Chapter 1

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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 146.

June 10, 1914

CHARIVARIA.

Mr. Redmond is said to have vigorously opposed the suggestion that British troops should be sent to Durazzo on the ground that the present is not a time when our home defences should be weakened.

***

The presence of some ladies on the Holyhead links disturbed Mr. Lloyd George to such an extent, one day last week, that he foozled a shot, and it is reported that the Government is at last contemplating serious steps against the Suffragettes.

***

"Lord Strathcona's Seat for Sale."

_Daily Mail._

We would respectfully draw Mr. Masterman's attention to the above.

***

Europe's G.O.M., the Emperor Francis Joseph, is now so well that his doctor's visits have been discontinued, but the statement that he went for a long ride last week on a motor-bicycle is declared to be an exaggeration.

***

According to _The Express_ there was some little unpleasantness in Paris last week owing to the Chairman of the London County Council claiming precedence over the Lord Mayor. It is thought that this could never have happened had the Lord Mayor taken his coachman with him.

***

Corsica is now claiming that Columbus was born there, and not in Genoa, and there is much evidence to prove that the claim is well-founded. Still, it seems a little bit greedy of Corsica, which already has some reputation as the birth-place of another distinguished man. It is possible, however, that Genoa may give way if somebody will reimburse her for the very heavy expense of her statue of Columbus.

***

Owing to a strike the demand for patent-leather boots for Ascot cannot be met, and many visitors to this race meeting will have to spend the day in comfort.

***

The announcement that the Mappin Terraces at the Zoo have now been opened has, we hear, caused considerable discontent among the animals in the old-fashioned dens and cages. They consider that these too ought to be opened.

***

By the way these new quarters are proving so popular among the animals that there is some talk of advertising them extensively in Central Africa and other haunts of big game with a view to attracting new tenants to the Regent's Park Garden City.

***

Regulations for the killing of flies have been issued to the troops at Aldershot. Curiously enough, artillery is not to be employed. One would have supposed that this sport might have afforded invaluable training for bringing down hostile aeroplanes.

***

From a statement just issued we learn that Mr. A. Lock, of Edenbridge, has slaughtered more than 18,000 queen wasps, and that for eighteen successive years he has secured premier honours for wasp-killing at a local horticultural show. Orders, we learn from an exceptionally well-informed insect, have now been issued to the W. (Wasps) S.P.U. to sting Mr. Lock on sight.

***

"A census," we read, "is to be taken of all the birds of the United States by the American Board of Agriculture," but we are not told what particulars will be asked for. Probably merely name and address, not religion.

***

"Pygmalion for Threepence" attracted a large number of the working classes to His Majesty's Theatre in spite of the price being higher than "A Twopenny Damn."

***

Among the workers' organisations which booked seats was the London Glass Blowers' Society. Hitherto, we understand, the favourite expression of the members of this Society has been the innocuous "You be blowed," and it is sincerely to be hoped that Mr. Shaw's play will not have given these gentle souls a taste for anything stronger.

***

After holding up an elderly man in broad daylight in an arcade off Ludgate Hill last week two highwaymen ran away and were captured in the Old Bailey. It is thought that the homing instinct took them there.

* * * * *

A TOAST.

Hail to the Bard, the simple Bard, Who wrote the little song, And to his Muse, who laboured hard To help the work along. Health to the Candid Friend also Who had his word to say, And to the kindly G.P.O. That sped it on its way.

A blessing on the Editor Who let it see the light; Likewise the patient Printer, for He got the colons right; Here's to the "sub," whose special line Was spacing it to fit, And to the cheery Philistine Who lit his pipe with it.

* * * * *

An Empire Day Essay.

"Dear Teacher,--On Empire day we had a holiday. I had a flag on Frideday. On Fridday I was very happy, was you Teacher when we had a holiday."

* * * * *

"The King has conferred the Grand Cross of the Victorian Order on M. Doumergue, the Premier of France."

And _The Sydney Sun_ heads this "Horrors in France." The Victorian Order, however, is not really so dangerous as that.

* * * * *

THE SIGHTS OF LONDON.

* * * * *

ULSTER FOR SCOTLAND.

_"Nil mortalibus ardui est."--Q. Horatius Flaccus._

When Horace made those sound remarks. Showing--in spite of Jove's decree-- How mortals rode in impious arks Transilient o'er the sacred sea, How there was not beneath the sun A task so tough but what he'd back us Somehow to go and see it done (Such was the _flair_ of Flaccus);

Little he guessed how wind and tide Should be the sport of human skill; How steel and steam should mock their pride And get the deep reduced to _nil_; How we should come in course of years, Either by cable or Marconi, To hold across the hemispheres A conversazione.

He'd learn with even more surprise That, after working all this while On ways and means to minimise The severance of isle and isle, Erin we find as far away, As rudely severed by a windy sea, As Athens seemed in Horace' day From old Brundusium (Brindisi).

Strange, too, in yonder hybrid land This myth about a racial knot Binding the gay Hibernian and The dourly earnest Ulster-Scot-- Neighbours whose one and only link (A foil to their profound disparity) Is--thanks to some volcanic kink-- A common insularity.

Come, let us down this myth in dust; Let statesmen's time no more be spent To fake a "race" from what is just A geologic accident; Let a great brig across the strait, Where Scot to Scot may freely pass, go, And Ulster find her natural mate In consanguineous Glasgow.

O. S.

* * * * *

A HAZARD ON THE HOME GREEN.

Standing on our front door-step you can see our garden running down at a moderate speed to our front gate. Or, conversely, standing at the front gate, you can see it mounting in a leisurely fashion to the front door. In either case it consists of two narrow strips of lawn bisected by a well-kept perambulator drive. Beyond the grass on either side blooms a profusion of bless-my-soul-if-I-haven't-forgotten-agains and other quaintly named old-world English flowers. On the left-hand strip of lawn, looking gatewards, is the metal pin to which the captive golf-ball is tied. On the right is the pear-tree, to which later on we have to affix a captive pear.

"What I like about the garden," I said to Araminta when we first moved in, "is the fact that it is in front, so that visitors, instead of saying in a perfunctory way, 'Have you got a garden, too? How delightful!' will be forced to murmur, 'How sweet the clover smelt on your lawn as we came up the drive. What a perfectly entrancing golf-ball.' If I must go to the trouble and expense of keeping up a private pleasaunce I want everybody to see the pleasantry of it at once."

"Swank," replied Araminta. She is absurdly early-Georgian in the matter of repartee.

Last Saturday I determined to mow the lawn. I put on my oldest suit of clothes with the now fashionable slit-trouser leg, fastened the green bonnet to the front of the car, and wheeled it out of the tool garage. Araminta went out, saying airily that she would be back to tea. After a little trouble I induced the instrument to graze the left-hand pasture as far as the hobbled Colonel. Then, feeling that my shoulders wanted opening a bit, I went indoors and fetched a brassie-spoon. I suppose I must have been striking with unusual vehemence, but anyway, in playing a good second to the fourteenth green, I sent the pin flying out of the ground. The Colonel broke his parole and dashed rapidly to the topmost boughs of the pear-tree on the right, carrying the rest of the apparatus with him. There was nothing to do but to follow him, spoon in hand.

It was soon evident that the pear-tree had been over-looked during spring-cleaning, for the foliage, though very luxuriant, was in an extremely soiled condition.

I had just located the deserter when I heard feminine voices of unknown proprietorship. It is the habit of quick masterful decisions in important crises that has given to Englishmen an empire on which the sun never holes out, and I decided instantly to remain where I was. If it had been a mashie I might have faced them, but a brassie-spoon out of a lie like that--no.

The callers came slowly up the path, rang the bell, chattered to the servant, left cards, and retired. Without much trouble I could have brained them with the brassie-spoon as they passed beneath me. But some odd impulse of chivalry restrained me. It is blunders like these that have wrecked the plans of the greatest generals. Just as they opened the gate who should appear but--of course--Araminta? "Oh, I'm so glad I've caught you!" she cried. "You _must_ stay and have tea now. We'll have it in the garden. My husband's somewhere about. He said he was going to mow the lawn, but I suppose he was too lazy." Lazy, indeed! Ha, ha! So like a woman.

Peering angrily with one eye out of my leafy ambush, I tried hard to attract Araminta's attention, but all in vain. Chairs were brought out and tea came with some particularly cool-looking sandwiches; cups were filled; spoons clinked; steadily the afternoon wore on. Flecks of fleecy white cloud chased each other in the blue-domed heaven above me. From far away rose the hum of the mighty city. In the next-door garden but two I could see a happy family circle partaking of light sustenance. I think it was nearly an hour-and-a-half before those infernal women left. Araminta conducted them to the gate, said a lingering good-bye, and wafted them down the road with wavings and smiles. When they were safely off the premises I slithered down and confronted her, looking dignified and stern, still holding the ball in one hand and the wooden club in the other.

Instead of bursting into tears, as I had expected, she went off into a fit of idiotic giggles. "You--you don't mean to say you've been up in that tree all tea-time! You are too funny. And you've got a great black splodge over one eye. Do go and wash."

With an effort I controlled my rage. "In future," I said coldly, "when I am--er--mowing the lawn, visitors will be served with tea in the second drawing-room."

"All right, dear," said Araminta; "and in future, when you are mowing the lawn, you shall have yours taken up into the pear-tree."

Women have no sense of humour.

* * * * *

GIANTS REFRESHED.

* * * * *

* * * * *

TO BE OVERHEARD DAILY.

Scene--_A Restaurant._

_First Luncher._ Waiter, bring me the bill, please.

_Waiter._ Yes, Sir.

_Second Luncher._ No, I say, old man, this is mine. Waiter, bring the bill to me.

_W._ Yes, Sir.

_F. L._ No, waiter, it's mine.

_S. L._ My dear old chap----

_F. L._ Yes, it's mine. Get it, waiter.

_W._ Yes, Sir.

_S. L._ But I asked you.

_F. L._ No, I asked you.

_S. L._ Yes, but I asked you first.

_F. L._ That doesn't matter.

_S. L._ Of course it does. And I've been doing all the ordering too.

_F. L._ That's all right. I'm glad you have. You do it very well.

_S. L._ Well, I want to pay.

_F. L._ Oh, no, my dear fellow. It's my lunch. I've been feeling like the host all the time.

_S. L._ So have I. I haven't felt like a guest at all. It's my bill.

_F. L._ I couldn't hear of it. You came here to lunch with me.

_S. L._ Upon my soul, I thought you were lunching with me. I asked you, you know.

_F. L._ You can't deny I asked you; I said, "We'll lunch together next Thursday," didn't I?

_S. L._ That's all right, but I swear I asked you first. It was because I had asked you that you said what you said.

_F. L._ Well, I look on it as my lunch, anyway.

_S. L._ Then why did you let me order the things and send back that wine?

_F. L._ That's all right, old man. You've been lunching with me to-day. Next time I'll lunch with you.

_S. L._ I'm not satisfied with it. I consider this my lunch.

_F. L._ No, no. It's mine. Here's the waiter.

_S. L._ Waiter, let me have that.

_F. L._ No, waiter, give it to me.

_S. L. (snatching the bill, glancing at it, and hastily slamming down a sovereign)._ That's all right, waiter. Keep the change.

_W._ Yes, Sir; thank you, Sir.

_F. L._ Waiter, don't take that money. This is my affair.

_W._ Yes, Sir.

_S. L._ It's all over now, old chap. It's paid. Come along. (_Gets up._)

_F. L. (producing a sovereign)._ That's for the bill, waiter. I don't know anything about that other money.

_S. L._ But it's paid. It's done with.

_F. L._ Oh, no. You mustn't do that. It's my lunch. I asked you, you know. Why, I told my wife this morning that you were lunching with me to-day.

_S. L._ I asked you first, you know.

_F. L._ I don't think so, old chap; I don't indeed.

_S. L._ I assure you I never had a shadow of doubt about it. I took it for granted that you knew you were lunching with me and I was the host. Otherwise should I have made that fuss about the omelette? Should I now?

_F. L._ I was very glad you did. I felt that you felt at home.

_S. L._ It puts me in such an awkward position. Really, I should take it as a personal favour if you'd let me pay.

_F. L._ No, no. No, no. This is my affair. I asked you.

_S. L._ I asked you first.

_F. L._ No, no. No, no. Come along. Here's your sovereign.

_S. L._ Well, I consent, but under protest. Next time you really lunch with me.

_F. L._ Right-o. I'd love to.

* * * * *

"Lines of an alliterative character will occur to anyone who has read much poetry. There is a notable example in Shelley's 'Skylark.'

'Singing still dost roar, and roaring ever singest.'"

_Dublin Sunday Independent._

A man we know does this much better than any skylark.

* * * * *

_The Daily Chronicle_ (of Kingston, Jamaica) informs its readers that "According to Theopompus, a waiter of the fourth century B.C., the Epirots were divided into fourteen independent tubes." The waiters of Epirus must have found this a great convenience when ordering meals from the kitchen.

* * * * *

SOUR GOATS!

* * * * *

BLANCHE'S LETTERS.

Vagaries of the Moment.

_Park Lane._

Dearest Daphne,--This is completely a _jewel_ season. People may be just as glittery as they like. Heads, necks and arms don't monopolise the pretty-pretties now, and, what with jewelled tunics, girdles, shoes, stockings and "_Honi soits_," as well as gems on what little corsage and skirt one may be wearing, one's jewel-box may be quite _quite_ emptied every evening. Indeed, if we hadn't plenty of jewels I sometimes wonder, my dear, what our _grande toilette_ would consist of! And this has led to the launching of "Olga's" latest triumph, the lock-up evening wrap--a charming affair, thickly plated with sequins and fastening with the dearest little _real_ locks all down the front from the throat to the toes!

_À propos_, Beryl Clarges had such a darling adventure the other night. She came out of the opera, meaning to go on to the Flummerys' and one or two more places, with all her pretty-pretties on, and fastened securely into her lock-up wrap. She got into her car suspecting nothing. But it wasn't her own chauffeur and footman at all, Daphne! It was two delicious robbers who'd managed to get possession of her car; and they drove her out to Hampstead Heath and held a pistol to her head and said, "Now, my lady, you've got on about thirty-thousand pound worth of sparklers. Hand 'em over quietly and we won't hurt you." And Beryl didn't turn a hair (she says) but answered, "You silly boys! I'm locked into 'Olga's' new thief-proof wrap and you can't get anything but my shoes. My maid always locks me in and lets me out, and she's got the keys and you've left her behind!" And they tried to wrench the wrap open, but it resisted, and Beryl put in some piercing g's in alt., and help came and the robbers fled. And now she's the woman of the moment, and her picture, standing on Hampstead Heath in her lock-up wrap, defying ten robbers, is in all the weeklies.

Some people say it was all managed by her publicity agent, and others declare it was a put-up thing between Beryl and "Olga." Anyhow, the new "_manteau de sûreté_" is absolutely booming, and _entre nous_, _chérie_, people who never wear anything more valuable than sequins and paste are quite falling over each other to get thief-proof wraps!

There's quite a little rage among girls just now for _boxing_. Juno Farrington, the Southlands' girl, is responsible for it. She's been the acknowledged leader of the _jeunes filles_ since she first came out and has set the fashion among them in everything, from inventing a new cocktail to chaperoning her chaperon. (It was Juno who first started the custom at parties of doing all the after-supper dances in the street and finishing up the night at an early coffee-stall.) The Duchess of Southlands was making her little moan to me the other day, and I told her she ought to be so proud of dear Juno having _temperament_ and _personality_. "Temperament and personality are all very well, Blanche," said the dear little invertebrate woman, "but worried mothers wish they didn't develop till after marriage! If Juno's grandmamma knew how _modern_ she is she'd leave everything she has to charity." Indeed it's a constant effort for her parents to hide their girl's modernity from the dowager--a dear old disapproving piece of antiquity whose youth dates from remote ages of blushing, fainting, accomplishments and downcast eyes. She's an immense fortune to leave, and Juno (so far) is her heiress; but the girl seriously imperilled her prospects during the very last visit the Southlands had from the dowager. The latter was doing her everlasting knitting one day when she called out, "Here, Juno, child, come and help me. I've dropped a stitch." And Juno went to her and looked about on the floor and said, "Where did you drop it, Gran? I don't see it anywhere!"

I'd a little dinner-dance on Thursday and Juno was one of several girls who brought their mothers. "Oh, my hat and feathers!" she called out as she looked over the menu; "none of your _à la_ dishes for _this_ child! Sorry, old girl, but I'm in training. Will you order broiled steak and pale ale for me? I'm going to box Tricky Sal, the coloured girl-boxer from the Other Side. Wonder how she'll like my upper-cut and left-hand jab! Isn't it glorious, people? I've got my ambition! I'm a White Hope! See if we don't fill the Colidrome at our Grand Boxing Matinée!"

"Girlie," pleaded _la mère_, "you're joking! You wouldn't dream of boxing except before just relations and intimate friends!" "Relations and intimate friends be _somethinged_!" cried Juno. "I'm going to box in front of the good old public! And the gate shall go to your Holiday Home for Melancholy Manicurists, mother dear." "My only one, my Melancholy Manicurists are quite _quite_ in funds," urged the duchess; "we want nothing for them." "Don't worry your little head, dear," said Juno; "they've _got_ to be helped and that's all about it!"

So the matinée at the Colidrome is to come off. The _pièce de résistance_ will, of course, be Juno Farrington and Tricky Sal. Then the Dunstables' two girls, Franky and Freckles, have promised a sparring match if their mother doesn't get to hear of it down at Dunstable Castle (they're going out with their aunt this season). Beryl and Babs will wrestle. And they want me to give a show with the Indian clubs (no one does them quite as I do, but I'm not a bit vain about it). Every seat is sold already!

I believe people never had such a horror of bores and banality as they have now--owing chiefly to the influence of our Anti-Banalite Club. Silent dinners, at which one communicates only by wireless, are a good deal done and are quite nice and restful, the general atmosphere (if someone tainted with banalism seems inclined to speak) being, "I know what you're going to say. Please--please--_please_ don't say it!" On a little dinner of this kind at Bosh and Wee-Wee's last week there descended a terrible man, a far-away cousin of Wee-Wee's, who hardly ever leaves his _terres_ in some remote part of the country--the sort of creature, you know, dearest, who always has a colour and a smile and an appetite and who writes to the papers to say he's seen a bush growing upside down or has heard the cuckoo singing in the night or has plucked and eaten something in his garden in December! He began by _mentioning the weather_! People quite jumped in their chairs, and Popsy, Lady Ramsgate, gave a little scream. He followed this up by saying _town seemed full_; and then, _à propos_ of having run up against a college friend in town, informed us that _the world was a small place after all_! When this last enormity was let loose upon us Norty said solemnly, "Where's the nearest point policeman?" And, instead of taking the hint, the creature began to hold forth about "that fine body of men, the London police!" Wee-Wee was in sackcloth and ashes about it afterwards. She says that sort of thing is in his family.

I had a serious talk with Norty about the Irish problem yesterday, and he tells me there's a whisper in the Lobbies that _certain persons_ have already sold the kinema rights of the first Irish Parliament to a film company for a _colossal_ sum and, as the money is spent and the company is _incessantly_ jogging them to deliver the goods, they're bound to put the thing through! It's said that someone asked a Member of the Government point-blank whether there was any truth in the rumour, and was told, "The answer is in the negative-affirmative, Sir!"

Ever thine,

Blanche.

* * * * *

DISCLAIMERS.

[Sir Alfred Mond states that there is absolutely no foundation for the announcement made in some newspapers that a peerage is to be conferred upon him and that his name is to be included in the list of this year's birthday honours.--_Daily Chronicle._]

"No bally fear! I _won't_ be a peer; I've given my bond," Says Sir Alfred Mond; "But it won't make me scunner If they elevate Brunner."

"A belted earldom's far beyond My poor deserts: it _must be_ Mond. He's so distinguished, such a stunner In every sort of way," says Brunner.