"WOT'S OUR NOO M.P.'S BIZNESS?""'E'S IN THE JOBMASTERING LINE I THINK. I 'EARD 'E ARST TO BE SENT BACK TO 'ELP CLEAN OUT THE ORGEAN STABLES."
"WOT'S OUR NOO M.P.'S BIZNESS?"
"'E'S IN THE JOBMASTERING LINE I THINK. I 'EARD 'E ARST TO BE SENT BACK TO 'ELP CLEAN OUT THE ORGEAN STABLES."
First Official. I say, who is the Head of the Thingumyjig Ministry—the one at the Hotel Giorgione?
Second Official. Haven't an idea. I thought it had been wound up.
First Official. Well, I'm not so sure of that. There was an announcement about it in the papers, and then an officialdémenti, and then the Minister resigned, and now I hear he has been reappointed.
Second Official. Then you evidently knew his name all along. Why on earth did you ask me?
First Official. You see, it's like this. I had a bet on with a man at the Club that out of ten Government officials not more than one would know the Minister's name. You didn't, and you happen to be the ninth who didn't, so I've won my bet. By the way, do you know what has become of thechefat the Giorgione?
Second Official. You mean old Savary, who was always gassing about his descent from NAPOLEON'S General? I think he went back to Paris some time ago.
First Official. Thanks; then I win my second bet—that out of ten Government officials five would knowhisname.
From afeuilleton:—
"She watched him catch the sticklebacks which were one day to turn into frogs."Church Family Newspaper.
"She watched him catch the sticklebacks which were one day to turn into frogs."
Church Family Newspaper.
"The Crown Prince expressed hope he would one day be able to return to Germany and live there as a sample citizen."—Bath Herald.
"The Crown Prince expressed hope he would one day be able to return to Germany and live there as a sample citizen."—Bath Herald.
We don't think quite so badly of the Germans as all that.
"To Property Owners and Hotel Proprietors.—Start Redecorating and Repairs now, before the rush comes, and gives the boys returning a chance for work."—Provincial Paper.
"To Property Owners and Hotel Proprietors.—Start Redecorating and Repairs now, before the rush comes, and gives the boys returning a chance for work."—Provincial Paper.
Personally, we shall postpone our order until the boys do come home.
Artist."I CAN'T AFFORD TEN POUNDS. MY BANK TELLS ME I'M OVERDRAWN NOW."His Wife. "SURELY YOU CAN GET IT AT ANOTHER BANK? THEY CAN'T ALL BE AS HARD UP AS THAT."
Artist."I CAN'T AFFORD TEN POUNDS. MY BANK TELLS ME I'M OVERDRAWN NOW."
His Wife. "SURELY YOU CAN GET IT AT ANOTHER BANK? THEY CAN'T ALL BE AS HARD UP AS THAT."
DEAR MR. PUNCH,—I suppose it must be conceded that practical jokes have not the vogue that they once enjoyed. No longer do you discover some fine morning that the street in which you live is blockaded with furniture vans, all endeavouring to deliver furniture you don't require and never heard of before, while your staircase is a mass of flowers and fruit constantly increasing upon you and threatening to smother you with their amount no less than with their scent. It would gradually appear that the deliveries both of the flowers and the furniture were being executed in accordance with the orders of one of your friends, and that you had to grin and bear it as best you might. I cannot say that the victim or the general public, when they heard of it, looked upon it with any excess of enthusiasm. Anyhow, practical jokes have gone out.Yet there is a kind of practical joke which, so far as I know, has never been played upon anybody, and which, if it wore played, might provoke a considerable volume of laughter and no small inconvenience. I have schemed it out and venture to submit the plan to you.My idea is to take some weekly magazine which caters either for some special trade or amusement or pursuit. Let us imagine it to beThe Chicken Run, with which is incorporatedThe Fowls' Guardian. I am entitled to assume that most of Mr. Punch's readers are acquainted with this bright and lively feathered journal. My plan is to get together some bold spirits, to capture the editor and his staff, and to hold them in a comfortable but rigorous imprisonment for one week; to take possession of the editorial office, and then to set to work to transform the contents of the paper. I foresee the amazement of the faithful readers ofThe Chicken Run, on being informed, in the column headed "Hints to Beginners," that Mr. LLOYD GEORGE'S pet Leghorn cockerel has developed a surprising taste for latchkeys, and recently swallowed two of them, while Mr. ASQUITH'S Buff Orpington pullet has taken to following him about like a dog and roosting on his bed-rail. Then there would be a breezy editorial article designed to prove that poultry had come out of the war with a much enhanced reputation, owing to the loyal part they had played in assisting the FOOD-CONTROLLER.Further, there would be special articles proving, for instance, that champagne is the one drink on which all breeds of chickens increase and multiply their production of eggs, especially if hot caviare is afterwards administered in large bowls. Then there would be the first chapters of an enthralling serial whose plot revolved round the love-story of Sir Robert Wyandotte and Lady Cecilia Buttercup—a literary effort of unparalleled brilliancy due to the genius of a new novelist who preferred to be known as the Red Rover of Rhode Island. And so on and so on. If you think the scheme is feasible, let me hear from you and I will begin to get my team of villains together.Yours faithfully,THE GAME CHICK.
DEAR MR. PUNCH,—I suppose it must be conceded that practical jokes have not the vogue that they once enjoyed. No longer do you discover some fine morning that the street in which you live is blockaded with furniture vans, all endeavouring to deliver furniture you don't require and never heard of before, while your staircase is a mass of flowers and fruit constantly increasing upon you and threatening to smother you with their amount no less than with their scent. It would gradually appear that the deliveries both of the flowers and the furniture were being executed in accordance with the orders of one of your friends, and that you had to grin and bear it as best you might. I cannot say that the victim or the general public, when they heard of it, looked upon it with any excess of enthusiasm. Anyhow, practical jokes have gone out.
Yet there is a kind of practical joke which, so far as I know, has never been played upon anybody, and which, if it wore played, might provoke a considerable volume of laughter and no small inconvenience. I have schemed it out and venture to submit the plan to you.
My idea is to take some weekly magazine which caters either for some special trade or amusement or pursuit. Let us imagine it to beThe Chicken Run, with which is incorporatedThe Fowls' Guardian. I am entitled to assume that most of Mr. Punch's readers are acquainted with this bright and lively feathered journal. My plan is to get together some bold spirits, to capture the editor and his staff, and to hold them in a comfortable but rigorous imprisonment for one week; to take possession of the editorial office, and then to set to work to transform the contents of the paper. I foresee the amazement of the faithful readers ofThe Chicken Run, on being informed, in the column headed "Hints to Beginners," that Mr. LLOYD GEORGE'S pet Leghorn cockerel has developed a surprising taste for latchkeys, and recently swallowed two of them, while Mr. ASQUITH'S Buff Orpington pullet has taken to following him about like a dog and roosting on his bed-rail. Then there would be a breezy editorial article designed to prove that poultry had come out of the war with a much enhanced reputation, owing to the loyal part they had played in assisting the FOOD-CONTROLLER.
Further, there would be special articles proving, for instance, that champagne is the one drink on which all breeds of chickens increase and multiply their production of eggs, especially if hot caviare is afterwards administered in large bowls. Then there would be the first chapters of an enthralling serial whose plot revolved round the love-story of Sir Robert Wyandotte and Lady Cecilia Buttercup—a literary effort of unparalleled brilliancy due to the genius of a new novelist who preferred to be known as the Red Rover of Rhode Island. And so on and so on. If you think the scheme is feasible, let me hear from you and I will begin to get my team of villains together.
Yours faithfully,
THE GAME CHICK.
"Women and young persons now employed in these works enjoy a miximum working week of fifty-five and a half hours."—Sunday Paper.
"Women and young persons now employed in these works enjoy a miximum working week of fifty-five and a half hours."—Sunday Paper.
And, we suppose, a manimum wage.
When I saw a dull red glow in the early evening sky above the great open flares that lit the portals of the Theatre Royal, I said to myself, "This brings the Peace home to one!" But those who think that England will never be the same after the War, that all things will become new and better, have not reckoned with the Drury Lane Pantomime. Its tactics may change, but its general strategy remains untouched by War or Peace. Under any name—Ali BabaorAladdin,Puss in BootsorThe Babes in the Wood—its savour is the same. If only a tenth part of the enterprise that goes to the making of its great pageants were devoted to the invention of a new subject, though it were onlyThe Babes in BootsorPuss in the Wood! However, with Bolshevism in the air it is best perhaps not to tamper with British institutions.
Still, even within the limits imposed by immemorial tradition there surely must be somebody in the United Kingdom who could make a better book. It was pathetic that so capable a cast—Miss LILY LONG in particular—should have such second-rate stuff to say and sing. Seldom could one detect any attempt to evade the obvious. Of topical allusions, apart from timeworn themes of coupons and profiteers, there was scarce a sign, and such burlesque as there was had no sort of subtlety in it. Take, for example, the opportunity lost in the imitation of a bedroom scene from modern drama. It announced itself as something "West-Endy," yet it was like nothing (I imagine) even in the remote Orient. And constantly the poor play ofesprithad to be carried off by the distracting thud of some falling body or covered by the deadening clash of the eternal cymbals.
It is significant, in this connection, that there never seems to be any male character in these pantomimes that is not committed to buffoonery. Apparently no reliance is placed on the unassisted humour of the dialogue. A funny remark must be clinched with a somersault, a repartee be driven home by a resounding smack on the face. You might have thought that on such an occasion there would be room for the figure of some gallant soldier of the masculine sex. Yet there wasn't a vestige of khaki in the whole show, and the only patriotic song assigned to a man's voice had to be delivered by the comic villain.
However, the actors were too good to be defeated by the authors; and the two couples—theBabes(Mr. STANLEY LUPINO asHoraceand Mr. WILL EVANS asFlossie) and theRobbers(Messrs. EGBERT)—went far by their personal drollery and unflagging spirits to make up for any defect in the words. Each member of the two pairs played very loyally into the other's hands. Mr. ALBERT EGBERT indeed played into his brother's feet with equal devotion; and the good humour with which he accepted the fiercest blows on face and person seemed to indicate an exceptionally close fraternal understanding.
THE AGE OF INNOCENCEHorace... Mr. STANLEY LUPINO.Flossie... Mr. WILL EVANS.
Horace... Mr. STANLEY LUPINO.Flossie... Mr. WILL EVANS.
Mr. HARRY CLAFF as the Wicked Uncle (with a note or two in the operatic manner) belied his villainous nature by an unusually amiable temperament; and Miss FLORENCE SMITHSON, with her dainty air, furnished interludes of conventional song, during which we gave our ribs a rest.
The dancing, as usual, was rather perfunctory, if one excepts apas de deuxwhich gave promise of a parody of the Russians and turned out to be just a series of contortionist feats, brilliant but unlovely.
As good wine needs no bush, so good babes need no wood; but Messrs. McCLEERY and HUMPHRIES painted for them a quite nice one, where, after some very pleasant business with a brace of giant mushrooms that went up and down like a lift, the robins came and camouflaged the wanderers under a counterpane of fallen leaves, where they behaved much better than in ordinary beds. But the best scene was M. MARC HENRI's Temple of Peace—very beautiful with its dim perspective, till the garish light of "The Day" was turned on. Here the assertive colours of the Allies were tempered to an exquisite pale harmony, only slightly damaged by a nondescript contingent in pink (possibly neutrals) and the apparition of Mr. ARTHUR COLLINS and other gentlemen in black, who came on to receive the expression of our grateful approbation.
I stayed long enough into the Harlequinade to see little Prince OLAF of Norway, in QUEEN ALEXANDRA's box, capture a large cracker dexterously flung to him by the Pantaloon. So ended for me an evening more jocund than I have had the good grace to admit.
O. S.
"The trade-mark name of tins coat—'Aquascutum'—is a Latin word, and translated into our own good English, 'Aqua,' means water. 'Scutum' means to shed. There you are—Watershed."Advt. in Canadian Paper.
"The trade-mark name of tins coat—'Aquascutum'—is a Latin word, and translated into our own good English, 'Aqua,' means water. 'Scutum' means to shed. There you are—Watershed."
Advt. in Canadian Paper.
"They belileve that an not inconsiderable number of dddeeeeeddlllllllcleeeeeece cw pavem ponnunex-parteopinions are given for what they may be worth."Manchester Paper.
"They belileve that an not inconsiderable number of dddeeeeeddlllllllcleeeeeece cw pavem ponnunex-parteopinions are given for what they may be worth."
Manchester Paper.
For our part we belileve this estimate of the value ofex-parteopinions, of the kind indicated, to be sound, if rather scathing.
"In lieu of the February Sale and Spring Show, hitherto held in April, an important sale of pure-bred bulls will be held in the Show Grounds at Ballsbridge, on Thursday and Friday, 13th and 14th March."—Cork Examiner.
"In lieu of the February Sale and Spring Show, hitherto held in April, an important sale of pure-bred bulls will be held in the Show Grounds at Ballsbridge, on Thursday and Friday, 13th and 14th March."—Cork Examiner.
We trust the above specimen will be duly entered.
"After the act fromMasks and Facescame the letter-reading, the murder and the sleepwalking scenes fromMacbeth, with Miss Mary Anderson and Mr. Lyn Harding. Tragic poetry of this intensity, of course, knocks everything else endways."—Times.
"After the act fromMasks and Facescame the letter-reading, the murder and the sleepwalking scenes fromMacbeth, with Miss Mary Anderson and Mr. Lyn Harding. Tragic poetry of this intensity, of course, knocks everything else endways."—Times.
Or, as SHAKSPEARE himself is said to have exclaimed, as he penned the last line of it, "That's the stuff to give 'em."
"There should also be mentioned the merchants' bank, Towarzystwo Pozyczkowe Przemyslowcow Miasta Poznania."Journal of the Royal Statistical Society.
"There should also be mentioned the merchants' bank, Towarzystwo Pozyczkowe Przemyslowcow Miasta Poznania."
Journal of the Royal Statistical Society.
We have tried to mention it, but failed miserably.
"The Major then spoke of battles in which he had taken part. He had been wounded in the back leg and arm."—Evening News.
"The Major then spoke of battles in which he had taken part. He had been wounded in the back leg and arm."—Evening News.
Bit of a dog, this Major.
"PROMOTION.-Rifleman P.R. Shand to be Sergeant Cock."—Ceylon Paper.
"PROMOTION.-Rifleman P.R. Shand to be Sergeant Cock."—Ceylon Paper.
We hope Sergeant Cock was consulted about this.
SEMI-OFFICIAL LETTER"IS THAT AN OFFICIAL LETTER YOU ARE WRITING, MISS BROWN?""IT'S—SEMI-OFFICIAL, SIR.""WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY SEMI-OFFICIAL?""WELL, SIR—IT'S TO AN OFFICER."
"IS THAT AN OFFICIAL LETTER YOU ARE WRITING, MISS BROWN?"
"IT'S—SEMI-OFFICIAL, SIR."
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY SEMI-OFFICIAL?"
"WELL, SIR—IT'S TO AN OFFICER."
Not infrequently our novelists will follow success with a boy hero by a sequel showing the same character grown up. Mr. E.F. BENSON, however, has reversed this process, and in a second book aboutDavid Blaizeintroduces him grown not up, but down. So far down, indeed, as to be able to pass through a door conveniently situated under his own pillow and leading to a dreamland of the most varied enchantments. I know, of course, what you are about to say; I can see your lips already forming upon the wordAlice. But while I admit thatDavid Blaize and the Blue Door(HODDER AND STOUGHTON) is frankly built after that famous plan this means no more than that Mr. BENSON has used, so to speak, the CARROLL formula as a medium for his agreeable fancies. These are altogether original and filled with the proper dream-spirit of inconsequence. Moreover the author has a pretty gift for remembering just the stuff that childhood's dreams are made of—such transfigured delights as swimming like fishes or flying in a company of birds; he knows too the odd tags of speech that linger there from daytime, things meaningless and full of meaning—"Rod-pole-or-perch," for example, or that thrice-blessed word, "Popocatapetl." Best of all, he has resisted the subtle temptation to be even momentarily too clever for his audience (you know the devastating effect that may be produced if a grown-up pauses on the edge of the circle and reminds the story-teller that he has a reputation for wit). In fine, this early dream ofDavid'sshows him fortunate in having an old family friend like Mr. Benson to write it down; also—what I must on no account forget—so sympathetic an artist as Mr. H.J. FORD to make it into pictures.
Those who have learnt to value their "TAFFRAIL" will find matter very much to their mind in his latest book,A Little Ship(CHAMBERS). I do not wish to institute any invidious comparisons between the marine mixture as provided by "TAFFRAIL" and that of other nautical writers, but this much I may say with perfect confidence: the men to be found in "TAFFRAIL'S" stories are true human stuff, sturdy, dogged in doing their duty, and brave almost beyond recklessness; but they are men all the time, and not solemn and consecrated angels. That is, I suppose, why I find that "TAFFRAIL'S" stories go straight to the mark and make their effect with no undue waste of time; and, if a little bit of laughter is occasionally worked in, so much the better. The last chapter in the book gives an account of the Zeebrugge expedition. The story is so bravely told that a man can hardly refrain from shouting in apprehension and exultation as he reads it.
I have a grudge against the publishers ofMiss Mink's Soldier(HODDER AND STOUGHTON) because they have printed on its wrapper, "By the Author ofMrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch," which led me, perhaps foolishly, to hope thatMrs. Wiggsand I were to foregather once more, and when we didn't made me just a little surly towards a book of short tales which, opened with any other expectation, would have seemed much above the average. Thereare eight stories in the book, and in almost all of them is found that blend of pathos and humour that Mrs. ALICE HEGAN RICE has taught us to expect. I liked "Cupid Goes Slumming," because it was almostCabbage Patch; but "Hoodooed," the story of an old negro who believed himself the victim of a spell which involved the presence of a cricket in his leg, delighted me even more. His wife removes the charm with a vacuum cleaner, in which she has previously secreted a cricket, and the victim recovers. It pleased me very much to learn that among "white folk's superstitions" is the theory that it is "bad luck to sleep with the windows shet," and, when I come to think of it, I believe that it is very bad luck indeed.
I should have liked GABRIELLE VALLINGS'Tumult(HUTCHINSON) a good deal better if she could have managed it without the aid of a Pan who wandered, emitting a strong smell, chiefly in the demesne of a very expensive and over-cultivated French noble. It was his daughter (by an Australian wife) who was suffering from an inordinate perplexity as to which half of her blood had the real call. The Australian half suggested that she should marry a gentleman-rider who won the Grand Prix in a canter, but fell at the winning-post because his horse shied at the irrepressible Pan. The French half—and both her parents—urged a dissolute and anaemic aristocrat—blue blood and a gold lining. Her grandfather, a strong unsilent sheep-rancher, was against this inept decadent and converted to his view that saintly worldling, the gorgeousCardinal Camperioni. A neo-futurist of the most bizarre type prances through the pages upon his head, causing enough "tumult" to satisfy any one. So why drag in Pan? Miss VALLINGS can tell a story, cannot keep down the volume of her puppets' talk, has a sense of movement and colour, and ought to win for herself a good circulating library constituency.
For myself I have never yet lived in a sailing barge, and under the providence of Heaven trust to continue in this immunity. There are however those who regard the matter differently; and for their benefit I have no hesitation in recommending most warmlyA Floating Home(CHATTO AND WINDUS), written by CYRIL IONIDES and J.B. ATKINS, and illustrated partly with photographs, partly with water-colour sketches by that various craftsman, Mr. ARNOLD BENNETT. Let me say at once that you have no need to be an amateur bargee, either by practice or desire, to enjoy this most entertaining volume. Witness my own case, who read every page of it with delight. It is a reasonable contention that a writer possessing the enthusiasm, the humour and the persuasive gifts of Mr. IONIDES, with a twelve-and-sixpenny book for their display, could present a case that would give some theoretic and superficial charm to the most uncomfortable conditions of existence. Not thatA Floating Homeis a work only of theory; on the contrary, nothing could be more practical than its account of the purchase, conversion and enjoyment of theArk Royal. The most prejudiced—again I speak personally—will find pleasure in the author's zestful story of how the dingy, foul-smellingWill Arding, full of cement (and worse things), was transformed into the spick-and-spanArk Royal, with a piano in the saloon and Queen Anne silver on the breakfast-table; while for the persuadable there are added plans, scales of expense and the like, which bring the whole matter to a working basis. The book, in short, is propaganda at its best (was it perhaps this that attracted Mr. BENNETT?) and as such well entitled to its toll of converts.
Warriors and Statesmen(MURRAY) is a book selected from the "gleanings" of the late Lord BRASSEY. Such gleanings depend so largely on the personality of the gleaner that they may be worth anything or nothing; so let me say at once that Lord BRASSEY had too sound a taste to be a collector of ill-considered trifles. Although warriors have the place of honour in the title they are given but little space in the book. Still, in these days the soldier can well afford to let the statesman have the advantage in a collection that does not deal with the living. This limitation may explain the absence of all mention of Lord ROBERTS, who was probably still alive when the gleanings were completed. Apart from the evidence it gives of a fine mind the book preserves much that is worth remembering and presents it in a convenient form. For this we have in part to thank Mr. HORACE HUTCHINSON, to whom Lord BRASSEY entrusted the work of selecting these literary sheaves.
From the Home Front(CONSTABLE) is a further, and rather belated, selection from the War verses that have appeared from week to week on the second page ofPunch. Conscious of cherishing a natural prejudice in favour of his own productions, Mr. Punch forbears to commend this little volume, but he may permit himself to say that, in the judgment ofThe Daily News, which is above suspicion of bias, it is calculated to provoke "a sorrow chequered by disgust."
Topical Huckster. "'ERE YOU ARE, LADY—AS CHEWED BY THE PRESIDENT."
"This royal throne of kings,This sceptical isle, this seat of Mars."Quotation by Miss MARIE CORELLI in "The Pall Mall Gazette."
"This royal throne of kings,This sceptical isle, this seat of Mars."
No man is a prophet in his own country, and this is how Shakespeare gets treated at Stratford-on-Avon.