Chapter 1

Produced by Neville Allen, Malcolm Farmer and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 146

JUNE 3rd 1914

CHIVARIA.

"When the KING and QUEEN visit Nottinghamshire as the guests of the Duke and Duchess of PORTLAND at Welbeck, three representative colliery owners and four working miners will," we read, "be presented to their Majesties at Forest Town." A most embarrassing gift, we should say, and one which cannot, without hurting susceptibilities, be passed on to the Zoological Society.

* * *

Are the French, we wonder, losing that valuable quality of tact for which they have so long enjoyed a reputation? Amongst the Ministers introduced at Paris to KING CHRISTIAN OF DENMARK, who enjoys his designation of "The tall King," was M. MAGINOL, who is an inch taller than His Majesty. He should surely have been told to stay at home.

* * *

In the Bow County Court, last week, a woman litigant carried with her, for luck, an ornamental horse-shoe, measuring at least a foot in length, and won her case. Magistrates trust that this idea, pretty as it is, may not spread to Suffragettes of acknowledged markmanship.

* * *

Extract from an account in _The Daily Chronicle_ of the _Silver King_ disturbance:--"The officers held her down, and, with the ready aid of members of the audience, managed to keep her fairly quiet, though she bit those who tried to hold their hands over her mouth. A stage hand was sent for ..." If we are left to assume that she did not like the taste of that, we regard it as an insult to a deserving profession.

* * *

"Do people read as much as they used to?" is a question which is often asked nowadays. There are signs that they are, anyhow, getting more particular as to what they read. Even the House of Commons is becoming fastidious. It refused, the other day, to read the Weekly Rest Day Bill a second time, and the Third Reading of the Home Rule Bill was regarded as a waste of time and intelligence.

* * *

The superstitions of great men are always interesting, and we hear that, after his experience at Ipswich and on the Stock Exchange, Mr. LLOYD GEORGE is now firmly convinced that it is unlucky for him to have anything to do with anyone whose name ends in "oni."

* * *

Professor METCHNIKOFF, the great authority on the prevention of senile decay, will shortly celebrate his seventieth birthday, and a project is on foot to congratulate him on his good fortune in living so long.

* * *

The Central Telephone Exchange is now prepared to wake up subscribers at any hour for threepence a call, and it is forming an "Early Risers' List." So many persons are anxious to take a rise out of the Telephone Service that the success of the innovation is assured.

* * *

By crossing the Channel in a biplane, the Princess LOEWENSTEIN-WERTHEIM has earned the right to be addressed as "Your Altitude."

* * *

Illustration: _Pugilistic Veteran._ "COME ERLONG, YOUNG UN--COME ERLONG; PUT SOME BEEF INTO IT. THAT AIN'T THE STUFF _I_ DID AT YOUR AGE."

* * *

We see from an advertisement that we now have in our midst an "Institute of Hand Development." This should prove most useful to parents who own troublesome children. No doubt after a short course of instruction the spanking power of the hand may be doubled.

* * *

Reading that two houses in King Street, Cheapside, were sold last week "for a price equal to nearly £13 10_s._ per foot super," a correspondent asks, "What is a super foot?" If it is not a City policeman's we give it up.

* * *

There are now 168 house-boats on the Thames, states the annual report of the Conservators, and it has been suggested that a race between these craft might form an attractive item at Henley.

* * *

Shoals of mackerel entered Dover Bay last week, and many of the fish were caught by what is described as a novel form of bait, namely a cigarette paper on a hook drawn through the water in the same way as a "spinner." As a matter of fact we believe that smoked salmon are usually caught this way.

* * *

We learn from an announcement in _The Medical Officer_ that Dr. T. S. MCSWINEY has sold his practice to Dr. HOGG--and it only remains for us to hope that Dr. HOGG has not bought a pig in a poke.

* * *

It looks as if even in America the respect for Titles is on the wane. We venture to extract the following item from the catalogue of an American dealer in autographs:--"BRYCE, JAMES, Viscount. Historian. Original MS. 33 pp. 4to of his article 'Equality.' In this he says:--'The evils of hereditary titles exceed their advantage. In Great Britain they produce snobbishness both among those who possess them and those who do not, without (as a rule) any corresponding sense of duty to sustain the credit of the family or the caste. Their abolition would be clear gain....' And now he is a Viscount. Price 30 dollars."

* * * * *

MORE AFRICAN UNREST.

From a letter in _The East African Standard_:--

"We have indeed reached the stage known as the last straw on the camel's back, and I, for one, am quite prepared, as one of the least component parts of that camel, to add my iota to the endeavour to kick over the traces. Let us unite and, marching shoulder to shoulder and eye to eye, set sail for that glorious and equally well-known goal--'Who pays the piper calls the tune.'"

No man of spirit could resist so stirring an appeal.

* * * * *

EMBARRASSING SITUATIONS.

I.

From the latest Official Report on anti-aircraft guns:--

"Another arrangement, constructed by Messrs. Lenz, is that in which the layer's seat is attached to the muzzle of the gun."

II.

"The mediators who are to intervene to bring peace in Mexico have begun their sittings at Niagara in a situation which is full of perplexity."

_The Saturday Westminster Gazette._

If the spot alluded to is immediately under the Falls we can well understand their lack of confidence.

* * * * *

THE HOLIDAY MOOD.

TO THE LIBERAL PARTY--BRITISH SECTION.

["The effect, however" (of the Nationalists' enthusiasm) "was somewhat marred by the apathy of the Liberals."--_"The Times," on the Third Reading of the Home Rule Bill._]

Why was the timbrel's note suppressed? Why rang there not a rousing pæan When Ireland, waiting to be blest, Hanging about for half an æon, Achieved at length the heights of Heaven By a majority of 77?

Why was the trombone's music dumb? Why did the tears of joy not splash on The vellum of the big bass drum To indicate your ardent passion For that Green Isle across the way Which you must really visit some fine day?

Was it the three elections (by-) That left you for the time prostrated (They should have raised your spirits high, So INFANT SAMUEL calculated), Concluding with the worst of slips which Occurred between the cup and mouth at Ipswich?

Was it because your Home Rule Bill (Though perfect) craves to be amended, And to the Lords you love so ill That you would gladly see 'em ended The delicate task has been referred Of patching up the places where you erred?

Was it that you were pained to find How Ulster took your noble Charter; With what composure she declined To bear it like a Christian martyr; How there she stood, too firm to shake, With no idea of stepping to the stake?

Or did you hear a still small voice Under your waistcoat, where your heart is: "We fought by contract, not by choice, Ay, and the spoils are not our party's; The Tories may be beat, but _we_ know This is not ASQUITH'S, it is REDMOND'S beano"?

Or did you doubt if all was right With Erin when you heard O'BRIEN Foreboding doom by second sight And roaring like a wounded lion, And saw what venomed hate convulsed her Apart from any little tiff with Ulster?

Or could it be you felt so fain About your imminent vacation That the same breast could not contain The joy of Ireland-as-a-Nation? There wasn't room for both inside, And so the Bill gave way to Whitsuntide?

If that was why you would not hail Your chance of bringing down the ceiling, But let the holiday mood prevail, I understand, and share your feeling; I find my bowl of joy o'er-bubbling Whenever Parliament has ceased from troubling.

O. S.

* * * * *

NEWSPAPER WAR.

CUT-THROAT PARISH MAGAZINE COMPETITION.

The amazing upheaval in provincial journalism consequent on the issue of the Little Titley Parish Magazine at one penny is the sole topic of conversation in Dampshire, to the exclusion of Ulster, Mexico, the scarcity of meat, and even golf. Perhaps the most remarkable and significant outcome of this momentous change is the sudden abandonment by the Nether Wambleton Parish Magazine of its familiar claim that its sale amounted to an average which, if tested, would show an excess of two to one over any other church periodical in Wessex. The Nether Wambleton Parish Magazine in its May number contented itself with asserting that it is the largest religious monthly in North Dampshire, also that its average sale, if tested, would show a circulation calculated to stagger humanity.

These assertions have led to a long and recriminatory correspondence in the columns of _The Tittersham Observer_. The Rev. Eldred Bolster, Vicar of Little Titley, writing in the issue of May 9th, characterises them as grotesque and preposterous fabrications. He points out, to begin with, that the Nether Wambleton Parish Magazine only contains eighteen pages, of which no fewer than sixteen are provided from London and have no reference to local matters, while the Little Titley Parish Magazine contains twenty-four pages, of which no fewer than four are entirely devoted to parish affairs. As regards circulation, Mr. Bolster sarcastically observes that humanity is sometimes staggered by the infinitely little even more than by the infinitely great, and challenges the Vicar of Nether Wambleton to publish the net figures of the sale of his periodical.

The challenge was promptly taken up, and in the issue of _The Tittersham Observer_ of May 16th the Vicar of Nether Wambleton prints the following statement of the sales of his magazine since April, 1913. The figures are as follows:--

1913, May 54 " June 57 " July 51 " August 49 " September 52 " October 58 " November 59 " December 57 1914, January 61 " February 55 " March 59

The statement is signed by the Rev. Auriel Potts, Vicar of Nether Wambleton, and Andrew Jobling and Septimus Wicks, sidesmen.

This evasive reply could not be expected to satisfy Mr. Bolster, who returns to the charge in _The Tittersham Observer_ of the 23rd May. Side by side with the sale figures of the Nether Wambleton Parish Magazine he prints those of his own periodical, which for the same period never fell below sixty and on the occasion of the Harvest Festival reached a total of seventy-nine. With scathing emphasis he points out that the Nether Wambleton figures cease with the month in which Little Titley came down to one penny, since which the latter has gone up by leaps and bounds, no fewer than eighty-four copies of the May number having already been sold. Moreover, these are _net_ sales, while the Nether Wambleton figures (for all he knows) represent gross circulation, including copies gratuitously distributed at mothers' meetings, choir treats and other gatherings.

It might have been thought that Mr. Potts would have withdrawn from the controversial arena after this painful exposure, but with a persistence worthy of a better cause he rejoins in a long and irrelevant letter in _The Tittersham Observer_ of the 30th May. He undoubtedly scores a point in maintaining that the Nether Wambleton Parish Magazine is the largest in Wessex on the strength of the fact that its page is half-an-inch longer and a quarter-of-an-inch wider than that of its rival, but in other respects his reply can hardly be considered convincing. For instance, he lays stress on the fact that the gigantic gooseberry grown in his parish and chronicled in his current issue was appreciably greater in diameter than that described in the corresponding issue of the rival publication. He also dwells on the superior artistic quality of the programme of the Penny Reading in his parish hall as compared with that of the Little Titley Temperance Reed Band at their annual concert. And, finally, with ill-timed levity, he disclaims any intention of "bolstering up" his parish magazine by crude appeals to democratic sentiment--an allusion to the name of the Vicar of Little Titley which has been deeply resented by the numerous admirers of that esteemed cleric.

The saddest feature about this painful controversy is the personal estrangement which it has brought about between the two Vicars. Only six months ago the Rev. Mr. Bolster presided at a meeting at which the friends and parishioners of the Rev. Mr. Potts presented him with a testimonial and a set of electro-plated fish-knives to commemorate the celebration of his silver wedding. The testimonial, which was composed by Mr. Bolster, was a document couched in terms of the most affectionate admiration, and special reference was made to Mr. Potts's editorial abilities and the extraordinarily high literary standard of his parish magazine. In acknowledging the presentation Mr. Potts said that Mr. Bolster's energy and goodwill in carrying it out had given him more satisfaction than anything else, and when the two eminent divines were photographed in the act of embracing on the platform there was hardly a dry eye in the huge audience, numbering fully forty persons, who attended the proceedings.

Illustration: THE CIRCUS OF EUROPE.

TURKEY (_to Europa, ring-mistress_). "INFIRM OF PURPOSE! GIVE ME BACK THE WHIP."

* * * * *

Illustration: _Sympathetic Friend (to gloomy batsman, disgusted at being given out for a catch at the wicket)._ "WOT'S WRONG, BILL? WAS IT DAHTFUL?"

_Batsman._ "DAHTFUL! I SHOULD THINK IT WAS DAHTFUL! I COULD 'ARDLY 'EAR IT MYSELF."

* * * * *

THE TATTIE-BOGLE.[A]

A farmer once, to scare the birds away, O'er his poor seeds set up, to leer and ogle, A raffish moon-face, stuffed with straw and hay, A Tattie-Bogle;

And rook and daw and stare their pinions spread Incontinent; for, so they judged the matter, Some scowling foe stood there, and off they fled With startled chatter.

A week the portent stood in sun and rain And fluttered rags of dread. A sparrow, nathless, Whose nestlings cried, dashed down and snatched a grain, And got off scathless.

Emboldened, back she flew; to such good end The others followed, craning and alarmful, To find the monster, if perhaps no friend, At least unharmful.

To-day the bogle wags, a thing of jest And open scorn; the very pipits mock it; A jenny wren, I'm told, has built her nest In one torn pocket!

Heart of my heart, and so prove aught of awe That darkens on your path; the buckram rogue'll Stand, when you face him, but a ghost of straw-- A Tattie-Bogle!

[Footnote A. Scarecrow. Scots.]

* * * * *

Illustration: _Exasperated Subscriber (having found six different numbers engaged)._ "WELL, WHAT NUMBERS HAVE YOU GOT?"

* * * * *

THE THREE-CARD TRICK.

Although the last race on the programme had yet to be run the railway station that adjoined the course was already packed to discomfort with the crowd of those who had left early in order to avoid each other. When the train that had been waiting drew alongside the platform there was a considerable bustle; but the individual whom (from his costume and general appearance) I will call the Complete Sportsman was nimble enough to secure a corner seat in a compartment that was immediately filled. A couple of quiet-looking elderly men, wearing hard hats and field-glasses, took the corners on the far side and began to discuss the day's events in undertones. They were followed by a stout red-faced gentleman in a suit of pronounced check, a curate (at sight of whom the Complete Sportsman elevated his eyebrows) and a hatchet-nosed individual in gaiters who looked like a vet.

As the train started, Red-face, catching the eye of the Complete Sportsman, smiled genially. "Nice bit o' sport to-day, guv'nor," he observed.

The person thus addressed agreed, a little nervously.

"And why shouldn't we keep it up?" continued the other. He gazed round upon the company at large. "If so be as no gentleman here has any objection to winning a bit more."

Since no one offered any protest it appeared that no such prejudice existed. Red-face, diving into the pocket of his check coat, produced cards and a folding board. "Then here goes!" said he. "Who's the Lady and Find the Woman. Half-a-quid on it every time against any gent as chooses to back his fancy!"

With an air of benevolent detachment he began to shuffle three of the cards face downwards upon the board. Still no one appeared willing to tempt fortune. The two quiet men in the far corner, after a hasty and somewhat contemptuous glance at Red-face's proceedings, had resumed their talk and took no further heed of him.

The cards, fell, slid, were turned up and slid again under his nimble lingers. "In the centre--and there she is!"--showing the queen. "Now on the left, quite correct. Once more, this time on the ri--no, Sir, as you say, left again. Pity for you we weren't betting on that round!"

This was to the hatchet-nosed man who (as though involuntarily) had pointed out an obvious defect in the manipulations. Seeming to be encouraged by this initial success, he bent forward with sudden interest. "Don't mind if I do have half-a-quid on it just once," he said.

It certainly seemed as though the Red-faced man must be actuated by motives of philanthropy. Quite a considerable number of times did Hatchet-nose back his fancy, and almost always with success. The result was that perhaps ten or a dozen sovereigns were transferred to his pockets from those of the bank. Even the curate was spurred by the sight into taking a part--though he was only fortunate enough to find the queen on three occasions out of five.

It was apparently this last circumstance, and the ease with which he himself could have pointed out the errors of the reverend gentleman, that finally overcame the reluctance of the Complete Sportsman. He blushed, hesitated, then began to feel in his waistcoat pocket.

"It looks easy enough," he ventured dubiously.

"Easy as winkin'," said the red-faced man. "At least to the gents' in this carriage. Begin to wish I hadn't proposed it."

However, he didn't show any signs of abandoning his amiable pursuit; not even when the Complete Sportsman, having assiduously searched all his pockets, produced a leather wallet and extracted thence a couple of notes.

"I'm afraid that I haven't got any change," he said in rather a disappointed tone.

"Perhaps," suggested the card-manipulator, "this gentleman could oblige you."

It being obvious that Hatchet-nose, the gentleman in question, was fully able to do this out of his recent winnings, he had, of course, no excuse for hesitation. The two five-pound notes changed hands; and the Sportsman pocketed twenty half-sovereigns.

Then he turned towards the cards with alacrity. The quiet couple in the corner had not been wholly unmindful of these proceedings. The slightest glance of amused and derisory intelligence passed between them as the Complete Sportsman plunged into the game.

For the first two attempts he was successful. No sooner, however, did he settle to serious play, beaming with triumph at his good fortune, than it unaccountably deserted him. He lost the two half-sovereigns that he had just won, and then another and another; till in the event he found himself no less than four-pounds-ten out of pocket.

"I--I seem somehow to have lost the knack of it," he said, glancing round at the company with an air almost of apology.

Red-face was loud in his commiseration and encouragements to proceed. "Luck's bound to turn," he protested.

The Complete Sportsman, however, seemed to have had enough. No amount of persuasion could induce him to tempt fortune further, though, to do him justice, he appeared to take his rebuff in a philosophic spirit. Desisting at length from his good-humoured attempts, the proprietor of the cards and board replaced them in his pocket and lit a cigar.

"Ah, well, somebody's got to lose, I suppose," he said tolerantly, adding, as the train slackened speed, "By Jove, Vauxhall already! I get out here. So long, all!"

He was on the platform immediately. By a coincidence as surprising as pleasant it appeared that Hatchet-nose and the curate were also alighting. The three walked away together; and the Complete Sportsman was left to share with the quiet couple a compartment in which there was now ample room to stretch his fawn-coloured limbs.

He did so with a sigh of relief, leaning back and smiling gently to himself as the train glided forward upon its final stage. His recent misfortune appeared to trouble him not at all; indeed, as Waterloo was approached, the smile grew if anything more pronounced. He might have been thinking about some subject that amused him greatly.

Presently, turning towards his companions, he found the gaze of both the quiet men fixed upon him with a look of somewhat derisive compassion. It was apparent that the ease with which the Sportsman had been tempted into parting with his money had excited at once their pity and their contempt. For a time he endured this regard in uneasy silence. Then, as the preliminary jar of the brakes heralded Waterloo, he spoke.

"I perceive, gentlemen," said he, "that you are apparently labouring under a delusion with regard to my part in the transactions that you have just witnessed."

"I was wondering," returned the first of the quiet men, "how anyone could in these days be gulled by so transparent a set of rogues."

"Your wonder is, as I have said, misplaced. With regard to the persons who lately left us, the word transparent is, if anything, an understatement. The curate, the horsey stranger and the red-faced man were, of course, discredited before NOAH entered the Ark."

"And yet," said the quiet man, staring, "we have this moment seen them take good money from you!"

"That," answered the Complete Sportsman as he prepared to alight, "is precisely where you make your mistake. The notes for which you saw me obtain change from one of the confederates, and of which change I lost less than half, were themselves----"

He paused, startled by the alteration that had taken place in the demeanour of the quiet men, who had risen simultaneously. The train had now stopped, and, glancing hastily over his shoulder, he saw that Red-face and his companions, who must have continued their journey in another compartment, were now surrounding the door.

For the first time the smile of the Complete Sportsman betrayed uneasiness. "What--what does this mean?" he demanded.

"Merely," said the first of the quiet men blandly, "that your game is up. You uttered at least twenty of those notes on the course to-day, and we were bound to have you. My name is Inspector Pilling, of Scotland Yard, and these gentlemen are my colleagues. We are five to one, so I suggest that you come quietly."

To the curate he added, as they entered a waiting taxi, "You were quite right, George; the chance of that little score was a soft thing."

The comments of the Complete Sportsman are best omitted. We are not the author of _Pygmalion_.

* * * * *