Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 153, Oct. 3, 1917 - Various
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 153.
OCTOBER 3, 1917.
CHARIVARIA.
There is no truth in the rumour that the Imperial Government is trying
to secure from KING ALFONSO an agreement that German prisoners shall
not escape on Sundays or in batches of more than fifty at a time.
***
"Far better another year of war," said the Bishop of LONDON in a
recent sermon, "than to leave it to the baby in the cradle to do it
over again." Too much importance should not be attached to these
ill-judged reflections on the younger members of the Staff.
***
In Berlin a crowd of people attempted to do some injury to an officer
on the paltry excuse that he ordered the execution of thirty people
for alleged espionage. The German people have always been a little
jealous of the privileges of the military.
***
Captain N. BERNIERS, who has just returned to Quebec, reports that the
Eskimos had not heard of the War. We should be the last to worry Lord
NORTHCLIFFE at present, but it certainly looks as if the Circulation
Manager of _The Daily Mail_ has been slacking.
***
We really think more care should be taken by the authorities to see
that, while waging war on the Continent, they do not forget the
defence of those at home. The fact that Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL and Mr.
HORATIO BOTTOMLEY were away in France at the same time looks like
gross carelessness.
***
"Next to the field of Mars we must pay homage to the forge of Vulcan,"
said the KAISER in a recent speech. A stout fellow, this Vulcan, but
as a forger not really in the ALL-HIGHEST'S class.
***
Taxicabs are to be entitled to charge a shilling for the first mile.
The bus fare for the remainder of the distance will be the same as
heretofore.
***
It is stated that fifty per cent. of the sugar forms have been filled
in wrong. On the other hand a number of our youthful hedonists are
complaining that as far as sugar is concerned their forms have never
been anywhere near filled in.
***
A Wood Green gentleman has written to an evening paper to say that he
has grown a vegetable marrow which weighs forty-three pounds. There is
some talk of his being elected an Honorary Angler.
***
A Grimsby lady who has just celebrated her hundredth birthday states
that she has never visited a cinema theatre. We felt sure there must
be an explanation somewhere.
***
It seems a pity that the Willesden Health Committee should have
troubled to pass a resolution about the decreasing birth-rate. When we
remember air-raids and the shortage of sugar it is only natural that
people should show a disinclination to be born just now.
***
"I don't care how soon a General Election comes," says Mr. JOHN
DILLON, M.P. It is this dare-devil spirit which has made so many
Irishmen what they are. The recruiting officer has no terrors for
them.
***
HENRY ELIONSKY, of New York, has succeeded in swimming seven miles
with his legs tied to a chair and with heavy boots and clothing. It
is not known why he did it, but we gather that CHARLIE CHAPLIN is now
wondering whether he was wise, after all, in becoming a naturalised
American.
***
The wave of crime still sweeps the country. On top of the L30,000
jewel robbery comes the news that a man has been charged with breaking
into a London tobacconist's shop and stealing a box of matches value
1/2d. (price 11/2d.).
***
A letter has just reached a City office addressed to the tenants who
occupied the premises twenty years ago. Fortunately such cases of
loitering on the part of our postmen are extremely rare.
***
An infuriated bull has been killed in High Street, Tonbridge, after
wrecking several shop windows. It is thought that the animal had
misread the directions on its sugar card.
***
A number of people have complained that they could hear nothing of the
recent air-raids over London, owing to the noise of the firing being
drowned by the admonitory activities of the police.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE BULLDOG BREED.
_Company Commander_ (_making sure of his men before the show_). "NOW,
WHEN WE GO OVER THE TOP TO-MORROW, YOU ALL KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TO MAKE
FOR?"
_Chorus of Tommies_. "YUSS, SIR."
_C.C._ "WHAT IS IT, THEN?"
_Chorus_. "THEY GERMANS, SIR."]
* * * * *
OUR CENTRIPETISTS.
"Mrs. Eckstein and Miss Eckstein have returned to London
from Scotland, and they are leaving London immediately for
London."--_Brighton Standard and Fashionable Visitors' List_.
* * * * *
"The Irish farmers are confident that the Food Controller's
declared intention to fix the price of cattle at 6s. per cwt. for
next January will not be carried into effect. They believe that
Lord Rhondda must realise the necessity of making a substantial
increase on this figure."--_Saturday Herald (Dublin)_.
Lord RHONDDA, we understand, has already met the Irish farmers more
than halfway by fixing the price at 60s.
* * * * *
"The Apia Blacksmiths, Ltd., will undertake contracts for the
building of houses, with or without material."--_Samoa Times_.
"And gives to airy nothing
A local habitation."--_Shakspeare_.
* * * * *
TAKING OUR PLEASURES SADLY.
A correspondent informs us that the playbill of IBSEN'S _Ghosts_
at the Pavilion Theatre bears the following words: "Mr. Neville
Chamberlain says, 'It is essential there should be provided amusements
and recreations which can take people for an hour or so out of
themselves and return them to their work refreshed and reinvigorated.'"
* * * * *
SOCIETY NOTES.
_BY THE HANGER-ON._
AIR-RAIDS AND OTHER DIVERSIONS.
A promising young poet of my acquaintance, who in the midst of war's
obsessions still finds time and taste for the exercise of his art
(he is in a Government office), has allowed me to see the opening
couplet of what I understand to be a very ambitious poem. It runs as
follows:--
"Though overhead the Gothas buzz,
Stands London where it did? It does."
Many good judges of poetry to whom I have quoted these lines think
them very clever.
* * * * *
A witty friend of mine tells me that he is thinking of bringing out
a handy and up-to-date edition of the _Almanach de Gotha_, special
attention being paid to the changes of the Moon.
* * * * *
Society is always on the look-out for some new distraction from the
tedium of War. The latest vogue with smart people is to get up little
air-raid parties for the Tube, to be followed by auction or a small
boy-and-girl dance. Sections of tunnel or platform can be engaged
beforehand by arrangement with the Constabulary.
* * * * *
I hear that my friend, ARTHUR BOURCHIER, continues to draw crowds to
the Oxford. I was dining the other day with a young and brilliant
officer, who has seen two months' active service in the A.S.C. and
won golden opinions at the Base, and he assured me that there is no
"Better 'Ole" than the Oxford during an air-raid.
* * * * *
Now that London is part of the Front, with a barrage of its own, one
has to be careful to censor one's correspondence. It is advisable not
to mention your actual address, but just to write "Somewhere in the
West-End. B.S.F." (British Sedentary Force).
* * * * *
The Winter season has begun exceptionally early. Last Sunday at Church
Parade I saw Lady "Nibs" Tattenham, looking the very image of her
latest photograph in _The Prattler_, where she appears with her pet
Pekie over the legend, "Deeply interested in War-work."
* * * * *
A gallant Contemptible has been complaining to me that the Press shows
no sense of proportion in the space that it allots to air-raids. Our
casualties from that source, he said, are never one tenth as heavy as
those in France on days when G.H.Q. reports "Everything quiet on the
Western Front." I naturally disagreed with his attitude. Nothing, I
told him, is more likely to discourage the Hun than to see column
after column in our papers proving that these visitations leave us
totally unmoved. Besides it must be very comforting to our troops
in the trenches to learn in detail how their dear ones at home are
sharing the perils of the other fronts. In any case nobody who knows
our Press would doubt the purity of their motive in reporting as many
air-raid horrors as the Censor permits.
* * * * *
_A propos_ of the Patriotic Press, no praise can be too high for some
of our society weeklies. They have set their faces like flint against
any serious reference to the War. When I see them going imperturbably
along the old pre-war lines, snapping smart people at the races or in
the Row, or reproducing the devastating beauty of a revue chorus, I
know that they have their withers unwrung and their heart in the right
place. I always have one of these papers on my table to be taken as a
corrective after the daily casualty lists.
* * * * *
A striking feature of the Photographic Press is to be seen in the
revival of the _vie intime_ of popular idols of the stage. The human
life of our great actors and actresses as revealed in some simple
rustic _villeggiatura_ has always had a fascination for a public that
does not enjoy the privilege of their private friendship. And in these
strenuous War-days it is well to bring home to the theatre-goer how
necessary is domestic repose for those who are doing their courageous
bit to keep the nation from dwelling on the inconveniences of
Armageddon.
* * * * *
One of the most profound after-the-war questions that is agitating
the mind of the Government is what eventually to do with the miles
of wooden and concrete villages that have sprung up all over London
like Jonah's mushroom. I hear a rumour that the House of Commons
tea-terrace will shortly be commandeered for the erection of yet
another block of buildings to accommodate yet another Ministry--the
Ministry of Demobilization of Temporary Departmental Hutments.
O. S.
* * * * *
THE TUBE HOTELS, LTD.
[Mr. Punch has been fortunate enough to secure in advance a prospectus
of the enterprising managements.]
THE CENTRAL LONDON RAILWAY
offers splendid night accommodation in its magnificently appointed
stations. Every modern convenience. Luxurious lifts conducted by the
Company's own liveried attendants convey guests to the dormitories.
Constant supply of fresh ozone. Reduced terms to season ticket
holders.
HOTEL EMBANKMENT.
All lines converge to this Hotel, which is therefore the most central
in London. Frequent trains convey visitors direct to their beds. For
the convenience of patrons arriving above ground or by District, the
Directors have installed a superb moving staircase, thereby obviating
the inconvenience of crowded lifts.
The platforms and passages are tastefully decorated with coloured
pictures by the leading firms.
Visitors are respectfully requested not to sleep on the moving
staircase.
HOTEL PICCADILLY CIRCUS.
IN THE HEART OF FASHIONABLE LONDON.
This Hotel, which is one of the deepest in London, is composed of
four magnificent platforms and nearly a mile of finely tessellated
corridors. Electric light. Constant temperature of sixty-five degrees
Fahrenheit. Excellent catering under the control of the Automatic
Machine Company. Reduced terms during moonless nights.
HOTEL HAMPSTEAD TUBE.
Situated in a commanding position, underlooking the Heath, this hotel
is positively the deepest in London. The Management has decided to
extend the accommodation during one week in each month by offering
beds on the steps of the staircase. No one has ever been known to walk
either up or down this staircase, and patrons are therefore assured of
an uninterrupted night's repose. Extremely moderate terms are quoted
for the higher flights.
THE GILLESPIE ARMS.
Ensure an undisturbed night's sleep by putting up at the Gillespie
Road Station Family and Commercial Hotel. Large numbers of trains pass
this station without stopping, and residents are comparatively free
from the annoyance caused by the arrival and departure of passengers.
Special terms for Aliens, who are requested to bring their own
mattresses.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A PLACE IN THE MOON.
HANS. "HOW BEAUTIFUL A MOON, MY LOVE, FOR SHOWING UP ENGLAND TO OUR
GALLANT AIRMEN!"
GRETCHEN. "YES, DEAREST, BUT MAY IT NOT SHOW UP THE FATHERLAND TO THE
BRUTAL ENEMY ONE OF THESE NIGHTS?"]
* * * * *
CODES.
It began like the noise of rushing water, and for a moment the Brigade
Major hoped that somebody had taken it upon himself to wash the
orderly. The noise, however, was followed by a succession of thumps
which put an end to this pretty flight of fancy. Aghast he surveyed
the scene before him. Close to the Brigade Headquarters' dug-out was
an old French dump of every conceivable kind of explosive made up into
every known form of projectile. No longer was it a picture of Still
Life. The Sleeping Beauty was awake indeed. The Prince had come in the
form of a common whizz-bang.
As he looked (and ducked) a flock of aerial torpedoes, propelled by
the explosion of one of their number, rose and scattered as if at the
approach of a hostile sportsman. Another explosion blew what seemed to
be a million rockets sizzling into the air.
The store was on fire!
The Brigade Major retired.
* * * * *
Everybody was in the Signal dug-out (Signals build deep and strong).
Secretly the clerks were praying for the disintegration of the
typewriter and the total destruction of the overwhelming mass of paper
(paper warfare had been terrible of late). The Staff Captain and
the O.C. Gum Boots, who had been approaching the Headquarters, were
already half a mile down the road and still going strong.
The Division rang up. One need hardly have mentioned that. In times of
stress the higher formations rarely fail.
"What's going on?" they asked.
The Brigade Major was just going to say, when suddenly he remembered.
That very morning he had been severely strafed for speaking of
important things over the telephone when so near the enemy. "Had he
not read the Divisional G 245/348/24 of the 29th inst.? What was the
good of issuing orders to defeat the efficiency of the Bosch listening
apparatus if they were not obeyed?" etc., etc.
True, it was conceivable that even without the aid of a delicate
listening apparatus the Bosch was cognisant of an explosion that
made his whole front line quiver; still orders is orders. So the
Brigade-Major swallowed hard.
"C-can't tell you over the wires. Your G 245/348/24...."
"Yes, yes, we know all about that. Don't say it _definitely_, but give
us an _idea_. _Where_ is all this noise?"
"Here!--Oh!" piped the B.M. as a crump shook the receiver out of his
hand.
"Send it in code at once. The G.O.C. is strafing horribly to know."
To encode a message which may be your last words on earth is not the
easiest of tasks. It has no romance about it. Who would relish
an obituary such as: "He died like a hero, his last words being
'XB35/067K'"?
To the ramping of the continuous crump the B.M. scraped away the dirt
and stuff that had fallen from the throbbing walls of his dug-out
and fished out the Code-Book. Hurriedly he turned over the pages to
"Ammunition" and read down the set phrases and their code equivalents.
Four times he relit the candle. There seemed nothing under this
heading applicable to the situation. "Send up" was one, but that had
already been done. "Am/is/are/running short of" was another, but it
was doubtful if the Division would see the real meaning of it.
"Ah, here we are," he muttered, relighting the candle for the fifth
time. "Dumps." Alas, there was nothing to convey the situation very
clearly even under this heading. Finally he picked out the nearest he
could find and sent it over the wires.
This is what they decoded to the expectant G.O.C. of the Division:
"_Advanced ammunition depot has moved_."
The G.O.C. said something which impelled the entire Divisional Staff
to the telephone, where they all grabbed for the receiver.
"What the devil is this code message? We can't understand it. You've
sent in something about the dump at your Brigade Headquarters."
"Ah!" said the B.M. meaningly, "there is _not_ a dump at Brigade
Headquarters now."
"Well, I don't care. We want to know what all this noise is about."
"It's the dump. It's m-moved."
"Moved? Moved where? Give the map reference."
"Map reference?" murmured the B.M. "Oh, my sacred aunt, what fools ...
I'm sorry" (he smiled at them through his teeth) "I can't give you the
_m-map_ reference, but I can give you the _area_ roughly."
"Barmy!" was the word he heard spoken to a bystander at the other end.
"Look here, old man," they said kindly, "we know you're all very tired
and worried, but just try to _think_ a moment. Never mind dumps now.
You can't be making all that noise moving a dump--what?" (Specimen of
Divisional joke--very rare.) "Tell us, is the Bosch shelling?"
"No. They've stopped."
"Good. Then it's all over?"
"No. It's still going on."
"But you just said that it had stopped."
"Yes, it has. But the dump hasn't. It keeps m-moving."
"Poor old bird," they said, "his nerve's gone at last. All right,"
they shouted, "don't you worry. The storeman will look after the dump.
You go to bed and have a good sleep."
"Have a g-good sleep!" muttered the B.M., "that's just like the
Divis--Oh!" and he sat down as a torpedo flopped into his bedroom a
few doors away and made a hole of it.
Then he sat up. The storeman of the Brigade dump was not two hundred
yards away from the active one. The poor fellow was to have gone on
leave that night. Presently it occurred to him that, instead of trying
to decide who should have the reversion of the storeman's leave, it
would be better to go and see if there really was a vacancy. Fifteen
boxes of melinite delayed him but a moment. With melinite you know
the worst at once; it doesn't hang round like boxes of ammunition,
for instance. He called a clerk and together they raced over to the
storeman's dug-out.
"Jock!" cried the clerk. "Are ye there, Jock?"
"Is he quite dead?" said the B.M., making up his mind to use his leave
warrant for himself.
"No, Sir, he's very deaf, that's why he's a storeman. Jo-ock!!"
"Hello!" came from the ground.
"Are ye all right, Jock?"
"Na. There's an awfu' to-do here."
"What's wrong then?"
"Ma candle keeps going oot."
"Are ye all right, though, Jock?"
"Na."
"Well, what's up with ye?"
"I told ye. Ma candle keeps going oot. What's up yon?"
* * * * *
When the B.M. got back he found a one-sided war in progress on the
telephone. The G.O.C. had heated up the wires to red-heat.
"Is that you, Nessel? Where the devil have you been? This noise is
still going on. Tell me what it is. No-dam-nonsense-now. Let's have
it."
"If you want to know and you don't mind the Bosch hearing what I say,
Sir, the dump, the French dump, has b-blown itself to b-blazes."
"Why the _devil_ couldn't you say so before?"
Every dog has his day. With a full and fatuous smile the Brigade-Major
picked up a paper and began: "Reference your G. 245/348/24 of the 29th
inst. It says that--"
Somebody must have taken a bone away from a dog at the other end. He
growled horribly.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Flapper (shyly)._ "COULD YOU TELL ME WHAT A STAMP
STUCK ON AT _THAT_ ANGLE MEANS IN THE LANGUAGE OF POSTAGE-STAMPS?"]
* * * * *
From an account of the Ministerial crisis in Sweden:--
"Two imperialist minstrels, however, Von Melsted and
Lengquist, did quite enough mischief."--_Daily Mail_.
Members of the pro-German band, no doubt.
* * * * *
Mr. Punch desires to record thanks to the innumerable correspondents
who have drawn his attention to the statement in _The Daily Chronicle_
that among the German officers who escaped and were afterwards
recaptured was "Von Thelan, a lieutenant in the lying corps." The
existence of this unit in the German Army has, as most of them point
out, been long suspected, but never officially confirmed till now.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _The Colonel's Daughter_. "WHAT A WONDERFUL VOICE AND
WHAT A PERFECT ARTIST!"
_The Colonel_. "DON'T THINK MUCH OF HIM! HE'S GOT A POCKET
UNBUTTONED."]
* * * * *
TIPS FOR NON-TIPPERS.
["If taxi-cab fares are increased it will put a stop to
tipping."--_Evening Paper_.]
Only really robust men should refuse to tip the taxi-driver. Many a
City man has set out in the morning intent on giving no tips and has
not been heard of afterwards.
To enable timid men to avoid a tip, the police are providing
taxi-drivers with antiseptic mouthpieces, through which their words
may be sterilised.
If the driver insists on a tip do not threaten to take his number.
Just take it and run. If you haven't time for both, just run.
* * * * *
"ALL-WOOL Black Cashmere Stockings, winter weight. 1/111/2
and 2/6 per yard." _Advt. in Scotch Paper_.
We had always thought hosiery was sold by the foot.
* * * * *
"On the estate of the late Hon. Lionel Walrond, Uffculme,
Devon, Robert James, 97, is felling for the purpose of
aeroplane construction aspen trees which he helped to
plant 80 years ago."--_The Times_.
Three cheers for Mr. ROBERT JAMES! "For he's a jolly good feller!"
* * * * *
BEASTS ROYAL.
II.
CAESAR'S GIRAFFE. B.C. 46.
From Egypt, Africa and Gaul
CAESAR his Roman triumph brings:
Dark queens and ruddy-bearded kings,
And scowling Britons led in thrall,
And elephants with silver rings;
But oh, more excellent than all,
This pensive beast, this mottled beast,
From the marshes of the East.
_Patres conscripti_, hail him now
Divine! Through Rome his triumph rolls;
Oysters in barrels, pearls in bowls,
Chariots and horsemen, moving slow
Where purple garlands droop on poles.
_Patres conscripti_, crown his brow,
Who brought us from the golden East
This unimagined peerless beast!
Never has CAESAR made our foes
Weep more than he has made us laugh;
He who divides the world in half
With the long shadow of his nose,
And bridges oceans with his staff,
Brings now, with pomp of vine and rose,
This wondering and wondrous beast
From the subjugated East.
In bronze and basalt let us raise
The bust of CAESAR; he has done
Great things for Rome; but here is one
Above the rest, o'ertopping praise.
The elephants and kings are gone,
But still the roaring tumult sways--
Much for the Conqueror of the East,
More for the incomparable beast.
* * * * *
AN INVOLUNTARY RAID.
Life in a convalescent hospital for officers is not one continuous
round of gaiety, but it has its incidents for all that.
The other day Sister took Haynes, Ansell and myself to have tea with
some people in the neighbouring village of Little Budford. We were
waiting in the hall for the car when Seymour came along. Seymour is an
adjutant when he is not at home, and he likes to see things done with
proper military precision.
"Here," he said, "you can't go off casually like that. Fall in,
tea-party."
We fell in, and he went to the smoking-room and woke Major Stanley.
"Party for tea ready for inspection, Sir," he reported.
"Who? What? Where?" asked the Major confusedly. "Good Lord, you young
idiot, what a scare you gave me! Thought I was back in France for a
moment. Where's this party paraded?"
"Hout in the 'all, Sir." Seymour led him to where we were standing at
ease.
"Party!" he roared. "Shunsuwere!" We gave two convulsive jerks.
"Smarten up there, smarten HUP! Get a move on! This ain't a waxwork.
Shunsuwere!... Shun!! Party present, Sir."
The Major inspected us.
"I don't like this smear, Sergeant," he said, pointing to Ansell's
upper lip.
Seymour examined the feature in question.
"It don't appear to be dirt, Sir. Some sort o' growth, I think. You
try sand-papering it, me lad, an' you'll find it come orf all right."
"Very good, Sergeant," answered Ansell solemnly.
The Major proceeded to Haynes, and eyed him with disfavour.
"We can't do nothing with this man, Sir," said Seymour deprecatingly.
"'Is legs is that bandy."
"What do you mean, Private Haynes, by appearing on ceremonial parade
with a pair of bandy legs?"