Various - Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 159, October 6, 1920
V >>
Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 159, October 6, 1920
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 17397-h.htm or 17397-h.zip:
(http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/1/7/3/9/17397/17397-h/17397-h.htm)
or
(http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/1/7/3/9/17397/17397-h.zip)
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
VOL. 159
OCTOBER 6, 1920.
CHARIVARIA.
"Motorists," says a London magistrate, "cannot go about knocking people
down and killing them every day." We agree. Once should be enough for
the most grasping pedestrian.
* * *
"A Kensington lady," we read, "has just engaged a parlourmaid who is
only three feet seven inches in height." The shortage of servants is
becoming most marked.
* * *
A play called _The Man Who Went to Work_ is shortly to be produced in
the West End. It sounds like a farce.
* * *
A police-sergeant of Ealing is reported to have summoned six hundred
motorists since March. There is some talk of his being presented with
the illuminated addresses of another three hundred.
* * *
All the recent photographs of Sir ERIC GEDDES show him with a very broad
smile. "And I know who he's laughing at," writes a railway traveller.
* * *
With reference to the Press controversy between Mr. H.G. WELLS and Mr.
HENRY ARTHUR JONES, we understand that they have decided to shake hands
and be enemies.
* * *
"In New Zealand," says a weekly paper, "there is a daisy which is often
mistaken for a sheep by the shepherds." This is the sort of statement
that the Prohibitionist likes to make a note of.
* * *
A statistician informs us that a man's body contains enough lime to
whitewash a small room. It should be pointed out however that it is
illegal for a wife to break up her husband for decorative purposes.
* * *
The Manchester Communist Party have decided to have nothing whatever to
do with Parliament. We understand that the PREMIER has now decided to
sell his St. Bernard dog.
* * *
"There are no very rich people in England," says a gossip-writer. We can
only say we know a club porter who recently stated that he had a cousin
who knew a miner who ... but we fear it was only gossip.
* * *
"It is possible for people to do quite well without a stomach," says a
Parisian doctor. Judged by the high prices, we know a grocer who seems
to think along the same lines.
* * *
Special aeroplanes to carry fish from Holland to this country are to run
in the winter. The idea of keeping the fish long enough to enable them
to cross under their own power has been abandoned.
* * *
An Ashford gardener has grown a cabbage which measures twelve feet
across. It is said to be uninhabited.
* * *
The Rules of Golf Committee now suggest a standard ball for England and
America. The question of a standard long-distance expletive for foozlers
is held over.
* * *
A youth charged at a police-court in the South of London with stealing
five hundred cigars, valued at threepence each, admitted that he had
smoked twenty-six of them. We are glad to learn that no further
punishment was ordered.
* * *
_The Waste Trade World_ states that there is a great demand for rubbish.
Editors, however, don't seem to be moving with the times.
* * *
Off Folkestone, a few days ago, a trawler captured a blue-nosed shark.
Complaints about the temperature of the sea have been very common among
bathers this year.
* * *
"No one has yet been successful in filming an actual murder," states a
Picture-goers' Journal. It certainly does seem a pity that our murderers
are so terribly self-conscious in the presence of a cinematograph man.
* * *
_The Daily Express_ states that Mrs. BAMBERGER has decided not to appeal
against her sentence. If that be so, this high-handed decision will be
bitterly resented by certain of the audience who were in court during
the trial and eagerly looked forward to the next edition.
* * *
A _Daily Mail_ reader writes to our contemporary to say that he found
forty-two toads in his garden last week. We can only suppose that they
were there in ignorance of the fact that he took in _The Daily Mail_.
* * *
A pike weighing twenty-six pounds, upon being hooked by a Cheshire
fisherman, pulled him into the canal. His escape was much regretted by
the fish, who had decided to have him stuffed.
* * *
It is possible that Mr. TOM MANN, the secretary of the A.S.E., will
shortly retire under the age limit. It is rumoured that members have
started to collect for a souvenir strike as a parting tribute.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Bus Conductor_ (_after passenger's torrents of invective
on the subject of increased fare_). "RIGHT-O, MA. I'LL TELL 'EM
EVERYTHINK YOU'VE SAID WEN I TAKES THE CHAIR AT THE NEXT DIRECTORS'
MEETING."]
* * * * *
THE ETHIOPIAN AGAIN.
"COAL STILL BLACK."
_Heading in "Church Family Newspaper."_
* * * * *
"The output in the first quarter this year was at the rate of
248,000,000 million tons a year. It fell in the second quarter
to 232,000,000. Between and beyond these lines there is an
ample margin for bargaining."
_Evening Paper._
Abundantly ample.
* * * * *
LESSONS FROM NATURE.
TO AN AUTUMN PRIMROSE.
"If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?"
_Wordsworth._
Symbol of innocence, to Tories dear,
Whom I detect beside the silvan path
Doing your second time on earth this year
That I may cull a generous aftermath,
Let me divine your reason
For thus repullulating out of season.
Associated with the vernal prime
And widely known as "rathe," why bloom so late?
Was it the lure of so-called "Summer-time,"
Extended well beyond the usual date?
Our thanks for which reprieve
Are SMILLIE'S, though they didn't ask his leave.
Rather I think you have some lofty plan,
Such as your old friend WORDSWORTH loved to sing;
That for a fair ensample set to Man
You duplicate your output of the Spring;
That in your heart there lodges
Dimly the hope of shaming Mr. HODGES.
Ah! gentle primrose by the river's brim!
Like _Peter Bell_ (unversed in woodland lore),
He'll miss your meaning; you will be to him
A yellow primrose--that and nothing more;
He'll read in you no sign
Of Nature's views about the datum-line.
O.S.
* * * * *
THE MINERS' OPERA.
About a week ago, when they took Titterby away to the large red-brick
establishment which he now adorns, certain papers which were left lying
in his study passed into my hands, for I was almost his only friend. It
had long been Titterby's belief that a great future lay before the
librettist who should produce topical light operas on the GILBERT and
SULLIVAN model, dealing with our present-day economic crises. The thing
became an _idee fixe_, as the French say, or, as we lamely put it in
English, a fixed idea. There can be no doubt that he was engaged in the
terrible task of fitting the current coal dispute to fantastic verse
when a brain-cell unhappily buckled, and he was found destroying the
works of his grand piano with a coal-scoop.
Most of the MS. in my possession is blurred and undecipherable, full of
erasures, random stage-directions and marginal notes, amongst which
occasional passages such as the following "emerge" (as Mr. SMILLIE would
say):--
"_Secretary._ The fellow is standing his ground,
He's as stubborn and stiff as a war-mule.
_Minister._ A
Means will be found
If we look all around
To arrive at a suitable formula.
_Chorus._ Yes, you've got to arrive at a formula."
Difficult though my task may be I feel it the duty of friendship to
attempt to give the public some faint outline of this fascinating and
curious work. Scenarios, _dramatis personae_ and choruses had evidently
caused the author inordinate trouble, for at the top of one sheet I
find:--
"ACT I.
_Interior of a coal-mine. Groups of colliers with lanterns and picks (?
tongs). Enter Chorus of female consumers._"
Then follows this note:--
"_MEM. Can one dance in coal-mine? Look up COAL
in 'Ency. Brit.' Also CELLAR FLAP_;"
and later on, at the end of a passage which evidently described the
dresses of the principal female characters introduced, we have the
words:--
"_BRITANNIA. ? jumper, bobbed hair.
ANARCHY. ? red tights_."
Nothing in this Act survives in a legible form, but in Act II. we are
slightly more fortunate:--
"SCENE.--_Downing Street_ (it begins). _Enter mixed Chorus of
private secretaries, female shorthand writers and
representatives of the Press, followed by Sir ROBERT HORNE, Mr.
ROBERT WILLIAMS and Mr. SMILLIE._"
What happens after this I can only roughly surmise, but most probably
Mr. SMILLIE proves false to Britannia and flirts for some time with
Anarchy, egged on by Mr. WILLIAMS and urged by Sir ROBERT HORNE to
return to his earlier flame. At any rate, after a little, the
handwriting grows clearer, and I read:--
"_Mr. SMILLIE (striking the pavement with his pick)_.
We mean to strike.
_Chorus._ He means to strike, he means to strike,
Rash man! Did ever you hear the like
Of what he has just asserted?
Living is dear enough now, on my soul,
What will it be when we can't get coal?
_PRIME MINISTER (entering suddenly)._
This strike must be averted."
There seems to have been some doubt as to how the PRIME MINISTER'S
entrance should be effected, for at this point we get the marginal note:
"_? From door of No. 10. ? On wings. ? Trap door. ? Riding St. Bernard
Dog._"
But the difficulty was evidently settled, and the Chorus begins again:--
"Oh, here is the wizard from Wales,
The wonderful wizard from Wales,
The British Prime Minister,
_MR. WILLIAMS._ Subtle and sinister.
_Chorus._ Oh, no! That is only your fancy.
Disputes he can manage and check;
All parties respond to his beck.
_MR. WILLIAMS._ He talks through the back of his neck!
_Chorus._ When he talks through the back of his neck
We call it his neck-romancy."
Of the arguments used by Mr. LLOYD GEORGE after this spirited
encouragement no record remains but the following passage:--
"My dear Mr. SMILLIE,
We value you highly
Howe'er so ferociously raven you.
We must find a way out,
And we shall do, no doubt,
If we only explore every avenue.
_Chorus._ Yes, please, do explore every avenue.
[_Exeunt Mr. LLOYD GEORGE and Mr. SMILLIE arm-in-arm, R. (?
followed by St. Bernard) and return C. Exeunt L. and return C.
again, and so on._
_Chorus._ Oh, have you explored every avenue?"
Apparently they have, for later on we get--
"_PRIME MINISTER._ Then why should you want to strike
When the Government saves your faces?
You can get more pay when you like
On the larger output basis."
And the Chorus of course chimes in:--
"They can get more pay when they like
On the larger output basis."
And there is a note at the side: "_Chorus to wave arms upwards and
outwards, indicating increased production of coal._"
It seems to have been at some time after this, and probably in Act III.,
that Titterby went, if I may put it so vulgarly, off the hooks. I think
he must have got on to the conference between the mineowners and the
representatives of the miners, and struggled until the gas became too
thick for him. At any rate, after several unreadable pages, the
following unhappy fragment stands out clear:--
"_Mr. SMILLIE still stands irresolute, running his fingers
through his hair._
_Chorus of Mineowners_ (_pointing at him_).
Ruffled hair requires, I ween,
Something in the brilliantine
Or else in the pomatum line.
How shall we devise a balm
Mr. SMILLIE'S locks to calm?
Hullo! here comes the Datum-Line!
_Enter_ Datum-Line. (_? can Datum-Line be personified? ? comic.
? check trousers. ? red whiskers._)"
Nothing more has been written, and it must have been at this point, I
suppose, that Titterby got up and assaulted his piano. It all seems very
sad.
EVOE.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A PROSPECTIVE JONAH?
THE CAPTAIN (_to Sir ERIC GEDDES_). "I SOMETIMES WONDER WHETHER A MAN OF
YOUR ABILITY OUGHT NOT TO FIND A BETTER OPENING."
[It is rumoured that the Ministry of Transport is to have a limited
existence.]]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Lady._ "NO COD LEFT, MR. BROWN?"
_Fishmonger_ (_confidentially_). "WELL, MRS. SNIPPS, I'LL OBLIGE YOU. I
ALWAYS KEEPS A BIT UP MY SLEEVE FOR REG'LAR CUSTOMERS."]
* * * * *
CONSOLATION.
You may be very ugly and freckledy and small
And have a little stubby nose that's not a nose at all;
You may be bad at spelling and you may be worse at sums,
You may have stupid fingers that your Nanna says are thumbs,
And lots of things you look for you may never, never find,
But if you love the fairies--you don't mind.
You may be rather frightened when you read of wolves and bears
Or when you pass the cupboard-place beneath the attic stairs;
You may not always like it when thunder makes a noise
That seems so much, much bigger than little girls and boys;
You may feel rather lonely when you waken in the night,
But if the fairies love you--_it's all right_.
R.F.
* * * * *
"I trust it may be sufficient to convince readers that Mr.
Chesterton is CONTINUED AT FOOT OF NEXT COLUMN."
_Sunday Paper._
At last the ever-recurring problem of where to put the rest of Mr.
CHESTERTON has been solved.
* * * * *
THE LITTLE MOA
(_and how much it is_).
I have been reading a lot about Polynesia lately, and the conclusion has
been forced upon me that dining out in that neighbourhood might be
rather confusing to a stranger.
Imagine yourself at one of these Antipodean functions. Your host is
seated at the head of the table with a large fowl before him. Looking
pleasantly in your direction he says:--
"Will you have a little moa?"
Not being well up in the subject of exotic fauna you will be tempted to
make one of the following replies:--
(1) (With _Alice in Wonderland_ in your mind) "How can I possibly have
more when I haven't had anything at all yet?"
(2) "Yes, please, a lot more, or just a little more," as capacity and
appetite dictate.
(3) "No, thank you."
The objection to reply No. 1 is that it may cause unpleasantness, or
your host may retort, "I didn't ask you if you would have a little more
moa," and thus increase your embarrassment.
No. 2 is a more suitable rejoinder, but probably No. 3 is the safest
reply, as some of these big birds require a lot of mastication.
In the event of your firing off No. 3, your host glances towards the
hostess and says--
"Oo, then" (pronounced "oh-oh").
To your startled senses comes the immediate suggestion, "Is the giver of
the feast demented, or is he merely rude?"
Just as you are meditating an excuse for leaving the table and the
house, your hostess saves the situation by saying sweetly, "Do let me
give you a little oo," playfully tapping with a carvingknife the
breastbone of a winged creature recumbent on a dish in front of her.
It gradually dawns upon you that you are among strange birds quite
outside the pale of the English Game Laws, and that you will have to
take a sporting chance.
While you are still in the act of wavering the son of the house says,
"Try a little huia."
If you like the look of this specimen of Polynesian poultry you signify
your acceptance in the customary manner; otherwise, in parliamentary
phraseology, "The Oos have it."
For my own part I fancy that, unless or until some of these unusual
fowls are extinct, I shall not visit Polynesia, but rest content with
Purley. Our dinner-parties may be dull, but at least one knows one's way
about among the dishes.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Fed-up Owner_ (_to holiday Artist_). "CHARMING, MY DEAR
YOUNG LADY--CHARMING--WITH ONE IMPORTANT OMISSION. YOU'VE FORGOTTEN TO
PUT IN THE NOTICE ON THE TREE."]
* * * * *
A BALLAD OF THE EARLY WORM.
The gentle zephyr lightly blows
Across the dewy lawn,
And sleepily the rooster crows,
"Beloved, it is dawn."
The little worms in bed below
Can hear their father wince,
While, up above, a feathered foe
Is busy making mince.
In vain they seize his slippery tail
And try to pull him back;
It makes their little cheeks turn pale
To hear his waistband crack.
They draw him down and crowd around;
Their tears bespeak their love;
For part of him is underground
And part has gone above.
But not for long does sorrow seize
The subterranean mind,
For father grows another piece
In front or else behind.
And now he's up before the dawn,
Long ere the world has stirred,
And eats his breakfast on the lawn
Before the early bird.
* * * * *
WHEN THE YOUNG LEAD THE YOUNG.
"Lady Nurse or Nursery Governess (young) wanted for post near
Ventnor, I.W., for boy 21/2 years. Experience, similar age, and
happy disposition essential."--_Weekly Paper._
* * * * *
"Oxford, Tuesday.
The Royal Commission on Oxford and Cambridge Universities began
its Oxford session this afternoon in the Extermination Schools."
_Daily Paper._
_Absit omen!_
* * * * *
THE CONSPIRATORS.
II.
MY DEAR CHARLES,--The Third International is not a Rugby football match.
It is a corporation of thrusters whose prospectus announces that it will
very shortly have your blood, having first acquired exclusive rights in
your money. Have you two acres and a cow? Have you seven pounds three
and threepence in the Post-Office Savings Bank? Have you any blood? Very
well, then; THIS CONCERNS YOU.
There was a meeting of shareholders in Moscow as recently as July last.
The Chairman said: "Gentlemen--I beg your pardon, Comrades,--I am happy
to be able to report promising developments. Our main enterprise in
Russia, for technical reasons with which I will not now trouble you, is
not for the moment profit-producing; but we have been able to promote
some successful ventures abroad. In all parts of the civilised
world--and Ireland--we may anticipate a distribution of assets in the
near future." And among those assets to be parcelled out are, I may say,
your acres, your cow, your savings and yourself.
There followed a meeting of the Executive Committee (I wish they would
avoid that tactless word "executive," don't you?). Simple and brisk
instructions were drafted for foreign agents, bidding them get on with
it and not spare themselves, or in any case not spare anyone else. These
were inscribed on linen, which was folded over, with the writing inside,
and neatly hemmed. Shortly afterwards a number of earnest young men
wearing tall collars and an air of exaggerated innocence sought to cross
various frontiers and were surprised and offended when rough and rude
officials stole their collars and set about taking them to pieces.
I hate to speak slightingly of anyone, but these world-revolutionaries
have no business to be so young. According to my view a professor of
anarchy and assassination ought to be a man of middle-age with stiff
stubble on his chin. He has no business to be a pale and perspiring
youth, tending to long back hair and apt to be startled by the slightest
sound when he is alone. And what a lot of them write poetry, and such
poetry too! That is the manner of the man who is going to seize your
house and usurp your cow, while you will be lucky if you are allowed a
place on a perch in your own fowl-house.
We had an opportunity of seeing them in procession when a consignment of
these world-revolutionaries drove off in state from Berne about the time
of the Armistice. I told you, last week, that we had a Legation of them,
very kindly lent by the Moscow management, and I also told you that our
Italian juggler had let us into the secret of their midnight lucubrations,
of which we had duly informed the officials interested in such matters.
We had front places when the motor lorry called for them and the
military escort arrived to assist all the passengers to take, and keep,
their seats. Into the lorry were packed the Minister Plenipotentiary and
Envoy Extraordinary, the Charge d'Affaires, the First Secretary, the
Second Secretary, the Third Secretary, the Legal and Spiritual Advisers
and the Lady Typist. Their features were not easy to distinguish; when
the Bolshevists assume dominion over us they will not nationalize our
soap. One or two fell out, but were carefully replaced by willing hands
and bayonets; and so home.
Now that is a sight you don't often see: a Diplomatique Corps being
returned to store in a motor lorry. The disappointing thing about them
was that, for all their fiery propaganda and for all their drastic
resolutions, never a one of them produced so much as a squib-cracker.
The only people to derive any excitement from the affair were the small
children, who took it for a circus.
The best they could do for us was a general strike. What all this had to
do with trades or unions nobody seemed to know, least of all the
workers. But there was an attractive sound about the then novel phrase,
"Direct Action," and it gave a sense of useful business to that
otherwise over-portly word, "Proletariat." And the local politicians,
promised good jobs in LENIN'S millennium, made great use of the phrase,
"Dictatorship of the Proletariat." Thus many an honest workman joined in
under the belief that it meant an extra hour's holiday on Saturdays, an
extra hour in bed on Mondays and an extra bob or two of wages.
While it lasts, even a bloodless revolution can be very tiresome; almost
as disquieting as a general election. Everybody who isn't revoluting is
mobilised to keep the revolution from being molested. There are no
trams, because the drivers are demonstrating; no shops, because the
shopmen are mobilised; no anything, because everyone is out watching the
fun. So you go into the square to watch also. You see little groups of
revolutionaries looking sullen and laboriously class-hating. You see a
lot of soldiers looking very ordinary but trying not to. The riff-raff
scowl at the soldiers, who are ordered out to shoot at them. The
soldiers scowl at the riff-raff at whom they are ordered not to shoot.
And, for some reason which the experts have not yet fathomed, it always
pours with rain.
When we had succeeded in persuading the soldier who was posted to guard
our hotel that we were not the proletariat and might safely be let pass,
we found a gathering of inside-knowledge people discussing the
situation. The Government ought to have known all about it long
before--how the Bolshevists were stirring up trouble. "They did," said
we; "we told them." There was a silence at this, but a smile on the face
of the audience which we at first mistook for incredulity. We referred
darkly to our private information, derived, as I told you in my last,
from the Italian juggler. "Did he do juggling tricks with _your_
ink-pots too?" asked the French element. "How much money did _you_ give
him?" asked all the other elements. "And I suppose he also told you,"
said the Italian officer, "that he had no confidence in his own people
and that the British alone enjoyed his respect?"
At this moment the Americans came in and asked us to quit arguing and
attend while they told us how they had unearthed the great plot.... When
together we reckoned up the Italian juggler's net takings we realised
that it is an ill revolution which brings no one any good.
Yours ever,
HENRY.
(_To be continued._)
* * * * *
CUBBIN' THRO' THE RYE.
[Suggested by a recently reported incident in the Midlands,
when a pack divided, one part getting out of hand and running
among standing crops.]
Gin a body meet a body
Cubbin' thro' the rye,
Gin a body tell a body,
"Seed 'em in full cry,"
Useless then to blame the puppies,
Useless too to lie;
Whippers-in can't _always_ stop 'em,
Even when they try.