PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 146.

APRIL 29, 1914.

CHARIVARIA.

Captain Fort, a French army airman from Chalons, flew over the German frontier, last week, by mistake, and alighted in Lorraine, but flew back again before the German police arrived. We think he should have waited. It is just little discourtesies such as this that accentuate ill-feeling between nations.

Mr. H. W. Thornton, the new American manager of the Great Eastern Railway, says that his ideal is to satisfy the public. This disposes of the absurd rumour that his appointment was made in the interests of the shareholders.

Jack Johnson, the pugilist, is about to become naturalized as a French subject. Frankly, America has brought this on herself.

It is possible, by the way, that the knowledge that America could not rely on Jack Johnson stiffened President Huerta's back.

In at least one of our colonies the War Minister is designated "Minister for Defence." This would surely be a more than apt title for Mr. Asquith, who has been doing yeoman work of this kind on behalf of his peccant colleagues.

Some idea of the confusion which reigned at the fight between Blake and Borrell may be gathered from the following paragraph in The Liverpool Daily Post:—

"Blake, who was the taller, at once led the £500 aside, and both men to deposit a further close quarters, and they indulged in in-fighting up to the close of the round."

It was certainly shrewd of Blake to act as he did in regard to the stakes, for, although he was the taller, it did not necessarily follow that he would win.

Stafford House, which contains the London Museum, will in future be called Lancaster House. It was felt, we understand, that its former name gave no clue to its contents.

We find the following announcement of the greatest interest:—

"April 16th, to Mr. and Mrs. G. E. Turtle (née Nurse Lacey) a daughter."

It was a great performance to have been born a nurse, even if she turned Turtle later on.

"In everything where her means and opportunities allow," says Mr. Arthur Rackham, "woman seeks persistently for beauty." And now many husbands are flattering themselves that that is how they came to be married.

"Mothers who sleep nine hours on end," says Dr. Westcott, the coroner, "should not have babies, and, if they do, they should be put in cradles." The only difficulty is that at present there is no cradle on the market large enough to take a grown-up.

The Times has published an indictment of the London plane-tree as a disseminator of disease. Nervous folk, however, may like to know that, if they stay indoors with their windows closed and with a towel fastened across the mouth and nose, they will run comparatively little risk from this source.

The Express is offering prizes to its readers with a view to ascertaining which is the best-looking animal in the Zoo, and which is the ugliest. It is, of course, no affair of ours, but we think it would be a graceful and humane act on the part of our contemporary to give a consolation prize to the poor beast adjudged to be the ugliest.

Meanwhile, in view of this competition, the wart-hog would be glad to hear of a really reliable cure for warts.

A thrush has built its nest and laid three eggs at the junction of two scaffold poles where between fifty and sixty men are working on a new building at Northampton. The kind-hearted labourers were, we understand, willing to work quietly and slowly in order not to disturb the young mother, but were over-ridden by the foremen.

What is described as a "Racegoers' Luncheon Palace" is being erected next to the Epsom Grand Stand. The new building will, we are informed, have fireproof floors and staircases. These will no doubt be duly tested by the Militants.

It is rumoured that such is the success of The Melting Pot that Mr. Zangwill has been approached by more than one manager with flattering proposals. Mr. Zangwill, however, is not to be rushed, and it is extremely unlikely that we shall have him turning out Melting Pot-Boilers.

The punishment does sometimes fit the crime. An individual who for some months past specialised in thefts of clocks was last week given time.

"A Blackburn platelayer," it is stated, "who has just died at the age of seventy, left £400, which he had accumulated out of his small earnings. He was a bachelor." Married women consider this a marvellous achievement in view of the fact that the man had no wife to help him.

At last it looks as if something is going to be done for golfers, whose language, it is rumoured, occasionally leaves so much to be desired. The Rector of Frinton has undertaken to consider a suggestion that a special service for golfers shall be held at nine o'clock on Sunday mornings.

Another "Daily Mail" Record.

"'How beautiful,' said the Queen as she passed me."

We congratulate The Daily Mail's Special Paris Correspondent (author of the above passage), on the tribute paid to him by Her Majesty.

The Rivals.

Two posters in Torquay:—

"Flying at Paignton by Monsieur Salmet."

"Flying Visit of Mr. H. B. Irving."

"Fashion Gossip" in The Cambridge Chronicle:—

"Black rats, however, are most in favour and bid fair to retain their popularity."

It is no longer fashionable to see snakes.

"For supply of a body suitable for motor ambulance for Ipswich."—Contract Journal.

Ipswich seems in a hurry. Surely it might wait for the accident to happen naturally.

GENERAL VILLA BREAKS INTO POETRY.

[The following unpublished poem of General Villa—not, of course, to be compared with the recently discovered compositions of Keats—throws an interesting light on the attitude of that incomparable brigand towards the academic diplomatist of the White House. This correspondence, rendered into English, is now made public without prejudice to any change of policy that may occur during its passage through the press.]

"A Review of the Primates. By Daniel Geraud Elliot.

Three volumes.

Monkeys, and especially the higher apes, have an unfailing interest for mankind."—"Times" Literary Supplement.

But this is not the way that we ourselves should begin an article on the Archbishops.

A "SCENE" IN 1916.

Showing the Development of Parliamentary Manners.

Mr. Asquith. I wish to ask the Prime Minister whether he will grant a full judicial enquiry into the recent military and naval movements contemplated by the Government in Munster.

Mr. Law (who was greeted by shouts of "Assassin"). I see no necessity for any such enquiry. I am prepared to answer for the Government on the floor of this House.

Mr. Lloyd George. May I ask the right honourable gentleman how many members of the Government are interested in armament companies, and to what extent they would have profited by the contemplated Tipperary pogrom? (Shouts of "Yah," "Thieves!" "Thieves!" "Brigands!" and "Yah!")

Mr. Law. I utterly and entirely repudiate the suggestion of the right honourable gentleman. (Opposition shouts of "Liar" and "Coward.") The information the right honourable gentleman has gained during his intrigues with the rank and file of the Welsh regiments is totally——

Mr. Speaker. Order, order. That reply obviously does not arise from the question.

Mr. Asquith. I wish to ask the right honourable gentleman if he is prepared to make a statement on oath. Nothing else will convince the country, as it knows by experience that Ministers are steeped in falsehood.

Mr. Law. That is an allegation against the honour of Ministers. (Mr. Churchill, "They have none.") If the Leader of the Opposition desires to attempt to substantiate these charges I will give him a day—or a week, if he wants it.

Mr. Swift MacNeill. Afraid of five years for perjury. Blackguards!

Mr. Amery (President of the Local Government Board). Mr. Speaker, should I be in order if I appealed to you to ask Members on the other side to maintain the honourable traditions of this House?

Mr. John Ward. All they care for is the £5,000 a year.

Mr. Speaker. Order, order! I must ask honourable members not to turn Question time into a debate.

Mr. Churchill. I beg to ask the Prime Minister whether the guns of the first cruiser squadron are not at this moment trained on Limerick, and to ask him if ample time will be given for women and children to escape before the massacre begins?

Mr. Bonar Law. The first cruiser squadron is not at Limerick. (Loud shouts of "Liar!") That disposes of the second part of the question also. (Cries of "No!" "Shame!" "Child-murderer!")

Lord Winterton (Junior Lord of the Treasury). Mr. Speaker, may I draw your attention to the fact that several Members of the Opposition shout "Liar" at the Prime Minister whenever he rises to his feet?

Mr. Speaker. The term is certainly an objectionable one, but unfortunately there are Parliamentary precedents.

Mr. Raymond Asquith. Yes, that's what he used to call Papa.

Mr. Lloyd George. May I ask the Prime Minister if it is true that victims of the Celtic pogrom are to be refused treatment by their panel doctors?

Mr. Law. As there will be no victims (shouts of "Found out" and "Afraid") the question of medical treatment does not arise.

Mr. John Redmond. Enough of this foolery. Enough of the deliberate falsehood of Ministers. I go to Ireland at once, where half a million resolute, dour, determined men are ready to defy this Government of assassins.

(Loud Opposition cheers and waving of handkerchiefs, as Mr. Redmond retires from the House.)

PER ASPARAGOS AD ASTRA.

Massage in the 18th Century.

"Anatomy. Albinus (Bernard Siegfried). Tables of the Skeleton and Muscles of the Human Body, translated from the Latin. Folio, half calf (joints cracked, back rubbed). Edinburgh 1777-78."

A Special Correspondent of The Evening News wrote last week:—

"As for the Queen, from the moment she stepped off the yacht till she got into the train she went on smiling and bowing and murmuring 'Merci, oh merci bien?' I do not, of course, know what she was thinking."

Possibly it had something to do with gratitude.

MY LORD'S DINNER.

[A companion picture to Mr. Edward Knoblauch's play, My Lady's Dress.]

Prologue.

William and Mary have returned from the Royalty Theatre, where they have attended a play in several scenes each representing some incident in the making of a lady's dress.

William (for the ninth time). Capital dinner we had to-night, dear. Don't know when I've had a better.

Mary. Oh, bother your old dinner. What did you think of the play?

William. H'm, not bad. Don't know that I care about those dream plays. (After deep thought) Capital caviare, that.

Mary (annoyed). You think of nothing but your food. Didn't you think Dennis Eadie was splendid?

William. Very clever. A remarkable tour de force. H'm. Capital whitebait, too. Did you notice the saddle of lamb, my love? Capital.

Mary. I thought it was all very novel and interesting.

William. The dinner, my dear? Not exactly novel, but certainly——

Mary (coldly). I wasn't referring to the dinner. If you could manage to get your mind off your meals occasionally, I should like to discuss the play.

William (yawning). Not to-night, dear, I'm sleepy.... Capital dinner; don't know when I've had a better.... Very, very sleepy.

[He goes to bed and dreams.

THE DREAM.

Scene I.

Moscow. The top of the Shot Tower where they make the caviare. Alexandrovitch is discovered at work. Enter Marieovitch.

Alexandrovitch (dropping his sturgeon and clasping her round the neck). At last, my love!

Marieovitch. Be careful. Williamovitch suspects. He hates you.

Alexandrovitch. Nonsense, love! He's only jealous because my caviare is so much rounder than his.

Marieovitch. He knows I am tired of him. Lookout; here he is.

Enter Williamovitch from behind a heap of buttered toast.

Williamovitch (sternly). I know all.

Alexandrovitch (pushing him over the edge of the tower). Then take that!

[Exit Williamovitch.

Scene II.

A typefounder's in Italy, where they make the macaroni letters for the consommé.

Gulielmo (sorting the O's). One million, three hundred and eighty-seven thousand, six hundred and forty-five. There are two missing, Maria.

Maria (nervously). Perhaps you counted wrong, Gulielmo.

Gulielmo (scornfully). Counted wrong! And me the best macaroni sorter in Italy! Now let's get the "E's" together. (After a pause) Two million, four hundred and five thousand, two hundred and ninety seven. Corpo di Bacco! There are two "E's" 'missing'!

Maria. Don't you remember there was one "E" the reader wouldn't pass?

Gulielmo (suspiciously). I made another to take its place. There's some devilry in this. Maria, girl, what are you hiding from me?

Maria (confused). Oh, Gulielmo, I didn't want you to know.

[She takes a handful of letters from her lap and gives them shyly to him.

Gulielmo (sorting them). Two "O's," two "E's," two "L's——" What's all this?

Maria (overcome). Oh!

Gulielmo. "I Love Gulielmo."

(Ecstatically). Maria! You love me?

[She falls into his arms.

Scene III.

A whitebait stud farm at Greenwich. Polly is discovered outside one of the stables. Enter Alfred.

Polly. Can't think what's the matter with Randolph this morning. That's 'is fifth slice of lemon, and 'e's as fierce and 'ungry as ever.

Alfred (gaily). Never mind the whitebait now, sweet'eart, when we're going to be spliced this afternoon. 'Ullo, 'ere 's Bill.

Enter Bill.

Bill. Wot cher, Alf! The guv'nor wants yer. (Exit Alfred hastily.) And now, Polly, my girl, wot's all this about marrying Alf when you're engaged to me?

Polly. Oh, Bill, I'm sorry. Do let me off. I love Alfred.

Bill. I'll let yer off all right.

[He goes towards Randolph's stable.

Polly (shrieking). Bill! Wotcher doing?

Bill (opening the stable door). Just giving Randolph a bit of a run like. 'E wants exercise.

[Randolph, the fiercest of the whitebait, dashes out and springs at Polly's throat.

Polly. Help! Help!

Bill. P'raps Alfred will 'elp you—when 'e comes back. I'll tell 'im.

[Exit leisurely.

Scene IV.

A saddler's shop at Canterbury, New Zealand.

Molly. Busy, Willie?

William. Always busy at the beginning of the lamb season, Molly. The gentlemen in London will have their saddle.

Molly. Too busy to talk to me?

Willie. Plenty of time to talk when we're married. Shan't have to work so hard then.

Molly. Because of my money you mean, Willie dear. You aren't only marrying me for my money, are you?

Willie. Of course not.

[He kisses her perfunctorily and returns to his work.

Molly. Because—because I've lost it all.

Willie (sharply). What's that?

Molly. I've lost it all.

Willie. Then what are you doing in my shop? Get out!

Molly (with dignity). I'm going, Willie, And I haven't lost my money at all. I just wanted to test you. Good-bye for ever.

[She goes out. Willie in despair rushes into the garden and buries his head in the mint.

Scene V.

[This part of William's dream was quite different from the rest, and it was the only scene in which his wife didn't appear.]

An actor-manager's room.

Actor-manager. Yes, I like your play immensely. I don't suppose any actor-manager has ever played so many parts before in one evening. But couldn't you get another scene into it?

William. Well, I've got an old curtain-raiser here, but it doesn't seem to fit in somehow.

Actor-manager. Nonsense. In a dream play it doesn't matter about fitting in. What's it about?

William. Oh, the usual sort of love thing. Only it's in the tropics, and I really want an ice-pudding scene.

Actor-manager. Then make it the North Pole.

William. Good idea.

[Exit to do so.

Epilogue.

Next morning.

William. I've had an extraordinary, dream, dear, and—er—I've decided not to eat so much in future.

Mary. My darling boy!

[She embraces him; and as the scene closes William takes his fifth egg.

Curtain.

A. A. M.

NEWS FROM THE FRONT.

["The Sardine War."—Headline in a daily paper.]

ISABEL IN SPRINGTIME.

"The members at the Club dance last Saturday were rather small—but this is only natural after four dances in 'the week' and the summer approaching."—Pioneer.

Certainly nothing gets the weight down so quickly.

THE IMPRESSING OF PERKINS.

"I hope," said my friend and host, Charles, "I hope that you'll manage to be comfortable."

I looked round as much of the room as I could see from where I stood and ventured also to hope that I should.

"The tap to the right," he said, indicating the amenities, "is hot water; the left tap is cold, and the tap in the middle...."

"Lukewarm?" I asked.

"Soft water, for shaving and so on. But Perkins will see to it."

Some people can assume a sort of detached attitude in the early morning, while body-servants get them up and dress them and send them downstairs, but me, I confess, these attentions overawe. "Perkins is one of those strong silent men, is he not," I asked, "who creep into one's bedroom in the morning and steal one's clothes when one isn't looking?"

Charles has no sympathy with Spartans and did not answer. "I think you'll find everything you want. There's a telephone by the bed." I said that I was not given to talking in my sleep. "Then," said he, "if you prefer to write here is the apparatus," and he pointed to a desk that would have satisfied all the needs of a daily editor.

"Thanks," I said, looking at the attractive bed, "but I expect to be too busy in the morning even to write." I yawned comfortably. "Though it may be that I shall dictate, from where I lie, a note or two to my stenographer."

Charles doubted, with all solemnity, whether Perkins could manage shorthand, but promised to enquire about it. He's a dear solid fellow, is Charles, and he does enjoy being rich. Moreover, he means his friends to enjoy it, too. Lastly, "If you don't find everything you want," he said, "you've only to ring," and he pointed to a, row of pear-shaped appendages hanging by silken cords from the cornice.

"Heavens," said I, seizing his arm, "you're never going to leave a defenceless man alone with half-a-dozen bell-pushes!"

Charles softened; he admits to a weakness for electricity. "Some are switches, some are bell-pushes, and one," he said, blushing, "is a fire-alarm."

I climbed on to a chair forthwith and tied a big knot in the cord of the fire-alarm. "We'll get that safe out of the way first," said I, and then he tutored me in the use of the others. After some repetition it was drummed into me that the one nearest the bed was the switch of the getting-into-bed light, and the next one to that the bell which rang in Perkins' upstairs quarters, The other four or five I found, when I came to study them alone, I had forgotten.

I clambered into bed and with great intelligence pressed the correct switch. Had I left it at that my problem would never have arisen.

I have, however, a confession to make which ill accords with my luxurious surroundings of the moment. It is that I am accustomed to press my trousers myself by the homely and ignoble expedient of sleeping on them. My only excuse is that I am a heavy sleeper. So automatic is the process, that I was wrapped in sheets and darkness before it occurred to me that I had placed the trousers I had just doffed under the mattress on which I now lay. I could not help thinking how the masterful Perkins would take it when he came to look for them in the morning. I conceived him picking up my dinner-jacket here, my waistcoat there, and wandering round the room in a hopeless quest for the complement of my suit, trying to recall the events of the previous night and to remember whether I was English or Scottish ... and then, more in sorrow than in anger, spotting the lost ones....

As I contemplated this picture I was moved to pity Perkins, torn asunder between two dreadful alternatives, the one of leaving the trousers there and committing a dereliction of duty, the other of removing them stealthily and committing an indelicacy. I was also moved to pity myself, lying supine under his speechless contempt. I resolved to spare us both, to get out of bed and put things right. I stretched out a hand for the switch. I grasped it with an effort. I pressed the button.

No light ensued.

I pressed again ... and again ... with no visible result. I pressed once more, and still there was a marked absence of light. I lay back in bed and, cursing Charles, thought out his instructions. Cautiously I reached out again, pressed once more and succeeded. The continued oscillation of the second cord revealed to me what you have already guessed, that I had meanwhile rung the bell in Perkins' sleeping quarters four times.

To me the approaching climax was horrible; I could see no way of dealing with the situation shortly about to arise. To those who have never known and feared Perkins or his like it may seem that there were at least two simple courses to pursue: to lie boldly and deny that I had rung; or to tell the truth and admit that I had made a mistake. Men like Perkins, however, are not to be lied to; still less may they be made the recipients of confessions. Methods of self-defence were therefore unthinkable, and I knew instinctively that I must assume the offensive. I must order him curtly, upon his arrival, to do something. But what? As I waited anxiously I tried to think of some service I could require at this hour. What can a man want at 1 A.M. except to go to sleep? Even the richest must do that for himself.

There were footsteps outside.... Perkins'.... I thought harder than I have ever thought before, but my life seemed replete with every modern comfort.

"Yes, Sir?" said Perkins.

"Ah, is that you, Perkins?" said I to gain time, and he said it was.

I shut my eyes and tried to think. Perkins stood silent. I had some idea of leaving it at that, of turning out the light and letting Perkins decide upon his own course of action. I was just about to do this when I had a brain wave. After all, he was paid to do the dirty work and not I.

At that moment I was anticipated.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Sir?" said the Model.

"There is," said I, in my most négligé voice. "Kindly turn out my light."

Perkins may have been annoyed about this, but he was certainly impressed. His demeanour suggested that he had met autocrats before but never such a thorough autocrat as I. For the rest of my time there I pressed my trousers in the usual way, well knowing that he would regard the process not as the makeshift of a valetless pauper but as the eccentricity of an overstaffed multi-billionaire.

The Honest Hypocrites.

"Among the most formidable foes to the reform of our industrial system are those who pretend to be most bitterly opposed to it."

Sunday Times.

Seen in a window in Clapham:—

This "derangement of epitaphs" fails to attract us.

"The Counterfoil in centre must be returned to the Syndicate, which is placed in the Large Wheel with other Subscribers' Tickets for the Draw."—Derby Sweep Circular.

"As formerly, the ticket-holders, with their numbers, were placed in a barrel and thoroughly shaken up."—Hamilton Advertiser.

These repressive measures ought to satisfy even the sternest member of the Anti-Gambling League.

CIVIL WAR;

Or, Some Words about Carter.

From The Birmingham Daily Mail's report of a fire:—

"The night-watchman was aroused."

A shame to disturb the poor fellow's sleep.