Chapter 1

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*** Transcriber's Note: typo "thundebrolt" changed to thunderbolt on page 267. The symbol + was used to bracket where text appeared upside down in the original. ***

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 158.

April 14, 1920.

CHARIVARIA.

"Hat-pins to match the colour of the eyes are to be very fashionable this year," according to a Trade journal. This should be good news to those Tube-travellers who object to having green hat-pins stuck in their blue eyes.

* * *

Enterprise cannot be dead if it is really true that a well-known publisher has at last managed to persuade Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL to write a few words concerning the Labour Question.

* * *

"I have never been knocked down by a motor omnibus," says Mr. JUSTICE DARLING. The famous judge should not complain. He must take his turn like the rest of us.

* * *

"Never pull the doorbell too hard" is the advice of a writer on etiquette in a ladies' journal. When calling at a new wooden house the safest plan is not to pull the bell at all.

* * *

"American bacon opened stronger yesterday," says a market report. If it opened any stronger than the last lot we bought it must have "gone some."

* * *

Five golf balls were discovered inside a cow which was found dead last week on a Hertfordshire golf course. We understand that a certain member of the Club who lost half-a-dozen balls at Easter-time has demanded a recount.

* * *

"An Englishman's place is by his own fireside," declares a writer in the Sunday Press. This is the first intimation we have received that Spring-cleaning is over.

* * *

A serious quarrel between two prominent Sinn Feiners is reported. It appears that one accused the other of being "no murderer."

* * *

_The Commercial Bribery and Tipping Review_, a new American publication, offers a prize of four pounds for the best article on "Why I believe barbers should not be tipped." The barbers claim that what they receive is not a tip, but the Price of Silence.

* * *

According to an evening paper, crowds can be seen in London every day waiting to go into the pit. Oh, if only they were miners!

* * *

"It is the last whisky at night which always overcomes me," said a defendant at the Guildhall. "A good plan," says a correspondent, "is to finish with the last whisky but one."

* * *

The British Admiralty are offering two hundred and fifty war vessels for sale. This is just the chance for people who contemplate setting up in business as a new country.

* * *

"A good tailor," says a fashion writer, "can always give his customer a good fit if he tries." All he has to do, of course, is to send the bill in.

* * *

Mr. ALLDAY, a resident in Lundy Island for twenty years, who has just arrived in London, states that he has never seen a tax-collector. There is some talk of starting a fund with the object of presenting him with one.

* * *

Dunmow workhouse is offered for sale. A great many people are anxious to buy it with the object of putting it aside for a rainy day.

* * *

A Houndsditch firm has just had a telephone installed which was ordered six years ago. This, however, is not a record. Quite a number of instruments have been fitted up in less time than this.

* * *

We understand that the thunderbolt which fell at Chester is not the one that the PREMIER intended to drop this month.

* * *

Signor CAPRONI, lecturing in New York, says that aeroplanes capable of carrying five hundred passengers will shortly be constructed. We can only say that anybody can have our seat.

* * *

Since _The Daily Express_ tirade against the officials of the Zoo visitors are requested not to go too near the Fellows.

* * *

"The French army," says the _Berliner Tageblatt_, "will soon be all over." It does not say what; but if our late enemy continues the violation of the Peace Treaty the missing word should be "Germany."

* * *

Birds, says _The Times_, are nesting in the plane-trees of Printing House Square. Some of the fledglings, we are informed, are already learning to whistle the familiar Northcliffe air, "LLOYD GEORGE Must Go," quite distinctly.

* * *

The National Portrait Gallery, occupied by the War Office since 1914, has just been reopened. The rumour that a Brigadier-General who had eluded all attempts to evacuate him was still hanging about disguised as a portrait of Mrs. SIDDONS attracted a large attendance.

* * *

The Corporation of Waterford has refused to recognise "Summer" time. One gathers that it is still the winter of their discontent down there.

* * *

Sinn Feiners are now asking for the abolition of the Royal Irish Constabulary, and it is feared that, unless their request is granted, they may resort to violence.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"Mrs. ---- Requires useful Ladies' Maid, for Bath and country; only ex-soldier or sailor need apply."--_Provincial Paper._

A job that will obviously need a man of proved courage.

* * * * *

WISDOM UP TO DATE--12TH EDITION.

[_The Times_ has announced, in two consecutive issues, that Mr. HUGH CHISHOLM has retired from the control of its financial columns in order to resume his editorship of the _Encyclopædia Britannica_. One seems here to catch a faint echo of the proprietary booming of the 10th Edition by _The Times_ and Mr. HOOPER. The present publishers are the Cambridge University Press.]

It is a common object of remark How many things in life are periodic, Some punctual (like the nesting of the lark, Or Derby-day), and others more spasmodic, Recurring loosely when the hour is ripe; And here I sing a sample of the latter type.

Nine years have coursed with their accustomed speed Since England hailed its previous apparition, Since every man and woman who could read, Wanting the nearest way to erudition, Bought as an ornament of her (or his) home The monumental masterpiece of Mr. CHISHOLM.

Much has occurred meanwhile of new and strange; _E.g._, in matters purely scientific Great Thinkers, eager to enlarge our range, Have (on the lethal side) been most prolific; Ten tomes would scarce contain what might be said on Their contributions to the recent Armageddon.

What wonder if the Editor forsakes The conduct of _The Times'_ financial pages? An even weightier task he undertakes Than to report on bullion; he engages To let us know, by 1922, All things (or more) that anybody ever knew.

Why should he care if Oil-cakes fall or jump? He has the Total Universe for oyster; Yankees may yield a point or Rubbers slump, Yet not for such things shall his eye grow moister, Save when, by force of habit, he admits "A heavy tendency to-day in Ency. Brits."

Could but _The Times_ revive its ancient part, Repeat its famous turn of dollar-scooping! O memories of the urgent boomster's art, And that persistent noise of HOOPER whooping, Down to the Last Chance and the Closing Door, And then the Absolutely Last, and then some more!

Those shrill appeals to get the Work TO-DAY (With the superb revolving fumed-oak garage)-- How well they followed up their fearful prey Till the massed thunders of the final barrage Such pressure on your tympanum would bring That you could bear no more, and _had_ to buy the thing.

O. S.

* * * * *

The Giant's Robe--Cheap.

"FOR SALE.--Superior Dress Suit, 37 chest, City made, silk facings and lining, worn twice, no further use, suitable for individual 7 ft. 8 in. Price 4 guineas."--_Local Paper._

* * * * *

"PAYING GUESTS WANTED--From 1st June, married couple with no children; also at once, single married lady or gentleman for three single rooms or one single married couple."--_Indian Paper._

To be in keeping with the inhabitants the house, no doubt, is "semi-detached."

* * * * *

"250 WORDS. TWO GUINEAS. THE YOUNG WIFE'S ALLOWANCE."

_Daily Paper._

The young husband who tries to get off for two guineas will find that the young wife regards two hundred and fifty words as entirely inadequate.

* * * * *

OUR SUPER-PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

The meagre and tantalizing report of Lord Northsquith's great journey through Spain and North Africa which has been issued through Reuter's agency has stimulated but not allayed curiosity. It is therefore with unfeigned pleasure that we are able to supplement this jejune summary with some absolutely authentic details supplied us by a Levantine detective of unimpeachable veracity who shadowed the party.

Of the journey through Spain he has little to say. Lord Northsquith attended a bull-fight at Seville, at which an extraordinary incident occurred. At the moment when the distinguished visitor entered the ring and was taking his seat in the Royal Box, the bull, a huge and remarkably ferocious animal, suddenly threw up its hind legs and, after pawing the air convulsively for a few seconds, fell dead on the spot. No reason could be assigned for this rash act, which caused a very painful impression, but it is a curious fact that it synchronized exactly with the issue of the special edition of the Seville evening _Tarántula_, with the placard "Strange behaviour (_extravagancia_) of the British Prime Minister."

At a subsequent interview with Count ROMANONES, Lord Northsquith was reluctantly obliged to confirm the statement that Mr. LLOYD GEORGE was still under the impression that the Spanish Alhambra was a late replica of a theatre in London, but begged him not to attach undue importance to the misapprehension.

The tour in Morocco was not attended by any specially untoward incidents, but at Marrakesh a group of Berbers evinced some hostility, which was promptly converted into effusive enthusiasm on their learning that Lord Northsquith was not of Welsh origin. Similar assurances were conveyed to the sardine-fishers of the coast, with beneficial results. The Pasha of Marrakesh expressed the hope that Lord Northsquith was not disappointed with the Morocco Atlas, and the illustrious stranger wittily rejoined, "No, but you should see my new morocco-bound _Times_ Atlas." When the remark was translated to the Pasha he laughed very courteously.

Always interested in the relics of the mighty past Lord Northsquith made a special trip to the East Algerian Highlands to visit Timgad, and spent several minutes in the _tepidarium_ of the Roman baths. It was understood from the expression of his features that he was profoundly impressed by the superiority of the arrangements over those contemplated by the Coalition Minister of Health in the new bath-houses to be erected in Limehouse.

Lastly the tour included a flying visit to Carthage. The French archæologists in charge of the excavations had recently dug up a colossal statue of HANNIBAL, and the resemblance to Lord Northsquith was so extraordinary that many of them were moved to transports of delight. They were however unanimous in their conviction that the deplorable state of the ruins was largely, if not entirely, due to Mr. LLOYD GEORGE'S ignorance of Phoenician geography.

* * * * *

A Startling Disclosure.

From "Answers to Correspondents" in a Canadian Paper:

"Q.--Is it not a fact, that all of Lipton's challengers were built stronger and heavier than the American cup defenders, to enable them to cross the Atlantic?--A. D. B., Montreal.

A.--Yes, they were built stronger as they had to cross the ocean under their own steam."

* * * * *

"Serious injuries were sustained by ----, aged 54, while assisting in discharging cargo. Shortly before one o'clock, it is stated, a cheese struck him and knocked him down."--_Provincial Paper._

We have always maintained that these dangerous creatures should not be allowed to run loose.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

LITTLE BITS OF LONDON.

THE HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT.

The guide-books have a good deal to say about the Houses of Parliament, but the people who write guide-books never go to the really amusing places and never know the really interesting things. For instance they have never yet explained what it is that the House of Commons smells of. I do not refer to the actual Chamber, which merely smells like the Tube, but the lofty passages and lobbies where the statues are. The smell, I think, is a mixture of cathedrals and soap. It is a baffling but rather seductive smell, and they tell me that the policemen miss it when they are transferred to point-duty. Possibly it is this smell which makes ex-Premiers want to go back there.

But let us have no cheap mockery of the Houses of Parliament, because there is a lot to be said for them. They are much the best houses for hide-and-seek I know. The parts which are dear to the public, the cathedral parts, are no good for that, but behind them and under them and all round them there are miles and miles of superb secret passages and back staircases, the very place for a wet afternoon. They are decorated like second-class waiting-rooms and lead to a lot of rooms like third-class waiting-rooms; and at every corner there is a policeman; but this only adds to the excitement. Besides, at any moment you may blunder into some very secret waiting-room labelled "Serjeant-at-Arms."

If you are seen by the SERJEANT-AT-ARMS you have lost the game, and if you are seen by a Lord of the Treasury I gather from the policemen that you would be put in the Tower. Or you may start light-heartedly from the Refreshment Department of the House of Commons and find yourself suddenly in the bowels of the House of Lords, probably in the very passage to the LORD CHANCELLOR'S Secretary's Room.

Still, there is no other way for Private Secretaries to take exercise and at the same time avoid their Members without actually leaving the building, so risks of that sort have to be faced.

While the Private Secretary is playing hide-and-seek in the passages and purlieus his Member waits for him in the Secretaries' Room. The Secretaries' Room is the real seat of legislation in this country, and it is surprising that Mr. BAGEHOT gave it no place in his account of the Constitution. It is also surprising, in view of its importance, that it should be such a dismal, ill-furnished and thoroughly mouldy room. It is a rotten room. Mr. ASQUITH, when a Private Secretary, is reported to have said of it, "In the whole course of my political career I can recall no case of administrative myopia at all parallel to the folly or ineptitude which has condemned the authors of legislation in His Majesty's Parliament to discharge their functions in this grotesque travesty of a legislative chamber, this sombre and obscure repository of mouldering archives and forgotten records, where the constructive statesmen of to-morrow are expected to shape their Utopias in an atmosphere of disillusion and decay, in surroundings appointed to be the shameful sepulchre of the nostrums of the past." If that is what Mr. ASQUITH said, I agree with him; if he didn't say it, I wish he had.

The room is pitch-dark always, and it is full of tables and tomes. The tables are waiting-room tables and the tomes are as Mr. ASQUITH has described them. It is divided into two by a swing-door. One part is the female Private Secretary part, the other is the male Private Secretary part, and it is lamentable to record that no romance has ever occurred between a male Private Secretary and a female one.

The room is plentifully supplied with House of Commons' stationery, which disappears at an astonishing rate. This is because the Members come in and remove it by the gross, knowing full well that the SERJEANT-AT-ARMS will suspect the Private Secretaries. It is a hard world.

However, this is where the Members come to their Private Secretaries for instructions. They come there nominally to dictate letters to their constituents, but really they come to be told what amendments to move and what questions to ask and what the Drainage Bill is about, and whether they ought to support the Dentist Qualification (Ireland) (No. 2) Bill, or not. It is awful to think that if the Private Secretaries downed tools the whole machinery of Parliament would stop. No questions would be asked and no amendments moved and no speeches made. The Government would have things all their own way. Unless, of course, the Government's Private Secretaries struck too. But of course the Government's Private Secretaries never would, the dirty blacklegs!

After the Secretaries' Room perhaps the most interesting thing in the two Houses is the House of Lords sitting as the Supreme Court. Everybody ought to see that. There is a nice old man sitting in the middle in plain clothes and several other nice old men in plain clothes sitting about on the benches, with little card-tables in front of them. Two or three of them have beards, which is against the best traditions of the Law. But they are very jolly old men, and now and then one of them sits up and moves his lips. You can see then that he is putting a sly question to the barrister who is talking at the counter, though you can't hear anything because they all whisper. While the barrister is answering, another old man wakes up and puts a sly question, so as to confuse the barrister. That is the game. The barrister who gets thoroughly annoyed first loses the case.

They have quite enough to annoy them already. They are all cooped up in a minute pen about eight feet square. There are eight of them, four K.C.'s and four underlings. They have nowhere to put their papers and nowhere to stretch their legs. They sit there getting cramp, or they stand at the counter talking to the old men. In either position they grow more and more annoyed. Four of them are famous men, earning thousands and thousands. Why do they endure it? Because lawyers, contrary to the common belief, are the most long-suffering profession in the world. That is why they are the only Trade Union whose members have only half-an-hour for lunch. Well, it is their funeral; but if I were a K.C. sitting in that pen, with the whole of the House of Lords empty in front of me, I should get over the counter and walk about. Then the LORD CHANCELLOR might have a fit; and that alone would make it worth while.

The only other interesting place in the Houses of Parliament is the Strangers' Dining Room. This is interesting because the Members there are all terrified lest you should hear what they are going to say. They never know who may be at the next table--a journalist or a Bolshevist or a landowner--and they talk with one eye permanently over their shoulder. It must be very painful.

But of course the best time to visit the House is when it is not sitting, because then, if you are lucky, you may sit with impunity on the Front Bench and put your feet up on the table. If you are unlucky you will be shot at dawn.

A. P. H.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"----'S BOOTS HAVE BEEN IN EVERYBODY'S MOUTH."

_Advt. in Local Paper._

We fear the advertiser has put his foot in it.

* * * * *

LABOUR AND THE RUSSIAN BALLET.

I wasn't present at the station when Madame PAVLOVA arrived in London, bringing with her, as I have been assured by six different newspapers, no fewer than three hundred and eighty-five pieces of luggage. But I have seen, thanks to Sir J. M. BARRIE, the transformation which a Russian _prima ballerina_ makes in an English country home, so I happen to know exactly what occurred. I think it deserves to be recorded. Very well then.

SCENE--_A Metropolitan railway terminus, though you wouldn't perhaps recognise it, because it looks a little like the interior of a Greek cathedral and a little like the fair at Nijni Novgorod, and the posters have obviously been painted by_ Mr. WYNDHAM LEWIS _or somebody like that. One porter is discovered leaning against an automatic sweet machine designed by an Expressionist sculptor. He is wearing a long mole-coloured smock, and looking with extreme disfavour at his luggage-truck, which has somehow got itself painted bright blue and green, with red wheels. Music by_ J. H. Thomaski.

[_Enter L., puffing slowly, the boat-train. The engine and carriages resemble Early-Victorian prints._ Madame PAVLOVA _descends, and in a very expressive dance conveys to the_ Porter _that she has one or two trunks in the guard's van which she wants him to convey to a taxicab_.

_Porter._ 'Ow many is there, lady?

[PAVLOVA _pirouettes a little more and points three hundred and eighty-five times at the station-roof with her right toe_.

_Porter._ Can't be done nohow.

[PAVLOVA _dances a dance indicative of absolute and heartrending despair, terminating in an appeal to the heavens to come to her aid. Enter R. an important-looking personage with a long white beard, wearing a costume which might be, called a commissionaire's if it wasn't so like a harlequin's._

_Porter_ (_impressively and with evident relief_). The Stazione Maestro!

_The Stazione Maestro._ What's all this?

[PAVLOVA _dances an explanation of the_ impasse. _The_ S.-M. _and the_ Porter _remove their caps and scratch their heads solemnly, to slow music_.

_The S.-M._ (_after deep cogitation_). This must be referred to the N.U.R.

[_Enter suddenly, R. and L., dancing, the Central Executive Committee of the N.U.R. There is thunder and lightning._ PAVLOVA _repeats her appeal. The_ C.E.C. _confabulate. The_ Chairman _finally announces that the thing is entirely contrary to the principles of their Union, and if the_ Station-master _permits it he must take the consequences. The_ C.E.C. _disappear_.

_The S.-M._ What about it, Bill?

_Porter._ We'll do it. (_He dances._) Here goes, Mum.

[_Enter, suddenly, chorus of porters with multi-coloured trucks. (They are the same as the_ C.E.C. _really, but they have changed their clothes.) Aided by the_ S.-M. _and_ Bill _they remove the three hundred and eighty-five packages, and wheel them, walking on their toes, to the station exit, R. Here is seen a taxicab whose driver is wrapped in profound meditation and smoking a hookah, the bowl of which rests on the pavement. It is represented to him that a lady with some luggage desires to charter his conveyance and proceed to Hampstead. He comes forward to the centre and explains:_

_1. That it is near the dinner-hour._

_2. That he has no petrol._

_3. That he wouldn't do it for_ LLOYD GEORGE _hisself_.