PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 147.
July 15th, 1914.
CHARIVARIA.
Two men carrying bombs were arrested last week on the outskirts of Paris, and are suspected of a plot against the French President. They alleged that the bombs were made for the Tsar of Russia, but the Tsar denies that he gave the commission.
The town of Criccieth, it is reported, has decided to give up gas in favour of electricity. This, of course, is not meant as a slight on its most illustrious resident.
Posted at Ventnor, Isle of Wight, on July 14, 1904, a postcard has just been delivered at the Grapes Hotel in Cowes. The recipient is said to have expressed the opinion that it would have been quicker, almost, to have telephoned the message.
Miss Nina Boyle, of the Women's Freedom League, has sent to the papers a list of ladies on whom she considers the King ought to bestow honours. Among the writers there is one notable omission, and Miss Marie Corelli is said to be more of an anti-Suffragette than ever.
"NEW THEATRE FOR LONDON,
all seats in the house to be booked."
So the great difficulty has been solved at last! So may theatres fail because the seats are not taken.
A movement is on foot to induce Mr. Charles Garvice to change the name of his play, A Heritage of Hate, as so many patrons of melodrama have experienced difficulty in pronouncing the title as it stands at present.
In a struggle between a British sailor and a German policeman at Wilhelmshaven the other day honours seem to have been fairly even. The policeman, who used his sword, lost his head, and the sailor a piece of his nose.
Two men of good position were tried last week before the State Court of Berlin for refusing to address a policeman as "Mr." That will surprise no one who knows his Prussia. It is the sequel which takes our breath away. The two men were acquitted!
Volume 10 of the Census of 1911 shows that in the preceding ten years clergymen of the Established Church declined from 25,235 to 24,859. "The decrease is accounted for by the lack of young men taking orders." The wonder is that such orders were not at once snapped up by alert Germans.
Miss Laura Wentworth, of Nebraska, known as "The Big Hat Girl," has, we are told, sailed from New York in the Imperator with a hat which measures 58 inches in diameter. These giant liners are justifying themselves.
We are glad that the Postmaster-General has promised a Bill against foreign sweeps. Only the other day we received a circular headed "Schimneys Scheaply Schwept."
One advantage about these absolutely remote country cottages is that you can wear out some of the costumes in which you went to the fancy balls this season.
While we are ready to grant that it is not always easy to find the apt quotation, we cannot help thinking that The Daily Telegraph would have caused less offence if it had published the following paragraph without any tag at all:—
The Mayor and Mayoress of Kensington, Alderman and Mrs. W. H. Davison, held a reception at the Kensington Town trail last evening, their guests numbering between 400 and 500.
Oh, how peaceful is their sleep,
They who "Keating's" always keep.
"Cheerful Company at all the Cafés. Soup to Cheese 1/-," announces an advertisement in The Manchester Guardian. We have heard of lively cheese before, but the chatty soup must be something of a novelty.
"Strawberries are going out," reports The Evening News. We are in a position to confirm this statement. We met one out the other evening.
According to La France Militaire the French Navy is about to try the experiment of enlisting black sailors. We should say that they will be found to make the most admirable stokers, not showing the dirt like the white men.
Describing a recent visit of a party of Congressmen and State officials to one of the teetotal battleships of the American Navy, a contemporary says, "The distinguished guests took water with what grace they could." Evidently they thought it scarcely worth saying grace for.
The statement made last week in the course of a certain trial that "as a man grows older he becomes riper" has had a curious sequel. Orders are pouring in from the Cannibal Isles for consignments of centenarians.
THE PROFESSIONAL ATTITUDE.
(The modern girl, according to a daily paper, is not to be won by love-making. She prefers a cheerful and amusing companion.)
Dear, of old I swore devotion
In the manner knights employed,
Wrote epistles with emotion
(Which I trust have been destroyed);
Now at last, a practised lover,
Boasting conquests not a few,
I am told to put a cover
On my sentiments for you.
Cupid's chat is out of fashion;
Sloppy words are never said;
Voices once a-throb with passion
Shake with merriment instead;
Poets qualified to tackle
Lyric metres when inspired
Stoop to make the ladies cackle—
Nothing further is required.
Doubtless one whose occupation
Has a dull and solemn trend
Might enjoy, as relaxation,
Jesting with a female friend;
But, corrupted by the money
That my written humours bring,
How on earth can I be funny
For the pleasure of the thing?
The Daily Chronicle on the latest submarine:—
"It will also be equipped with a quick-firing gun, which disappears when the vessel is submerged."
This is far the best arrangement; it would never do for it to be left floating where any passer-by could pick it up.
A WARM HALF-HOUR.
Whatever the papers say, it was the hottest afternoon of the year. At six-thirty I had just finished dressing after my third cold bath since lunch, when Celia tapped on the door.
"I want you to do something for me," she said. "It's a shame to ask you on a day like this."
"It is rather a shame," I agreed, "but I can always refuse."
"Oh, but you mustn't. We haven't got any ice, and the Thompsons are coming to dinner. Do you think you could go and buy three pennyworth? Jane's busy, and I'm busy, and——"
"And I'm busy," I said, opening and shutting a drawer with great rapidity.
"Just three pennyworth," she pleaded. "Nice cool ice. Think of sliding home on it."
Well, of course it had to be done. I took my hat and staggered out. On an ordinary cool day it is about half-a-mile to the fishmonger; to-day it was about two miles-and-a-quarter. I arrived
"Here, you mustn't do that," said the fishmonger, waving me away.
I got up, slightly refreshed.
"I want," I said, "some——" and then a thought occurred to me.
After all, did fishmongers sell ice? Probably the large block in front of me was just a trade sign like the coloured bottles at the chemist's. Suppose I said to a Fellow of the Pharmaceutical Society, "I want some of that green stuff in the window," he would only laugh. The tactful thing to do would be to buy a pint or two of laudanum first, and then, having established pleasant relations, ask him as a friend to lend me his green bottle for a bit.
So I said to the fishmonger, "I want some—some nice lobsters."
"How many would you like?"
"One," I said.
We selected a nice one between us, and he wrapped a piece of Daily Mail round it, leaving only the whiskers visible, and gave it to me. The ice being now broken—I mean the ice being now—well, you see what I mean—I was now in a position to ask for some of his ice.
"I wonder if you could let me have a little piece of your ice," I ventured.
"How much ice do you want?" he said promptly.
"Sixpennyworth," I said, not knowing a bit how much it would be, but feeling that Celia's threepennyworth sounded rather mean.
"Six of ice, Bill," he shouted to an inferior at the back, and Bill tottered up with a block about the size of one of the lions in Trafalgar Square. He wrapped a piece of Daily News round it and gave it to me.
"Is that all?" asked the fishmonger.
"That is all," I said faintly; and, with Algernon, the overwhiskered crustacean, firmly clutched in the right hand and Stonehenge supported on the palm of the left hand, I retired.
The flat seemed a very long way away, but having bought twice as much ice as I wanted, and an entirely unnecessary lobster, I was not going to waste still more money in taxis. Hot though it was, I would walk.
For some miles all went well. Then the ice began to drip through the paper, and in a little while the underneath part of The Daily News had disappeared altogether. Tucking the lobster under my arm I turned the block over, so that it rested on another part of the paper. Soon that had dissolved too. By the time I had got half-way our Radical contemporary had been entirely eaten.
Fortunately The Daily Mail remained. But to get it I had to disentangle Algernon first, and I had no hand available. There was only one thing to do. I put the block of ice down on the pavement, unwrapped the lobster, put the lobster temporarily in my pocket, spread its Daily Mail out next to the ice, lifted the ice on to the paper, and—looked up and saw Mrs. Thompson approaching.
She was the last person I wanted at that moment. In an hour and a half she would be dining with us. Algernon would not be dining with us. If Algernon and Mrs. Thompson were to meet now, would she not be expecting him to turn up at every course? Think of the long-drawn-out disappointment for her; not even lobster sauce!
There was no time to lose. I decided to abandon the ice. Leaving it on the pavement I turned round and walked hastily back the way I had come.
By the time I had shaken off Mrs. Thompson I was almost at the fishmonger's. That decided me. I would begin all over again, and would do it properly this time.
"I want," I said boldly, "threepennyworth of ice."
"Three of ice, Bill," said the fishmonger, and Bill gave me quite a respectable segment in The Morning Post.
"And I want a taxi," I said, and I summoned one.
We drove quickly home.
As we neared the flat I suddenly remembered Algernon. I drew him out of my pocket, red and undraped.
This would never do. If the porter saw me entering my residence with a nice lobster, the news would soon get about, and before I knew where I was I should have a super-tax form sprung on me. I placed the block of ice on the seat, took off its Morning Post, and wrapped up Algernon. Then I sprang out, gave the man a shilling, and got into the lift.
"Bless you," said Celia, "have you got it? How sweet of you!" And she took my parcel from me. "Now we shall be able——Why, what's this?"
I looked at it closely.
"It's—it's a lobster," I said, "Didn't you say lobster?"
"I said ice."
"Oh," I said, "oh, I didn't understand. I thought you said lobster."
"You can't put lobster in cider cup," said Celia severely.
Of course I quite see that. It was rather a silly mistake of mine. However, it's pleasant to think that the taxi must have been nice and cool for the next man.
A. A. M.
AT THE TOWER.
Upon the old black guns
The old black raven hops;
We gave him bits of buns
And cakes and acid-drops;
He's wise, and his way's devout,
But he croaks and he flaps his wings
(And the flood runs out and the sergeants shout)
For the first and the last of things;
He croaks to Robinson, Brown, and Jones,
The song of the ravens, "Dead Men's Bones!"
For into the lifting dark
And a drizzle of clearing rain,
His sire flapped out of the Ark
And never came back again;
So I always fancy that,
Ere the frail lost blue showed thin,
Alone he sat upon Ararat
To see a new world in,
And yelped to the void from a cairn of stones
The song of the ravens, "Dead Men's Bones!"
When the last of mankind lie slain
On Armageddon's field,
When the last red west has ta'en
The last day's flaming shield,
There shall sit when the shadows run
(D'you doubt, good Sirs, d'you doubt?)
His last rogue son on an empty gun
To see an old world out;
And he'll croak (as to Robinson, Brown and Jones)
The song of the ravens, "Dead Men's Bones!"
THE LIBERAL CAVE-MEN;
OR, A HOLT FROM THE BLUE.
Harassed Chancellor. "IT'S NOT SO MUCH FOR MY FEET THAT I MIND—THEY'RE HARDENED AGAINST THIS KIND OF THING; BUT I DO HATE ROCKS ON MY HEAD."
THE MARCH OF CIVILISATION IN IRELAND.
Tim. "Well, Patsy, are ye afther building an addition to yer house?"
Patsy. "Shure and the hins likes a place to thimsilves."
TEMPERING THE WIND;
or, The Indemnification of Antonio.
[In the Census returns for 1911, recently published, organ-grinders are no longer counted as musicians.]
When buffets from the frowning Fates demoralise,
And all the spirit yearns for honeyed
When limply on the harper's brow the laurel lies
And something in his bosom deeply saith,
"N.G. I give it up! Behold! misshapen is
The bowler that surmounts my glorious mane;
Life is all kicks without the boon of halfpennies;
The rates are here again;"——
'Tis sweet, 'tis very sweet to gaze at Helicon
And think, "On me the sacred fire has dropped,
The lute, at any rate, still hangs, a relic, on
This diaphragm, although the shirt is popped;"
And so it was, I ween, with your position,
Ansonia's sunny child, from house to house
Aye wandering: still you ranked as a musician,
The same as Dr. Strauss.
People were rude to you: they said, "Be gibbetted!"
In many a ruthless road your cheek grew wan
Where hawkers and street-music were prohibited
And stout policemen urged you to get on;
Yet still that stubborn heart, the heart of Cato's kin,
Stayed you, and still the gleam that cannot die,
Though every now and then an old potato skin
Did welt you in the eye.
Tattered and soiled, an exile and an alien,
Somehow you touched the Cockney nymphs with awe;
You lit the cold clay statue, like Pygmalion,
To blood-red raptures; you were sib to Shaw;
Others might hale the town in cushioned chariots
To see them dance or daub, to hear them strum;
You also had your moments: jigging Harriets
Joyed in your simian chum.
And how shall these things change? Shall childish galleries
That deemed you once Apollo's minister,
Say, "Garn, old monkey!" Shall colossal salaries
Reward the Muse and not the dulcimer?
Not gleaming eyeballs, not the soul illuminate?
Shall old faiths falter and Antonio's heart
Sicken the while he churns, and chilly ruminate,
"This is no longer Art"?
So be it then. But lest the slight unparalleled
Shall cause extinction of a breed so stout,
And scatter to the winds what tags his barrel held
And doom him to go under and get out;
Lest he despair and pine from this now streak of ills,
Not ranked with virtuosi's shining shapes,
Let him he classed anew amongst Pithekophils,
An amateur of Apes.
Evoe.
MORE SACRIFICES TO SPEED.
The "Minim Kid-Fit."PAYMENT IN KIND.
I argued that one and threepence was too much to pay for the delivery of a telegram which had only cost sixpence itself; I also argued that one and threepence was too little for a wealthy institution like the G.P.O. to worry about, but the messenger wouldn't reduce the price. I had had my telegram, said he, and I must pay for it. I offered to give him the telegram back, but he guessed it was only from Carr and wasn't having any. It was my money he wanted and that, unhappily, was some miles away in a bank.
For reasons best known to myself, and not too clearly appreciated even in that quarter, I am always full of petty cash at the beginning of the month and out of it at the end. My wife never draws any at all, knowing it is much safer where it is, and as for Albert, our only son, he takes no interest in the stuff. When we, in moments of self-denial, slip a coin into the slit of his money-box, he is merely bored, being as yet unable to unlock the box and get the coin out again, owing to ignorance of the whereabouts of the key. I explained all this to the telegraph boy, but his heart didn't soften; so, still parleying with him in the porch, I sent the maid to my wife to see what she could do to ease the financial position.
The maid returned with a shilling, which was my wife's limit, and this I tendered to the boy, explaining to him the theory of discount for net cash. But he was one of those small and obstinate creatures who won't learn, so I sent him round to the back premises to get some tea, while I retired to the front to do some thinking. It was at this moment that Albert chose, imprudently, to make an important announcement from the top of the stairs with regard to a first tooth, which he had lost by extraction the day before but had not yet been able to forget. His idea was that he should come down and inspect it once more; but I paid no heed to this. His mention of the matter suggested, when I came to think of it, a solution of my difficulty with the telegraph boy.
Later, I asked my wife to step into my study and to shut the door behind her. "This has become a serious matter," said I; "nay, it threatens to be a grave scandal. You remember Albert's tooth?"
She did. These things are not easily forgotten. "I wish," I pursued, "to interview Albert's nurse as to it," and I rang the bell sternly.
"She hasn't got it," said my wife; "we have," and she took from the mantelpiece a small packet tied up with pink ribbon.
I explained that it wasn't the child's molar but the child's funds that I was concerned with. "You will recollect that I compensated him for the loss of it with a shilling. It makes it all the more poignant that it was my last shilling. I put it into his money-box, the key of which is accessible to miscreants. That shilling is gone!"
My wife smiled. "How did you find out?" she asked.
"I had reason to be looking in the box," I said airily, "and happened by chance to notice that the shilling had been stolen."
"You mean," said she, "that you were proposing to steal it yourself?"
I disregarded the question. "I never did trust that nurse," said I. "But to steal the treasured capital of a defenceless infant!"
"I am the thief," said my wife, "and you are the receiver. Whether or not the telegraph-boy will be jointly charged with us is for the police and Albert to decide between them."
At this moment the nurse entered and asked what we required of her. My wife was confused, but not so I. I told nurse we required nothing of her but much of Albert. Would she ask him to step downstairs?
We assembled in the porch, my wife, Albert, the nurse, and the telegraph boy. I took the chair.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said I, "I have a proposal to lay before the meeting with a view to adjusting the acute crisis. Let me remind you of the facts:—The gentleman on my right," and I indicated Albert, whose attention wandered a little, "was recently possessed of a tooth, two parents, and a godfather of the name of Carr. The tooth, as teeth will, had to be removed; the parents, as parents may, advanced a shilling upon it; and the godfather, as godfathers needn't, telegraphed to say he was coming forthwith to the locus in quo. Things were so when Mr. (I didn't catch your name, Sir," and I turned to the telegraph boy) "threatened to liquidate us unless his debt was satisfied. Business is, as he very properly remarked, business. "Now for my suggestion: Albert," and I turned to him again, "will have, the telegram, which, being from his godfather, is rightly his. He will, however, take it subject to encumbrances, of which, I understand, he has already discharged all but threepence. Happily his parents are willing to withdraw their first charge on his personal assets,
And I handed him Albert's tooth.
"Accused, who gave the name of Janet Arthur, quoted Scott's 'Wha Hae' and other works."—Lincolnshire Echo.
Such as the Wha-Haeverley Novels.
THE WORLD'S WORKERS.
Little Girl. "Please, Mrs. Murphy. Muvver says, if it's fine, to-morrer, will you go beggin' with 'er?"THE "THORNS OF PRAISE."
"HIS PURPLEST SIN."
By Vernon Blathers (Jack Short, 6/-).
The Weekly Scotsman. "... vivacious narrative ..."
The Strathpeffer Courant. "Replete with up-to-date sentiment ... knowledge of the beau monde ... racy, but never transcending the bounds of decorum."
The Buttevant Despatch. "Passages which the author of 'The Rosary' might be proud to have written ... high ideals ... love interest well sustained ... careful punctuation."
The Nether Wallop News. "Mr. Blathers is a benefactor ... reminds us of T. P. O'Connor ... luscious word-painting ... well-chosen epithets."
The Machrihamish Mirror. "Stylish writing ... Mr. Blathers is evidently a persona grata in the most recherché circles."
The Chowbent Eagle. "Edifying, yet entertaining ... faithful portraiture, but ... not in the least like Zola ... undoubtedly readable."
The Criccieth Sentinel. "... inside knowledge of Mayfair ... redolent of humanity at its best ... fluid and flexible style ... suitable for a country congregation."
The Kilmarnock News. "... cannot remember any book which ... better than this is."
The Pilworth Post. "... redundant with wit ..."
The Peebles Advertiser. "Mr. Blathers ... go far."
The Worcester Academy. "Mr. Blathers is to be most heartily congratulated."
The N. Wales Dictator. "... masterly delineation of the Smart Set."
The Peak News. "... witty to excess."
The Bermondsey Examiner. "Few books so well worth re- and re-reading."
The Poplar Courier. "A fine novel."
The Sligo Spectator. "... marked ability ..."
The Rutland Observer. "... meritorious ..."
The Winchester Tribune. "... feast of entertainment. Mr. Blathers' next should be ... awaited with impatience."
The Isle of Wight Critic. "... clever novel ..."
The Cader-Idris Athenæum. "... psychology ... humour ... passion."
The Bucklaw Post. "... emotional depths ..."
The Sunday Deliverer. "... remarkable book ..."
The Simla Gazette. "... verdict ... profoundly enthralling work of fiction."
The Geelong Times. "... better than ... George Eliot."
The Cork Pall Mall. "A brilliant first effort."
The Hackney Examiner. "... well written ..."
The Tooting Express. "... amusing ..."
The Monthly Citizen. "The characters have life and movement."
"Before lunch each section held its annual meeting in private, and at two o'clock the company sat down to a substantial and very acceptable repast, which was greatly relished by the visitors. After being operated upon by a photographer the party split."
Ledbury Guardian.
We were rather afraid they had overdone it.
From a photographic catalogue:—
"This is a most complete little Projector.... It is quite self-contained and will protect a thirty-inch picture anywhere at a moment's notice."
It should be installed at the Royal Academy without delay.
BLANCHE'S LETTERS.
Some Outstanding Features.
Park Lane.
Dearest Daphne,—The outstanding features of the season have certainly been the Friendship Fête, the Kamtchatkan Scriptural opera-ballet, "Noé s'embarque sur l'Arche," and the Cloak!
The Friendship Fête, to celebrate our not having had any scraps with any foreign country for some little time, was simply immense. There were descriptive tableaux and groups, and the one undertaken by your Blanche—swords being turned into ploughshares and the figure of Peace standing in the middle, with Bellona crouching at her feet—was said to be an easy winner. I was Peace, of course, in chiffon draperies, with my hair down. I hadn't the faintest notion what sort of thing a ploughshare was, but I'd clever people to help me, and so it was all right. But oh, my best one! the difficulty I had in getting a Bellona! They all wanted to be Peace, and some of them were so absolutely horrid about it that I couldn't help telling them they were only showing how fit they were to be Bellona! (I will tell you in confidence that I believe one of them was responsible for some of my swords and ploughshares falling down with an immensely odious crash just as the opening ceremony was going on.) Norty was given the group of all nations, called, "All Men are Brothers," and he said on the whole it was rather a rotten job; there was a lot of friction, and at one time he was afraid things might get almost to diplomatic lengths; however, it all went smoothly at last. Still he told me à l'oreille that he was glad it was well over, as two or three Friendship Fêtes would be enough to shake the peace of Europe to its foundations!
But nothing matters much while one can go and see the wonderful, wonderful Kamtchatkans in "Noé s'embarque sur l'Arche"—a feast of beauty—a riot of colour—a mass of inner meanings. Who am I, dearest, that I should try to word-paint it? Being an opera-ballet, there are two Noahs, a singing one and a dancing one. While that glorious Golliookin, the singing Noah, is giving the marvellous Flood Music in a gallery over the stage, our dear wonderful Ternitenky, the dancing Noah, is going into the Ark in a series of the most delicious pas seuls. Then his dance of Astonishment and Alarm as he sees the waters rising—and afterwards his dance of Joy and Thankfulness at finding himself quite dry! The Pas de Six of Noah's Sons and their Wives! And the ensemble dancing of the Animals! My dearest, you positively must and shall leave your solitudes and come and see the Kamtchatkans in Scriptural opera-ballet! Only second to Noé is La Femme de Lot, with dear Sarkavina, in clouds of white, doing a sensational whirling dance as she turns into the Pillar, while that amazing soprano, Scriemalona, sings the mysterious Salt Music. Bishops quite swarm at these performances. They say they consider it their duty to go, and that they never really understood the true character of Noah till they saw Ternitenky's beautiful flying leap into the Ark, or quite grasped the personality of Lot's Wife before seeing Sarkavina's Pillar-of-Salt dance.
On Noé and Lot nights it's correct to carry a little darling Old Testament, bound in velvet or satin to match or contrast with one's toilette, and
The Cloak, my Daphne, which is one of the most interesting arrivals in town this summer, is, à mon avis, something quite more than a garment—it is a great big test of all that a woman most prides herself on! You may see a thousand women with cloaks on, but how many will be really wearing them! As one criticised the cloaks and their wearers in the Enclosure at Aswood one couldn't help murmuring with a small sigh, "Who is sufficient for these things!" People who have the cloak fastened on in just any way, my dear, are simply begging the question; in its true inwardness, in its loftiest development, the cloak should be a separate creation, kept in its place only by the grace and knack of its wearer. There should be character about it, a fascinating droop, a sweat crookedness that can only happen when it is worn with the art that—you know the rest.
Shall I confide to you my little secret, dearest? Would you know why it is given to your Blanche to be easily best of the few women who do really wear the cloak? When I'm ready, all but nay cloak, I run away from Yvonne down the stairs; she follows, carrying the cloak, and when she's beginning to overtake me she throws the cloak and I catch it on my shoulders. Result—I'm the envy and despair of all my best beloved enemies!
People have been trying to find new places to wear their watches. A small watch on the toe of each shoe (plain for day wear, jewelled for the evening) had quite a little vogue, though as watches they were no good, for no one could see the time by them. Then little teeny watches on the tips of glove-fingers were liked a little. But the latest development is that Time is démodé, and anyone mentioning hours and half-hours is stamped as an outside person.
Isn't this a fragrant idea about our not being to blame for anything we do, because it's all owing to the colours we live with? Everybody's charmed about it. Instead of going to lawyers when things run off the rails a little, if one just called in a colour-expert all sorts of horrors might be avoided, for he would prove that people are like that owing to the colours of their curtains and upholsteries, and aren't to blame themselves, poor, dears, the very least little bit! The Thistledown ménage, for instance. For ages it's been tottery, because Thistledown never understood Fluffy, and Fluffy, poor little thing, seemed to understand everybody except Thistledown. We've all been so sorry for her, for several times he's been on the point of dragging things into public. And now it turns out that nothing is Fluffy's fault and that, if she hadn't always had her own, own room done in pinky-bluey shades, she might have been quite a serious domestic character! T. says, if that's so, she'd better have her own, own room done in some other colour, but Fluffy says, No, she likes pinky-bluey shades, only he must remember, when he's inclined to be hard on her, that the pinky-blueys are to blame and not herself.
Then there's old Lady Humguffin, easily the most miserly old dear who ever wore a transformation (she even has a taxi-meter thing in her own motors and anyone driving with her is expected to pay what it registers!). Colour-experts say that if it weren't for the frightfully dull dusty purple in which all her rooms are furnished she might part quite freely!
So there it is, my dear! People say there's been no such important discovery since Gallienus—that fearful old man, you know, who said something moved when everyone else said it didn't. (I hardly know how I know these things. Please, please don't think I'm becoming a femme savante!).
Ever thine, Blanche.
TOO MUCH CHAMPIONSHIP.
Once life was an easy thing.
Yorkshire or Surrey or Kent were cricket champions. Ranji or W. G. headed the batting averages; Rhodes or Richardson the bowling. The office boy who knew these details plus the Boat Race winner and the English Cup-holders could keep his end up in conversation. He even found time to do a little work.
But now! That poor brain must know that McGinty of Fulham fetched £1,000 when put up for auction, that the front line of Blackburn Rovers represents an expense of £11,321 13s. 4d., and that Chelsea have played before 71,935 spectators. He must know the champions of the First, Second, Southern, Midland, and Scottish Leagues, and the teams that gained promotion.
Then there is cricket—all worked out to "those damned dots," as Lord Randolph said in an inspired moment. Think of the strain of remembering that Middlesex stands at 78.66 and Surrey at 72.94. And the sporting papers are publishing lists of catches made; and lists of catches missed are sure to follow. Think of it—you may have to name the Champion Butterfingers in 1915!
Come to tennis. You must know the names of the Australian Terror, the New Zealand Cyclone, the American Whirlwind. You must at a glance be able to pronounce on the nationality of Mavrogordato or Froitzheim. You have the strain of proving that the victory of a New Zealander over a German proves the vitality of the dear old country.
Or boxing. How can an ordinary mind retain the names of all the White Hopes or Black Despairs. At any moment some Terrible Magyar may wrest the bantam championship from us. You must learn to distinguish between Wells, the reconstructor of the universe, and Knock-out Wells. You must be acquainted with the doings and prospects of Dreadnought Brown and Mulekick Jones. You must know the F. E. Smithian repartees of Jack Johnson.
Let us talk of golf. No, on second thoughts, let us notably refrain from talking about golf. Only if you don't know who defeated Travers (plus lumbago) and who eclipsed America's Bright Boy, you must hide your head in shame.
We come to rowing. Once one could stay, "Ah, Leander," and with an easy shrug of the shoulders pass from the subject. But when international issues are involved, and the win of a Canadian or American or German crew may cause The Daily Mail to declare (for the hundredth time) that England is played out, a man simply has to keep abreast of the results.
There are a score of other things. Name for me, if you can, the Great American Four, the hydro-aeroplane champion, the M.P. champion pigeon-flyer, and the motor-bike hill-climbing champion.
And the Olympic games are coming! Who are England's hopes in the discus-throwing and the fancy diving? What Britisher must we rely on in the javelin hop-skip-and-jump?
Your brain reels at the prospect. We must decide to ignore all future championships. We must decline to be aggravated if a Japanese Badminton champion appears. We must cease to be interested if Britain's Hope beats the Horrible Peruvian at Tiddly-winks.
There are three admirable reasons for this.
The first is that we must play some games ourselves.
The second, that, unless a check be put to championships, the Parliamentary news will be crowded out of the papers and we shall find ourselves in an unnatural state of peace and goodwill.
The
Wife (with some sadness). "Ah, well, Henry, I suppose it's a bit too late for you to think of that now."