The Press: Good Clean Punch

An English rival of Punch once printed a cartoon of a man struck with amazement, and labeled it: “Portrait of a Gentleman Finding a Joke in Punch” Like some Englishmen, many Americans who have seen 105-year-old Punch are rarely amused by its jokes, even after laborious explanations. But last week, with its home circulation at an alltime high (184,000), London’s most ancient & honorable humorous weekly confidently invaded the U.S. market, intending to be laughed at, not laughed off.

Off to New York went 250,000 promotion pamphlets, inviting Americans (for $7.50 a year) to “Laugh with the British— at themselves.” Editor Edmund Valpy Knox hoped to appeal especially to ex-G.I.s who got acquainted with Britain in World War II. But even for total strangers, he believes that Punch will still pack a wallop. Said Editor Knox: “If you get down to the basic principles of humor, I think you will find that what makes people laugh is the same on both sides of the Atlantic.”

In the old Punch, the cartoons were merely illustrations of elaborate written jokes. Today’s Punch—like its U.S. contemporary, the New Yorker—strives for the drawing that is comic in itself, trims its captions to a single punch line. Punch frequently gets deep into politics and economics, with no intent to be funny. It also carries serious reviews of the movies, theater and books—but with a difference. Says Editor Knox: “The New Yorker is so scornful of everything. Nothing is quite good enough in their eyes. We try not to be too bitter or unkind.”

Brandy Handy. Punch’s editorial offices, at 10 Bouverie Street, have a restful elegance more appropriate to an English country house than to London’s Fleet Street. Once a week its four editors and six or seven regular contributors (led by Sir Alan Herbert) get together at the celebrated Punch Round Table, for luncheon, brandy and a discussion of the week’s main political cartoon. Editor Knox, who has been working for Punch for 40 years and writes the pieces signed “EVOE,” puts the rest of the issue out on faith. He holds no story conferences, never knows what contributions to expect until they arrive, and fills last-minute gaps by diving into the fat “unsolicited” file from readers all over the Empire. Knox does not worry about one important part of Punch: the cover has been the same since 1849, when Richard Doyle drew the now famous sketch of Punch and his dog Toby. It was adopted by Mark Lemon, the first of Punch’s editors (his colleagues used to pun: “What would Punch be without Lemon?”).

Predictable Punch conforms to a pattern that most Englishmen have come to consider as much a part of England as fish, chips and the Royal Family. As in the days when Tennyson, Thackeray, George du Maurier, Sir John Tenniel and A. A. Milne were steady contributors, Punch believes in social satire and good clean fun. It rarely gets any sexier than the recent cartoon of a harassed mother rabbit snapping at a big-eared little rabbit: “Well, if you must know, you came out of a hat.” Punch has usually avoided divorce, profanity, violence and prone drunks, always relished outrageous puns (Henry VIII, after a choppy Channel crossing: “Yesterday all was fair, a glorious Sunday, but this sick transit spoils the glory o’ Monday”).

Collectors’ Items. But Punch’s most characteristic jest is the tender jest of British character, like the wartime cartoon of the elderly Englishman gazing up at planes overhead, while his wife knits and placidly inquires: “Germans, dear?” In its pages have been recorded the fads and crazes of a century: the mania for collecting blue china, for keeping exotic fowls, for croquet, for mah jongg, for yo-yos.

In its youth Punch published such passionate protests against sweatshop labor as Thomas Hood’s Song of the Shirt. But by the mid-Victorian era, Punch had become less socially-conscious, more class-conscious. It considers itself nonpolitical, but is instinctively Conservative. But its humor has kept up with the times. During the war, Punch ran a cartoon of a dowager duchess instructing her butler: “James, tell Sir Charles if he isn’t down in five minutes, he’s had it.” And a recent Punch showed a small child covered with coal dust, being comforted by his parents: “But darling. Daddy’s not going to punish you for playing with coal—he only wants to know where you found it.”