Chapter 1

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOL. 153

NOVEMBER 28, 1917

CHARIVARIA.

"How the Germans never got wind of it," writes a correspondent of the British attack on the HINDENBURG line, "is a mystery." The failure of certain M.P.'s to ask questions about it in Parliament beforehand may have had something to do with it.

***

An order has been promulgated fixing the composition of horse chaff. The approach of the pantomime season is thought to be responsible for it.

***

"We are particularly anxious," writes the Ministry of Food, "that Christmas plum-puddings should not be kept for any length of time." A Young Patriots' League has been formed, we understand, whose members are bent on carrying out Lord RHONDDA'S wishes at any cost to their parents.

***

Another birthplace of ST. GEORGE has been captured in Palestine. It is now definitely established that the sainted warrior's habit of trying to carry-on in two places at the same time was the subject of much adverse criticism by the military experts of the period.

***

A Camberley man charged with deserting the Navy and joining the Army explained that he was tired of waiting for TIRPITZ to come out. We are informed that Commander CARLYON BELLAIRS, M.P., and Admiral W.H. HENDERSON have been asked to enlighten the poor fellow as to the true state of affairs.

***

A skull of the Bronze Age has been found on Salisbury Plain. Several hats of the brass age have also been seen in the vicinity.

***

Imports of ostrich feathers have fallen from £33,000 in 1915 to £182 in 1917. Ostrich farmers, it appears, are on the verge of ruin as the result of their inability to obtain scissors and other suitable foodstuffs for the birds.

***

"Measures are being taken to check pacifists," says Sir GEORGE CAVE. Prison-yard measures, we hope.

***

A Stoke Newington constable has discovered a happy method of taking people's minds off their food troubles. During the last month he has served fifty of them with dog-summonses.

***

Five hundred pounds have been sent to the CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER by an anonymous donor. It is thought that the man is concealing his identity to avoid being made a baronet.

***

"What is the use of corporations if they can do nothing useful?" asks Councillor STOCK, of Margate. It is an alluring topic, but a patriotic Press has decided that it must be postponed in favour of the War.

***

During trench-digging on Salisbury Plain the skeleton of a young man, apparently buried about the year 600 B.C., was unearthed. The skull was partially fractured, evidently by a battle-axe. Foul play is suspected.

***

Sugar was sold for half-a-guinea a pound at a charity sale in the South of England, and local grocers are complaining bitterly of unfair competition.

***

A contemporary points out that there is a soldier in the North Staffordshire Regiment whose name is DOUGLAS HAIG. Riots are reported in Germany.

***

"Can Fish Smell?" asks a weekly paper headline. We can only say that in our experience they sometimes do, especially on a Monday.

***

An employer pleading for an applicant before the Egham Tribunal stated that he had an oil-engine which nobody else would go near. We cannot help thinking that much might be done with a little tact, such as going up to the engine quietly and stroking its face, or even making a noise like a piece of oily waste.

***

Germany's new Hymn of Hate has been published. To give greater effect to the thing and make it more fearful, Germans who contemplate singing it are requested to grow side-whiskers.

***

It is rumoured that since his recent tirade at York against newspapers Dr. LYTTELTON has been made an Honorary Member of the Society of Correctors of the Press.

***

_The Evening News_ informs us that Mr. HENRY WHITE, a grave-digger of Hellingly, has just dug his thousandth grave. Congratulations to our contemporary upon being the first to spread the joyful news.

***

Unfortunately, says _The Daily Mail_, Lord NORTHCLIFFE cannot be in four places at once. Pending a direct contradiction from the new Viscount himself, we can only counsel the country to bear this announcement with fortitude.

***

Only the other day _The Daily Chronicle_ referred to the Premier as "Mr. George," just as if it had always been a penny paper.

***

The rush to a certain Northern suburb has died down. The rumour that there was a polite grocer there turns out to be cruelly at variance with the facts.

* * * * *

* * * * *

ANOTHER SEX-PROBLEM.

"Plaintiff was the daughter of an officer in the Royal Irish Constabulary, and was a grand-nephew of Dr. Abernethy, the famous surgeon."--_Evening Paper_.

* * * * *

From a recent novel:--

"His face was of the good oatmeal type, and grew upon one."

Useful in these days of rations.

* * * * * From _The New Statesman's_ comment on Mr. LLOYD GEORGE'S Paris speech.

"He does try to be Biblical sometimes. In the Paris speech he used the unnatural word 'yea' twice. Each time it gave one shudders down the back."

No doubt next time, in view of our obligations to U.S.A., the PRIME MINISTER will say "Yep."

* * * * *

THE VICTORY.

[_For J.B., with the author's affectionate pride._]

HINDENBURG TO MACKENSEN.

Dear MAC, in that prodigious thrust In which your valiant legions vie With HANNIBAL'S renown, I trust You go a shade more strong than I; Lately I've lost a lot of scalps, Which is a dem'd unpleasant thing; You may enjoy the Julian Alps-- I do not like this JULIAN BYNG.

I find him full of crafty pranks: Without the usual warning fire He loosed his beastly rows of tanks And sent 'em wallowing through my wire; For days and days he kept the lid Hard down upon his low designs, Then simply walked across and did Just what he liked with all my lines.

The fellow doesn't keep the rules; Experts (I'm one myself) advise That in trench-warfare even fools Cannot be taken by surprise; It isn't done; and yet he came With never a previous "Are you there?" And caught me--this is not the game-- Bending my thoughtful gaze elsewhere.

_Later_.--My route is toward the rear. Where I shall stand and stop the rot Lord only knows; and now I hear Your forward pace is none too hot; Indeed, with BYNG upon the burst, If at this rate I make for home, I doubt not who will get there first, I to the Rhine, or you to Rome.

O.S.

* * * * *

THE LITERARY ADVISER.

No, he does not appear in the _Gazette_. War establishments know him not and his appointment throws no additional labour upon the staff of Messrs. COX AND CO. Unofficially he is known as O.C. Split Infinitives. His duties are to see that the standard of literary excellence, which makes the correspondence of the Corps a pleasure to receive, is maintained at the high level set by the Corps Commander himself. Indeed the velvety quality of our prose is the envy of all other formations.

Apart from duties wholly literary, he is also O.C. Code Names. The stock-in-trade for this skilled labour is an H.B. pencil and a Webster Dictionary. The routine is simplicity itself. As soon as anybody informs him of a new arrival in the area he fishes out the dictionary, plays Tit-Tat-Toe with the H.B., writes out the word that it lands upon at the end of his rhyme, and, hey presto! there is another day's work done.

But one day, for the sake of greater secrecy, it became necessary to rename all the units of the area, and the Literary Adviser suddenly found himself put to it to provide about three hundred new Code Names at once. Heroically he set to work with his dictionary, his H.B. pencil, and his little rhyme. For two days the Resplendent Ones in the General Staff Office bore patiently with the muttering madman in the corner. For two days he fluttered the leaves of his dictionary and whispered hoarsely to himself, "Tit-tat-toe, my-first-go, three-jolly-nigger-boys-all-in-a-_row_," picking out word after word with unerring accuracy until the dictionary was a waste of punctures and three generations of H.B.'s had passed away. Before the second day was out the jingle had done its dreadful work. It was as much as the clerks could do to avoid keeping step with it. The climax came when the Senior Resplendent One, looking down at the telegram he was writing, found to his horror that he had written, "Situation quiet Tit-Tat-Toe. Hostile artillery activity normal Tit-Tat-Toe," and so on, substituting this abomination in place of the official stop, ("Ack-Ack-Ack") throughout.

It was enough. Still gibbering, the Literary Adviser was hurled forth from the office and told to work his witchcraft in solitude.

Paler, thinner and older by years he emerged from his retirement triumphant, and the new code names went forth to a flourish of trumpets or rather of the hooters of the despatch-riders.

Then it began. For days he was subjected to rigorous criticisms of his selection. "Signals" tripped him up first by pointing out two units with the same name, and they also went on to point out that the word was spelt "cable" in the first instance and "cabal" in the second. The gunners, working in groups, complained bitterly that a babel had arisen through the similarity of the words allotted to their groups. One infuriated battery commander said it was as much as he could do to get anyone else on the telephone but himself.

Touched to the quick by criticism (when was it ever otherwise amongst his kind?) the Adviser set aside his real work (he was, of course, writing a book about the War) and applied himself to, the task of straightening the tangle. Obviously the ideal combination would be for each unit to have a code name that nobody could mistake no matter how badly it was pronounced. And to this ideal he applied himself. Often, on fine afternoons, the serenity of the country-side was disturbed by the voice of one crying in the wilderness, "Soap--Silk--Salvage--Sympathy," to see if any dangerous similarity existed. At dinner a glaze would suddenly come over his eyes, his lips would move involuntarily and mutter, as he gazed into vacancy, "Mustard--Mutton--Meat--Muffin."

Histrionic effort played no small part in these attempts and led to a good deal of misunderstanding, for he felt it incumbent on him to try his codes in every possible dialect. Instead of the usual cheery "Good morning," a major of a famous Highland regiment was scandalised by an elderly subaltern blethering out, "Cannibal--Custard--Claymore--Caramel," in an abominable Scotch accent. Another day (on receipt of written orders) he was compelled to visit the line to see if things had been built as reported, or, if it was just optimism again. Half-an-hour later a sentry brought him down the trench at the point of the bayonet for muttering as he rounded the traverse, "Galoot--Gunning--Grumble--Grumpy," in pseudo-Wessex. Naturally, to Native Yorkshire this sounded like pure Bosch.

Ah! but he won through in the end. The man who has stood five years of unsuccessful story-writing for magazines is not the kind to let himself be beaten easily. There could be no doubt of the final result. When the revised list was issued the response to the inquiry, "Hullo, is that Sink?" was met by a "No, this is Smack," that crashed through the thickest intellect.

But vaulting ambition had o'erleapt itself. As a covering note to the new issue he had put up the following letter:--

"Ref. G K etc., etc., of 10th inst. On November 3rd all previous issues of Code Names will be cancelled in favour of the more euphonious nomenclature which is forwarded herewith."

A shriek of joy echoed through the corps. "Euphonious!" What a word! What a discovery in a foreign country! The joy of the signal operators, on whom something of the spirit of the old-time bus-drivers has descended, was indescribable. You had only to pick up the receiver at any time and the still small voices of the busy signal world could be heard chortling, "Hullo-oo? Hullo, Euphonious! How's your father? Yes, give me Crump." Or, "No, I can't get the General; he's left his euphonious receiver off."

Poor Euphonious (he has never been called by anything else since)--they have threatened to make him O.C. Recreations for Troops.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

PARS WITH A PUNCH.

ALL THE REAL NEWS ABOUT MEN, WOMEN AND THINGS.

BY OUR RAMBLING GOSSIP.

_(With acknowledgments to some of our contemporaries.)_

_A Long-Felt Want._

The opening, next week, of a Training School for Bus and Tube Travellers will, it is hoped, supply a long-felt want in the Metropolis. I understand that a month's course at the establishment will enable the feeblest of mortals to hold his own and more in the fearful mêlée that rages daily round train and vehicle. I have a prospectus before me as I write; here are some of its sub-heads: "The Strap-Hanger's Stranglehold," "Foot Frightfulness," "How to Enter a Bus Secretly," "The Umbrella Barrage," "Explosives--When their Use is Justified," "What to do when the Conductor Falls off the Bus." This certainly promises a speedy amelioration of present-day travelling conditions.

_Timbuctoo Tosh_.

Last week, when all those ridiculous rumours anent Timbuctoo were flying about, you will remember how I warned you to set no faith in them. You will admit that I was a good counsellor. Nothing _has_ happened at Timbuctoo. I doubt very much whether anything _could_ happen there.

_Hush!_

On the other hand, keep your eye on a spot not a thousand miles away from Clubland. Something will certainly happen there some day, and, when it does, bear in mind that I warned you.

_Amazing Discovery._

Mr. ROOSEVELT'S discovery that, unknown to himself, he has been blind in one eye for over a year, is surely surpassed by the experience of Mr. Caractacus Crowsfeet, the popular M.P. for Slushington, who has just learnt, as the result of a cerebral operation, that he possesses no brain whatever. "It is indeed remarkable," said Mr. C. to me the other day, "for I can truthfully assert that in all my arduous political labours of the past ten years I have never felt the need or even noticed the absence of this organ." He coughed modestly. "I have always maintained that in politics it is the man, not the mind, that counts."

_She Has One!_

Mrs. Zebulon Napthaliski proposes to spend the winter on her Brighton estate. "Yes--I _have_ received my sugar card," she told me, in answer to my eager query. "More than that I cannot say."

_Fare and Foliage._

That charming fashion of decorating the dinner-table with foliage will be all the rage this winter. Well-known London hostesses, basket on arm, may daily be seen in Mayfair garnering fallen leaves from lawn, path or roadside. Some very daring Society women are dispensing altogether with a cloth, the table being covered with a complete layer of leaves. I doubt, however, whether this will become popular, guests showing a tendency to mislay their knives and forks in the foliage.

_A Bon Mot._

Have you heard the latest _bon mot_ that is going the round of the clubs? Mrs. Savory Beet, of Pacifist fame, has, as you will recall, announced her intention of taking up war work. "Ah!" was the comment of a cynical bachelor, "it was a case of her taking up something or being taken up herself!" His audience simply screamed with laughter.

* * * * *

_Watch Out!_

Don't be surprised if you hear of some sensational political developments in the near future. The Minister who said recently that the inevitable sequel to war was peace, was, in the opinion of those competent to judge but, by reason of their official position, unable to criticise, hinting at proposals which, if the signs and portents of the time go for anything, would have far-reaching effects on the question of Electoral Representation. I will say no more. Time alone will disclose my meaning.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OMINOUS.

"----went every morning to a firm of sausage-makers by whom he was employed as a horse-dealer."--_Irish Paper_.

* * * * *

"Rome, Saturday.

"The announcement is made to-day of the award by the King [of Italy] of gold medals to Lieutenant Giuseppe Castruccio and I sentence him to three months' hard."--_Manchester Evening Chronicle_.

When will British journalists learn not to interfere with the internal affairs of friendly nations?

* * * * *

THE LAST MATCH.

This is the last, the very, very last. Its gay companions, who so snugly lay Within the corners of their fragile home, All, all are lightly fled and surely gone; And their survivor lingers in his pride, The last of all the matches in the house; For Mr. Siftings says he has no more, And Siftings is an honourable man, And would not state a fact that was not so. For now he has himself to do without The flaming boon of matches, having none, And cannot furnish us as he desires, Being a grocer and the best of men, But murmurs vaguely of a future week When matches shall be numerous again As leaves in Vallombrosa and as cheap. Blinks, the tobacconist, he too is spent With weary waiting in a matchless land; What Siftings cannot get cannot be got By men like Blinks, that young tobacconist, Who tried with all a patriot's fiery zeal To join the Army, but was sent away For varicose and too protuberant veins; And being foiled of all his high intent Now minds the shop and is a Volunteer, Drilling on Sundays with the rest of them; He too, amid his hoards of cigarettes, Is void of matches as he's full of veins. So here's a good match in a naughty world, And what to do with it I do not know, Save that somehow, when all the place is still, It shall explode and spurt and flame and burn Slowly away, not having thus achieved The lighting of a pipe or any act Of usefulness, but having spent itself In lonely grandeur as befits the last Of all the varied matches I have known.

* * * * *

OUR SAMSONS.

"Wanted at once.--Reliable Man for carrying off motor lorry."--_Clitheroe Advertiser_.

* * * * *

"To-day the man possesses a second tumb, serviceable for all ordinary purposes."--_Belfast Evening Telegraph_.

In these days of restricted rations it seems a superflous luxury.

* * * * *

"Diamond Brooch, 15 cwt., set with three blue white diamonds; make a handsome present; £9 9s."--_Derby Daily Telegraph_.

It seems a lot for the money; but personally we would sooner have the same weight of coals.

* * * * *

THE WAY DOWN.

SYDNEY SMITH, or NAPOLEON or MARCUS AURELIUS (somebody about that time) said that after ten days any letter would answer itself. You see what he meant. Left to itself your invitation from the Duchess to lunch next Tuesday is no longer a matter to worry about by Wednesday morning. You were either there or not there; it is unnecessary to write now and say that a previous invitation from the PRIME MINISTER--and so on. It was NAPOLEON'S idea (or Dr. JOHNSON'S or MARK ANTONY'S--one of that circle) that all correspondence can be treated in this manner.

I have followed these early Masters (or whichever one it was) to the best of my ability. At any given moment in the last few years there have been ten letters that I absolutely _must_ write, thirty which I _ought_ to write, and fifty which any other person in my position _would_ have written. Probably I have written two. After all, when your profession is writing, you have some excuse on returning home in the evenings for demanding a change of occupation. No doubt if I were a coal-heaver by day, my wife would see to the fire after dinner while I wrote letters. As it is, she does the correspondence, while I gaze into the fire and think about things.

You will say, no doubt, that this was all very well before the War, but that in the Army a little writing would be a pleasant change after the day's duties. Allow me to disillusion you. If, three years ago, I ever conceived a glorious future in which my autograph might be of value to the more promiscuous collectors, that conception has now been shattered. Three years in the Army has absolutely spoilt the market. Even were I revered in the year 2,000 A.D. as SHAKSPEARE is revered now, my half-million autographs, scattered so lavishly on charge-sheets, passes, chits, requisitions, indents and applications would keep the price at a dead level of about ten a penny. No, I have had enough of writing in the Army and I never want to sign my own name again. "Yours sincerely, HERBERT ASQUITH," "Faithfully yours, J. JELLICOE"--these by all means; but not my own.

However, I wrote a letter the other day; it was to the bank. It informed them that I had arrived in London for a time and should be troubling them again shortly, London being to all appearances an expensive place. It also called attention to my new address--a small furnished flat in which Celia and I can just turn round if we do it separately. When it was written, there came the question of posting it. I was all for waiting till the next morning, but Celia explained that there was actually a letter-box on our own floor, twenty yards down the passage. I took the letter along and dropped it into the slit.

Then a wonderful thing happened. It went

_Flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty- flipperty-flipperty-flipperty--FLOP._

I listened intently, hoping for more ... but that was all. Deeply disappointed that it was over, but absolutely thrilled with my discovery, I hurried back to Celia.

"Any letters you want posted?" I said in an off-hand way.

"No, thank you," she said.

"Have you written any while we've been here?"

"I don't think I've had anything to write."

"I think," I said reproachfully, "it's quite time you wrote to your--your bank or your mother or somebody."

She looked at me and seemed to be struggling for words.

"I know exactly what you're going to say," I said, "but don't say it; write a little letter instead."

"Well, as a matter of fact I _must_ just write a note to the laundress."

"To the laundress," I said. "Of course, just a note."

When it was written I insisted on her coming with me to post it. With great generosity I allowed her to place it in the slit. A delightful thing happened. It went

_Flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty- flipperty-flipperty-flipperty--FLOP._

Right down to the letter-box in the hall. Two flipperties a floor. (A simple calculation shows that we are perched on the fifth floor. I am glad now that we live so high. It must be very dull to be on the fourth floor with only eight flipperties, unbearable to be on the first with only two.)

"_O-oh!_ How _fas_-cinating!" said Celia.

"Now don't you think you ought to write to your mother?"

"Oh, I _must_."

She wrote. We posted it. It went