Read Ebook: Punch or the London Charivari Volume 156 May 14 1919 by Various

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VOL. 156.

May 14, 1919.

CHARIVARIA.

"Where Stands Germany To-day?" asks a headline. She doesn't. At least Count BROCKDORFF-RANTZAU kept his seat while addressing the Peace Conference. This discourtesy however need not be taken too seriously. It is pointed out that by the time Germany has complied with the Peace terms she may not be able to sit down.

The Soviet Government has adopted a new calendar, in which the year will commence on October 25th. We ourselves have always, associated the first day of January with some of the most repugnant features of capitalism.

A resident of Balham who was last week bitten by a member of a Jazz band is now wondering whether he ought to submit to the PASTEUR treatment or just allow the thing to run its own course.

Several of our migratory birds have not yet returned to these shores. It is supposed that the spirit of competition has been aroused in them by the repeated rumours of a Trans-Atlantic flight and that they have started to race on foot across Europe.

Wallasey's Corporation has decided to exclude boys under sixteen from the municipal golf course. No child, the Mayor explains, should be allowed to witness its father's shame.

"Steps should be taken to make the clergy presentable and attractive," says the Vicar of St. Jude's, Hampstead. A little baby ribbon insertion, it is suggested, would give a certain dash to the carpet slippers without impairing their essential dignity.

The Ebbw Vale cat that is suspected of having rabies is still under observation. The belief is gaining ground, however, that she was merely trying to purr in Welsh.

North of England gas managers have passed a resolution urging the appointment of a Director-General of Light, Heat and Power. But surely the functions of such an office are already performed by Mr. SPEAKER.

A fine specimen of the rare white female dolphin, a very infrequent visitor to our shores, has been killed off Yarmouth. We'll learn white female dolphins to visit us!

The National Historical Society have cabled to Mr. WILSON that they are supporting Italy's claim to Fiume. It is only fair to point out that Mr. Smith of Norwood has not yet reached a decision on the point.

A Sinn Fein M.P. has been recaptured at Finglas, co. Dublin. It would be interesting to know why.

The Board of Agriculture are of the opinion that rabies might be spread by rats. In view of this there is some talk of calling upon householders to muzzle their rats.

According to a Sunday paper a husband recently stated that a former lodger ran away with his wife. She was a German, and nobody can understand why they ran.

An anarchist arrested in Holland with a bomb in his possession explained that it was for the ex-Kaiser. We have since been informed that the retired monarch denies that he ever placed such an order with the gentleman.

A well-known golf club has recently engaged a totally deaf caddy. The idea is to induce more clergymen to join the club.

As no joke about the Isle of Wight Railway has appeared in any comic paper for at least a month, it is supposed that either a new engine has been bought or that the old one has been thoroughly overhauled.

A picture post-card sent off in 1910 has just arrived at its destination. It is presumed that one of the sorters who originally handled it is breaking up his collection.

It will take ten years, says a Post Office official, to replace the present telephone system with automatic exchanges. Persons who have already registered calls are urged not to make too much of this slight additional delay.

Every one, says the Secretary of the National Federation of Fish Friers, wants the trade to be a respectable one. On the other hand it is just that smack which it has of Oriental debauchery that makes it appeal so strongly to the idle rich.

Salmon taken from some parts of the Tyne are alleged to smell of petrol and taste like tar. Otherwise they are quite all right.

An American doctor states that British people sleep too much. No blame, however, attaches to America. After all, she invented the gramophone.

"The end of the dog," says a contemporary, "is in sight." Then it can't be a dachshund.

Just the job for a Coalitionist.

He may be the "gentleman of the Near East," but that has not saved him from being turned down.

THE COUNTER-ORDER OF THE BATH.

I did not ask for it; I never yearned Within the Royal Court to board and bed; Like all the other honours I have earned, I had this greatness thrust upon my head; But if the Precincts are to be my lair Then for my comfort Ministers must cater; I want a second bath inserted there, Also an elevator.

Daily fatigued by those official cares Which my exalted dignity assumes, I could not ask my feet to climb the stairs Which link that mansion's three-and-thirty rooms; And, if the Law must have so clean a fame That none can point to where a speck of dust is, A single bathroom cannot meet the claim Of equitable Justice.

My wants are modest, you will please remark; I crave no vintage of the Champagne zone, No stalled chargers neighing for the Park, No 9?5 cigars ; I do not ask, who am the flower of thrift, For Orient-rugs or "Persian apparatus"; Nothing is lacking save a bath and lift To fill my soul's hiatus.

And, should my plea for reasonable perks be flatly quashed; Should kind Sir ALF, Commissioner of Works, Be forced to leave me liftless and half-washed; Then for these homely needs of which I speak, Content with my old pittance from the nation, In Grosvenor Square I will seek Private accommodation.

O.S.

BACK TO THE CAM.

College head-porters as a class assuredly rank amongst the dignified things of the earth. One may admire the martial splendour of a Brigadier-General, and it is not to be denied that Rear-Admirals have a certain something about them which excites both awe and delight, but they are never quite the same thing as a college head-porter. There may be weak spots in the profession, and indeed in one or two of the less self-respecting colleges the head-porters scarcely rise above the level of the Dons; but these are distinctly exceptional. As a class they stand, as I said, amongst the dignified things of life.

Parsons is our head-porter, and perhaps he is the sublimest of them all. Freshmen raise their squares to him, and Oriental students can rarely bring themselves to enter the porter's lodge during their first term without previously removing their shoes. Few except fourth-year men have the temerity to address him as "Parsons" to his face; it seems such an awful thing to do, like keeping a chapel in bedroom slippers or walking arm-in-arm with a Blue. You feel awkward about it.

In order to give you a shadowy idea of Parsons' majesty I must hark back for a moment to a certain day in November, 1914, when Biffin and I, after a brief dalliance with the C.U.O.T.C., left Cambridge to join our regiments. It was pouring with rain, but we were elated in spirit; we had our commissions; things were going to happen; we felt almost in case to jostle a constable. As we passed out through the porter's lodge Parsons sat at his table, imperturbable and austere, his eagle eyes flashing from beneath his bushy brows and his venerable beard sweeping his breast. At that moment Biffin, overwrought with excitement, forgot himself.

"Cheerio, Parsons, old cracker," he shouted wildly; "how's the weather suit your whiskers?"

Then, realising the enormity of his act, he turned suddenly pale, dashed out into the road and dived panic-stricken into the waiting taxi. We made good our escape.

Those seven stars represent the War. I take a childlike pleasure in dismissing Armageddon in this brusque fashion. If you have had anything at all to do with it you will understand.

Having been demobilised at a relatively early date, out of respect for our pivotal intellects, Biffin and I were bound for Cambridge, to take up the threads of learning where WILHELM had snapped them some years previously. Both of us have changed a little. Biffin has been burnt brown by the suns of Egypt, while I wear a small souvenir of Flanders on my upper lip.

"I wonder if Parsons will remember us," said Biffin as the train thundered into the station.

"Of course he will," I replied. "Parsons never forgets anything."

"I doubt it," said Biffin.

As our taxi drew up before the portals of Alma Mater the first person we saw, standing on the steps of the porter's lodge, was Parsons. He was as Olympian as ever. As soon as you saw him you felt that, though they might abolish compulsory Greek or introduce a Finance Tripos, they would never be able to subdue the ancient spirit of the University. A single glimpse of Parsons, standing erect in all his traditional glory, showed up people like Mr. H.G. WELLS in their true perspective in a moment. It did one good.

Parsons regarded us. "Good afternoon, Mr. Jones," he said to me. Then his eyes rested on Biffin. "Good afternoon, Sir," he said.

Biffin nudged me, "He's forgotten me," he whispered. Parsons continued to subject him to an implacable scrutiny. At length he spoke again. "As to your question, Mr. Biffin, which I have had no earlier opportunity of answering, I may say that what you were pleased to allude to as my whiskers--a colloquialism I do not myself employ--are entirely impervious to and unaffected by any climatic variations whatsoever. Your rooms, Sir, are on Staircase B."

TRUE HOSPITALITY.

Perhaps they were afraid of missing their steps in the dark.

The record of drunkenness seems still rather high for a teetotal city.

SAFETY FIRST.

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