Chapter I: Part 1

Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 15615-h.htm or 15615-h.zip:
(https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/5/6/1/15615/15615-h/15615-h.htm)
or
(https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/5/6/1/15615/15615-h.zip)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOL. 158

MARCH 17, 1920

CHARIVARIA.

PRINCE ALBERT JOACHIM, it appears, did not take part in the attack on a French officer at the Hotel Adlon, but only gave the signal. Always the little Hohenzollern!

***

It seems that at the last moment Mr. C. B. COCHRAN broke off negotiations for the exclusive right to organise the CARPENTIER wedding.

***

"Will Scotland go dry?" asks _The Daily Express_. Not on purpose, we imagine.

***

A new method of stopping an omnibus by a foot-lever has been patented. This is much better than the old plan of shaking one's umbrella at them.

***

Mr. LLOYD GEORGE, we read, makes a study of handwriting. The only objection that _The Times_ has to this habit is that he positively refuses to notice the writing on the wall.

***

It is rumoured that the Government will construct an experimental tunnel between England and the United States in order (1) to cement Anglo-American friendship, and (2) to ascertain if the Channel Tunnel is practicable.

***

Dr. C.W. COLBY, head of the Department of History, has taken Sir AUCLAND GEDDES' place as Principal of McGill University. The report that Sir AUCKLAND will reciprocate by taking a place in history awaits confirmation.

***

"It is quite usual nowadays," a well-known auctioneer states, "for mill hands to keep a few orchids." We understand that by way of a counter-stroke a number of noblemen are threatening to go in for runner ducks.

***

A Rotherham couple who have just celebrated their diamond wedding have never tasted medicine. We ourselves have always maintained that the taste is an acquired one.

***

A Greenland falcon has been shot in the Orkneys. The view is widely taken that the wretched bird, which must have known it wasn't in Greenland, brought the trouble on itself.

***

An alleged anarchist arrested in Munich was identified as a poet and found Not Guilty--not guilty, that is to say, of being an anarchist.

***

With reference to the pending retirement of Mr. ROBERT SMILLIE from the Presidency of the Miners' Federation, it appears that there is talk of arranging a farewell strike.

***

The _Berlin Vorwaerts_ states that ex-Emperor CARL has been discovered in Hungary under an assumed name. The Hungarian authorities say that unless he is claimed within three days he will be sold to defray expenses.

***

We understand that Mr. Justice DARLING'S weekly denial of the reports of his retirement will in future be issued on Tuesdays, instead of Wednesdays, as hitherto.

***

When hit by a bullet a tiger roars until dead, says a weekly paper, but a tigress dies quietly. Nervous people who suffer from headaches should therefore only shoot tigresses.

***

Two out of ten houses being built at Guildford are now complete. Builders in other parts of the country are asking who gave the word "Go."

***

"Marvellous to relate," says a Sunday paper, "a horse has just died at Ingatestone at the age of thirty-six." Surely it is more marvellous that it did not die before.

***

It is said that the Paris Peace Conference cost two million pounds. The latest suggestion is that, before the next war starts, tenders for a Peace Conference shall be asked for and the lowest estimate accepted.

***

A Walsall carter has summoned a fellow-worker because during a quarrel he stepped on his face. It was not so much that he had stepped on his face, we understand, as the fact that he had loitered about on it.

***

A painful mistake is reported from North London. It appears that a young lady who went to a fancy-dress ball as "The Silent Wife" was awarded the first prize for her clever impersonation of a telephone girl.

***

We are glad to learn that the thoughtless tradesman who, in spite of the notice, "Please ring the bell," deliberately knocked at the front-door of a wooden house, has now had to pay the full cost of rebuilding.

***

After reading in her morning paper that bumping races were held recently at Cambridge, a dear old lady expressed sorrow that the disgraceful scenes witnessed in many dance-rooms in London had spread to one of our older universities.

***

Tyrolese hats have reappeared in London after an interval of nearly five years. We understand that the yodel waistcoat will also be heard this spring.

***

A Welshman was fined fifteen pounds last week for fishing for salmon with a lamp. Defendant's plea, that he was merely investigating the scientific question of whether salmon yawn in their sleep, was not accepted.

* * * * *

* * * * *

MORE BOAT-RACE "INTELLIGENCE."

"The Oxford crew had a hard training for an hour and a-half
under the direction of Mr. Harcourt Gold, who is to catch them
at Putney."--_Evening Paper_.

But will they catch Cambridge at Barnes?

"The Cambridge people have elected to use a scull with a
tubular shank or 'loom.'

"Oxford are using these sculls, too."--_Evening Paper_.

We have a silly old-fashioned preference for the use of oars in this competition.

* * * * *

"On St. David's Day, Welshmen wear a leak in their
hats."--_Provincial Paper_.

Lest they should suffer from swelled head?

* * * * *

THE "NEW" WORLD.

["Direct Action," which was regarded as a novelty suitable for
an age of reconstruction, has now, by the good sense of the
Trades Union Congress, been relegated to its proper place in
the old and discredited order of things.]

In these, the young Millennium's years,
Whereof they loudly boomed the birth,
Promising by the lips of seers
New Heavens and a brand-new Earth,
We find the advertised attraction
In point of novelty is small,
And argument by force of action
Would seem the oldest wheeze of all.

When Prehistoric Man desired
Communion with his maid elect,
And arts of suasion left him tired,
He took to action more direct;
Scaring her with a savage whoop or
Putting his club across her head,
He bore her in a state of stupor
Home to his stony bridal bed.

In ages rather more refined,
Gentlemen of the King's highway,
Whose democratic tastes inclined
To easy hours and ample pay,
Would hardly ever hold their victim
Engaged in academic strife,
But raised their blunderbuss and ticked him
Off with "Your money or your life."

So when your miners, swift to scout
The use of reason's slow appeal,
Threaten to starve our children out
And bring the country in to heel,
There's nothing, as I understand it,
So very new in this to show;
The cave-man and the cross-roads bandit
Were there before them long ago.

O.S.

* * * * *

FAIR WEAR AND TEAR.

In a short time now we shall have to return this flat to its proper tenants and arrive at some assessment of the damage done to their effects. With regard to the other rooms, even the room which Richard and Priscilla condescend to use as a nursery, I shall accept the owners' estimate cheerfully enough, I think; but the case of the drawing-room furniture is different. About the nursery I have only heard vague rumours, but in the drawing-room I have been an eye-witness of the facts.

The proper tenant is a bachelor who lived here with his sister; he will scarcely realise, therefore, what happens at 5 P.M. every day, when there comes, as the satiric poet, LONGFELLOW, has so finely sung--

"A pause in the day's occupations,
Which is known as the children's hour."

Drawing-room furniture indeed! When one considers the buildings and munition dumps, the live and rolling stock, the jungles and forests in that half-charted territory; when one considers that even the mere wastepaper basket by the writing-desk (and it _does_ look a bit battered, that wastepaper basket) is sometimes the tin helmet under which Richard defies the frightfulness of LARS PORSENA, and sometimes a necessary stage property for Priscilla's two favourite dramatic recitations

"He plunged with a delighted _scweam_
Into a bowl of clotted cweam,"

and

"This is Mr. Piggy Wee,
With tail so pink and curly,
And when I say, 'Good mornin', pig,'
He answers _vewwy_ surly,
Oomph! Oomph!'"

and sometimes the hutch that harbours a cotton-wool creation supposed to be a white rabbit, and stated by the owner to be "munsin' and munsin' and munsin' a carrot"--when, I say, I consider all these things I anticipate that the proceedings of the Reparation Commission will be something like this:--

_He (looking a little ruefully at the round music-stool)_. I suppose your wife plays the piano a good deal?

_I (brightly)_. If you mean the detachable steering-wheel, it is only fair to remember that a part interchangeable between the motor-omnibus and the steam-roller--

_He_. I don't understand.

_I_. Permit me to reassemble the mechanism.

_He_. You mean that when you put that armchair at the end of the sofa and the music-stool in front of it--

_I_. I mean that the motor-omnibus driver, sitting as he does in front of his vehicle and manipulating his steering-wheel like this, can do little or no harm to the apparatus. On the other hand, the steam-roller mechanic, standing _inside_ the body of the vehicle, and having the steering-wheel in _this_ position--

_He_. On the sofa?

_I_. Naturally. Well, supposing he happens to have a slight difference of opinion with his mate as to which of them ought to do the driving, the wheel is quite likely to be pushed off on to the macadam, where it gets a trifle frayed round the edges.

_He_. I see. How awfully stupid of me! And this pouffe, or whatever they call it?

_I_. Week in and week out, boy and girl, I have seen that dromedary ridden over more miles of desert than I can tell you, and never once have I known it under-fed or under-watered, or struck with anything harder than the human fist. Of course the hump does get a little floppy with frequent use, but considering how barren your Sahara--

_He_. Quite, quite. I was just looking at that armchair. Aren't there a lot of scratches on the legs?

_I_. Have you ever _kept_ panthers? Do you realise how impatiently they chafe at times against the bars of their cage? Of course, if you haven't....

Finally, I imagine he will see how reasonable my attitude is and how little he has to complain of. He will recognise that one cannot deal with complicated properties of this sort without a certain amount of inevitable dilapidation and loss.

As a matter of fact I have an even stronger line of argument if I choose to take it. I can put in a counter-claim. One of the principal attractions of old furniture, after all, is historic association. There is the armchair, you know, that Dr. JOHNSON sat in, and the inkpot, or whatever it was, that MARY, Queen of Scots, threw at JOHN BUNYAN or somebody, and I have also seen garden-seats carved out of famous battleships. And then again, if you go to Euston, or it may be Darlington, you will find on the platform the original tea-kettle out of which GEORGE WASHINGTON constructed the first steam-engine. The drawing-room furniture that we are relinquishing combines the interest of all these things. If I like I can put a placard on the sofa, before I take its owner to see it, worded something like this:--

"Puffing Billy, the original steam-roller out of which this elegant piece was carved, held the 1920 record for fourteen trips to Brighton and back within half-an-hour." And after he has seen that I can lead him gently on to Roaring Rupert, the arm-chair. Really, therefore, when one comes to consider it, the man owes me a considerable sum of money for the enhanced sentimental value that has been given to his commonplace property.

Mind you, I have no wish to be too hard on him. I shall be content with a quite moderate claim, or even with no claim at all. Possibly, now I come to think of it; I shall simply say,

"You know what it is to have a couple of bally kids about the place. What shall I give you to call it square?"

And he will name a sum and offer me a cigarette, and we shall talk a little about putting or politics.

But it doesn't much matter. Whatever he asks he can only put it down in the receipts' column of his account-book under the heading of "Depreciation of Furniture," whereas in my expenses it will stand as "Richard and Priscilla: for Adventures, Travel and Romance."

EVOE.

* * * * *

(MARCH 17).

THE IDYLLIST OF DOWNING STREET (_with four-leaved shamrock_). "SHE LOVES ME! SHE--BUT PERHAPS I'D BETTER NOT GO ANY FURTHER."]

* * * * *

_Mrs. Brown_. "OH, SHE'S NICELY THANK YOU. SHE FINDS HER HUSBAND A BIT DULL; BUT AS I TELLS HER, THE GOOD 'UNS _ARE_ DULL."]

* * * * *

WINTER SPORT IN THE LOWER ALPS.

About two months ago, after a course of travel literature and some back numbers of _The Badminton Magazine_, I became infected with a desire to spend a winter in the Alps, skating, sliding, curling and yodelling in the intervals of ski-ing, skijoring, skilacking and skihandlung. The very names of the pastimes conjured up a picture of swift and healthy activity. As the pamphlets assured me, I should return a new man; and, though I am greatly attached to the old one, I recognised that improvement was possible.

I don't remember how it came about that I finally chose Freidegg among the multiplicity of winter-sport stations whose descriptions approximated to those of Heaven. I expect Frederick forced the choice upon me; Frederick had been to Switzerland every winter from 1906 to 1913 and knew the ropes. I somehow gathered that the ropes were of unusual complexity.

The entire journey was passed among winter-sporters of a certain type. From their conversation I was able to learn that Badeloden was formerly overrun by Germans; that Franzheim was excellent if you stayed at the Grand, but at the Kurhaus the guests were unsociable, while at the Oberalp you were not done well and the central-heating was inefficient.

I ventured a few questions about the sport available, but was gently rebuked by the silence which followed before conversation was resumed in a further discussion of comforts and social amenities.

On arrival at the hotel I took out my skates, but, on Frederick's advice, hid them again. "Don't let people see that you are a newcomer; there won't be any skating for some weeks yet," said he.

"But why not?" I objected. "The ice must be at least six inches thick."

"Well, it isn't done," he replied. "One's first week is spent in settling down; you can't go straight on the ice without preparation."

On the third day a Sports' Meeting was held, as the result of which a programme of the season was published. It was announced that there would be, weekly, three dances and one bridge tournament; a theatrical performance would be given once a fortnight, and the blank evenings filled with either a concert or an entertainment. I began to wonder how I could squeeze in time for sleep.

In order that boredom might not overtake the guests before evening came, a magnificent tea was served from four to six. During the afternoon one could visit the other hotels of the place and usually found some function in progress. We were not expected to breakfast before ten, and the short time that remained before lunch was spent in a walk to the rink, where we would solemnly take a few steps on the ice, murmur, "Not in condition yet," and return to the hotel.

After about a fortnight of this I announced to Frederick that I was going to skate, no matter how far from perfection the ice proved to be.

Frederick was indignant.

"You'll make yourself both conspicuous and unpopular. The two Marriotts are giving an exhibition to-morrow; if you spoil the ice for them their show will be ruined."

"Very well, then," said I, "I will borrow some ski and mess about on the snow."

"You can't do that," he replied, horrified; "the professionals are coming next week for the open competition, and if they don't find clean snow--"

"All right; I'll get one of those grid-irons and course down the ice-run. I suppose that's what the ice-run is for," said I bitterly.

"And spoil the Alpine Derby, which you know is fixed for the tenth?" Frederick addressed me with some severity. "Look here--you must choose your sport and stick to it. I am a ski-er; you don't find me skating or bobbing or curling."

"Or ski-ing," I added.

"Before ski-ing," he informed me, "one must have one's ski in perfect condition. Mine are improving daily."

Frederick in fact spent his short mornings in giving instructions as to how his ski were to be oiled and rubbed. All the most complicated operations of unction and massage were performed upon them, and all the time Frederick watched over them as over a sick child.

Next I was told that the height of the season had arrived. The round of indoor entertainments went on and almost daily the guests walked to some near point to witness performances by professionals who seemed to tour the country for that purpose.

Just when there appeared to be a slight prospect of some general outdoor activity (and Frederick's ski were pronounced perfect) a thaw occurred. I am bound to say that the event was received philosophically. Not a single member of the company made any complaint; they faced adversity like true Britons and boldly sat in the warm hotel to save themselves for the evening. Nor did their distress put them off their feed; they punished the tea unmercifully, showing scarcely a sign of the aching sorrow which devoured them.

Soon it froze again. The daily visit to the ice was made and Frederick's ski were once more put into training.

As for me I began to believe that there was something shameful or disgraceful in my desire to skate. So I left secretly for Sicily. Here I can enjoy passive entertainment without being unpleasantly chilled.

Well, a few days ago I received from Frederick a letter, from which the following is a quotation: "The final thaw has now occurred and the season is ended. It has been one of the most successful on record. The full programme was carried out to the letter; I wish you had been here for the last Fancy Dress. My ski were really fit and I was looking forward to some great days on the snow. I think I made a bit of a hit too, playing _Lord Twinkles_ in _The Gay Life_."

The ski will no doubt miss Frederick's affectionate attention; he was very fond of them.

Yesterday, by the purest accident I came across Claudia, like myself enjoying the warmth and sunshine.

"Oh, you've been to Freidegg; how lovely! I went to Kestaag this year and was very glad to leave. Nothing to do in the evening but sit round a fire. All day the hotel was like a wilderness and outside nothing but a lot of men falling about in the snow. They were too tired to do anything during the evening. It was horrid. Next time I shall be more careful and choose a nice bright place like Freidegg."

Next time I too shall be more careful.

* * * * *

_Sombre Reveller._ "IS THIS PADDINGTON?"

_Porter._ "PADDINGTON? NO! IT'S MERSTHAM. WHY, YOU AIN'T EVEN ON THE RIGHT RAILWAY. THIS IS SOUTH-EASTERN AND CHATHAM."

_Reveller._ "THERE Y'ARE, Y'SEE. THAT'S WHAT COMES OF GOV'MENT CONTROL OF RAILWAYS."]

* * * * *

HOUND-FOXES.

It was really Isabel's idea. But it must be admitted that the Foxes took it up with remarkable promptitude. How it reached them is uncertain, but maybe the little bird that nests outside her nursery window knows more than we do.

The idea owed its inception to my attempt at explaining the pink-coated horsemen depicted on an old Christmas card. I did my best, right up to and including the "worry," in which Isabel joined with enthusiasm. Then she went to bed.

But not to sleep. As I passed by the open door I heard a small excited voice expounding to a lymphatic dolly the whole mystery of fox-hunting:--

"And there was a wood, and there was a smell. And all the peoploos on '_normous_ huge high horses. And _nen_ all the hound-foxes runned after the smell and eated it all up."

A fortnight later, taking a short cut through the Squire's coverts, I sat down to enjoy the glory of woodland springtime. "There was a wood and there was a smell." There certainly was; in fact I was all but sitting upon an earth.

All this is credible enough. Now I hope you will believe the rest of the story.

A dirty sheet of paper lay near Reynard's front doorstep. Idly curious, I picked it up. Strange paper, a form of print that I had never seen before; marked too with dirty pads.

It was a newspaper of sorts. Prominent notices adjured the reader to "Write to _John Fox_ about it." The leading article was headed

"AN APPEAL."

"Foxes of Britain!" it began; "opposed though we have always been to revolutionary politics, a clear line is indicated to us out of the throes of the Re-birth. The old feudal relations between Foxes and Men have had their day. The England that has been the paradise of the wealthy, of the pink-coated, of the doubly second-horsed, must become that of the oppressed, the hunted, the hand-to-mouth liver. In a word, we have had enough of Fox-Hounds; henceforth we will have Hound-Foxes."

Then the policy was outlined. Foxes could not hunt hounds--no; but they could lead them a dog's life. They had been in the past too sporting; thought too little of their own safety, too much of the pleasure of the Hunt and of the reputation of its country.

Henceforth the League of Hound-Foxes would dispense justice to the oppressors. No more forty-minute bursts over the best line in the country; no more grass and easy fences; no more favourable crossing points at the Whissendine Brook; no more rhapsodies in _The Field_ over "a game and gallant fox."

A Hound-Fox would be game, but not gallant. He would carry with him a large-scale specially-marked map, showing where bullfinches were unstormable; where the only gaps harboured on the far side a slimy ditch; where woods were rideless; where wire was unmarked; where railways lured to destruction--over and through each and every point would the Hound-Fox entice the cursing Hunt.

As for the Hounds, they feared no obstacles, but they hated mockery. _They_ should be led on to the premises of sausage factories; through villages, to be greeted as brothers-in-the-chase by forty yelping curs; into infant-schools (that old joke), where the delighted babes would throw arms around their necks and call them "Doggie," until both men and hounds would begin to question whether the game were worth the candle.

Therefore let every eligible vulpine enroll himself to-day as a Hound-Fox. They must be dog-foxes, rising three or over, of good stamina, with plenty of scent, intelligent and preferably unmarried. The League Secretary was ---- (here followed the name, earth and covert of a well-known veteran).

There was other matter, of course. A "Grand Prize Competition--A Turkey a Week for Life!" was announced. A humorous article on Earth-Stoppers and, on the "Vixens' Page," a discussion as to the edibility of Pekinese.

Absent-mindedly I crumpled up the astounding rag and thrust it down the hole.

* * * * *

I arose stiff, bemused. The hot March sunshine and the song of birds had left me drowsy. A glance at my watch showed me, to my astonishment, that was tea-time. So I made my way home.

The reception of my story was as cold as the tea. They weren't such fools, they said, as to believe it. So, knowing your larger charity, dear Mr. Punch, I send it to you.

And I shall await that retrospective article in some Maytime _Field_, entitled "A Season of Disasters."

* * * * *

A CRITICAL PROBLEM.

"_The Admirable Crichton_ is still one of the most captivating
of modern plays, rich in humour, scenically 'telling' and
close-packed with Barrieisms."--_Times_.

"'Crichton' is one of the most agreeable Barrie plays, because
it is so free from Barrieisms."--_Manchester Guardian_.

* * * * *

SURMISES AND SURPRISES.

The appearance of the Dean of ST. PAUL'S at a recent social gathering not in the character of a wet blanket, but as a teller of jocund tales and a retailer of humorous anecdotes, must not be taken as an isolated and transient transformation, but as foreshadowing a general conversion of writers and publicists hitherto associated with utterances of a mordant, bitter, sardonic and pessimistic tone.

It is rumoured at Cambridge that Mr. MAYNARD KEYNES, mollified by the reception of his momentous work, has plunged into an orgy of optimism, the first-fruits of which will be a treatise on _The Gastronomic Consequences of the Peace_. Those who have been fortunate enough to see the MS. declare that the personal sketches of Mr. CLYNES, Mr. G.H. ROBERTS, Mr. HOOVER and M. ESCOFFIER are marked by a coruscating wit unparalleled in the annals of Dietetics. The account of a dinner at the "White Horse" is perhaps the _clou_ of an exceptionally exhilarating entertainment.

This agreeable swing of the pendulum is further illustrated by the report that Mr. PHILIP GIBBS, by way of counteracting the depression caused by his last book, is contemplating a palliative under the title of _Humours of the Home Front_. It is hoped that the book will come out serially in the pages of _The Hibbert Journal_.

Very welcome too is the report, not yet officially confirmed, that Sir E. RAY LANKESTER is engaged on a genial biography of Sir ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE, with special reference to his achievements in the domain of psychical research.

Other similar rumours are flying about in Fleet Street, but we give them with necessary reserve. One of them credits Mr. LYTTON STRACHEY with the resolve to indite a panegyric of the Archbishop of CANTERBURY. Another ascribes to Lord FISHER the preparation of a treatise on _The Evils of Egotism_.

* * * * *

THE WEEK'S GREAT THOUGHT.

"We are at a crisis, and a critical one at that."--_Sir
ARCHIBALD SALVIDGE in "The Sunday Chronicle_."

* * * * *

IN A GOOD CAUSE.

A special matinée is to be given by Mr. CHARLES GULLIVER at the Paladium, on Friday, March 19th, for the National Children's Adoption Association. Mrs. LLOYD GEORGE, who makes a strong appeal for this good work, will receive applications for tickets at 10, Downing Street, S.W., and cheques should be made payable to her.

THE ELECT ARE PRIVILEGED TO SEE THE FINISHED STATUE OF HERCULES BY A CELEBRATED SCULPTOR.]

* * * * *

SONGS OF THE HOME.

IV.--THE BARRISTER HUSBAND.

_How doth the Barrister delight,_
_According to his sort,_
_To mix in any form of fight_
_In any kind of Court._

When Nurse's temper runs amok,
And Cook is by the ears,
And all the home is terror-struck
By notices and tears,
And Madame begs me estimate
What argument or bounce'll
Restore and keep the peace, I state
Opinion of Counsel:--

"With language dignified and terse
And with a haughty look
I should annihilate the Nurse
And coldly crush the Cook;
And, if they started in to weep,
A word would make them stow it:--
'That's not effective, merely cheap;
And, what is more, you know it.'"

"You'd bring the Cook," says she, "to book
By just a look?" "I should."
"By something terse you'd make the Nurse
Feel even worse?" "I would."
"You'd say to weep was merely cheap
And, what was more, they knew it?"
"I should," say I; and her reply
Is: "Come along and do it."

_How doth the Barrister delight_
_In any low resort,_
_And hurry from the losing fight_
_To seek another Court._

* * * * *

"Mme. Tetrazzini had not been heard in London for five years
and some little ooooooo aaaaaaaay shd cf cwyyy might have been
busy on her voice. Well, it has scarcely."--_South African
Paper_.

Her many admirers will be glad to know this.

* * * * *

"HAND OVER YOUR MONEY!"

"CERTAINLY, MY GOOD MAN. NOW I DON'T WANT TO BE PERSONAL, BUT YOU'VE GOT THE VERY FACE I WANT FOR MY NEW FILM, 'THE BAD MAN OF CRIMSON CREEK.' I'LL GIVE YOU FIFTY POUNDS A WEEK FOR AN EXCLUSIVE CONTRACT. CAN I TEMPT YOU?"]

* * * * *

THE BOAT-RACE AGAIN.

In June, 1914, I took a house on the Thames, in order to make sure of a good view of the Boat-Race; then a man threw a bomb at Serajevo and ruined my plans. But now it is going to happen again. And instead of fighting with a vast crowd at Hammersmith Bridge I shall simply walk up into the bathroom and look out of the window. It is wonderful.

Yet meanwhile I have lost some of my illusions about this race. I have a boat myself; I myself have rowed all over the course in my boat. It is only ten feet long, but it is very, very heavy. Still, I have rowed in it all over the course--with ease. Yet people talk as if it was a marvellous thing for eight men to row a light boat over the same water. Why is that? It is because the ignorant land-lubber regards the river Thames as a pond; or else he regards it as a river flowing always to the sea. He forgets about the tide. The Boat-Race is rowed _with the tide_; they deliberately choose a moment when the tide is coming in, and hope nobody will notice; and nobody does notice. The tide runs about three miles an hour, sometimes more; if they just sat still in the boat they would reach Mortlake eventually, and the crowd would get a good look at them, instead of seeing them for ten seconds. The race ought to be rowed _against_ the tide. Then it really would be a feat of strength; then it really would take ten years off their lives--perhaps more. Then perhaps small boys would drop things on them from the bridges, as they do on me. I wonder they don't try to do that now. There is a certain quiet satisfaction in dropping things on people, especially if they are labouring under Hammersmith Bridge against the tide, and I should imagine that the temptation to drop things on a University crew would be almost irresistible. It is not everyone who can look back and say, "In 1890 I hit the Oxford stroke in the stomach with a stone." As it is, though, I suppose they go too fast for that kind of thing.

But apart from the small boys on the bridges, the present system is most unsatisfactory for people who know "a man in the boat." Even in a football match it is possible for an aunt occasionally to distinguish her nephew and say, "Look, there is Edward." But if she says, "Look, there is Edward," meaning No. 5 in the Cambridge boat, you know she is imagining. All she sees is a vague splashing between two bowler-hats, or possibly the Oxford rudder moving at high speed through a horse's legs. If the race were rowed against the tide we should all get our money's worth; and the oars-men could then put more realism into their "After-the-Finish" attitudes. As it is, they roll about in the boat with a praiseworthy suggestion of fatigue, but nobody really believes they are tired--nobody at least who has rowed on the Thames with the tide.

No, I am afraid the actual race is a sad hypocrisy. But the training must be terrible. Think of it. They started practising in the second week in January: they row the race in the fourth week in March. For ten weeks and more they have been "getting those hands away" and driving with those legs and not washing-out. For ten weeks horrible men with huge calves have shouted at them and cursed them and told them their sins, like a monk telling his beads--"Bow, you're late; Two, you're early; Three, you're bucketing; Four, you're not bucketing enough." I listen painfully, hoping against hope that at least one of the crew may be left out of the catalogue, that Stroke at least may be rowing properly. But no, Stroke is not forgotten, and even Cox doesn't always give complete satisfaction.

Sometimes I feel that I ought to row out in my little boat and offer to tow the incompetents back to Putney. Yet they seem somehow to travel very easily and well. But, however harmoniously they swing past "The Doves" or quicken to thirty-five at Chiswick Eyot, I know that in their hearts they are hating each other. Goodness, how they must hate each other! For ten weeks they have been rowing together in the same boring boat, behind the same boring back. I read with grim interest about the periodical shiftings of the crew, how Stroke has moved to the Bow thwart, and Bow has replaced Number Three, and Number Three has shifted to the Stroke position. They may pretend that all this is a scientific matter of adjustment, of balance and weight and so forth. I know better. I know that Stroke is fed up with the face of Cox, and that the mole on Number Two's neck has got thoroughly on Bow's nerves, and that if Number Three has to sit any longer behind Number Four's expanse of back he will go mad. That is the secret of it all. But I suppose they each of them hate the coach, and that keeps them together.

Of all these sufferers perhaps Cox is most to be pitied. They all have to eat what they're told, no doubt, yards and yards of beefsteak, and so on. In the old days rowing men had to drink beer at breakfast; I can't think of anything worse, except, perhaps, stout. But Cox doesn't eat anything at all. He has to get thinner and thinner. And if there is one thing worse, than eating beefsteak at breakfast it must be watching eight rowing men eating beefsteak at breakfast and not eating anything yourself.

Yes, beyond question Cox is the real hero. I watch him dwindling, day by day, from nine stone to eight stone, from eight stone to seven stone twelve, and my heart goes out to the little fellow. And what a job it is! If anything goes wrong, Cox did it. He kept too far out or he kept too far in, or too much in the middle. But who ever heard of Cox doing a brilliant piece of steering, or saving the situation, or even rising to the occasion? His highest ambition is for _The Times_ to say that he did his work "adequately"--like the _Second Murderer_ in SHAKSPEARE.

And at the finish he can't even pretend that he's tired, like the other men; even if there was any spectacular way of showing that he was half-frozen he couldn't do it, because he alone is responsible if one of the steamers runs over them and they are all drowned. We ought to take off our hats to Cox; though, of course, if we did, Stroke would think it was intended for him.

But indeed I take off my hat to all of them; not because of the race, which, as I say, is a piece of hypocrisy, being rowed with the tide, but because of the terrible preparation for the race. I wonder if it is worth it. It is true that they have lady adorers on the towing-path at Putney, and it is even rumoured that they receive anonymous presents of chocolates. But presumably they are not allowed to eat them, so that these can do little to alleviate their sufferings. It is true also that for ever after (if their wives allow it) they can hang an enormous oar on the wall and contemplate it after dinner. But, after all, I can do that too, if I like; for I too have rowed over the course.

And _I_ shall have a free view of the race. But none of them will see it at all. They will all be looking at the back of the man in front, except Stroke, whose eye will be riveted on the second button of Cox's blazer. What a life!

A.P.H.

* * * * *

"HI! WHAT D'YE MEAN BY HEADING MY HOUNDS WITH THAT INFERNAL CAR? HOW THE DEUCE CAN YOU HUNT IN A THING LIKE THAT, SIR?"]

* * * * *

"To Let, permanent, Furnished Sitting-Boots (size 6);
20s."--_Local Paper_.

No, thanks; we already have a pair that are no good for walking.

* * * * *

_Eminent Dyspepsia Specialist_. "THE WORDS ARE FAMILIAR."]

* * * * *

THE SECOND TIME OF ASKING.

(_The advancing price of rice has occupied much space in the papers of late._)

Maud, when you turned me down (a year to-morrow),
Bidding me rise from off my suppliant knee,
And, while regretful if you caused me sorrow,
Murmured, "Sebastian, it can never be,"
I did not lay aside my fond ambition;
I told myself, in spite of what occurred,
"This is her lunch or three o'clock edition,
And not her final word."

I merely marvelled at your eccentricity,
Feeling convinced amid my blank amaze
That, though you might "absent you from felicity
Awhile," 'twas but a temporary phase;
Convinced the mood impelling you to stifle
The aspirations that I'd dared outline
Was simply due to some extraneous trifle,
Not any flaw of mine.

A chill or toothache might have vexed you greatly;
Perhaps you had a corn inclined to shoot,
Or possibly the sugar shortage lately
Had proved itself abnormally acute;
In short, I felt that, though unkindly treated,
A happier time to me would surely come,
When my request (impassioned) would be greeted
With no down-pointing thumb.

Maud, it occurs to me you shunned a marriage
Because that function, otherwise "quite nice,"
Involved the facing of a friendly "barrage"
Mainly composed of valedictory rice,
Stinging the cheek and nestling in the clothing;
If that was so, I share the feeling, sweet;
For rice in puddings I've no special loathing,
But I detest it neat.

If such your reason was, there 's no material
Objection to our union to-day;
No risk remains of that offensive cereal
Being employed in such a reckless way;
You can say "Yes" without one apprehensive
Thought that your brother is, a deadly shot;
Rice as a missile now is too expensive.
Anything doing--what?

* * * * *

"According to a Paris report, an Anglo-British force of 50,000
are on their way to occupy Constantinople."--_Daily Paper_.

It is, no doubt, the peculiar composition of this force that has aroused the apprehensions of French chauvinists.

* * * * *

"Denikin's troops are fleeing partly in steamers, partly along
the coast, leaving a large booby." _"Planters and Commercial
Gazette" (Mauritius)._

"A Bolshevist wireless says the Reds captured Tagonrog,
Denikin's former headquarters, taking a huge booby."--_Same
Paper_.

The booby prize has apparently been awarded to the Reds, but we feel that our contemporary might have put in a claim.

* * * * *

MAN IN THE STREET. "WELL, IF THE OTHER ALLIES SAY SO TOO, THERE MUST BE SOMETHING IN IT. BUT _I_ ALWAYS UNDERSTOOD THE _GOVERNMENT_ WAS TO BLAME FOR EVERYTHING."]

* * * * *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

_Monday, March 8th_.--I should hesitate to call Sir HAMAR GREENWOOD the _Pooh-Bah_ of the Ministry, though he has something of that worthy's sublime self-confidence and his capacity for taking any number of posts. The House, which knows him both as Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs and Secretary to the Overseas Trade Department of the Board of Trade, was surprised to hear him answering questions relating to the nascent oil-wells in the United Kingdom, and to learn that he had become "Minister for Petroleum Affairs." But there the likeness ceases to be exact. _Pooh Bah's_ interest was in palm-oil.

MR. NEAL CADDIES FOR SIR ERIC GEDDES.]

A few days ago the CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER facetiously compared the critics of the Government to the poet of _Rejected Addresses_ who declared that it was BUONAPARTE "who makes the quartern loaf and Luddites rise." Out of the Government's own mouth the critics are now, at any rate, partially justified, for the PRIME MINISTER announced that the bread subsidy was to be halved, and that on and after April 12th the quartern loaf would rise--he did not quite know where.

In view of the occasional rumours of friction between Government departments it is pleasant to record that the Ministry of Transport and the War Office are on the friendliest terms. Invited to abolish, in the interests of the taxpayer, the cheap railway tickets now issued to soldiers, Mr. NEAL said it was primarily a question for the War Office, as in this matter Sir ERIC GEDDES would wish to move in harmony with Mr. CHURCHILL. As the WAR SECRETARY promptly announced his intention of doing his best to maintain the soldiers' privilege it is conjectured that he will return from the ride with Sir ERIC inside.

The new Member for Paisley delivered his maiden speech to-night, and acquitted himself so well that in the opinion of Members many months his senior he is likely to go far. The Government had proposed to "guillotine" the remaining Supplementary Estimates in order to get them through before March 31st. Some ardent economists, mainly drawn from the Coalition, while ready to concede the end, protested against the means, and proposed that the House should make its own arrangements.

"Never since the days of Icarus had there been an aviator quite like the right hon. gentleman [Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL]. He had displayed much sympathy with the Air Force and had almost been one of its martyrs."--_Lord HUGH CECIL_.]

Mr. BONAR LAW promptly perceived the advantage of transferring from the Government to the House a disagreeable responsibility. Forgetting that he was cast for the executioner, not the hero, he murmured, "It is a far, far better thing," and graciously accepted the proposed alternative. Mr. ASQUITH, not unwilling to help in establishing a precedent which some day he himself may find useful, backed him up, and the House, as a whole, congratulating itself on its escape from the public executioner, cheerfully proceeded to commit _harakiri_.

_Tuesday, March 9th_.--Mr. SHORTT relieved our apprehensions by stating that the few spurious "Bradburys" in circulation are of home manufacture, and that, while a few specimens emanating from Russia had been sent here for identification, they were so poorly executed that they would scarcely pass muster in this country. It is comforting to think that there is one British industry which has nothing to fear from foreign dumping, but is cheerfully forging ahead.

The HOME SECRETARY also denied that there had been any remarkable increase in pocket-picking or that schools existed for the training of young criminals. As Sir MAURICE DOCKRELL pointed out, there is indeed no need for them so long as the cinemas provide their present facilities. _Fagin_ has been quite knocked out by the film.

The Parliamentary vocabulary extends apace. Mr. RENDALL, whose motion on divorce had been postponed under the new arrangements for business until after Easter, complained that Sir FREDERICK BANBURY had "done him down."

Part of the evening was devoted to the bread-subsidy. The debate incidentally illustrated the intellectual independence of Ministers. A few days ago Mr. LLOYD GEORGE, in advocating the resumption of trade with Russia, declared that "the corn-bins of Russia were bulging with grain." To-night Mr. MCCURDY told the House that, according to his information, the resumption of trade With Russia was not likely to open up any large store of wheat or grain in the near future. Possibly there is no real incongruity. The grain may be there, but the Russians, greedy creatures, may be going to eat it themselves.

_Wednesday, March 10th_.--Even in the gloomy atmosphere of the Upper Chamber the subject of divorce lends itself to humour. Lord BUCKMASTER, who introduced a Bill founded on the recommendations of the Royal Commission, performed his task with due solemnity, but some of the noble Lords who opposed it were positively skittish. Lord BRAYE, for example, thought that, if the Bill passed, _Who's Who_ would require a supplement entitled _Who's Who's Wife_; and Lord PHILLIMORE illustrated the effects of easy divorce by a story of a Swiss marriage in which the bride-elect was attended by four of the happy man's previous spouses. He also told another of an American judge who, having explained that in this department of his duties he was "very strict," added, "Of course I make no difficulty the first time, but if they come again within twelve months I want a good reason."

Mr. HOGGE led a vigorous attack on the Ministry of Transport, which he seemed to think had done very little for its money except to divert the omnibuses at Westminster and so make it more difficult for Members of Parliament to get to the House. Mr. KENNEDY JONES, who was responsible for the innovation, rather hinted that in the case of some Members this might not be altogether an objection. The brunt of the defence fell upon Mr. NEAL, owing to the regretted absence of his chief, who had been ordered away by his doctor for a much-needed holiday and was reported to be recruiting himself on the golf-links. If exercise is what he needs he could have got plenty of it in the House to-night. Thanks to a persistent minority, Members were kept tramping through the Lobbies for the best part of five hours, and did not complete the full round of eighteen divisions until 2.15 A.M.

_Thursday, March 11th_.--Possibly the news of "direct action's" heavy cropper at the Trade Union Conference had reached the Front Bench before the PRIME MINISTER, in reply to a question regarding the shortage of labour in the building trades, bluntly attributed it to the stringency of the Trade Union regulations. When Mr. ADAMSON attempted to shift the blame on to a Government Department Mr. LLOYD GEORGE retorted that he would be perfectly ready to deal with any peccant official if the Labour Leader for his part would deal with the Trade Unions.

General SEELY repeated his familiar arguments in favour of an independent Air Ministry, and Mr. CHURCHILL once more defended his position, urging that it was better for the Air Service to have half a Minister in the Cabinet than none at all. To a suggestion that the lives of the Armenians might have been saved if we had sent more aeroplanes to Asia Minor, Mr. CHURCHILL replied that unfortunately the Armenian and Turkish populations were so intermingled that our bombs would be dropping indiscriminately, like the rain, "upon the just and unjust feller."

* * * * *

_Ma_ (_politely bowing to stranger_). "HOW D'YE DO, SIR?"]

* * * * *

BUBBLE AND SQUEAK.

(_By a Grateful Student of the New English Dictionary_.)

I can conjugate the modern verb "to wangle,"
And, if required, translate it into Greek;
I can even tell a wurzel from a mangel;
But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.

I still can march eight furlongs at the double,
Although I shall be seventy next week;
I can separate a bubble from a bubble;
But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.

I know a catfish differs from a seamew;
I don't expect Bellaggio at Belleek;
I know a cassowary from an emu;
But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.

I'm acquainted with the works of HENRY PURZELL
(My mastery of spelling is unique);
I repeat, I know a mangel from a wurzel;
But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.

I'm proficient both in jotting and in tittling;
I know a certain cure for boots that creak;
I can see through Mr. KEYNES and _Mr. Britling_;
But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.

I can always tell a _hari_ from a _kari_
("_Harakiri_" is a silly pedant's freak);
I can tell the style of CAINE from that of MARIE;
But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.

I never take a DEELEY for a DOOLEY;
I never take a putter for a cleek;
I never talk of HEALY, meaning HOOLEY;
But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.

I understand the sense of "oils are spotty";
I know the height of Siniolchum's peak;
I know that some may think my ditty dotty;
But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.

P.S.

I know the market price of eggs in Surrey,
The acreage of maize in Mozambique--
And now at last, thanks to immortal "MURRAY,"
I've learned to tell a bubble from a squeak.

* * * * *

THE CONSERVATISM OF THE LIBERAL PARTY.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I know you take no sides in party politics, but I still think you would like to hear why it is that I have gone over to the Independent Liberals. No, it has nothing to do with Mr. ASQUITH'S triumphal procession and still less with the NORTHCLIFFE Press. The fact is that till quite recently I belonged to the true blue Tory school--was indeed probably the last survivor of the Old Guard--and I found myself out of touch with the progressive tendencies of modern Toryism, its deplorable way of moving with the times, its hopeless habit of discarding what it would call the old shibboleths when it wrongly imagined them to be outworn. My decision to leave a party that has long ceased to deserve its honoured name was immediately due to a Liberal Paper which editorially ridiculed the Liberty League, formed for the defeat of Bolshevist propaganda, and pooh-poohed the idea of the existence of dangerous Bolshevist elements in the country. This attitude attracted me enormously; for I recalled the standpoint of the same paper in the days before the War--how it ridiculed the alleged German menace and pooh-poohed the idea of the existence of hostile German elements in our midst. Here, I said, is the party for me; here is your authentic Bourbon spirit--the type that learns nothing and forgets nothing; that in the midst of a changing world remains immovable as a rock. Yes, Sir, for a Tory of the old school there is no place to-day except in the ranks of Liberalism.

Yours faithfully,
SEMPER EADEM.

* * * * *

THE "MAID'S" HOSPITALITY TO "ROBERT."]

* * * * *

RATES OF EXCHANGE.

Jones was reading his morning paper in the opposite corner seat with unusual attention, and he disregarded my greeting.

"Why this absorption?" I inquired. "Usually you come to the station with a piece of toast behind one ear, fastening your boots as you run, and wake us all up with your first fine morning rapture."

"I was just taking a look at the exchanges," he replied. "The mark's about the same price as fly-paper, and, judging by the news from New York, your chewing-gum is going to cost you more shortly. Do you know anything about the money market?"

"I occasionally see it stated that 'money is plentiful' in it," I returned. "I should think it must be an ideal place."

"The most gorgeous thing in the world is to make a bit on exchange," he said. "There's such a splendid feeling of not having earned it, you know."

"I understand exactly," I replied. "Cox once credited me with an extra month's pay by mistake. But I didn't realise that you ever had to think about money matters after having run our Mess in France."

He appeared to take no offence. His capacity for being insulted in that direction had probably been exhausted during the period in point.

"I know quite a lot about exchange," he remarked with a reminiscent smile. "You remember that when I got pipped in France in '15, they sent me out next time to Salonica. I hadn't been there very long before the question of exchange cropped up. In the early days most of us had English money only, and the villagers used to rook us frightfully changing it. I remember sending my batman, MacGusgogh, to a place for eggs, and he came back with the change for my Bradbury in nickel. I had a good look at it, and on each coin was the mystic inscription, 'DIHAP,' which is pronounced 'dinar.'

"'MacGusgogh,' I said, 'you pretend to be a Scotsman and yet you've been diddled. This is Serbian money, and not worth a bean.'

"'Oh the deceitfu' deevils,' said he, 'there's neither truth nor honesty in the leein' buddies, Sir. But here's your Bradbury, an', at onny rate, we hae the eggs, Sir, for I paid for them wi' a label off yin o' they Japaneesy beer bottles. It seemed an awfu' waste to spend guid siller on folk that dinna ken when they see it.'"

I began to see the possibilities of the money market.