthusiasm,
especially if the trousers come unrolled.
4. _Sand Castle Contest._--Open to all families of eight. Twenty minutes
time limit. Largest castle wins. Moats must contain real sea-water.
5. _Impromptu Picnic._--Ladies only. Materials must be collected from the
village shops, brought down to beach and spread out at winning flag. For
the purpose of this competition the sports must take place on a Thursday,
when the weekly visit of the greengrocer coincides with one of the
bi-weekly visits of the baker from Framford. Eggs and butter must be
obtained at the Mill Farm, and you can do the rest at the post-office.
6. _Fifty Yards Hat Race._--Under five. Fathers to be seated in a row on
beach. Competitors to remove fathers' hats, run twenty-five yards, fill
hats with sand, return and replace hats.
In order to prevent any ill-feeling that might arise from the thought that
I had practised any of these races in private beforehand I have elected to
be the judge.
EVOE.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A SESSION OF COMMON SENSE.
ERIN. "I'VE GREAT HOPES OF THIS NEW DEVELOPMENT; BUT OF COURSE IT'S NOT AN
OFFICIAL CONFERENCE."
PEACE. "WELL, TO JUDGE BY MY EXPERIENCE, IT'S NONE THE WORSE FOR THAT."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: MODERN BUSINESS METHODS.
_Patron._ "DIDN'T I GIVE YOU SOMETHING IN HIGH STREET THIS MORNING?"
_Artist._ "YES, MUM. I'VE A BRANCH THERE."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "OH, MUMMY, WILL YOU GET THE TWOPENCE BACK?"]
* * * * *
THE ROOM AT THE BACK.
[A story of the supernatural, which should not be read late at night by
persons of weak nerves.]
Outwardly, "Chatholme" was as all the other villas in Dunmoral Avenue,
which were just detached enough to allow the butcher's boy to squeeze
himself and his basket--and perhaps the cook--between any two of them, and
differed from each other in nothing but names, numbers and window-curtains.
And the interior of the house, when the Pottigrews took possession of it,
seemed equally commonplace. There is no need to show you all over it, but
if you intend to peruse this narrative, in spite of the warning above, it
is desirable that you should at least inspect the ground-floor.
On one side of the hall, which was faintly illumined in the daytime by a
fanlight, was the drawing-room; on the other side was the dining-room, and
behind the dining-room was a smaller room with a French-window looking on
to the back-garden, which probably was described by the house-agents as the
"morning-room," but was by Mr. Pottigrew designated his "study."
Prosaic enough, you will say. And yet there was that about the ground-floor
of "Chatholme" which was anything but matter-of-fact, as the Pottigrews
began to discover before they had been in residence many days.
Mrs. Pottigrew was the first to "sense" something out of the ordinary. She
was of Manx origin, and therefore peculiarly sensitive to "influences;" one
of those uncomfortable people who cannot visit such places as Hampton Court
or the Tower without vibrating like harp-strings.
Mr. Pottigrew, however, was of the duller fibre of which cyclists rather
than psychists are made; and when, on his return from the City one
afternoon, his wife tried to get him to appreciate a certain eeriness in
the atmosphere of the new home, he sniffed it dutifully, and declared that
he could detect nothing but a confounded smell of onions.
"That's because they _won't_ remember to shut the kitchen door," Mrs.
Pottigrew explained. "But--"
"Well, it can't be the drains, because they've just been tested," said Mr.
Pottigrew impatiently. And, like a stout materialist, he muttered,
"Imagination!" as he strolled away to the sanctuary of his study, little
guessing how his own imagination was about to be stimulated.
(Look here--this is where the creepy business begins. If, on consideration,
you feel you'd rather read about cricket or politics or something, I'll
excuse you.)
A little later, as Mrs. Pottigrew was crossing the hall, she was stopped
short by a strange, gasping choky sound which came from the study. There
followed the crash of a chair being overturned; the door opened and her
husband staggered out with scared eyes in a face as white as marble, and
beads of sweat on his brow.
When a stiff brandy had restored the power of speech to Mr. Pottigrew, he
described the remarkable and alarming seizure he had just experienced.
He had turned his arm-chair to the French-window, he said, with the
intention of enjoying a quiet smoke, and no sooner had he seated himself
and leaned back than an indescribable feeling of suffocation had crept upon
him, and at the same time he had been aware of a curious loss of control
over his jaws, so that he had been unable to prevent his mouth opening to
its widest extent. When he had tried to rise to his feet an invisible force
had seemed to be holding him down, and it was only by a tremendous effort
of will that he had managed to keep his senses and struggle to the door.
He resolutely refused to see a doctor, but, deciding that the attack was a
warning that he had been overdoing it, he retired forthwith to bed. By the
morning he felt so well that he prescribed for himself a few quiet days by
the sea. And so he packed his bag and took himself off by an early train to
Brighton.
That afternoon was marked by another disagreeable occurrence. After the way
of her kind, Mrs. Pottigrew's Aunt Charlotte was attracted by the idea of
using a room from which normally the female members of the household were
excluded. So she took her needlework into the study and prepared to spend a
quiet hour or so in the armchair facing the French-window.
Hardly had she settled down when she too experienced the same feeling of
suffocation and the same involuntary opening of the jaws which Mr.
Pottigrew had described. She struggled against it, but, lacking the
will-power of her robust nephew-by-marriage, she was overcome by
unconsciousness. When she came to, a little dazed and faint, a few moments
later, she was dismayed to discover that her expensive dental-plate--a full
set--was lying on the floor, shattered beyond repair.
Not being a person of vivid imagination, she attributed her transient
illness to intense sympathy with Mr. Pottigrew, and resigned herself to a
diet of slops until she could be furnished with new means of mastication.
Next day, a Saturday, came the climax. Early in the evening an urgent
telegram summoned Mr. Pottigrew back from Brighton. Hastening home, he was
received by a wife distraught.
"What did I tell you?" she wailed. "Send for Sir CONAN DOYLE. Poor dear
Aubrey! The doctor is upstairs with him."
Mr. Pottigrew hurriedly ascended to the bedroom of his son and heir, a fine
healthy youth, just of an age to appreciate his father's cigars. (This, of
course, is a pre-Budget story.)
The young fellow lying upon the bed smiled bravely as his father entered,
but Mr. Pottigrew was shocked to see that he smiled with toothless gums. A
grave professional-looking man rose from the bedside and beckoned Mr.
Pottigrew out of the room.
"This extraordinary case, Sir," said the doctor as he closed the door
behind him, "is the outcome of causes quite beyond the present scope of the
medical profession. The sound, strong, firm teeth--a splendid set--of a
healthy young man do not jump out of his head of their own accord, every
one of them, for any natural reason."
He paused and lowered his voice as he continued: "I am afraid, Mr.
Pottigrew, however reluctant we may be to admit the possibility, that there
is no doubt that you have taken a haunted house. The previous tenant was a
dentist--poor Mr. Acres. The room which is your study was his operating
room. _He died in that room while administering gas to himself preparatory
to extracting his own teeth._"
* * * * *
[Illustration: _North-Country Farmer_ (_to Profiteer fishing the Fell
becks_). "CAUGHT OWT?"
_Profiteer._ "I'VE NOT ACTUALLY LANDED ANY, BUT THINK I HAD A RISE--UNLESS
IT WAS THE SPLASH FROM MY MINNOW."]
* * * * *
MRS. GAMP REDIVIVA.
"Nurse; 39; experienced bottle fed; L40 to L50."--_Daily Paper._
* * * * *
SPEEDING THE PARTING GUEST.