Chapter 1

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Transcriber's note:

The oe-ligature is represented in this text as "[oe]".

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOL. 146

APRIL 1, 1914

CHARIVARIA.

We are sorry to hear that the PREMIER is suffering from a troublesome Gough.

* * *

Poor Mr. ASQUITH, as though he had not already worries enough, is getting into trouble for sending an exclusive statement to _The Times_. He now stands convicted by his own party of being a _Times_-server.

* * *

_The Premier Magazine_ is announced for sale. Is this, we wonder, the Powder Magazine on which he has been sitting?

* * *

At one moment it began to look as if the Admiralty, after all, was going to change its mind and we were to have Grand Man[oe]uvres this year--off the coast of Ireland.

* * *

There are rumours that the Suffragettes are now preparing to blow up the whole of Ireland, as they find that that little country has during the past few days been distracting public attention from their cause.

* * *

An appeal is being made for funds to enable the battlefield of Waterloo to be preserved. A handsome donation has, it is said, been offered by one of our most enterprising railway companies, the only condition made being that the name shall be altered to Bakerloo.

* * *

It is so often asserted that a Varsity career unfits one for success in the bigger world that it is satisfactory to read that the PRINCE OF WALES'S income from the Duchy of Cornwall was £85,719 last year, as compared with £81,350 in the previous year.

* * *

The Association of Lancastrians in London held their annual dinner last week. It would have been a kindly and thoughtful act on the part of those responsible for the dinner had they offered a seat to Mr. MASTERMAN, the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, who is now back in town.

* * *

Mr. Justice SCRUTTON has fined a man for saying "Hear, hear," in court, and there is something approaching a panic among our Comic Judges lest some colleague on a lower plane of humour should fine somebody, for laughing in court.

* * *

It has been said that we English take our pleasures sadly. By way of compensation, apparently, we take our tragedies gaily. Under the heading "AMUSEMENT NOTES" in _The Daily Mail_ we find the following announcement:--"At the Scala Theatre a new colour film is promised for Monday next, which is to depict in striking fashion the terrors of modern scientific warfare."

* * *

A contemporary describes the production, _Splash Me_, which was presented at the Palladium last week, as "a Water Revue." The correct expression is surely "Naval Revue"?

* * *

Messrs. WEEKES AND CO. have published a "Song of the Aeroplane," and we suspect that all concerned in this venture are terrified lest some clumsy critic shall say, "Merely to hear this song makes one want to fly."

* * *

It is sometimes asked, Are we a musical nation? It is possible, of course, that we are, but last week we were informed by an advertisement that "the greatest song success of the season" is entitled "Popsy Wopsy."

* * *

A Mr. SNOOKS attained his 100th birthday last week. So much for those who say that ridicule kills!

* * *

Thetford (Norfolk) Corporation have decided to pay their mayor a salary of £20 in future "owing to the heavy financial drain on his pocket." We think it should have been removed and the cost charged to drainage expenses.

* * *

The coat-of-arms provided for the Metropolitan Asylum Board includes a red cross, the golden staff of ÆSCULAPIUS, an eagle, a dragon, and red and white roses. It sounds a mad enough medley.

* * *

Answer to a correspondent: No, _Wild Life_ is not an organ of the Militants.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE NEXT OF THE DANDIES.

(_According to our daily paper, sloppy untidiness is to be the fashion this year._)

I've jibed at Dame Fashion for many a year, Jibed bitterly rather than gaily; And over the follies of feminine wear I indulged in a diatribe daily; But now I must sing in a different strain And praise with a penitent vigour The kindness by which she was moved to ordain Untidiness strictly _de rigueur_.

Though man from her fetters is commonly loose (For he has the pluck to withstand her), I take it that what is correct for the goose Will not be amiss for the gander; And I have a suit that for comfort and ease I'd always elect to be dressed in; The trousers have dear little bags where my knees Have made them a corner to nest in.

The sleeves of the coat are all frayed at the end, The seams of the waistcoat have "started," But I have a weakness for elderly friends, And now we need never be parted; No more when I wear it shall people esteem The bardlet in need of compassion; They'll merely consider him rather extreme In his fervent devotion to Fashion.

* * * * *

"BOLTON W. 1, MANCHESTER C. 0. BOLTON WAN. 1, MANCHES. C. 0."

_Sunderland Daily Echo._

It is still a little obscure, but "B. Wanderers 1, M. City 0" would bring it home to everybody.

* * * * *

THE SPIRIT OF ULSTER AND THE ARMY.

(_An Appeal to Both Parties._)

Still dreaming of the spell of Southern nights, Strange on my homing senses fall the raucous Shouts of Democracy, asserting rights It long ago committed to the caucus; Strange--in a Chamber run for party ends, Busy with private rancours, feuds, ambitions-- The legend that the Nation's life depends Upon her politicians!

Yet two things offer cheer: in Ulster there-- Fanatic sentiment, you'll say, and scoff it-- I see a hundred thousand men who care For something dearer than their stomach's profit; Under the Flag they stand at silent pause, True Democrats that hold by Freedom's charter, Resolved and covenanted for the Cause To give their lives in barter!

I see young soldiers, too, who serve the KING (For half the wage a Labour Member cashes), Prepared, at honour's higher call, to fling Their gallant dreams away in dust and ashes! I care a lot for any laws they break, But more I care to see what sacrifices Men still are found to face for conscience' sake, Knowing how hard the price is.

Ah, Sirs, and must you for a moment's gain-- I look to both your camps with like appealing-- Must you upon these virtues put a strain Irrevocably past the hope of healing? Cannot some gentler means be yet embraced That, when the common peril comes upon her, Such qualities of heart, too rare to waste, May shield our Country's honour?

O. S.

* * * * *

EGBERT, BULL-FROG.

"Speaking," said my uncle James, "of dogs, did I ever tell you about Egbert, my bull-frog? I class Egbert among the dogs, partly because of his faithfulness and intelligence, and partly because his deep bay--you know how those bull-frogs bark--always reminded me of a bloodhound surprised while on a trail of aniseed. He was my constant companion in Northern Assam, where I was at that time planting rubber. He finally died of a surfeit of hard-boiled egg, of which he was passionately fond, and I was as miserable as if I had lost a brother.

"I think Egbert had been trying to edge into the household for some time before I really noticed him. Looking back, I can remember meeting him sometimes in the garden, and, though I did not perceive it at first, there was a wistful look in his eye when I passed him by without speaking. It was not till our burglary that I began really to understand his sterling worth. A couple of natives were breaking in, and would undoubtedly have succeeded in their designs had it not been for Egbert's frantic barking, which aroused the house and brought me down with a revolver. It is almost certain that the devoted animal had made a practice, night after night, of sleeping near the front-door on the chance of something of the sort happening. He was always suspicious of natives.

"After that of course his position in the house was established. He slept every night at the foot of my bed, and very soothing it was to hear his deep rhythmical breathing in the darkness.

"In the daytime we were inseparable. We would go for walks together, and I have frequently spent hours throwing sticks into the pond at the bottom of the garden for him to retrieve. It was this practice which saved his life at the greatest crisis of his career.

"I happened to have strained my leg, and I was sitting in the garden, dozing, Egbert by my side, when I was awakened by a hoarse bark from my faithful companion, and, looking down, I perceived him hopping rapidly towards the pond, pursued by an enormous oojoobwa snake, a reptile not dangerous to man, being non-poisonous, but a great scourge among the minor fauna of Assam, owing to its habit of pouncing upon them and swallowing them alive. This snake is particularly addicted to bull-frogs, and, judging from the earnest manner in which he was making for the pond, Egbert was not blind to this trait in its character.

"You may imagine my agony of mind. There was I, helpless. My injured leg made it impossible for me to pursue the snake and administer one where it would do most good. And meanwhile the unequal race was already drawing to its inevitable close. Egbert, splendid as were his other qualities, was not built for speed. He was dignified rather than mobile.

"What could I do? Nothing beyond throwing my stick in the hope of stunning the oojoobwa. It was a forlorn hope, but I did it; and it saved Egbert's life, though not in the way I had intended. The stick missed the snake and fell immediately in front of Egbert. It was enough. His grand intellect worked with the speed of lightning. Just as the snake reached him, he reached the stick; and the next moment there was Egbert, up to his neck in the reptile's throat, but saved from complete absorption by the stick, which he was holding firmly in his mouth.

"I have seldom seen any living thing so completely nonplussed as was the oojoobwa. Snakes have very little reasoning power. They cannot weigh cause and effect. Otherwise of course the oojoobwa would have nipped Egbert till he was forced to leave go of the stick. Instead of doing this, he regarded the stick and Egbert as being constructed all in one piece, and imagined that he had happened upon a new breed--of unswallowable frog. He ejected Egbert, and lay thinking it over, while Egbert, full of pluck, continued his journey to the pond.

"Three times in the next two yards did the snake endeavour to swallow his victim, and each time he gave it up; and after the last experiment Egbert, evidently finding this constant semi-disappearance into the other's interior bad for his nervous system, conceived the idea of backing towards the pond instead of heading in that direction, the process, though slower, being less liable to sudden interruption."

"Well, to make the story short, the oojoobwa followed Egbert to the very edge of the pond, the picture of perplexity; and when my little friend finally dived in he lay there with his head over the edge of the bank, staring into the water for quite ten minutes. Then he turned, shook his head despairingly, and wriggled into the bushes, still thinking hard. And a little while later I saw Egbert's head appear cautiously over the side of the pond, the stick still in his mouth. He looked round to see that the coast was clear, and then came hopping up to me and laid the stick at my feet. And, strong man as I was, I broke down and cried like a child."

* * * * *

From a revue poster at Birmingham:--

"I DO LIKE YOUR EYES RECORD CAST."

We dislike that kind.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

A PEACE-PRESERVATION ACT.

Whereas _Mr. Punch_ has observed to his deep grief and chagrin that political ill-feeling in Great Britain has increased, is increasing and ought to be diminished, be it enacted--

(1) That no morning, evening or weekly paper be allowed to print anything on its placard save one of these three phrases: "All the Winners," "Tips for To-day," or "Latest Football"; providing that nothing in this Act shall prevent _The Daily News and Leader_ from substituting "Latest Free Church News" for "Tips for To-day."

(2) That no newspaper be allowed to announce more than one political crisis per week under a penalty of £1,000 for each and every subsequent crisis announced.

(3) That Mr. T. P. O'CONNOR be appointed grand political censor, and that all descriptive expressions intended to be applied by people to their political opponents be submitted to him, to ensure that such phrases are properly saponaceous.

(4) That six prominent fire-brands in each Party be deported to Saint Helena, and that they be chosen by ballot in this wise--the Liberals will select the Tories, the Tories the Liberals, the O'Brienites the Nationalists, and the Nationalists the O'Brienites. The Labour Party, being specially qualified for the task, will select six of its own body for deportation; and nothing in this Act is to hinder Mr. WEDGWOOD from deporting himself if he thinks it needful.

(5) And whereas many highly respectable golfers of all shades of political opinion have been put off their game by political happenings at the week-end be it ordained that a gracious political truce reign from Thursday midnight to Tuesday midday, and that during that time, to be known as the Truce of _Mr. Punch_, no political crises, resignations, refusals of resignations, re-resignations or snap-divisions be allowed on any pretext whatever.

* * * * *

"Yesterday afternoon a Cardiff prisoner who had been arrested on a warrant escaped from the custody of a police officer. The man bolted without the slightest warning."

_Western Daily Press._

He was no gentleman. He might at least have said, "One, two, three--Go!"

* * * * *

THE OLDEST OF THE ARTS.

[Speaking at the annual meeting of the governing body of Swanley Horticultural College, Sir JOHN COCKBURN lamented that while that institution provided healthful and delightful occupation, for which women were eminently fitted, it suffered from a continuous epidemic of matrimony, not only among the students but even upon the staff.]

AT Swanley College down in Kent The students' time is not misspent. Some of the arts at any rate Thrive in this Eden up-to-date; And doubtless each girl-gard'ner tries To win the term's Top-dressing Prize, Or trains her sense of paradox (While gathering "nuts" and "plums" and stocks) By taking Flora's new degree-- "Spinster of Hearts and Husbandry."

* * * * *

"First he must learn to be a sailor.... Stepping in a small coasting craft, he put his shoulder to the wheel, determining, as many a boy has done before and since, to get to the top of the tree by plodding and perseverance."

_Ashore and Afloat._

We don't recommend this as a beginning, however. Very often the captain, who wants to steer himself, resents an additional shoulder at the wheel--and invites you to the top of the masthead.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE MOON.

[_IMPOSSIBLE PLAY SERIES._]

A SUPER-PSYCHOLOGICAL DRAMA IN ONE ACT.

_Persons of the Play._

Lord Gumthorpe. Lady Gastwyck. Angela Thynne. Stud, _a butler_.

[_Author to Printer._--Oblige me by reversing your usual practice, and printing the text in italics and the stage directions in roman type. My request will, I hope, prove intelligible.]

_Scene._--The drawing-room at _Lady Gastwyck's_. A large, low room with a mullioned window at the back through which moonlight steals. The decoration of the room is Adams', though of rather a self-conscious type, as the plan and construction of the house is obviously of an earlier period. The furniture is Chinese Chippendale.

_Lord Gumthorpe_ is leaning against the window; _Angela Thynne_ is leaning against the Chesterfield, and _Lady Gastwyck_ is leaning against the Adams' fireplace. _Lord Gumthorpe_ is a tall, gaunt man, slightly resembling the portrait of PHILIP IV. of Spain, by VELASQUEZ. He turns towards _Lady Gastwyck_ and waves his long arms with a gesture of indecision. He then turns back and looks out on to the lawn. _Angela Thynne_, is a large, ill-proportioned woman, with curiously limpid blue eyes, and a shrill hard voice like a fog-siren, that does not seem to belong to her personality. One is always haunted with the idea that she might be Scotch. _Lady Gastwyck_ rises. She is a short dark woman with deep-set eyes and one very remarkable characteristic. She has apparently only one eyebrow. She really has two, but they meet together in one dark straight line, and give her a forbidding aspect. She has a habit of walking with her chin thrust forward and her long arms curved like a boxer's. She advances upon _Lord Gumthorpe_. He instinctively puts up his hands as though expecting to be struck.

LADY GASTWYCK. _You think then that we--that is, that you and I----_

[She waves her hand towards the moonlit lawn. It might be an action of dismissal, or an appeal to the elemental forces. _Lord Gumthorpe_ drops limply on to the window-seat and presses his forehead against the stone mullion. Then he stands up and gazes at her face, trying not to appear to be looking at her one eyebrow.

LORD GUMTHORPE (with tremulous indecision). _Yes! but you see----_

[As he stands there the extraordinary resemblance between him and VELASQUEZ' portrait of PHILIP IV. of Spain comes home to her with such force that she is about to qualify her half-stated implication, when _Angela Thynne_ drops her fan into the fireplace. She has moved to the seat that _Lady Gastwyck_ had vacated. She is leaning forward with lips parted, and her limpid blue eyes gazing at the dead embers. _Lady Gastwyck_ recoils as though struck by a whip. She moves to the Chesterfield and leans against it, biting her nails. _Lord Gumthorpe_ moves deeper into the recess, struggling with the emotions which the astounding act of _Angela_ has produced. As he sits there, the moonlight, pouring through the diamond panes of the window, throws rhomboids of light on to the polished floor. It looks like some enchanted chessboard. Leaning back and gazing with half-closed eyes, he peoples it with fantastic rooks, and knights and bishops, when suddenly the strangely penetrating voice of _Angela_ breaks the silence.

ANGELA. _Would it be possible for you two to----_

[There is a terrifying silence.]

_Lord Gumthorpe_ (greedily). _Pawn to Queen's pawn four!_

[He says this to gain time. For the besetting irresoluteness of the Gumthorpes is consuming him. "If only she would----" he is thinking to himself, rapidly reviewing the salient features of his past life. He has not the courage to look at _Angela_, but his eyes wander in the direction of _Lady Gastwyck_. She is leaning forward on the Chesterfield, her chin resting on her hand, her eyebrow looking like an enormous black moustache. He feels his way along the wall, keeping his face towards _Lady Gastwyck_. He knows--he was educated at Eton and Christchurch--that as the fan has fallen into the fireplace, unless it has been removed, it will be there still. Very slowly he reaches the grate and, without turning his head, picks up the fan. It is a moment of intense emotion. The air is charged with electric suspense. _Lady Gastwyck_ moves suddenly, and the rustle of her skirt sounds like the rattle of musketry on a frosty morning. _Lord Gumthorpe_ drops the fan. He gropes wildly in the fireplace but cannot find it again. Then with an air of helpless resignation he goes back to the window-seat. He gazes at the chequered pattern on the floor and mentally moves his king up one. _Lady Gastwyck_ glances across at him, and it occurs to her that he has aged during the last few minutes. He no longer looks like PHILIP IV. of Spain, but more like the sub-manager of the White Goods Department of a suburban Bon-Marché. She is anxious that _Angela_ shall not observe this, and hence makes the following appeal.

LADY GASTWYCK (hysterically and _á propos_ of no one). _A maroon underskirt! a maroon underskirt! That would be the thing! Fancy, Angela, biscuit-coloured glacé with that coffee skin of hers and those teeth! You must save her! Take her to Raquin! Let Raquin cut it as only he knows how! Let her have---- Ah!_

[She bursts into tears and then stops, seeing that her effort has failed, for a sombre silence ensues. _Angela_ has risen and is looking at _Lord Gumthorpe_. _Lord Gumthorpe_ is standing with his arms folded. He has just lost a bishop in the dim chiaroscuro of the window-seat and has not heard her outbreak. Suddenly he looks up, and fixes his eyes upon _Lady Gastwyck_ with a new sense of resolution. He advances towards her, and gazing boldly at her eyebrow, that looks more than ever like a moustache, calls out in a thin cruel voice.

LORD GUMTHORPE. _Why don't you wax the ends?_

[The effect of this bizarre question is startling. _Angela_ turns and smiles gently like one who has done one's best at a deathbed, and is almost relieved that the end has come. She walks almost serenely across the room to the sideboard, and, taking up a piece of cheese and three bananas, goes off to bed. But the effect on _Lady Gastwyck_ is different, for directly she hears _Lord Gumthorpe_ make this remark she realizes that he is a weak man.