Chapter 1

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 158.

January 21st, 1920.

CHARIVARIA.

We understand that the Frenchman who lost his temper so completely during a duel with pistols that he threatened to shoot his opponent will be suspended from taking part in similar encounters for the next six months.

* * *

A man who had half a ton of coal delivered to him without warning has been removed to an asylum, where he is being treated for coal-shock.

* * *

Wrexham Education Committee has decided not to have Welsh taught in the elementary schools. Doubts have recently arisen, it appears, as to whether it will ever be the chosen medium of communication in the League of Nations.

* * *

"There is a movement on foot," says _The Daily Mail_, "to brighten the dress of boys." Smith Tertius writes to say that, according to the best opinion in his set, the waist should be worn fuller and less attention paid to the "sit" of the shirt.

* * *

A man recently arrested in Dublin was found to have in his possession a loaded revolver, three sticks of gelignite, four lengths of fuse, a number of detonators and a jemmy. It is thought that he may have been dabbling in politics.

* * *

"Demobilised men are doing such execution at the London World's Fair Shooting Galleries," says a news item, "that the supply of bottles is running short." Nothing, however, can be done about it till the PRIME MINISTER returns from Paris.

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"There is a proper time for the last meal of the day," says a medical writer. We have always been of the opinion that supper should not be taken between meals.

* * *

After addressing a meeting for two hours, says a contemporary, TROTSKY fainted. A more humane man would have fainted first.

* * *

We feel very jealous of the suburban gentleman who wrote last week asking what an O.B.E. was, and whether, if it was a bird, it should be fed on hemp-seed or ants' eggs.

* * *

With reference to the wooden house which fell down last week, the builder is of the opinion that a sparrow must have accidentally stepped on it.

* * *

Lord BIRKENHEAD describes the Coalition as an "invertebrate and undefined body." Meaning that they have rather more wishbone than backbone.

* * *

An Indian native was recently sentenced to write a poem. In other countries of course you commit a poem first and are sentenced afterwards.

* * *

Mr. F.H. ROSE, M.P., writing in _The Sunday Pictorial_, refers to the Ministry of Munitions as "a veritable monument of superfluous futility." For ourselves we don't mind futility so long as it isn't superfluous.

* * *

Will the lady who, during the Winter Sales' scramble, inadvertently went off with two husbands please return the other one to his rightful owner?

* * *

Mr. J.H. SYMONS, the Weymouth draper novelist, has told a _Star_ reporter that he only writes novels for a hobby. This sets him apart from the many who do it with malicious intent.

* * *

A referee has lodged a complaint against the Football Club on whose ground he was assaulted by several spectators who disagreed with his decisions. Although sympathising with him we fear his attempt to rob our national game of its most sporting element will not meet with general approval.

* * *

It is generally expected that, owing to the number of deaths from whisky poisoning which have occurred of late, America may decide to go dry again.

* * *

It is reported on good authority that Mr. C.B. COCHRAN will visit America daily until the signature of DEMPSEY'S manager is obtained.

* * *

LENIN, says a contemporary, has completed his plans for the overthrow of civilisation. It seems that all our efforts to conceal from him its presence in our midst are doomed to failure.

* * *

"A search for combined beauty and brains," says _The Daily Mail_, "has been instituted by _The Weekly Dispatch_." We gather, however, that a good circulation will also be taken into consideration.

* * *

According to the Technical Secretary of the Civil Aviation Committee a vehicle has been designed which is equally at home in the air, on land, on the water and under it. It is said to be distinguishable from Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL only by the latter's eloquence.

* * *

We understand that certain members of the betting classes have demanded that the starting price for coal should be published each day in the early evening papers.

* * * * *

* * * * *

A TRIUMPH OF REALISM.

From a publisher's advertisement:--

"'FALLING WATERS.' 'Not a dry page in it.'"

* * * * *

THE NEW POLYGAMY.

"The bride... carried a handsome bouquet of harem lilies."--_Local Paper_.

* * * * *

THE BENEFITS OF PEACE

(_as they appear to be viewed by certain unofficial guardians of public morality_).

When Peace superseded the strife and the stress Which the public regard as a gift for the Press, It was feared in the quiet that followed the storm, With nothing to do but retrench and reform, That the Town would be painted a colourless tint And the printers have nothing exciting to print.

That fear was unfounded, I'm happy to say, And red is the dominant tone of to-day; So far from incurring a shortage of news While the place is made fit for our heroes to use, We cannot remember a rosier time; We have rarely enjoyed such an orgy of crime.

There are scandals as nice for the reader to nose As any old garbage of carrion crows; Our mystery-mongers are full of resource; There's a bigamy boom and a vogue of divorce; To the licence of flappers we freely allude, And we do what we can with the cult of the nude.

No, the War isn't missed; there's a murrain of strikes Where a paper can take any side that it likes; We are done with denouncing the filth of the Bosch, But we still have our own dirty linen to wash; Though we trade with the brute as a man and a brother, Our Warriors still can abuse one another.

And if spicier features incline to be slack There is always the Chief of the State to attack; We have standing instructions to cake him with mud And a couple of columns reserved for his blood. Oh, yes, there is Peace, but our property thrives-- We are having, I tell you, the time of our lives.

O.S.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BALLYBUN LOTTERY.

[_À propos_ of Premium Bonds it has been recalled that in his evidence, given some years ago before a Select Committee, the then Under- Secretary for Ireland stated that in that distressful country "lotteries are very much used for religious purposes by people of all denominations," and that "it would be flying in the face of public opinion, especially of the great religious bodies, to interfere with them."]

Murphy has given up charity for ever. He was perhaps fuller of this virtue than any other body in Ballybun, and his house was packed with things he had won at raffles. When a brick tore a hole in the Orange drum our Presbyterian pastor at once got up a bazaar for repairs to the chapel, and Murphy won the finest silver tea-service this side of the Aran Islands. Murphy knew no distinctions of race, creed or sex in the holy cause of charity. When our Methodist minister, who is universally popular, as his knowledge of a horse would be a credit to any denomination, got up an Auction Bridge Drive in aid of the Anti-Gambling League, Murphy came home with three pink antimacassars, a discourse by JEREMY TAYLOR and two months' pay out of the pocket of McDougal, the organist, who seems to play cards by ear. But Nemesis was lying in ambush for Murphy.

Three old ladies in Trim decided to get up a Tombola for the poor this winter, and of course they sent Murphy a sheaf of tickets. As lotteries are illegal they, being pious, hated them; anyway they decided to call it a Tombola. They got the whole of Ireland to send them prizes, articles of vertu and bric-à-brac, and any other old things that are of no use to anybody, The carriage on the stuff and the printer's bill nearly ruined the charitable ladies, but, as they said, the Tombola would pay all the expenses, and if they could knock any more out of it the poor should have it.

If you sold a dozen tickets you could keep the thirteenth for yourself, and as Murphy, on account of his charity, was so popular he must have sold hundreds. People seemed to have an idea that the raffle was for a gondola, and they thought it would look beautiful on the pond in front of the Town Hall. Unfortunately our local poetess confirmed this error by writing a poem about it called "Italy in Ireland," which was produced in _The Ballybun Binnacle_, with a misprint about the gondolier's "untanned sole," which caused a fracas in the editorial office.

Murphy explained to all concerned that perhaps his Italian was rusty, and anyway his time was so taken up reading lottery-tickets and other charitable literature that he never knew what it was all for. It was a Tombola, however, this time, and not a gondola, they were subscribing for. It was a kind of Italian lottery which the police didn't mind because the prizes were not in money or anything of value, but just Old Masters and brick-bracks. Murphy has such a way with him that the editor and the poetess each took a dozen tickets.

When the result of the draw was published Murphy won six prizes, but no one grudged him them as he had taken so much trouble. The Grand Prize, a "statue carved by an Italian artist, the finest bit of sculpture ever seen in Ireland," was won by our popular grocer, Mr. McAroon. We were all delighted. People trooped in crowds to McAroon's back-door after closing- time to toll him so. The police took their names, but the magistrates, who have a great respect for the fine arts, said that this was a day in the artistic development of the Cinderella of the West which automatically and _primâ facie_ regularised an extension of closing-hours.

McAroon said that his religion did not run much to statues, but that, to show his tolerance to all denominations, especially to those on his books, he would have it unveiled by his Minister. He would invite the Bishop and all men of goodwill to be present at the ceremony. He would place it in the corner of his garden overlooking the esplanade, where it would cheer the simple mariners coming home after their arduous fishing toils, and perhaps remind one or two of them (but he would mention no names) of a dozen or so of porter that had been left unpaid for after a recent wedding.

The Ballybun express carries no goods whatever, except with the connivance of the guard and driver, who are both very decent Ballybun boys, and will bring anything down from Dublin for anyone. They promised to carry the statue themselves from the railway station up to McAroon's house. If the express was less than three hours late, which it was sure to be if it was running smoothly, they could just beam-end the statue on its pedestal and the presiding elder could unveil it with a hammer.

The train was not too late, just punctually late, and the guard had time to hurry the statue along through the biggest crowd we have had for years in Ballybun.

The Minister said that he would not open the case with prayer, because it might give offence to friends of other Christian denominations; he would just knock the front off and let this matchless piece of statuary from the blue skies of Italy dazzle them with its beauty. It needed no words from him, but he would just like to remind any of his flock present that the collection next Sunday was for the heathen both at home and abroad.

The statue then flashed out on us and left us breathless.

It was the most scandalous thing ever seen in Ballybun; it was Venus rising from the sea without a stitch. There she stood with one hand raised toward the sky and the other pointing at the backs of all the pious people in Ballybun as they hurried indignantly home. Some of them blamed McAroon, while others said that Murphy knew all the time what a Tombola really was and that he ought to be ashamed of himself.

The Bishop ordered his people not to deal at McAroon's until Murphy had removed the scandalous object. So many bitter things were said that McAroon, who is obstinate when roused, vowed that as long as the sun shone in heaven the lady should add lustre to his back-yard. The Minister however tried to move him to a more prayerful spirit.

McAroon said it wouldn't be right to smash up for firewood a marble statue that had cost five hundred pounds if a penny. The clergyman said that if everybody stopped away from his store he would lose more than that in a year, and that in any case, if McAroon suffered, he would suffer in the holy cause of charity.

McAroon's piety was touched, and he said that in the interests of peace and holy charity he would agree on a compromise. He had forsooth to keep his vow and let the lady stop, but she had two outstretched arms and there was always abundance of family washing on hand in the daytime at all events. The clergy of all denominations agreed that his decision was in keeping with the best traditions of a Family Grocer.

Murphy and McAroon made it up publicly. Murphy asked how anyone in Ballybun could possibly know the Italian bathing regulations. Italy was a godless country; but "anyway," said he, "hear you me. I have suffered so much in mind from this that I have done with charity for ever."

Christian peace and friendship reign once more in Ballybun; but any visitor who desires to see the beauties of Spagnoletti's famous masterpiece (what McAroon calls his "Anna Dryomeny") without the washing to serve as a veil must come by night and bring his own matches.

* * * * *

* * * * *

SO LONG.

All coiled down, and it's time for us to go, Every sail's furled in a smart harbour stow, Another ship for us an' for her another crew; An' so long, sailorman. Good luck to you!

Fun an' friends I wish you till the pay's all gone, Pleasure while you spend it an' content when it's done, An' a chest that's not empty when you go back to sea, An' a better ship than she's been an' a truer pal than me.

A good berth I wish you in a ship that's well-found, With a decent crowd forrard an' her gear all sound, Spars a man can trust to when it comes on to blow, An' no bo'sun bawlin' when it's your watch below.

A good Trade I wish you an' a fair landfall, Neither fog nor iceberg, nor long calm nor squall, A pleasant port to come to when the work's all through... An' so long, sailorman. Good luck to you!

C.F.S.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE SMUGGLER.

(_With the British Army in France._)

"If I am to be a bold bad smuggler, old scream," said Percival, packing pyjamas and parcels into his bag, "I demand the proper costume and accessories of the craft. No self-respecting smuggler can be expected to run a cargo in a British warm and field-boots."

"Of course, my swaggering buccaneer, if you want to do it in the grand manner," answered Frederick, "I'll arrange for the saucy little cutter, the sequestered cove an' the hard-riding exciseman with a cocked hat and cutlass. But the simpler if less picturesque way is to dump your bag on the counter at the Customs House and be taken with a fit of sneezing when the Grand Inquisitor asks you if you have anything to declare."

"Whereupon he'll hand me a quinine tablet and, when I show signs of convalescence, repeat the question in a loud voice. And if I don't know the correct answer I'll find myself meditating in Portland or Pentonville. That's what I'm exposing myself to by obliging corrupt an' unscrupulous friends," continued Percival bitterly.

"Hang it!" expostulated Frederick, "the potty little bottle of scent I'm asking you to deliver to my cousin Julia won't get you more than a seven-days' stretch. And you've got _fourteen_ days' leave."

"Well, I won't grumble about that, although I'd arranged my programme differently. But what about the box of Flor Fantomas I'm taking for the Major, and the bottle of whisky with which the skipper has entrusted me for the purpose of propitiating his projected father-in-law, to say nothing of the piece of Brussels lace which Binnie says is for his aunt. Their combined weight will just about earn me a lifer. I can see me wiring the War Office for an extension of leave on urgent business grounds--nature of business, to enable applicant to complete term of penal servitude."

"Don't, Percival, old crumpet," murmured Frederick, visibly affected; "the thought of you languishing in a felon's cell, without cigarettes, gives me a pain in my heart. Let me see what I can do for you."

In a few minutes he was back, beaming. "I've fixed it all right, _mon lapin_," he said; "if the worst comes to the worst they'll bail you out with the Mess funds. But they won't accept further responsibility. The Major says, if a fellow who's spent his whole career dodging duties can't dodge the duty on a box of cigars he doesn't deserve sympathy."

So Percival proceeded on leave with a heavy bag and a heavier conscience. On the boat he was greeted hilariously by Gillow the gunner and Sparkes the sapper, who invited him below to drink success to the voyage. In order to give the voyage no chance of failure they continued to drink success to it until the vessel backed into Folkestone Harbour, when they felt their precautions might be relaxed.

"Thanks to our efforts we've arrived safely," said Gillow as they strolled up on deck; "but the sight of jolly old England doesn't seem to be moving you to mirth and song, Percival. Why this outward-bound expression when we're on the homeward tack, my hearty?"

"It's the gnawing molar of conscience," said Percival ruefully; "I've got a consignment of pink-ribboned parcels in my bag which I know to contain contraband and which I also suspect--Frederick's and Binnie's anyway--to contain amorous missives not meant for vulgar eyes. If I deliver the parcels with the seals broken I shall get the glacial glare from the damsels concerned, and when I get back scorpions and poisoned bill-hooks will be too good for poor Percival."

"Phew!" whistled Sparkes. "They go through your baggage with a fine toothcomb nowadays. Couldn't you drop over the side with your bag and drift ashore on a deserted beach, disguised as a floating mine?"

"I've cut impersonations of hardware out of my _répertoire_ since the day I failed to get past an R.T.O. disguised as a brass-hat," said Percival sadly. "I suppose I must fall back on direct action. I've a feeling that England expects every man this day to pay his duty."

On the quay there was the usual mad charge of porters. Percival indicated his bag to one of them with a distracted air, and followed him to the Customs House guiltily. The porter dumped the bag before an official, who had a piece of chalk hopefully poised between his fingers.

"'Nything t' 'clare?" he asked, preparing to affix the sign which spelt freedom.

Percival blew his nose violently, hoping the chalk would descend to save him the necessity of answering, but it remained poised in mid-air.

"Anything to declare?" repeated the official, with emphasis.

"Er," said Percival weakly--"nothing that you need worry about--only a few presents."

"I'll have to trouble you for your keys, then," said the incorruptible.

Percival sighed dismally and produced them. Suddenly he noticed Gillow declaring his baggage, and became so interested that he failed to perceive that the official was in difficulties with the lock of his bag.

"This the right key, Sir?" demanded the latter at length.

"Oh, yes," said Percival absently. "But perhaps the bag isn't locked."

The bag wasn't. It opened easily, and the official plunged into a welter of articles of personal use; but no parcels or dutiable goods came to light.

"P'raps you think it's a joke, wasting my time like this," snorted the official indignantly. "All I can say is, it's an infernal bad one."

"Awf'lly sorry," said Percival sweetly, as his eye followed Gillow, who had emerged unchallenged. "I must have forgotten to bring the parcels I spoke about."

Smiling cheerfully, he directed the porter to place his bag by the side of Gillow's in a Pullman, and took his seat with an expression of complete content.

"How fares the master criminal?" asked Sparkes.

"A sympathetic friend took my troubles on his shoulders," said Percival, "and got the parcels through with an effrontery which amazed me. I always took him for an upright youth, too."

"Who was it?" asked Gillow.

"You! Didn't you notice you took my bag by mistake? But don't let it weigh unduly on your conscience. Mine's clear anyway, and I feel that my troubles are over."

But it was not till he got home and opened his own bag that he discovered a quantity of broken glass, a pungent odour of whisky and Cologne water, a discoloured parcel of lace and a box of sodden cigars.

"I was never meant for a smuggler," he groaned.

* * * * *

THE BOOK OF ADVENTURE.

Oh the glory of the trappers! Oh to be as in this book, Chasing things in furry wrappers, Poking from their crevice-nook Loudly though they squeak and grumble, Squirrel fitch and Arctic cat (_Editor:_ "I do not tumble; Will you please explain this jumble?" _Author:_ "I shall come to that").

Oh! (as I was just remarking When you interrupted me) Where the marabouts are barking It is there that I would be; Where on promontories stony All the loud Atlantic raves And the, if not very tony, Still quite practical seal coney Plunges in the wind-whipt waves.

Where the graceful skunk opossum And the stylish leopard mink Scamper as you come across 'em, Climb upon the cañon's brink, Gambol with the pony musquash, Claimed not for a collar yet-- Far away from London's bus-squash And advertisements of tusk-wash Are my yearning visions set.

If such dreams and such romances, Editor and reader mine, Have not filled your heart with fancies-- Silence and the lonely pine, Distant snows that cool the fever Of a weary world-worn soul, There where life is no deceiver And the wallaby-dyed-beaver Makes a very natural mole--

If you have not heard the calling Of the lone, lone trail and far, Where the animals enthralling I have lately mentioned are, Nature splendid and full-blooded, Just a gun and pipe and dog (How those avalanches thudded!)-- No? Why, then you can't have studied Perkins' Bargain Catalogue.

EVOE.

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* * * * *

BILLIARDS.

HERBERT _V._ JAMES.