Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 159, November 24, 1920
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 159, November 24, 1920
The usual dreary duel of Nationalist insinuation and Ministerial denial
in regard to Irish happenings was lightened by one or two interludes.
Mr. JACK JONES loudly suggested that the Government should send for
General LUDENDORFF to show them how to carry out reprisals. "He is no
friend of _mine_," retorted the CHIEF SECRETARY, with subtle emphasis.
Later he read a long letter from the C.-in-C. of the Irish Republican
Army to his Chief of Staff discussing the possibility of enlisting the
germs of typhoid and glanders in their noble fight for freedom. The
House listened with rapt attention until Sir HAMAR came to the pious
conclusion, "God bless you all." Amid the laughter that followed this
anti-climax Mr. DEVLIN was heard to ask, "Was not the whole thing
concocted in Dublin Castle?" Well, if so, Dublin Castle must have
developed a sense of humour quite foreign to its traditions. Perhaps
that is the reason why the PRIME MINISTER, earlier in the Sitting,
expressed the opinion that "things in Ireland are getting much better."
* * * * *
THE BOOT MYSTERY.
DRAMATIC SCENES AT BILBURY QUARTER SESSIONS.
COUNSEL FOR PROSECUTION ARRIVES FROM LONDON.
THE PROCEEDINGS.
NOTES ON THE LEADING PERSONALITIES IN THE GREAT DRAMA.
PRISONER ADKINS' AWKWARD ADMISSION.
[Note.--The author is surprised, not to say pained, at the conspiracy
of silence on the part of the daily Press, as a result of which he is
left to write this matter up himself. However ...]
A sombre court-house of Quarter Sessions, the light with difficulty
penetrating the dusty panes of the windows. On the so-called Bench
sits the Bench so-called; in point of fact there are half-a-dozen ripe
aldermen sitting on chairs, in the midst of which is an arm-chair, and
in it Mr. Augustus Jones, the Recorder of Bilbury.
Born in 1873 of rich but respectable parents; called, with no uncertain
voice, to the Bar in 1894; of a weighty corpulence and stormy visage,
Mr. Jones now settles himself in his arm-chair to hear and determine
all this business about Absalom Adkins and the Boots. How admirably
impressive is Mr. Jones's typically English absence of hysteria, his
calm, his restfulness. Indeed, give Mr. Jones five minutes to himself
and it is even betting he would be fast asleep.
The Clerk of the Court with awful dignity suggests getting a move on.
Mr. Blaythwayte{original had "Blathwayte"} who, as well as Clerk of the
Court is also Town Clerk of Bilbury, was born in 1850 and, having
survived the intervening years, now demands the production of the
prisoner from below. Looking at this dignitary one gets the poetic
impression of a mass of white hair, white moustache, white whiskers,
white beard and white wig, with little bits of bright red face appearing
in between. From a crevice in one of these patches come the ominous
words, of which we catch but a sample or two: "... Prisoner at the bar
... for that you did ... steal, take and carry away ... pairs of boots
... of our Lord the King, his crown and dignity."
At this moment there arrives in court a sinister figure wearing the wig
and gown so much affected by the English Bar. Plainly a man of character
and of moment; obviously selected with great care for this highly
difficult and delicate matter. His features are sharp, clean-cut. One
feels that they have been sharpened and cut clean this very morning. In
his hand he holds the fateful brief, pregnant with damnatory facts. He
makes his way into the pen reserved "For Counsel only." The usher locks
him in for safety's sake.
PERSONS IN THE DRAMA (SO FAR).
_Mr. Augustus Jones._ Recorder. Born in 1873.{missing period in
original}
_Mr. Joseph K. Blaythwayte._ Clerk of the Court. Born in 1850.
_Absalom Adkins_, of uncertain age, supposed boot-fancier.
_Our Lord the King_, whose peace, crown and dignity are reported
to have been rudely disturbed by the alleged activities of
Absalom Adkins.
Who is this strong silent man, this robed counsellor trusted with the
case of the Crown? Who is it? It is I! Born in the year--but if I'm to
tell my life story it's a thousand pounds I want. Make it guineas and
I will include portraits of self and relations, with place of birth,
inset.
The scenario (or do we mean the scene?) is now complete. Leading
characters, minor characters, chorus, supernumeraries and I myself
are all on the stage. Absalom Adkins, clad in a loose-fitting corduroy
lounge suit and his neck encased in a whitish kerchief, rises from his
seat. Mr. Jones, the Recorder, does much as he was doing before--nothing
in particular. Counsel for the prosecution re-reads his brief,
underlines the significant points, forgets that his pencil is a blue
one and licks it. On a side-table, impervious to their surroundings and
apparently unconcerned with their significance, sit the crucial boots.
"How say you, Absalom Adkins"--such the concluding words of the Clerk,
the finish of the prologue which rings up the curtain on this human
drama--"how say you? Are you guilty or not guilty?"
"Guilty," says Absalom, and that ends it.
* * * * *
Later a large and enthusiastic crowd outside (had there been one) might
have seen a man with clean and sharp-cut features carrying a bag in
one hand and an umbrella in the other, stepping lightly on to a Bilbury
corporation tram, station bound. This is the counsel for the prosecution
(still me), his grave responsibilities honourably discharged, hurrying
back to the vortex of metropolitan life.
F. O. L.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Vicar._ "I UNDERSTAND FROM THE DOCTOR THAT YOUR HUSBAND
IS HEARING BETTER WITH THIS EAR."
_Darby._ "EH, WHAT? WHAT'S 'E SAY, JOAN?"
_Joan._ "'E SAYS 'E UNDERSTANDS FROM THE DOCTOR THAT YOU'RE 'EARING
BETTER WITH THAT THERE."]
* * * * *
From a stores catalogue:--
"THE ---- WRINGER.
Guaranteed for one year--Fair wear and tear excepted."
There is always a catch somewhere.
* * * * *
"A consignment of Rumanian eggs has arrived in this country.
This shipment, which is the first to arrive since the war closed
this source of supply in 1914, consists of 100 cases, each
containing 1914 eggs."--_Scots Paper._
Referring, we trust, to the number and not the vintage.
* * * * *
"CONTRACTS, TENDERS, &c.
The Great Northern Railway Company.
Allegro moderato } from String }
Notturno ....... } Quartet, No. 2, } Borodine.
} in D }
STORES CONTRACTS."
_Daily Paper._
It is generally supposed that the company entertains the idea of
attempting to "soothe the savage breast" of the MINISTER OF TRANSPORT.
* * * * *
THE LETTERS I NEVER POST.
_I met a philosopher the other day--he is not a philosopher by
profession, but an architect--who told me that, when annoyed by the
anomalies and petty red-tape restrictions of life or irritated by
incompetence and incivility, or even when he feels that he can amend
somebody else's error or propose an improvement, it is his habit to
write a letter expressing his indignation or embodying his suggestions._
_After remarking that he must be kept very busy I asked him what kind of
replies he got._
"_Oh, I don't get any replies," he said, "because, you see, I don't send
the letters; I only write them and then I tear them up._"
_This is how I knew that he was a philosopher._
_I propose to take to philosophy myself._
* * *
TO A TAXI-DRIVER.
DEAR SIR,--(You must understand, as must all the people that I address
in these epistles, that by "dear" I do not necessarily imply any
affection. I employ the word because I am too old to care about breaking
down harmless conventions; but I might claim in the present connection
that it has more than one meaning. That indeed you will see, if you read
on, is the main point of this letter.)--Dear Sir, then, you may remember
me. I am the fare who hailed you on your rank at the corner of Fulham
Road and Drayton Gardens last Tuesday evening at a quarter to six, and
told you to drive to the Marble Arch. You put down the flag and then
jumped off the box to wind up the starter. It failed, and after several
attempts you had to examine the machinery. I suppose that six minutes
were occupied in this way, whether because you are a bad mechanic or a
careless fellow or because the engine is defective, I cannot say; all
I know is that I was in a hurry and that the flag was down, but we were
not moving. If you had not put the flag down I should have got out and
taken another cab; but I felt that that would be unfair to you. When,
however, at the end of the journey I paid you without adding any tip,
and you received the money with an offensive grunt, I wished that I had
been less considerate.
It is because nothing that I could have said then, in your horrid
hostile mood, would have convinced you that there is any injustice to a
fare at all in putting down your flag before you are properly started,
that I am writing this letter. My hope is that quiet perusal may
demonstrate that the fare has, at any rate, a grain of logic on his side
if he looks upon himself as defrauded. We don't, you know, take your
cabs for the joy of sitting in them, or for the pleasure of watching you
struggling with a crank, but to be conveyed quickly from place to place.
It is wrong to ask us to pay for the time spent by you in persuading
your engine to behave, and it is indecent to become abusive when we act
on that assumption. If I had not been so busy I should have refused to
pay at all and forced you to summon me; but who has time for such costly
formalities? And I might have had to lose my temper, which I have not
done (much) since I read an article by a doctor saying that every such
loss means an abbreviation of life. Life in a world made fit for heroes
may not be any great catch, but it is better, at any rate, than
passing to a region where one is apparently liable to be in constant
communication with mediums.
One other thing. I have just returned from Paris, where, amid much that
is unsatisfactory and besmirched by Peace, taxis remain trustworthy and
plentiful. The price marked on the meter is that which the fare pays,
and any number of persons may ride in the cab without extra charge.
Nothing exceeds my scorn for the English taxi-driver who demands another
ninepence for an additional passenger, even though only a child--nothing
except my scorn for the cowardly official who conceded this monstrous
imposition.
* * *
TO AN ADMINISTRATOR.
DEAR SIR,--May I implore you to authorise the instant removal of the
buildings in the St. James's Park lake? During the War we who find on
the suspension bridge, looking West, the most beautiful late afternoon
view in London, were content to endure the invasion. But we have passed
the second Armistice Day, and still the huts remain, and still there is
no water, and still the enchanted prospect is denied us. After all,
this lake is part of London, and London ratepayers should be entitled to
their city's beauties as well as its necessities.
* * *
TO A PRETTY GIRL.
MY DEAR,--I want you to be a little more merciful. The other day, when
your father, over the eggs and bacon, was reading out the news from
Greece, with the defeat of VENIZELOS, you said lightly that exile didn't
matter very much because VENIZELOS was a very old man. You then returned
to the absorbing occupation of identifying Society people, reading from
left to right. Now VENIZELOS is fifty-five years of age, and I cannot
allow the term "very old" to be applied to him without protest; I am too
nearly his contemporary. "Getting on," if you like, "mature," "ripe,"
but not "very old." You must keep that phrase for the people who--well,
who _are_ very old.
* * *
TO A HABERDASHER.
DEAR SIR,--When I came to put on the collar that I bought from you
yesterday (I am the tallish customer who takes sixteen and a half by two
and was in a hurry to get home to dress) I found that your young man's
finger-marks were on it. Why don't you make your assistants wear gloves
when they handle collars?
* * *
TO A MINISTER OF RELIGION.
YOUR FAR-FROM-SERENE GLOOMINESS,--Won't you one day be a little
cheerful, and wrong? Won't you send out a lifeboat to the wreck instead
of watching her through your smoked field-glasses as she sinks? What you
seem to forget is that most people at times are their own Gloomy
Deans: some of us too often; and there can be too much of a good thing.
Hopelessness butters no parsnips and it is a mood not to be encouraged
or the world would be as bad as we then think it. Gloomy-deaniness,
though salutary for brief intervals, should be sparingly indulged in;
but you are at it all the time. There is a Chinese proverb which says,
"If you can't smile don't open a shop;" and, after all, St. Paul's
Cathedral is in a manner of speaking a kind of shop, isn't it?--the
goods, at any rate, should be obtainable there. The phrase "there is no
health in us" does not constitute the whole liturgy. Down with facile
optimists by all means, but, my dear Sir----
E. V. L.
* * * * *
NEW RHYMES FOR OLD CHILDREN.
THE ERMINE.
The ermine is not quite as grand as he sounds;
As a rule he is shot if he comes in the grounds;
You have seen him about by the mulberry-tree,
Though I very much doubt if you knew it was he.
He is shot with a gun and hung up by the throat,
For the ermine, my son, is the same as the stoat;
So when Auntie has got just a little more ermine
You can tell her (or not) she is covered with vermin.
A. P. H.
* * * * *
ANOTHER IMPENDING APOLOGY.
"Col. ---- was unable to be present, and altogether the event
was highly successful."
_Local Paper._
* * * * *
[Illustration: _First Pugilist._ "YOU'RE STANDING ON MY FOOT."
_Second Pugilist._ "WELL, WHAT DO YOU PROPOSE TO DO ABOUT IT?"
_First Pugilist._ "I'LL SHOW YOU WHAT I'LL DO ABOUT IT--FOR A PURSE OF
TEN THOUSAND POUNDS AND THE CINEMA RIGHTS."]
* * * * *
MORE NOTES FROM A SYNTHETIC COUNTRY DIARY.
_November 20th._--I have been much struck this morning by a remarkable
instance of protective mimicry on the part of a grey squirrel, which
assumes attitudes and adopts gestures which at a little distance render
him almost indistinguishable from a small monkey. WHITE'S _Selborne_
throws no light on this strange phenomenon, which I can only explain as
a result on the animal world of the now fashionable _Tarzan_ cult, which
so happily reconciles the old hostility between apes and angels.
Of the habits and customs of the hedgehog mention has already been made
in these notes. It may be added that the whistle which these interesting
creatures emit from time to time resembles the _timbre_ of a muted
piccolo, and their employment in a mixed orchestra is well worth the
consideration of our younger and more enterprising composers. Another
animal which shares with the hedgehog the defensive faculty of rolling
itself up in a ball is the "pill millipede," a myriopod with seventeen
pairs of legs, but fortunately exempt from the necessity of wearing
trousers, which at present prices would impose an exorbitant demand on
its resources.
As winter draws on the evolutions of birds great and small are a
never-ending source of surprise and delight. Many hooded crows are now
to be seen consorting with the rooks in the field and swelling the
sable multitude that flies at evensong towards the park trees. And great
congregations of plovers, curiously self-sufficing in their ability
to dispense with the services of any feathered parson, lend colour and
subconscious uplift to marshland scenes, which would otherwise look
extremely _triste_.
Small indigenous birds, such as titmice, chipmunks, pipits and
squinches, are constantly seen in coveys or even bevies just now. A
party of pipwinks visited my copse yesterday afternoon, and indulged in
delicious _morceaux_ of melody before the red sun sank starkly below the
horizon....
As long as the weather remains open I find it a good plan to plant
flowers and shrubs which bloom in the spring. Proticipation is a
cardinal asset in the outfit of the judicious gardener, and no
time should be lost in completing the spring beds, as the cost of
hair-mattresses is going up by leaps and bounds.
* * * * *
THE PLAGUE OF DOTS.
There are decimal dots which we can't do without
In spite of Lord RANDOLPH'S historical flout;
There are dots too, with dashes combined, in the mode
Familiar in Morse's beneficent code;
While some British parents good reasons advance
In favour of "_dots_" as they're managed in France.
But as for the writers disdainful of plots
Who pepper their pages with plentiful dots,
They must not complain if the critics of prose
Disapprove of a practice which savours of pose,
And, searching around for an adequate [Greek: hoti],
Proclaim it a sign of a brain that is dotty.
* * * * *
From an article on "Back to Germany":--
"The quiet, old-fashioned restaurants, where in the old days I
have seen field-marshals' batons hanging up in the cloak-room,
know them no more."--_Daily Paper._
Nowadays the German Field-Marshal takes his baton into the dining-room
to stir his soup.
* * * * *
AT THE PLAY.
"WILL YOU KISS ME?"
Even before the era of Prohibition (there were cocktails in this play)
strange things must have happened in "God's own country" under the
banner of the Bird of Freedom. But never so strange as the effects you
get on the stage when very English people play at being Americans. You
have to be rather young and unsophisticated if such phrases as "He's
putting it over on us," or "I'm not going to stand for that," generously
peppered about the dialogue and recited in the purest of English
accents, can persuade you to believe that you are getting the real
local stuff. At the same time you accept cheerfully the most farcical
conditions on the vague assumption that all things may be possible over
there.
So, when _John W. Brook_, of Fifth Avenue, millionaire, engaged the
services of _Alexander Y. Hedge_, plenipotentiary representative of an
Efficiency Company, to introduce economic reforms into his motherless
household during his temporary absence, we regarded it as a most
reasonable experiment. And for a time it made excellent fun. But after
a while it began to wear thin for lack of fresh stimulus, and by the
end of the Second Act there was a general feeling in the audience that
something would have to be done about it.
The same thought seems to have occurred to Mr. CYRIL HARCOURT, the
author, and he started, a little late in the day, to introduce an
element of sex-romance into what so far had been an absolutely bloodless
proposition. But at first it was with sinister intent that _Brook's_
elder daughter made advances to _Alexander Y. Hedge_. As soon as she
could induce this monster of inhumanity to become a prey to her charm
she would repulse him with scorn, and then he would have to go.
The children's allowances having been cut off on the ground that
they did nothing to earn them, she offered her services as his paid
secretary. "Propinquity" did its work and she was soon in a position
to offer him the privilege of an experimental kiss, thus incidentally
justifying the dreadful title of the play.
The first, delivered on the cheek, was a wash-out; but the second,
pressed home on the lips, had the desired effect. Then she turned and
rent him, telling him exactly what she thought of his treatment of the
family. He replied with an eloquent philippic directed at the vices of
a bloated aristocracy (this was the ante-bellum age, before things had
been made so much safer for democracy). Almost before the applause of
the gallery had died down, the father burst upon the scene, furious
at the report that this hired commercial had been making love to his
daughter.
Explanations follow which appease his wrath, and he is further mollified
by the statement that the Master of Efficiency had cut down the expenses
of his _menage_ by some nineteen thousand dollars. But why, when his
feats of economy had all the time been the matter of his offence in the
children's eyes, the announcement of the total should have favourably
affected the girl's heart I cannot say, and I don't think anybody else
can. Yet the fact remains that the next moment she undertakes to marry
the object of her previous loathing.
To have arrived naturally at such an end would have meant a couple more
Acts, in which the man _Hedge_ might have had time to live down the
evil effects of his efficiency. But with so much economy in the air the
author appears to have caught the infection of it and economised in his
processes to save our time. That is the kindest excuse I can find for
him.
As for the moral, it would seem to be that, if (as is more than
probable) you have no copy of the works of ARISTOTLE in your Fifth
Avenue library, and imagine, never having heard of the happy mean,
that virtue lies in one of two excesses--an excess of idle luxury or an
excess of efficiency--the former is the one to choose.
Mr. DONALD CALTHROP as _Hedge_ bore the burden of the play with a
high hand that had a very sure touch. It was extraordinary with what
alertness and confidence he commanded every situation--except, of
course, the absurd climax which nobody could hope to handle. Mr. C. V.
FRANCE, as the English butler (ex-clergyman) who had taken a long
time to learn how to disfigure his aspirates (out of deference to the
American legend), gave a very fresh and attractive performance. Some of
the best things in the dialogue--not always very humorous--were given
to little _Alice Brook_ (aged 14), one of those precocities for which
America has always held the world's record. I don't know, and should not
think of asking, Miss ANN TREVOR'S age, but she looked to me a little
old for the part of this child, however precocious. Miss MARJORIE GORDON
played with intelligence as the elder sister, but never for a moment
suggested a New York atmosphere. Indeed she adopted just the mincing
kind of speech which out there is held to bewray the "Britisher." The
only performance that made any real pretence of being American was that
of Mr. TURNBULL as the manager of the Efficiency Company.
[Illustration: STEPS TOWARD EFFICIENCY.
_Horace, the Butler_ (MR. C. V. FRANCE) lengthens his stride in
obedience to
_Alexander Y. Hedge_ (MR. DONALD CALTHROP).]
Still, after all, local colour is no great matter so long as you get
some recognisable aspect, though farcically presented, of human
nature; but the trouble with this play is that while our sense of the
probabilities is never too much outraged so long as the chief character
is just a piece of inhuman machinery, the author lapses into the
incredible the moment he tries to introduce a little humanity into his
scheme. However, I have perhaps taken things too seriously, instead of
being properly grateful for some very good entertainment.
O. S.
* * * * *
FASHIONS FOR MEN.
"Miss ---- takes Orders for Knitted Skirts, Jerseys, and Hats to
match. Also, Gent.'s Cardigan Coats and Hand-Painted Blouses."
_Scots Paper._
* * * * *
"The Rev. W. E. ---- based the subject of his discourse on 'The
Foolish Virgins.' A large number were present."
_South African Paper._
We trust they were edified.
* * * * *
"The discovery of Saturn's rings was made by Galileo in 1610
through his little refractory telescope."--_Welsh Paper._
The difficulty with this kind of instrument is to make it shut up.
* * * * *
[Illustration: EXCITING EXPERIENCE OF A NEW M.F.H. WHO HAS BEEN ADVISED
BY A FRIEND THAT HE SHOULD ALWAYS, WHEN GOING INTO KENNELS, FILL HIS
POCKETS WITH BISCUITS.]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
Inevitably one's first thought on sighting _A Naval History of the War_
(HODDER AND STOUGHTON) is that he must be a brave skipper indeed who
would take out a lone ship, however excellently found, to cruise such
controversial waters. But Sir HENRY NEWBOLT is an experienced hand,
and, though (so to speak) one finds him at times conscious of Sir
JULIAN CORBETT on the sky-line, he brings off his self-appointed task
triumphantly. To drop metaphor, here is a temperate and clearly-written
history, midway between the technical and the popular, of a kind
precisely suited to the plain man who wishes a comprehensive _resume_
of the course of the War at sea. For this purpose its arrangement is
admirable, the story being presented first in a general survey under
dates, then in special chapters devoted to episodes or aspects, e.g.,
Coronel and the Falklands (that unmatchable drama of disaster and
revenge), the submarines and their countering, and finally Jutland.
Throughout, as I have said, Sir HENRY, having one of the best stories
in the world to tell, is at pains to avoid anything that even remotely
approaches fine writing. Only once have I even detected the literary
man, when, in describing the strange finish of the _Koenigsberg_,
he permits himself the pleasure of calling it "the sea fight in the
forest." For the rest, the "strength and splendour" of England's
greatest naval war are left to make their own impression. I shall be
astonished if such a book, having figured brilliantly as a present
this Christmas, is not treasured for generations as a work of family
reference in hundreds of British homes.