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  PUNCH,

  OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

  VOLUME 147

  July 8, 1914

  CHARIVARIA.

LORD BRASSEY is said to be annoyed at the way in which his recent
adventure at Kiel was exaggerated. He landed, it seems, on the mole of
the Kaiser Dockyard, not noticing a warning to trespassers--and certain
of our newspapers proceeded at once to make a mountain out of the mole.

       * * *

Mr. ROOSEVELT'S American physician, Dr. ALEXANDER LAMBERT, has confirmed
the advice of his European physicians that the EX-PRESIDENT must have
four months' rest and must keep out of politics absolutely for that
period; and it is said that President WILSON is also of the opinion that
the distinguished invalid owes it to his country to keep quiet for a
time.

       * * *

At the farewell banquet to Lord GLADSTONE members of the Labour Unions
surrounded the hotel and booed loudly with a view to making the speeches
inaudible. As the first serious attempt to protect diners from an orgy
of oratory this incident deserves recording.

       * * *

There appear to have been some amusing misfits in the distribution of
prizes at the recent Midnight Ball. For example a young lady of
pronounced sobriety, according to _The Daily Chronicle_, secured a case
of whisky and went about asking if she could get it changed for perfume.
Whisky is, of course, essentially a man's perfume.

       * * *

There are One Woman Shows as well as One Man Shows in these days. An
invitation to be present at a certain function in connection with a
certain charitable institution announces:--

"ATHLETIC SPORTS AND DISTRIBUTION OF PRIZES by LADY ---- ----."

       * * *

Some surprise is being expressed in non-legal circles that the actress
who lost the case which she brought against SANDOW, LIMITED, for
depicting her as wearing one of their corsets, did not apply for stays
of execution.

       * * *

Quite a number of our picture galleries are now closed, and it has been
suggested that, with the idea of reconciling the public to this state of
affairs, there shall be displayed conspicuously at the entrance to the
buildings the reminder, "_Ars est celare artem_."

       * * *

_The Gentlewoman_, by the way, which is publishing a series of articles
entitled "Woman's Work at the 1914 Academy," omits to show us photos of
Mr. SARGENT'S and Mr. CLAUSEN'S paintings after certain women had worked
upon them.

       * * *

The Admiralty dismisses as "a silly rumour" the report that one of our
new first-class destroyers is to be named _The Suffragette_.

       * * *

In Mr. STEPHEN PHILLIPS' play, _The Sin of David_, we are to see
Cavaliers and Roundheads. This will be a welcome change, for in most of
the theatres nowadays one sees a preponderance of Deadheads.

       * * *

The intrepid photographer again! _The Illustrated London News_
advertises:--

PHOTOGRAVURE PRESENTATION PLATE OF

GENERAL BOOTH AND
MRS. BRAMWELL BOOTH

LIONS PHOTOGRAPHED AT 5 YARDS'
DISTANCE.

       * * *

Once upon a time Red Indians used to kidnap Whites. Last week, Mrs. W.
BOWMAN CUTTER, a wealthy widow of seventy, living at Boston,
Massachusetts, eloped with her 21-year-old Red-skin chauffeur.

       * * *

A memorial to a prize-fighter who was beaten by TOM SAYERS was unveiled
at Nottingham last week. Should this idea of doing honour to defeated
British heroes spread to those of to-day our sculptors should have a
busy time.

       * * *

A visitor to Scarborough nearly lost his motor-car in the sands at Filey
last week: it sank up to the bonnet and was washed by the sea before it
was hauled to safety by four horses. Neptune is said to have been not a
little annoyed at the car's escape, as he realises that his old chariot
drawn by sea-horses is now sadly _demode_.

       * * *

A new organisation, called "The League of Wayfarers," has been formed.
Its members apparently consist of "child policemen," who undertake to
protect wild flowers. How it is going to be done we do not quite
understand. Presumably, small boys will hide behind, say, dandelions,
and emit a loud roar when anyone tries to pluck the tender plant.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

_Romantic Tripper._ "TELL ME, HAVE YOU EVER PICKED UP ANY BOTTLES ON THE
BEACH?"

_Boatman._ "WERRY OFTEN, MISS!"

_Romantic Tripper._ "AND HAVE YOU FOUND ANYTHING IN THEM?"

_Boatman._ "NOT A BLESSED DROP, MISS!"

       *       *       *       *       *

When _The Yorkshire Post_ and _The Hull Daily Mail_ differ, who shall
decide between them? _The Hull Daily Mail_ asserts positively that A.
PAPAZONGLON won the long jump at the Bridlington Grammar School sports
and that C. PAPAZONGLON was second in the 100 yards and High Jump. Its
contemporary, however, unhesitatingly awards these positions to C.
PAPAZONGLOU, C. PAPAZONGA and G. PAPAZAGLOU respectively. But it gives
the "Victor Ludorum" cup to a new competitor, C. PAPAZOUGLOU, and again
differs from _The Hull Daily Mail_, which knows for a fact that it was
won by C. PPAZONGLON. Whom shall we believe?

       *       *       *       *       *

    "ASQUITH DENIES MILITANT PLEA.

    Receives Working Women but Won't Introduce Bill."--_New York Evening
    Sun._

We are left with the uneasy impression that William is a snob.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "On a divan the motion for rejection was carried by 178 to
    136."--_Daily Chronicle._

Our politicians are right to take it easy this hot weather.

       *       *       *       *       *

A PATRIOT UNDER FIRE.

(_Observed during the recent heat wave._)

  Philip, I note with unaffected awe
    How, with the glass at 90 in the cool,
  You still obey inflexibly the law
    That governs manners of the British school;
  How, in a climate where the sweltering air
    Seems to be wafted from a kitchen copper,
  You still refuse to lay aside your wear
          Of sable (proper).

  The Civil Service which you so adorn
    Would lose its prestige, visibly grown slack,
  And all its lofty pledges be forsworn
    Were you to deviate from your boots of black;
  Were you to shed that coat of sombre dye,
    That ebon brain-box (imitation beaver)
  Whose torrid aspect strikes the passer-by
          With tertian fever.

  As something far beyond me I respect
    The virtue, equal to the stiffest crux,
  Which thus forbids your costume to deflect
    Into the primrose path of straw and ducks;
  I praise that fine regard for red-hot tape
    Which calmly and without an eyelid's flutter
  Suffers the maddening noon to melt your nape
          As it were butter.

  "His clothes are not the man," I freely own,
    Yet often they express the stuff they hide,
  As yours, I like to fancy, take their tone
    From stern, ascetic qualities inside;
  Just as the soldier's heavy marching-gear
    Conceals a heart of high determination,
  Too big, in any temperature, to fear
          Nervous prostration.

  I cite the warrior's case who goes through fire;
    For you, no less a patriot, face your risk
  When in your country's service you perspire
    In blacks that snort at Phoebus' flaming disc;
  So, till a medal (justly made of jet)
    Records your grit and pluck for all to know 'em,
  I on your chest with safety-pins will set
          This inky poem.

    O. S.

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE PURPLE LIE."


"Arabella," I said, examining the fuzzy part of her which projected
above the dome of the coffee-pot, "I perceive that you mope. That being
so, I am glad to be able to tell you that I have been presented with two
tickets for _The Purple Lie_ to-morrow evening."

"Sorry," she replied, "but it's off."

"Off!" I exclaimed indignantly, "when the box-office is being besieged
all day by a howling mob, and armoured commissionaires are constantly
being put into commission to defend it. Off!"

"What I mean to say is," said Arabella, "that we're dining with the
Messington-Smiths to-morrow evening."

I bowed my head above the marmalade and wept. "Arabella," I groaned,
looking up at last, "what have we done that these people should continue
to supply us with food? We do not love them, and they do not love us.
The woman is a bromide. Her husband is even worse. He is a phenacetin. I
shall fall asleep in the middle of the asparagus and butter myself
badly. Think, moreover, of the distance to Morpheus Avenue. Remember
that I have been palpitating to see _The Purple Lie_ for weeks."

"So have I," said Arabella. "It's sickening, but I am afraid we must
pass those tickets on."

I happened that day to be lunching with my friend Charles. "The last
thing in the world I want to do," I said to him, "is to oblige you in
any way, but I chance to have--ahem!--purchased two stalls for _The
Purple Lie_ which I cannot make use of. I had forgotten that I am dining
with some very important and--er--influential people to-morrow night.
When a man moves as I do amid a constant whirl of gilt-edged
engagements----"

"Ass!" said Charles, and pocketed the tickets.

On the following morning I perceived a large crinkly frown at the
opposite end of the breakfast table, and, rightly divining that Arabella
was behind it, asked her what the trouble was.

"It's the Messington-Smiths," she complained. "They can't have us to
dinner after all. It seems that Mrs. Messington-Smith has a bad sore
throat."

"Any throat would be sore," I replied, "that had Mrs. Messington-Smith
talking through it. I wonder whether Charles is using those tickets."

"You might ring up and see."

To step lightly to the telephone, ask for Charles's number, get the
wrong one, ask again, find that he had gone to his office, ring him up
there and get through to him, was the work of scarcely fifteen minutes.
"Charles," I said, "are you using those two stalls of mine to-day?"

"Awfully sorry," he replied, "but I can't go myself. I gave them away
yesterday evening."

"Wurzel!" I said. "Who to?"

"To whom," he corrected gently. "To a dull man I met in the City named
Messington-Smith."

"Named _what_?" I shrieked.

"Messington-Smith. _M_ for Mpret, _E_ for Eiderdown----"

"Where does he live?"

"21, Morpheus Avenue."

For a moment the room seemed to spin round me. I put down the
transmitter and pressed my hand to my forehead. Then in a shaking voice
I continued--"Of all the double-barrelled, unmitigated, blue-faced----"

"What number, please?" sang a sweet soprano voice. I rang off, and went
to break the news to Arabella.

She was silent for a few moments, and then asked me suddenly,
"Whereabouts in the stalls were those seats of ours?"

"Almost in the middle of the third row," I replied mournfully.

Arabella said no more, but with a rather disdainful smile on her face
walked firmly to her little escritoire, sat down, wrote a note, and
addressed it to Mrs. Messington-Smith.

"What have you said?" I asked, as she stamped her letter with a rather
vicious jab on KING GEORGE'S left eye.

"Just that I am sorry about her old sore throat," she replied. "And then
I went on, that wasn't it funny by the same post we had been given two
stalls for _The Purple Lie_ to-night in a very good place in the middle
of the third row? She will get the letter by lunch-time," she added
pensively, "and it will be so nice for her to know that we shall be
sitting almost next to them."

"But we aren't going to _The Purple Lie_ at all," I protested.

"No," she said, "and as a matter of fact I don't suppose the
Messington-Smiths are either--now."

I left Arabella smiling triumphantly through her tears,
but when I returned in the evening the breakfast-time frown had
reappeared with even crinklier ramifications.

"Why," I asked, "are you looking like a tube map?"

"Mrs. Messington-Smith," she answered with a slight catch in her voice,
"has just been telephoning."

"I thought the receiver looked a bit played out," I said. "What does she
want with us now?"

"Well, she _has_ got a sore throat after all. You could tell that from
her voice. And she isn't going to _The Purple Lie_ either. She never
even meant to."

"But the tickets," I gasped.

"She and her husband quite forgot about them till to-day," said
Arabella. "And now they have given them away to some friends. But they
weren't given away at all till this afternoon, and----"

She broke off and gave a lachrymose little sniff.

"And what?"

"And she knew, of course, that we're disengaged to-night, and when she
got my letter she was just going to send them round to us."

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: BEATEN ON POINTS.

L.C.C. TRAM. "HARD LINES ON ME!"

MOTOR-'BUS. "YES, IT'S ALWAYS HARD LINES WITH YOU, MY BOY. THAT'S WHAT'S
THE MATTER; YOU CAN'T SIDE-STEP."

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: "WHO'S THE LITTLE MAN HOLDING HIS RACKET THAT FUNNY WAY?"

"OH, THAT'S MR. BINKS. HE TAKES THE PLATE ROUND IN CHURCH, YOU KNOW."

       *       *       *       *       *
Commercial Candour.

From a testimonial:--

    "I have had this cover on the rear wheel of my 3-1/2 h.p. Humber
    Motor Cycle and have ridden same 7,000 miles, six of these without a
    puncture."--_Advt. in "Motor Cycle."_

       *       *       *       *       *

"MRD. CPL., temporary."--_Advt. in "Daily Mail."_

When we tell you that the mystic letters mean "married couple," you will
share our horror.

       *       *       *       *       *

WOMAN AT THE FIGHT.

  In ancient unsophisticated days
  Women were valued for their cloistered ways.
  And won at Rome encouragement from man
  Only because they stayed at home and span;
  While PERICLES in Attic Greek expressed
  The view that those least talked about were best.
  There were exceptions, but the normal Greek
  Regarded SAPPHO as a dangerous freak,
  And CLYTEMNESTRA for three thousand years
  Was pelted with unmitigated sneers,
  Till RICHARD STRAUSS and HOFMANNSTHAL combined
  To prove that she was very much maligned.

  But now at last these cloistered days are o'er
  And woman, breaking down her prison door,
  Is free to take the middle of the floor.
  No more for her indomitable soul
  The meekly ministering angel _role_;
  No more the darner of her husband's socks,
  She takes delight in watching champions box,
  Finds respite from the carking cares that vex us
  In cheering blows that reach the solar plexus,
  Joins in the loud and patriotic shout
  While beaten BELL is being counted out,
  And--joy that makes all other joys seem nil--
  Writes her impressions for _The Daily Thrill_.

       *       *       *       *       *

ONCE UPON A TIME.

THE SUSCEPTIBLE AMERICAN.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful singer named Miss Iris Bewlay.
Every now and then she gave a recital, and it was always crowded. She
was chosen to sing "God save the King" at bazaars and Primrose League
meetings; her rendering of "Home, Sweet Home" moistened every eye.
Hostesses wishing to be really in the swim engaged her to sing during
after-dinner conversation for enormous fees.

When Miss Iris Bewlay was approaching the forties and adding every day
to her wealth, another Miss Bewlay--not Iris, but Gladys, and no
relation whatever--was gradually improving her gift of song with a
well-known teacher, for it was Miss Gladys Bewlay's intention, with her
parents' strong approval, to become a professional. She had not, it is
true, her illustrious namesake's commanding presence or powerful
register, but her voice was sweet and refined and she might easily have
a future.

It happened that a susceptible music-loving American staying in London
for a short time was taken by some English friends to a concert at which
Miss Iris Bewlay was singing, and he fell at once a victim to her tones.
Never before had he heard a voice which so thrilled and moved him. He
returned to his hotel enraptured, and awoke with but one desire and that
was to hear Miss Bewlay again.

