Chapter 1

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 147.

July 29th, 1914.

CHARIVARIA.

A warrant has been issued for the arrest of Signor ULVI, the inventor of "F" rays. He is said to have eloped from Florence with an Admiral's daughter. This was not discovered until Signor ULVI had got well away, and his claim to be able to cause explosions at a distance would now seem to be established.

***

General HUERTA is said to have taken with him on his flight securities to the amount of £1,200,000. Even so it is typical of the grasping nature of the man that he complained of having to leave Mexico City behind.

***

A storm of indignation has been raised in Berlin by an order (instigated, it is said, in a very high quarter) that all _cafés_ must close at 2 A.M. A petition is being circulated which points out that this order will kill Berlin's tourist traffic, "as the night life of the city is the only attraction for visitors." This implication that a certain exalted personage is not among the local attractions seems to us to amount almost to _lèse-majesté_.

***

When Lieutenant PORTE's water-plane, "The America," refused to rise, he should have tried changing its name to "The South America."

***

The Buckinghamshire Territorials, under their new commandant, Colonel WETHERED, are going in for chorus-singing practice. This is a good idea. Sung badly enough, these choruses should prove a valuable weapon against a musical foe, such as the Germans.

***

Owing to an outbreak of mumps at Harrow School the summer term has had to close some days earlier than usual. It is characteristic of the generous nature of the Harrow boys that, in spite of this annoying interruption of their studies, there has been very little open expression of resentment against those who introduced the ailment.

***

Coventry's annual Lady Godiva procession took place last week, and was a success. It is feared, however, that with the advance of fashion the principal character--who on this occasion was attired in pink fleshings draped with white chiffon--will be voted overdressed and so fail to attract.

***

"To be well booted," says _The Times_, "is to feel well dressed, at the top of one's power and joy." A small boy, however, who was well booted by a larger boy the other day admits that he received a good dressing, but holds that, apart from this, _The Times_ was misinformed.

***

The announcement that in the course of excavations on the site of the old General Post Office in St. Martin's-le-Grand, some old Roman tile stamps have been discovered, has caused, we hear, a profound sensation in philatelic circles.

***

Exceptionally rough weather is reported from the Bay of Biscay, and it is said that on a certain passenger vessel even the valet of a well-known nobleman was ill, _although he was an old retainer._

***

"Fishing with rod and line from a boat in the Downs at Deal," says _The Daily Mail_, "Lord HERSCHELL and a friend caught 600 fish on Sunday. The fish, mostly pouting, were hauled in three and four at a time." We suspect they were pouting to show their annoyance at having their Sabbath rest disturbed.

***

It is proposed in an L.C.C. report that barges should be used as open-air schools on the river. Schools of language, presumably.

***

We are asked to deny that the fire which broke out at the bookstall at the Hampstead station of the North London Railway last week was produced spontaneously by a copy of one of MISS VICTORIA CROSS's novels.

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THE USES OF OCEAN.

(_Lines written in an irresponsible holiday mood._)

To people who allege that we Incline to overrate the Sea, I answer, "We do not; Apart from being coloured blue, It has its uses not a few-- I cannot think what we should do If ever 'the deep did rot.'"

Take ships, for instance. You will note That, lacking stuff on which to float, They could not get about; Dreadnought and liner, smack and yawl, And other types that you'll recall-- They simply could not sail at all If Ocean once gave out.

And see the trouble which it saves To islands; but for all those waves That made us what we are-- But for their help so kindly lent, Teutons could march right through to Kent And never need to circumvent A single British tar.

Take fish, again. I have in mind No better field that they could find For exercise and sport; How would the whale, I want to know, The blubbery whale contrive to blow; Where would your playful kipper go If the supply ran short?

And hence we rank the Ocean high; But there are privy reasons why Its praise is on my lip: I deem it, when my heart is set On walking into something wet, The nicest medium I have met In which to take a dip.

Ah, speed the hour already fixed When, mid the bathers (freely mixed), In a polite costume I mean to plunge beneath the spray And, washing from a soul at play The City's stain--three times a day-- Restore its vernal bloom.

Rocked like a babe upon the brine It is my dream to float supine And to the vast inane Banish awhile from off my chest The cares that hold it now obsessed, And even take a clean-cut rest From Ulster-on-the-brain.

O. S.

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The Best Holiday Insurance.

_Mr. Punch_ ventures to hint to the gentlest among his readers that, while there are excellent methods of insuring against the disturbance of their holidays by accident or bad weather, the best way for them to insure happiness is to offer a share of it to those who cannot afford a holiday of their own. The very easy sum of TEN SHILLINGS means a Fortnight among green fields or by the sea for one poor child, if the gift is sent--and now is the moment--to the Earl of ARRAN, Hon. Treasurer of the Children's Country Holiday Fund, 18, Buckingham Street, Strand, W.C.

* * * * *

THE CRISIS.

["Lord Macaulay's prose seems to be finding favour again." _Oshkosh Sentinel._]

The place, too, was well fitted for such a gathering. Memories of departed monarchs spoke from the rich hangings of the room in tones that were not less eloquent for being silent. Here the FIRST GENTLEMAN OF EUROPE had displayed the rounded symmetry of those calves which had defied the serried legions of the French and, in their lighter moments, had captured the wayward fancies of the fair or mitigated the harshness of a statesman. This was the chamber where the SAILOR KING, bluff but not undignified, had jested with his intimates, had smoothed a frown from the rugged brow of WELLINGTON or held his own against the eagle glance of GREY; the chamber where the great QUEEN, conscious of her august destiny, had consecrated to grief such moments as could be spared from the needs of Empire; the chamber where her son had laboured for peace and extended the bounds of friendship; the chamber where a DISRAELI, repaying scorn with scorn, may have spread his snares, and a GLADSTONE, overwhelmed by the torrent of his own eloquence, may have fallen into them.

Nothing was wanting to complete the solemnity of the spectacle. Outside, the scarlet-coated sentries paced rigidly on their accustomed rounds, and the populace, hemmed in by the strong arms and the panting forms of the constabulary, cheered to the echo its favourites or exchanged with one another the harmless sallies that give pleasure to a crowd. Within, the KING himself, his face now clouded with anxious thought, now lit with hope, gave a cordial welcome to the more unwonted of the guests he had summoned to his presence, while busy courtiers filled the corridors with an importance which lost nothing in weight from being unwarranted by knowledge or experience. Lackeys in the gorgeous liveries of the most brilliant Court in Europe were in attendance, ready to minister to those whose failing strength might need refreshment, or to execute with intelligence and despatch the humbler duties pertaining to their office.

Nor were the chiefs unworthy of the scene to which they had been called. There was the Speaker, LOWTHER, his brow beaming with the good-humour which enabled him to abate pomposity without injuring the feelings even of the pompous, and to calm with a happy phrase the agitated waters of debate. There were ASQUITH, strong in the affection of his friends, and LLOYD GEORGE, braced to action by the invectives of his foes. There were LAW and LANSDOWNE, staunch defenders of the citadel in which the last of the Tories, stern and unbending as ever, had sought refuge. Waterford had sent JOHN REDMOND, the pride and champion of a nation, the unwearied vindicator of Ireland's right to govern herself. Through years of contumely and depression he had borne aloft her standard, and now, when her triumph was all but achieved, he was here to watch over a settlement which all desired, though none hitherto had been able to bring it about. With him had come JOHN DILLON, tall, dignified and stately, whose grey hair and admirable bearing had won the respect and conciliated the temper of the most fastidious assembly in the world. Arrayed against these two, sons of Ireland no less than they, were CARSON and CRAIG; CARSON with his saturnine face and his swift and piercing intelligence, CRAIG of the burly form and uncompliant humour. Vowed to the Orange cause, and dwelling fondly on memories of the Boyne, they denounced with equal severity the religion of Rome and the political aspirations of the majority of their fellow-countrymen. Such were the men who were now met to decide the most momentous issue of our time.

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MUTABILITY.

"And now," I said, while the waiter was bringing the bill, "where would you like to go?"

"I don't mind," he said. "What about a music-hall? I haven't seen one for twenty years. There's a cinema about five miles from my place, but it's too dear. Only the millionaires can use it."

"Very well, then," I said, "we'll go to a music-hall; but you'll find that they've changed a bit."

"I don't mind," he said, "so long as there's something good. There's so much variety in a music-hall, one turn after another, don't you know, that you can't go far wrong."

My spirits sank. East Africa had kept his youth in camphor, and he had no knowledge of the wonderful advances that we have been making. Turns indeed!

"I'll do the best I can for you," I said, "but I'm afraid you'll be disappointed."

"Oh, no," he assured me stoutly, "not in a music-hall. I've been wanting to see one again for years. I suppose Jimmy Fawn isn't still going?"

My spirits fell lower.

We went to one of the regular places, and, as I had feared, found a revue in full blast. Topical talk, scenery and American songs interminably. Every time a new person came on the stage my friend eagerly perked up and lost his depression, hoping that at last it might be one of his old delights--a juggler or knockabout or something like that--but always he was disappointed.

"I say, where are we?" he asked. "This isn't a music-hall, is it?"

"One of the best," I replied.

He looked round in dismay.

"But where are the waiters?" he asked.

"Not allowed among the audience any more," I told him; "in fact, some music-halls don't even have licences."

He stared at me in astonishment and sank into apathy. Coming up again he said, "Do you remember those two fellows with enormous stomachs and hooked sticks? They were funny, if you like. Don't you have that sort of thing any more?"

"No," I said.

"Do you remember that act," he said--"I believe it was called the Risley act--where a man lay on his back, with his legs up in the air, and flung his family about with his feet? That was jolly clever. Don't you have that any more?"

"No," I said.

"And the Sisters something or other," he said, "dashed pretty girls, who did everything at the same time--are they gone for ever?"

"For ever," I said.

"And no comic songs either?" he asked.

"You've heard a lot of comic songs this evening," I replied.

"Oh, those," he said. "I don't call those comic. They're not comic songs, they're comic-opera songs. Don't you have the others any more?"

"Not at this kind of hall," I said. "I daresay there may be a singer or so left somewhere, with too big a coat and too small a hat, but not here."

"Then what are all the old performers doing?" he asked.

"I believe they're starving," I said.

* * * * *

"A NOVEL HOSPITAL AT SHEFFIELD."--_Yorkshire Post._

Some of them certainly want a bit of doctoring.

* * * * *

THE PROGRESS OF MAN.

(_By our Anthropological Expert._)

PROFESSOR KEITH, of the Royal College of Surgeons, reporting on the skeleton of a prehistoric twelve-year-old boy recently discovered near Ipswich, pronounces his stature to be much the same as the average height of a modern boy of the same age, but the size of the head is remarkably large. The professor states that he and his colleagues are trying to get hold of people of every period, going as far back as they can. They will then be able to differentiate the types that lived in any period, and check the changes that came over them. So far, however, there has been very little change.

Perhaps the most striking result of Professor KEITH's appeal so far has come from the Isle of Man, where a magnificent three-legged skeleton has been discovered in the Caves of Bradda. The remains have been pronounced by Professor Quellin, the famous Manx anthropologist, to be those of a man not less than 175 years of age, whose facial angle bears so marked a resemblance to that of Mr. HALL CAINE as to warrant the hypothesis that he was one of the royal ancestors of the eminent novelist. Close to the skeleton was a long bronze trumpet, from which Professor Quellin, after several ineffectual efforts, ultimately succeeded in eliciting a deep booming note. Mr. HALL CAINE, who has taken the liveliest interest in the discovery, is at present studying the instrument, and will, it is hoped, give a recital shortly in the House of Keys.

The recent excavations at the famous Culbin Sands, undertaken by the Forres Antiquarian Institute, have also resulted in some remarkable finds. Prominent among these is a complete set of golf clubs belonging to the Bronze period. In regard to length the clubs are very much the same as the average implements used at the present day, but the large size of the heads is remarkable, the niblick weighing nearly half a hundredweight. It is plausibly inferred that clubs of this pattern may also have been used as weapons, as the dwellers in this district in the Bronze period are known to have been of a warlike and tumultuous disposition. The game is believed to have been introduced by some Maccabæan settlers, the ancestors of the clan of Macbeth, who flourished in the vicinity.

In that fine spirit of enterprise which has always characterised _The Daily Lyre_, the proprietors of that periodical have offered a prize of £5,000 for the most characteristic relic of ancient and modern British civilization, to be sent in by October 1. Already several notable exhibits have been forwarded for the competition. Mr. Ronald McLurkin, of Tain, has submitted portions of the boiler of an ancient locomotive, apparently used on the Highland Railway in the time of the Boer War. Dr. Edgar Hollam, of Brancaster, has sent a fine specimen of a fossilised Norfolk biffin, and Miss Sheila Muldooney, of Skibbereen, a copy of _The Skibbereen Eagle_ containing the historic announcement that it had its eye on the Tsar of RUSSIA. Sir GEORGE ALEXANDER sends a daguerreotype of himself in knickerbockers with side whiskers and moustache, and Mr. BERNARD SHAW the first interview with himself that he ever wrote. It appeared in _The Freeman's Journal_ in the "seventies" and is illustrated with six portraits, in one of which Mr. SHAW appears in an Eton suit and a tall hat, "the only one I ever possessed."

Sir HENRY HOWARTH has forwarded a copy of _The Times_ containing his first contribution to that journal, a letter occupying a column-and-a-half of small print, on the mammoth as a domestic pet in the Court of the early Moghul Emperors. Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL competes with an essay which he wrote, while a schoolboy at Harrow, on the dangers of Democracy; and Master ANTHONY ASQUITH has sent the rough notes of a Lecture on "The Balliol Manner" which he delivered many years ago before a select audience at Claridge's. The contrast in form and thought between this crude essay and his recent lectures on the mysticism of RABINDRANATH TAGORE is quite amazing. We may also briefly note the MS. version of an early sonnet by Mr. EDMUND GOSSE, addressed to Sir SIDNEY LEE; several safety-pins and a sponge-bag which once belonged to CHARLOTTE BRONTË and are now entered for the competition by Mr. CLEMENT SHORTER; and a hot-water bottle used by S. T. COLERIDGE when he was writing "The Ancient Mariner," now in the possession of Sir HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE.

The interesting point that emerges so far is that while little change is observable in the physique, habits and manners of the British, as illustrated by these relics, up to the last ten years or so, the development in every direction, since the foundation of _The Daily Lyre_, has been quite extraordinarily rapid and pronounced. For instance, a cast of the head of a modern "nut" shows a compactness which compares most favourably with the overgrown cranium of the prehistoric boy reported on by Professor KEITH.

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"To-day there are 2,000,000 muskrats in Bohemia, and, like rabbits in Australia, they are spreading all over the fruitful regions of the province and destroying fish in the breeding ponds."--_Daily Mail._

You should see our rabbit destroying our trout.

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"She was a flesh and blood woman, fit to be the mother of husky sons."--_"Daily Sketch" feuilleton._

They would constantly rise up and call her blessed, and this would account for their hoarseness. (Jones's jujubes are the best.)

* * * * *

"The sturgeon ... consists of fish, flesh, and fowl, the latter part commanding a good saleable price."--_Carlisle Journal._

The wings are particularly tender.

* * * * *

Fashions for Men.

"Lord Salisbury came with Lady Beatrice Ormsby-Gore, wearing blue charmeuse."--_Daily Mail._

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OUR COLOSSAL ARRANGEMENTS.

One of the most appalling scandals of modern times is the disgraceful suppression by the Ginger-beer Press of news relating to the state of affairs in the Isle of Wight. For some weeks we have not flinched from filling our columns with picturesque accounts of the epoch-making events taking place there; and yet the Ginger-beer Press has cruelly put off its readers with the scantiest details, or else refrained from any sort of reference. We make our protest all the more vigorously because many of those readers have been driven to read our own journal in preference to the erroneous and misleading sheets to which we have referred.

This distressing state of things has forced us to make the fullest arrangements for a constant stream of news to be supplied from our branch offices at Ventnor, Totland Bay, the Needles, and other points of the Island. We have despatched a huge staff of world-famous war correspondents, descriptive writers, poets, photographers, Royal Academy artists, gallopers, commissariat officers, and trained bloodhounds. Field kitchens, field wireless equipment, and field glasses are included among their impedimenta, and no single message will be printed in our pages that has not been sent in some other way than through the ordinary channels of the post, telephone and telegraph. Each member of this army of artists, littérateurs and tacticians possesses a hip pocket, fully loaded, two pairs of puttees, a compass and a wrist watch.

Every day scores of women and children are leaving the Isle of Wight for the mainland. Gunboats and cruisers are passing and repassing before its shores, by order of the Admiralty; strong, silent men are doggedly pursuing the business they have in hand. In the very heart of the island some of the flower of the youth of our country is being trained in the art of naval warfare, while the thunders of gun-practice are heard every hour around the coast. Yet, search where you will in the Ginger-beer Press during the last few weeks, you will find practically no reference to these things.

We implore our readers, on the highest patriotic grounds, to inform the few remaining adherents of the Ginger-beer Press that if they desire the Truth it can be found only in our pages.

We have the pleasure of printing below the first of the astonishing articles which have been sent already from our Expeditionary Staff:--

THE PRELIMINARY CALM.

_By Blinton X. Krapt._

The streets of Cowes are bathed in sunlight. Smart yachtsmen, accompanied by daintily dressed ladies, walk hither and thither. The shopkeepers chat pleasantly. The burly policeman drowsily pursues his way. Children shout happily. Surely here is peace, says the unsuspecting visitor.

A brown-faced man with a light beard and a heavy tread approached us. "It is all right," said my companion to him; "this gentleman is a friend." Then, lowering his voice, he added: "_He came over last night._" "Beautiful place, Cowes, isn't it?" said the bronzed man. I noticed that his hip pocket bulged. Yet none would have suspected that his conversation was not of a perfectly ordinary character.

Entering the most sumptuous hotel in Cowes we had lunch. There was nothing sinister about the place except that the waiters were German. But I noted signs of understanding between them and my friend. "I have been here before," he explained, with a quick glance about him.

So life goes on from day to day. We are waiting, waiting. The little boot-maker in his shop is waiting. The tailor is waiting. The hotel staffs are waiting. The passengers on the railway platforms are waiting. On the surface life is gay and free from care; but what I may have to tell you when it comes round to my turn to write again, who can say?

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THE TOP SLICE.

I.

_Letter from Mrs. Gregory-Browne to Mrs. Ribbanson-Smythe. Upper Tooting, 21st July, 1914._