Chapter 1

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOL. 146

JUNE 17, 1914

CHARIVARIA.

"The Pocket Asquith" is announced, and we are asked to say that the pocket in question is not Mr. REDMOND'S.

***

The discovery of gold particles in a duck's gizzard has, we are told, caused a rush of mining prospectors to Liberty Township, Ohio. It is expected that the duck will shortly be floated as a limited liability company.

***

The Valuation Department has discovered at Llangammarch Wells, Brecknockshire, 50 acres of land for which no owner can be found. Anyone, therefore, who has lost any land is recommended to communicate at once with the Department.

***

The ASTRONOMER-ROYAL, in reading his annual report at the Royal Observatory last week, said that the mean temperature of the year 1913 was 50.5 degrees. Seeing that this temperature was one degree above the average for the 70 years ended 1910, we consider that the epithet was undeserved.

***

We hesitate to suggest that _The Times_ is catering for cannibals, but it is certainly curious that a recent issue should have contained the following headlines:--

"PREPARED FOODS. INFANTS, CHILDREN & INVALIDS."

***

By the way, the little essay on "Foods of Antiquity" omitted to mention that these may still be picked up by curio-hunters at certain railway buffets.

***

What has become of all the cabs which have been displaced by the taxis? is a question which is often asked. It has now been partially answered. According to a cable published last week, "The steamer _Rappahannock_ reports the presence of numerous icebergs and 'growlers' on the North Atlantic steamship routes."

***

At last there are signs of a reaction against under-dressing on the stage. The producers of a new revue advertise:--

50 REAL LIVE PERFORMERS. OVER 250 PARISIAN MODEL FROCKS AND HATS.

***

Mr. H. CSCINSKY, the author of the standard work, _English Furniture of the Eighteenth Century_, says that 999 out of every 1,000 pieces of old oak furniture in the present day are forgeries. The only way, therefore, to ensure that you get a genuine specimen is to order 1,000 pieces, and the furniture trade trusts that all collectors will take this elementary precaution when purchasing.

***

The abandonment of the scheme for the rebuilding of the Lambeth Police Court has caused some disappointment among local criminals, some of whom, we are glad to hear, are ashamed to be seen in the present structure.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Being convinced that Germany possesses too many Leagues and Associations the town of Seesen, in the Harz, has established an "Association for Combating the Mania for the Formation of Leagues and Associations"--not realising until too late that they have thereby formed one more.

***

"Keep your arms" is Sir EDWARD CARSON'S latest advice to the Ulster volunteers--and they have kept their heads so well that they should have no difficulty in this respect.

***

An American clergyman got into trouble last week for holding up his hand and trying to stop the traffic in the Strand. The sky-pilot found out pretty soon that he was out of his element.

***

A man placed a bank paper bag containing £63 10s. on the counter at the chief post-office in Swansea, one day last week, while he changed a postal order. When he turned to pick up the bag it had disappeared. The local police incline to the view that someone must have taken it.

***

A muddle-headed correspondent writes to express surprise on learning that the day devoted to collections for the charities connected with the Variety Stage should be known as "Tag Day." The old fellow had always imagined that "Tag Day" was a toast on German war vessels.

* * * * *

A TIME EXPOSURE.

I turned the family album's page And noted with a smile The efforts of a bygone age At photographic style; There, pegtopped, grandpa could be seen, While grandma beamed, contented To know her brand-new crinoline The latest thing invented.

And there Aunt Mary's looks belied Her gravity of dress; That great poke-bonnet could not hide Her youthful comeliness; There, too, was father when a boy, And elsewhere in the series A youthful cousin (Fauntleroy), An uncle in Dundrearies.

And then before my scornful eye A smirking youth appeared, Flaunting a loose æsthetic tie And embryonic beard; With laughter I began to shake, Noting the watch-chain (weighty) And all the things that went to make A "nut" in 1880.

I looked upon the other side, Still tittering, to see What branch the fellow occupied Upon our family tree; A name was scrawled across the card With flourishes in plenty, And lo! it was the present bard Himself at five-and-twenty.

* * * * *

The Sprinter.

From a testimonial to a system of health culture:--

"I think I have never felt so glorious as I do this morning. At 4.30 I woke up after a wet waist pack, got hot water, cleaned myself, took a glass of lemon juice, exercised, and for the last three-quarters of an hour I have been running through your notes."

He mustn't take _too_ much exercise.

* * * * *

THE COMPLETE DRAMATIST.

III. MEALS AND THINGS.

In spite of all you can do in the way of avoiding soliloquies and getting your characters on and off the stage in a dramatic manner, a time will come when you realise sadly that your play is not a bit like life after all. Then is the time to introduce a meal on the stage. A stage meal is popular, because it proves to the audience that the actors, even when called GEORGE ALEXANDER or ARTHUR BOURCHIER, are real people just like you and me. "Look at Sir HERBERT eating," we say excitedly to each other in the pit, having had a vague idea up till then that an actor lived like a god on praise and grease-paint and his photograph in the papers. "Another cup, won't you?" says Miss GLADYS COOPER; "No, thank you," says Mr. DENNIS EADIE--dash it, it's exactly what we do at Twickenham ourselves. And when, to clinch matters, the dramatist makes Mr. GERALD DU MAURIER light a real cigarette in the Third Act, then he can flatter himself that he has indeed achieved the ambition of every stage writer, and "brought the actual scent of the hay across the footlights."

But there is a technique to be acquired in this matter as in everything else within the theatre. The great art of the stage-craftsman, as I have already shown, is to seem natural rather than to be natural. Let your actors have tea by all means, but see that it is a properly histrionic tea. This is how it should go:--

_Hostess._ You'll have some tea, won't you? [_Rings bell._

_Guest._ Thank you.

_Enter_ Butler.

_Hostess._ Tea, please, Matthews.

_Butler_ (_impassively_). Yes, m'lady. (_This is all he says during the play, so he must try and get a little character into it, in order that "The Era" may remark, "Mr. Thompson was excellent as _Matthews_." However, his part is not over yet, for he returns immediately, followed by three footmen--just as it happened when you last called on the Duchess--and sets out the tea._)

_Hostess (holding up the property lump of sugar in the tongs)._ Sugar?

_Guest (luckily)._ No, thanks.

_Hostess replaces lump and inclines empty teapot over tray for a moment, then hands him a cup painted brown inside--thus deceiving the gentleman with the telescope in the upper circle._

_Guest (touching his lips with the cup and then returning it to its saucer)._ Well, I must be going.

_Re-enter Butler and three Footmen, who remove the tea-things._

_Hostess_ (to Guest). Good-bye; so glad you could come. [_Exit_ Guest.

His visit has been short, but it has been very thrilling while it lasted.

Tea is the most usual meal on the stage, for the reason that it is the least expensive, the property lump of sugar being dusted and used again on the next night. For a stage dinner a certain amount of genuine sponge-cake has to be made up to look like fish, chicken or cutlet. In novels the hero has often "pushed his meals away untasted," but no stage hero would do anything so unnatural as this. The etiquette is to have two bites before the butler and the three footmen whisk away the plate. The two bites are made, and the bread is crumbled, with an air of great eagerness; indeed, one feels that in real life the guest would clutch hold of the footman and say, "Half a mo', old chap, I haven't _nearly_ finished;" but the actor is better schooled than this. Besides, the thing is coming back again as chicken directly.

But it is the cigarette which chiefly has brought the modern drama to its present state of perfection. Without the stage cigarette many an epigram would pass unnoticed, many an actor's hands would be much more noticeable; and the man who works the fireproof safety curtain would lose even the small amount of excitement which at present attaches to his job.

Now although it is possible, in the case of a few men at the top of the profession, to leave the conduct of the cigarette entirely to the actor, you will find it much more satisfactory to insert in the stage directions the particular movements (with match and so forth) that you wish carried out. Let us assume that _Lord Arthur_ asks _Lord John_ what a cynic is--the question of what a cynic is having arisen quite naturally in the course of the plot. Let us assume further that you wish _Lord John_ to reply, "A cynic is a man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing." It has been said before, but you may feel that it is quite time it was said again; besides, for all the audience knows, _Lord John_ may simply be quoting. Now this answer, even if it comes quite fresh to the stalls, will lose much of its effect if it is said without the assistance of a cigarette. Try it for yourself.

_Lord John._ A cynic is a man who, etc....

Rotten. Now try again.

_Lord John._ A cynic is a man who, etc.... (_Lights cigarette_).

No, even that is not good. Once more:--

_Lord John (lighting cigarette)._ A cynic is a man who, etc.

Better, but leaves much too much to the actor.

Well, I see I must tell you.

_Lord John (taking out gold cigarette case from his left-hand upper waistcoat pocket)._ A cynic, my dear Arthur (_he opens case deliberately, puts cigarette in mouth, and extracts gold match-box from right-hand trouser_) is a man who (_strikes match_) knows the price of (_lights cigarette_)--everything, and (_standing with match in one hand and cigarette in the other_) the value of---- pff (_blows out match_) of (_inhales deeply from cigarette and blows out a cloud of smoke_)--nothing.

It makes a different thing of it altogether. Of course on the actual night the match may refuse to strike, and _Lord John_ may have to go on saying "a man who--a man who--a man who" until the ignition occurs, but even so it will still seem delightfully natural to the audience (as if he were making up the epigram as he went along); while as for blowing the match out he can hardly fail to do _that_ in one.

The cigarette, of course, will be smoked at other moments than epigrammatic ones, but on these other occasions you will not need to deal so fully with it in the stage directions. "_Duke (lighting cigarette)._ I trust, Perkins, that ..." is enough. You do not want to say, "_Duke (dropping ash on trousers)._ It seems to me, my love ..." or, "_Duke (removing stray piece of tobacco from tongue)._ What Ireland needs is ..."; still less "_Duke (throwing away end of cigarette)._ Show him in." For this must remain one of the mysteries of the stage--What happens to the stage cigarette when it has been puffed four times? The stage tea, of which a second cup is always refused; the stage cutlet, which is removed with the connivance of the guest after two mouthfuls; the stage cigarette, which nobody ever seems to want to smoke to the end--thinking of these as they make their appearances in the houses of the titled, one would say that the hospitality of the peerage was not a thing to make any great rush for....

But that would be to forget the butler and the three footmen. Even a Duke cannot have everything. And what his _chef_ may lack in skill his butler more than makes up for in impassivity.

A. A. M.

* * * * *

From a column headed "Crimes and Tragedies" in _The Western Weekly Mercury_:--

"Sir J. W. Spear, M.P., has consented to become patron of the newly-formed Highampton Rifle Club."

And we are left wondering which it is.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

ROOSEVELT RESURGIT

Once more the tireless putter-right of men, Our roaring ROOSEVELT, swims into our ken. With clash of cymbals and with roll of drums, Reduced in weight, from far Brazil he comes. What risks were his! The rapids caught his form, Upset his bark and tossed him in the storm. Clutching his trumpet in a fearless hand, The damp explorer struggled to the land; Then set the trumpet to his lips and blew A blast that echoed all the wide world through, And in a tone that made the nations quiver Proclaimed himself the finder of a river. Maps, he declared, were made by doddering fools Who knew no better or defied the rules, While he, the great Progressive, traced the course Of waters mostly flowing to their source. Emerged at last and buoyed up with the sure hope Of geographic fame, he made for Europe; Flew to Madrid, and there awhile he tarried Till KERMIT went (good luck to K!) and married. Next London sees him, and with loud good will Yields to the mighty tamer of Brazil, And hears and cheers the while by his own fiat he Lectures our Geographical Society. Soon to his native land behold him go To take a hand in quelling Mexico. Does WILSON want him? Well, I hardly know.

* * * * *

IN THE NAME OF PEACE.

SIR,--I read with intense satisfaction that at the Peace Ball at the Albert Hall last week the lady representing Britannia carried a palm branch in place of the customary trident. This, I venture to think, is a step in the right direction. For many years, from the pulpits and platforms not only of our own land but of America, I have advocated a substitution of peaceful objects for the weapons of bloodshed with which so many of our allegorical figures are encumbered. I still wait for some artist to depict the patron saint of this fair land of ours, not attacking the dragon with a cruel sword, but offering it in all brotherliness an orange, let us say, or a bath bun.

But, Sir, one feature of this ball (putting aside for a moment the many reprehensible characteristics of all such entertainments) I must and do protest against. What do I read in the daily press? When it was desired to clear the floor, "a brigade of Guards, by subtle movements, drove the masqueraders, who were to form the audience, behind the barricades." Now, were I a member of the House of Commons--as some day I may be--I would make it my business to stand up in my place and fearlessly demand of the Minister for War an explanation as to how these men of blood came to be admitted to a Peace festival. Was it with his knowledge that they were present? and, if so, was it with his consent? I should also desire to know whether the cost of the expedition would fall upon the British tax-payer.

I am, Sir, Yours, etc., (Rev.) AMOS BLICK.

* * * * *

AMENDING A BILL.

As the drought wore on to its third day I began to perceive that siphoning the pinks with soda-water out of the dining-room window was insufficient to meet the crisis. I rang up the nearest fire station and told them in my most staccato tones that the garden was being burnt to a cinder and would they please--but they rang off suddenly without making a reply. It was then that I had a bright idea--so bright that the thermometer which was hanging near my head went up two degrees higher still.

"Araminta," I cried (she was out on the lawn tantalising a rose-bush with a kind of doll's-house watering-can),--"Araminta, where does one go to get hose?"

Araminta bridled.

"I didn't mean that," I said, hastily coming out of the French-window to explain. "I meant the kind of long wiggly thing you fix on to a tap at one end and it squirts at the other."

She unbridled prettily. "Oh, that!" she said. "Altruage's have them, I suppose. Altruage's have everything. But I shouldn't get one if I were you. I believe they're fearfully expensive, and I'm going to buy a proper watering-can this morning."

My mind, however, was made up. "Expense," I thought, "be irrigated!" I said nothing about it to Araminta, but I decided to act.

* * * * *

The sun was still blazing with abominable ferocity at half-past twelve when I crossed the threshold of the Taj Mahal Stores and button-holed the first peripatetic marquis I could find.

"I want," I said, mopping my brows with the disengaged hand, "to see some hose."

"Certainly, Sir," he replied with a beaming smile. "For wear on the feet, I presume?"

"Not at all," I replied as coolly as possible. "For shampooing the head."

He looked puzzled.

"I want it to water my pinks with," I explained.

A look of divine condescension overspread his features. "Ah, you require our horticultural department for that, Sir," he said. "Fourth to the left, fifth to the right, and ask again." And with an infinitely horticultured gesture of the hand he motioned me on.

After a long and adventurous Odyssey and fifteen fruitless appeals I sighted a kind of green island shore, where a young man stood in an attitude of _hauteur_, surrounded by a number of pink and grey snakes and brightly coloured agricultural machines.

Making my way to him I sank exhausted into a wheel-barrow and murmured my request again.

"About what size is your garden?" he asked me when I had partially recovered.

"Slim," I said, "slim and graceful, but not really tall. _Petite_ I believe is the technical term. What sizes have you got in stock?"

"Perhaps about forty yards would do, Sir," he suggested, uncoiling a portion of one of the reptiles at his feet. "I can recommend this as a strong and thoroughly reliable article. Then you will want a union, I suppose, and a brass nozzle and a drum."

"We all want union nowadays so much in everything, don't we?" I agreed pleasantly, "but I'm not so sure about the drum. You see the baby makes a most infernal noise as it is with a----"

He interrupted me to explain the uses of these things. The union, it seemed, was a kind of garter to attach the hose to the tap, and the drum was where the snake wound itself to sleep at night. "And the little pepper-castor, of course," I said, "is what one puts at the end to make it sneeze. I understand completely. If you will have them all sent round to me to-morrow I will pay on delivery."

* * * * *

When I got out into the street I found that a great change had taken place. The sky overhead was black with imminent rain. A sharp shower pattered at my heels as I sprinted for the 'bus, and when I disembarked from it the gutters were gurgling with ill-concealed delight. As I walked up the garden I noticed that the majority of the pinks were lying in a drunken stupor upon their beds.

Araminta met me at the door. "Why, you must be wet through," she said. "Go up and change instantly. And aren't you glad now you haven't got a silly old hose after all?"

"I am indeed," I replied.

Whilst I changed I thought deeply, and after dinner I sat down and wrote politely to Messrs. Altruage as follows:

"Mr. Hopkinson regrets that through inadvertence he ordered a quantity of hose this afternoon in Messrs. Altruage's horticultural department instead of their foot-robing studio. If Messrs. Altruage will kindly cancel this order Mr. Hopkinson will call in the morning and select six pairs of woollen socks."

In a climate like ours, I reflected as I posted the letter, there is a good deal to be said for these mammoth stores.

* * * * *

* * * * *

IN THE PARK.

(_Souvent femme varie._)

Little girls in June attire, Grumbling to your governesses, What is it that you desire-- Chocolates or satin dresses, Jewels, or a tiny hound, All your own, to drag around?

Governesses who betray Little love for your employment, If a fairy bade you say What would give you most enjoyment, Would your fancy not pursue Unsubstantial shadows too?

"Fleeting joys have little use"-- So, as teachers, you endeavour In your charges to induce Virtues which will last for ever; But, as women, you resent Anything so permanent!

* * * * *

"A half followed, which made Vardon dormy 3, and another half at the 16th, where he made a brilliant recovery after he had hit a spectator, gave him the match by 3 and 2."

_Times._

The recovery of the spectator wouldn't matter so much.

* * * * *

"A man who gave the name of James DewTJnamedhiskmhmhfr mhafr awdih acsih frdw hurst was remanded at Doncaster to-day charged with attempting to pass a worthless cheque for 30s."--_Liverpool Express._

As soon as the cashier saw the first eighteen inches of the name at the bottom of the cheque he had his suspicions.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE YOUNG EVERYTHING.

Under this comprehensive title Messrs. Byett and Prusit have arranged for a new series of books for the youth of both sexes, the aim of which is to provide instruction in a number of the most desirable and profitable walks of life. The principle of the work is that it is never too soon to end. The General Editor will be that profound and encyclopædic scholar and publicist, Mr. ANTHONY ASQUITH, who will be assisted by some of the ablest pens in the country.

THE YOUNG BANKRUPT, by Sampson Waterstock.

An exhaustive treatise on the right mismanagement of one's affairs, with hints on the best method of bringing about a meeting of creditors. Among the chapters are the following: "The Way to Carey Street;" "How to settle things on one's Wife;" "Eccentric Bankrupts who have subsequently paid in full, with Interest."

THE YOUNG BOOKMAKER, by Sharkey Hawker.

A complete guide to the Turf, than which few professions offer a more exciting opening to a boy. How to calculate odds; how to cultivate the voice; how to concentrate public attention on the wrong horse--these and other topics are dealt with by competent hands.

THE YOUNG FILBERT, by Gilbert Hallam.