Chapter 1

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOL. 156

MARCH 19, 1919

CHARIVARIA.

President WILSON is stated to have played several keen games of "shuffle-board" on the _George Washington_. As it is an open secret that Lord ROBERT CECIL has been polishing up his "shove-halfpenny" in the billiard-room of the Hotel Majestic interesting developments are anticipated.

***

Primroses, daisies and wallflowers are in full bloom in many parts of the country and young lambs may now be seen frisking in the meadows. Can the POET LAUREATE be waiting for someone to get sun-stroke?

***

The Commission on the Responsibilities and Crimes of the War have not yet decided that the ex-Kaiser is guilty. At the same time it is said that they have an idea that he knew something about it.

***

At a Belfast football match last week the winning team, the police and the referee were mobbed by the partisans of the losing side. Local sportsmen condemn the attack on the winning team as a dangerous innovation.

***

The L.C.C. is training munition girls to be cooks. We understand that the velocity and range will be clearly stamped on the bottom of all pork-pies.

***

A Stromness fisherman, on opening a halibut, found a large cormorant in its stomach. Cormorants, of course, are not fastidious birds. They don't mind where they nest.

***

The eclipse of the sun on May 28th should be a great success, if we may judge by the immense time it has taken over rehearsals.

***

Inspector J.G. OGHAM, chief of the Portsmouth Fire Brigade, who is about to retire, has attended over two thousand fires. Indeed it is said that most of the local fires know him by sight.

***

"Ghost stories," says a contemporary, "are being spread about vacant houses in Dublin to decrease the demand for them." The old caretaker's trick of training a couple of cockroaches to jump out at the house-hunter is quite useless to-day.

***

Hull merchants complain that only one train leaves Hull per day on which wet fish can travel. The idea of bringing the fish to Billingsgate under their own steam has already been ventilated.

***

Found insensible with a bottle of sherry in his pocket, an East Ham labourer was fined ten shillings for being drunk. It is believed that had he been carrying the sherry anywhere else nothing could have saved him.

***

An absconding Trade Society treasurer last week hit upon a novel idea. He ran away with his own wife.

***

"Is nothing going to be done to stop the incursion of the sea at Walton-on-the-Naze?" asks a contemporary. Have they tried the effect of placing notice-boards along the front?

***

For the first time the public have been admitted to a meeting of the Beckenham Council. It is pleasant to find that the importance of good wholesome entertainment is not being lost sight of in some places.

***

Asked by the Wood Green magistrates for the names of his six children, a defendant said that he did not know them. It is a good plan for a man to get his wife to introduce him to the children.

***

It appears that a certain gentleman has managed to overcome the domestic servant problem. He has married one.

***

A Salford man giving evidence in a local court told the magistrates that his wife had repeatedly stuck pins into him. There is no excuse for such conduct, even with pin-cushions at their present inflated price.

***

No one seemed to take the rat-plague very seriously in the Isle of Wight until last week, when several rodents were discovered at the Seaplane Station at Bembridge busily engaged in trying on the pilots' flying coats.

***

It is only fair to remark that, although the Government has recently been found guilty of profiteering, they have never during the War raised the price: of their ten-shilling notes.

***

Much difficulty is being experienced by the Allies in deciding what. to do with the German Fleet. Curiously enough this is the very dilemma that the Germans were faced with during most of the War.

***

We hear that the officials at Lincoln prison are much impressed by the cleverness of DE VALERA'S escape and are anxious to present him with an illuminated address, but unfortunately they do not know it at present.

***

A scientific organ points out that in deciding the fate of Heligoland it should not be forgotten that it was once a valuable ornithological observation station. The almost extinct _Pavo Potsdamicus,_ if we remember correctly, was an occasional visitor to the island.

***

Congress, says a Washington message, is anxious to get back to domestic business. It does not say whose.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"'Easter and Peace will coincide,' declared a member of the Council of Ten to the Central News correspondent in Paris."

"Easter Day this year is on April 20--less than six hours hence."--_Evening Paper, March 12th._

How some of our journalists do jump to conclusions!

* * * * *

THE MUD LARKS.

Yesterday morning, a freckled child, dripping oil and perspiration and clad in a sort of canvas dressing-gown, stumbled into "Remounts" (or "Demounts," as we should more properly call ourselves nowadays) and presented me with a slip of paper which entitled him, the bearer, to immediate demobilisation on pivotal grounds. I handed it back to him, explaining that he had come to the wrong shop--unless he were a horse, of course. If he were and could provide his own nosebag, head-stall and Army Form 1640, testifying that he was guiltless of mange, ophthalmia or epizootic lymphangitis, I would do what I could for him.

He stared at me for a moment, then at the slip, then, murmuring something about the mistake being his, began to feel in the numerous pouches of his dressing-gown, bringing to light the following items:--

(1) A. spanner.

(2) Some attenuated cigarettes.

(3) A picture-postcard fashioned in silk, with tropical birds and flowers, clasped hands, crossed Union Jacks and the legend "TRUE LOVE" embroidered thereon.

(4) A handful of cotton waste.

(5) Some brandy-balls.

(6) An oil-can.

(7) The ace of spades.

(8) The portrait (tin-type) of a lady, inscribed "With kind regards from Lizzie."

(9) A stick of chewing gum.

(10) A mouse (defunct).

(11) A second slip of paper.

He grunted with satisfaction, replaced his treasures carefully in the pouches and handed the last-named item to me. It read to the effect that both he and his car were at my disposal for the day. I wriggled into a coat and followed him out to where his chariot awaited us.

I never pretended to be a judge of motor vehicles, but it does not need an expert to detect a Drift when he sees one; they have a leggy, herring-gutted appearance all their own. Where it was not dented in it bulged out; most of those little knick-knacks that really nice cars have were missing, and its complexion had peeled off in erratic designs such as Royal Academicians used to smear on transports to make U-Boaters imagine they were seeing things they shouldn't and lead better lives.

I did not like the looks of the thing from the first, and my early impressions did not improve when, as we bumped off the drive on to the _pavé_, the screen suddenly detached itself from its perch and flopped into our laps.

However, the car put in some fast work between our château gates and the _estaminet_ of the "Rising Sun" (a distance of fully two hundred yards), and my hopes soared several points. From the _estaminet_ of the "Rising Sun" to the village of Bailleul-aux-Hondains the road wriggles down-hill in two sharp hair-pin bends. The car flung itself over the edge of the hill and plunged headlong for the first of these.

"Put on the brakes!" I shouted.

The child did some kicking and hauling with his feet and hands which made no impression whatever on the car.

"Put on the brakes, damme!" I yelled.

The child rolled the whites of his eyes towards me and announced briefly, "Brake's broke."

I looked about for a soft place to jump. There was none; only rock-plated highway whizzing past.

We took the first bend with the nearside wheels in the gutter, the off-side wheels on the bank, the car tilted at an angle of forty-five degrees. The second bend we navigated at an angle of sixty degrees, the off-side wheels on the bank, the near-side wheels pawing thin air.

Had there been another bend we should have accomplished it upside down. Fortunately there were no more; but there remained the village street. We pounced on it like a tiger upon its prey.

"Blow your horn!" I screamed to the child.

"Bulb's bust," said he shortly, and exhibited the instrument, its squeeze missing.

I have one accomplishment--only one--acquired at the tender age of eleven at the price of relentless practice and a half-share in a ferret. I can whistle on my fingers. Sweeping into that unsuspecting hamlet I remembered this lone accomplishment of mine, plunged two fingers into my cheeks and emptied my chest through them.

"Honk, honk," blasted something in my ear and, glancing round, I saw that the child had swallowed the bulbless end of his horn and was using it bugle-wise.

Thus, shrilling and honking, we swooped through Bailleul-aux-Hondains, zig-zagging from kerb to kerb. A speckly cock and his platoon of hens were out in midstream, souvenir-hunting. We took them in the rear before they had time to deploy and sent a cloud of fluff-_fricassée_ sky-high. A Tommy was passing the time o' day with the Hebe of the Hotel des Trois Enfants, his mules contentedly browsing the straw frost-packing off the town water supply. The off-donkey felt the hot breath of the car on his hocks and gained the _salle-à-manger_ (_viâ_ the window) in one bound, taking master and mate along with him.

The great-great-granddam of the hamlet was tottering across to the undertakers to have her coffin tried on, when my frantic whistling and the bray of the bugle-horn pierced the deafness of a century. With a loud creaking of hinges she turned her head, summed up the situation at a glance and, casting off half-a-dozen decades "like raiment laid apart," sprang for the side-walk with the agility of an infant gazelle. We missed her by half-an-inch and she had nobody but herself to thank.

Against a short incline, just beyond the stricken village, the car came to a standstill of its own accord, panting brokenly, quivering in every limb.

"She's red-'ot," said the child, and I believed him.

From the kettle arrangement in the bows came the sound of hot water singing merrily, while from the spout steam issued hissing. The tin trunk, in which lurks the clockwork, emitted dense volumes of petrol-perfumed smoke from every chink. The child climbed across me and, dropping overboard, opened the lid and crawled inside. I lit a pipe and perused the current "_La Vie Parisienne_."

The clockwork roared and raged and exploded with the sharp detonations of a machine-gun. Sounds of violent coughing and tinkering came from the bowels of the trunk, telling that the child was still alive and busy. Presently he emerged to breathe and wipe the oil off his nose.

"Cylinder missin'," he announced.

I was not in the least surprised. "Probably dropped off round that last bend," said I. "Very nearly did myself. How many have we got left?"

He gaped, muttered something incoherent and plunged back into the trunk. The noise of coughing and tinkering redoubled. The smoke enveloped us in an evil-smelling fog.

"Think she'll go now," said the child, emerging once more. He climbed back over me, grasped the helm and jerked a lever. The car gave a dreadful shudder, but there was no other movement.

"What's the matter now?" I asked after he had made another trip to the bows.

He informed me that the car had moulted its winding handle.

"You'll 'ave ter push 'er till the engine starts, Sir," said he.

"Oh, will I? And what will you be doing, pray?" I inquired. He replied that he was proposing to sit inside and watch events, steer, work the clutch, and so on.

"That sounds very jolly," said I. "All right; hop up and hold your hat on." I went round to the stern, set my back against it and hove--there seemed nothing else for it. Five hundred yards further on I stopped heaving and interviewed the passenger. He was very hopeful. The engine had given a few reassuring coughs, he said, and presently would resume business, he felt convinced. Just a few more heaves, please.

I doffed my British warm and returned to the job. A quarter of an hour later we had another talk. All was well. The engine had suffered a regular spasm of coughing and one back-fire, so the child informed me. In half a jiffy we should be off.

I shed my collar, tie and tunic and bent again to the task. At Notre Dame de la Belle Espérance we parleyed once more. He was most enthusiastic. Said a few kind words about the good work I was doing round at the back and thought everything was going perfectly splendidly. The car's cough was developing every minute and there had been two back-fires. All the omens were propitious. A couple of short sharp shoves would do it. Courage, brave heart!

I reduced my attire to boots and underclothing, and toiled through Belle Espérance, the curs of the village nibbling my calves, the children shrilling to their mammas to come and see the strong man from the circus.

At Quatre Vents the brave heart broke.

"Look here," said I to the protesting child, "if you imagine I'm going to push you all the way to Arras you're 'straying in the realms of fancy,' as the poet says. Because I'm not. Just you hop out and do your bit, me lad. It's my turn to ride."

In vain did he argue that I was not schooled in the mysteries of either steering or clutching. Assuring him that I precious soon would be, I dragged him from his perch and took station at the helm. Sulkily he betook himself to the stern of the vehicle, and presently it began to move. Slowly at first, then faster and faster. I suddenly perceived the reason of this. We were going down-hill again, a steep hill at that, with wicked hair-pin bends in it.

The engine began to cough, the cough became chronic, developing into a galloping consumption.

"Brakes!" thought I (forgetting they were out of action), and wrenched at a handle which was offering itself. The car jumped off the mark like a hunter at a hurdle, jumped clear away from the child (who sat down abruptly on the _pavé_) and bolted down-hill all out. I glimpsed the low parapet of the bend rushing towards me, an absurdly inadequate parapet, with the silvery gleam of much cold water beyond it.

I have not preserved my life (often at infinite risk) through four and a-half years of high-pressure warfare to be mauled to death by a tin car at the finish. Not I. I got out. As I trundled into the gutter I saw the car take the parapet in its stride, describe a graceful curve in the blue, and plunge downwards out of sight. The child and I reached the parapet together and peered over. Seventy feet below us the waters of the river spouted for a moment as with the force of some violent submarine explosion and then subsided. A patch of oil came floating to the surface, accompanied by my breeches and British warm.

The child looked at me, his eyes goggling with horror. "They won't 'alf fry my liver for this, they won't, not 'alf," he gasped huskily.

I laid a kindly hand upon his shoulder. "Not they, my lad; I'll see to that. Listen. You have that slip entitling you to immediate demobilisation?" He nodded, wondering. "Then demobilise yourself _now_, at once, instantly!" I cried. "Run like blazes to Calais, Boulogne, Havre, Marseilles--anywhere you like; only run, you little devil, run!"

"But you, Sir?" he stuttered.

"Oh, don't worry about me," I smiled; "I shall be _quite_ all right. I'm going to lay all the blame on you."

He shot one scared glance, at me, then, picking up the skirts of his dressing-gown, scampered off down the road as fast as his ammunition boots would let him, never looking back.

PATLANDER.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

COMMERCIAL CANDOUR.

"They were manufacturers of aeroplanes--in their opinion the best aeroplanes in the world and the most suited for commercial lying."--_Provincial Paper_. * * * * *

"A hospital nurse interrupted evidence given in Portuguese at Thames Police Court on Saturday."--_Provincial Paper._

Very rude of her.

* * * * *

"An experimental air service for Army mails only was begun a few days ago between Folkestone and Boulogne, with intermediate points in Belgium, said Mr. Illingworth, Postmaster-General."--_Daily Chronicle._

"We are a long way yet from the mastery of the air. Out of fifteen days the Prime Minister's Paris postbag, which it had been arranged should be sent 'via aloft,' had to go by the old land and water route in fourteen days."--_Daily Mirror_.

Even that, we suppose, was quicker than to send it by the circuitous air-route _viâ_ Belgium.

* * * * *

"Section-Commander ----, who has had charge of the ---- Special Constabulary since their inception, has been presented by the members with a Sheraton clock at a wind-up dinner."--_Local Paper_.

It was, of course, the clock that had the wind up, not the Section-Commander.

* * * * *

"FOREIGN DIPLOMATS TAKE TO PRESIDENT. His Ability in Dealing with Them Exceeds the Most Sanguinary Expectations."--_New York Times_.

We shall have to revise our conception of Mr. WILSON as a man of peace.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE PATRIOT'S REWARD.

Narcissus, in that fateful hour When Britain's belt was tightly buckled Against the prowling U-boat's power, Thou earnest to us newly suckled; And oh! if interest ties the knot That binds us to our fellow-creatures, Be sure we loved thee on the spot, My pigling with the pensive features.

No niggard hand it was that found Thy punctual fare, nor short the measure Of garbage brought from miles around And meal that cost its weight in treasure; But ever as the U-boat u'd And lunch grew relatively lighter We filled thee up with wholesome food And watched thy tensile skin grow tighter.

Artless as is the wanton faun And agile as the Hooluck gibbon, The children "walked" thee on the lawn, Tied with a bow of orange ribbon; And aye as irksomer grew the task Of fending off the Hun garotters In our mind's eye--if you must ask-- We ate thee up from tail to trotters.

But Fate, as oft, declined to pour Our cup of grief till it was quite full; You scarce had turned your seventh score When straightway Fritz became less frightful; And argosies came home to port As safe as though some inland lake on, Laden from keel to groaning thwart With tender ham and toothsome bacon.

No need, old sport, to slay thee now, Yet in our hearts the thought we'll cherish That for our sakes, Narcissus, thou, So young, so fair, wast like to perish; And, as the years of Peace go by And war becomes a fireside story, "Thank Heaven," we'll cry, "thou didst not die, But lived to reap the fruits of glory;

"Assimilating in repose Thy fragrant fare of tops and peelings, Or making all the garden close Echo with-pregustative squealings, Or basking, when the sun is high, Within thy chamber's cool recesses While some fair child with practised eye Combs with a rake thy tangled tresses."

And ever, as new twilights burn Low, and our offspring, loudly yelling, Hurry the well-heaped votive urn To thy obscure but ample dwelling, "Ready at need thou wast to give Thy life," they'll say, "that want might miss us, For ever, therefore, shalt thou live With us and be our love, Narcissus."

ALGOL.

* * * * *

* * * * *

ON THE RHINE.

II.

There is an expression here which I expect will shortly become as familiar as "Na poo," and that is, "Hoot up!" When I first beard our mild and gently-mannered Carfax employ it as a vigorous word of command to a civilian in this small German village, I thought he had gone a little mad. For no good military purpose, it seemed to me, could possibly be served by demanding an imitation of an owl at eleven o'clock on a wintry morning. It argued a perverted sense of humour at least; and in truth I had been expecting a slight lapse from the paths of sanity on the part of our Mr. Carfax for some time. For, you see, he is a pivotal man who cannot get away until others arrive to replace the pivots, and it is difficult to persuade him that all is for the best. But he informed me that "Hoot up" had nothing whatever to do with, the night-cries of owls or any other kind of bird, but was in fact the idiotic way in which the natives of this country pronounce "_Hut ab_" (Hat off).

_Now_ you realise what horrid Huns we are. Civilians are obliged to take off their hats to British officers--a very grim business. In reality, except that we are the hated English, it makes very little difference to the Bosch, for the innkeeper here says that orders concerning the taking off of hats to all and sundry became so stringent in 1918 that the local postman was constantly interrupted in his duties to answer the salutes of people who wished to be on the safe side.

Bosches who have really fought for their country do not object to "Hoot-upping." They of course are the first to realise that inhabitants of occupied countries were forced by them to "hoot up," and that therefore there is a certain justice now in the retaliation. Anyway, from these people the procedure does not greatly interest us; but the overdressed Bosch profiteer, fat and muttony--to hoot him up in his own village! Really, you know, in some ways the War has been worth while.