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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 147,
November 11, 1914, by Various
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almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, November 11, 1914
Author: Various
Release Date: April 24, 2009 [EBook #28596]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH ***
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
</pre>
<h1>PUNCH,<br />
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.</h1>
<h2>VOL. 147.</h2>
<hr class="full" />
<h2><span class="sc">November 11, 1914.</span></h2>
<hr class="full" />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_389" id="Page_389">[Pg 389]</a></span>
<h2>CHARIVARIA.</h2>
<p>"In Buenos Aires and other parts of
Argentina," <i>The Express</i> tells us,
"people are tired of the war, and a
brisk trade is being done in the sale of
buttons to be worn by the purchaser,
inscribed with the words '<i>No me habla
de la guerra</i>' ('Don't talk to me about
the war')." The <span class="sc">Kaiser</span>, we understand,
has now sent for one of these
buttons.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>The Crown Prince <span class="sc">Rupprecht</span> of
Bavaria, in an order to his troops last
week, referred to the British in the
following words:—"Here is the enemy
which chiefly blocks the way in the
direction of restoration of peace." Conceive
a "contemptible little
army" being able to do that!
It makes one wonder whether
the first epithet was perhaps
a misprint for "contemptuous."</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>The Germans are now calling
the Allies a Menagerie,
though curiously enough it is
the others who have a Turkey
waddling after them.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>According to a report which
reaches us the crews of the
<i>Goeben</i> and <i>Breslau</i> are wearing
a most curious garb, being
clothed in Turkish fezes and
breaches of neutrality.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<center>"GERMANS MOWED DOWN<br />
<span class="sc">French Marines' Big Feet</span>."</center>
<p class="author"><i>Irish Independent.</i></p>
<p>This is really a most unfortunate
misprint, for it is just
this kind of carping statement
that leads the Germans to say we are
falling out with our Allies.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>There is much speculation as to
whether there is German blackmail
behind the announcement that the
maximum period of quarantine for
imported dogs has been reduced from
six months to four.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>The only animals left alive in the
Antwerp Zoo are reported to be the
elephants, which are now being used
for military traction purposes. Later
on it is proposed by the Germans to
drive them into the lines of the Indian
troops with a view to making the latter
home-sick.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Mr. <span class="sc">Algernon Ashton</span> asks in <i>The
Evening News</i>, "Why is the Poet
Laureate so strangely silent?"
Everyone else will remember Mr.
<span class="sc">Bridges'</span> patriotic lines at the beginning
of the War, and we begin to suspect
that Mr. <span class="sc">Ashton's</span> well-known
repugnance to writing for the papers
has been extended to the reading of
them.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p><i>The Daily Mirror</i>, to signalise its
eleventh birthday, produced a "Monster
Number," yet it contained no portrait
of the <span class="sc">Kaiser</span>.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Happening to meet a music-hall
acquaintance we asked him how he
thought the war was going, and he
replied, "Oh, I think the managers
will have to give in."</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>America is evidently attempting to
attract some of the devotees of winter
sports who usually go to Switzerland.
Another landslide on the Panama
Canal is now announced.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>We are sorry to have to bring a
charge of lack of gallantry against <i>The
Leicester Mail</i>. We refer to the following
passage in its description of an
ovation given to Driver <span class="sc">Osborne</span>, V.C.,
at Derby on the 31st ult. After describing
how, in the course of a great
reception given to him by a large crowd
at the station, two or three buxom
matrons insisted upon embracing him,
our contemporary continues: "Driver
Osborne has now practically recovered,
and reports himself for duty again at
the end of this week."</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>The municipality of Berlin has decided
to substitute for the existing
designations of some of the principal
streets in that city the names of "German
generals who have become famous
during the present war." This, however,
will not involve many alterations.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Orders have been issued by the
Federal Council of the German Empire
that no bread other than that containing
from 5 to 20 per cent. of potato flour
will be allowed to be baked. Such
bread is to be sold under the name of
"K" bread. At first this was taken
to be a graceful tribute to Lord
<span class="sc">Kitchener</span>, but it is now officially
stated that "K" stands for the German
for potatoes.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>The <i>Kölnische Zeitung</i> complains
that English prisoners in Germany
"are allowed to lead the lives of
Olympian Gods." Our choleric contemporary
is evidently unaware
that we are allowing
German prisoners to reside
in Olympia, which is the next
best thing to Olympus.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>The British steamer <i>Remuera</i>
reported on reaching
Plymouth last week that a
German cruiser had attempted
to trap her by means of
a false S.O.S. signal. We
ought not, we suppose, to be
surprised at a low trick like
this from the s.o.s.sidges.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>There is one quality that
no one can with justice deny
to the Germans, and that is
thoroughness. The other
day, having laid a mine,
they seem to have used one
of their own cruisers to test
its destructive power.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>"It is noticeable," says
<i>The Daily Mail</i>, "that the Kaiser's
speeches no longer include references
to God, only Frederick the Great."
This confirms the rumours of a quarrel.</p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 60%">
<a href="images/389.png">
<img src="images/389.png" width="100%" alt="The Airship Menace." /></a>
<h4><span class="sc">The Airship Menace.</span></h4>
</div>
<hr />
<h4>Famous Town Captured by Germans.</h4>
<blockquote><p>"In the south of Ypres we have lost some
points, D'Appui, Hollebeke, and Landvoorde."</p></blockquote>
<p class="author"><i>Worcester Daily Times.</i></p>
<p>If your map doesn't give D'Appui,
buy a more expensive one.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<blockquote><p>"Capstan Hands.—First-class Men, used to
chucking work, for motor vehicle parts."</p></blockquote>
<p class="author"><i>Advt. in "The Manchester Guardian."</i></p>
<p>They ought to be easy enough to get.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<blockquote><p>"Guardsmen again provided a dramatic
element in the trial by guarding the prisoner
and the door which fixed bayonets."</p></blockquote>
<p class="author"><i>Evening News.</i></p>
<p>You should see our arm-chair give the
salute.</p>
<hr />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_390" id="Page_390">[Pg 390]</a></span>
<h2>TO THE SHIRKER: A LAST APPEAL.</h2>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">Now of your free choice, while the chance is yours</p>
<p class="i2">To share their glory who have gladly died</p>
<p class="i0">Shielding the honour of our island shores</p>
<p class="i2">And that fair heritage of starry pride,—</p>
<p class="i0">Now, ere another evening's shadow falls,</p>
<p class="i4">Come, for the trumpet calls.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">What if to-morrow through the land there runs</p>
<p class="i2">This message for an everlasting stain?—</p>
<p class="i0">"England expected each of all her sons</p>
<p class="i2">To do his duty—but she looked in vain;</p>
<p class="i0">Now she demands, by order sharp and swift,</p>
<p class="i4">What should have been a gift."</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">For so it must be, if her manhood fail</p>
<p class="i2">To stand by England in her deadly need;</p>
<p class="i0">If still her wounds are but an idle tale</p>
<p class="i2">The word must issue which shall make you heed;</p>
<p class="i0">And they who left her passionate pleas unheard</p>
<p class="i4">Will <i>have</i> to hear that word.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">And, losing your free choice, you also lose</p>
<p class="i2">Your right to rank, on Memory's shining scrolls,</p>
<p class="i0">With those, your comrades, who made haste to choose</p>
<p class="i2">The willing service asked of loyal souls;</p>
<p class="i0">From all who gave such tribute of the heart</p>
<p class="i4">Your name will stand apart.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">I think you cannot know what meed of shame</p>
<p class="i2">Shall be their certain portion who pursue</p>
<p class="i0">Pleasure "as usual" while their country's claim</p>
<p class="i2">Is answered only by the gallant few.</p>
<p class="i0">Come, then, betimes, and on her altar lay</p>
<p class="i4">Your sacrifice to-day!</p>
</div></div>
<p class="author">O. S.</p>
<hr />
<h2>UNWRITTEN LETTERS TO THE KAISER.</h2>
<center>No. VII.</center>
<center>(<i>From the <span class="sc">President of the French Republic</span>.</i>)</center>
<p class="author"><i>Bordeaux.</i></p>
<p>Sire,—You will pardon me, I know, if for a moment I
break in upon the serious occupations and meditations in
which your time must be spent. I like to picture you to
myself in the midst of your Staff, working out for them and
your armies great problems of strategy and devising those
movements which, so far, have overwhelmed not your foes
so much as the minds of your fellow-countrymen. You
too, Sire, sanguine and impetuous as is your nature, are no
doubt beginning to realise that a great nation—let us say
France, for example—is not to be overcome by mere
shouting and the waving of sabres, or by the making of
impassioned speeches in which God, having been acclaimed
as an ally, is encouraged to perform miracles for the benefit
of the Prussian arms. I do not deny that your soldiers
are brave and that your armies are well equipped; but our
Frenchmen too have guns and bayonets and swords and
shells and know how to make use of them, and their
portion of courage is no smaller than that of the Prussians,
or even of the Bavarians whom you have lately been
vaunting. Moreover—and this you had perhaps over-looked—they
have something which is deadlier and more
enduring than shot and shell and steel—the unconquerable
spirit which leaps up in the hearts of men who are gathered
to defend their country from invasion and their national
existence from destruction.</p>
<p>Oh, Sire, how little you have understood France and her
people; how little you have understood the minds and
motives of men! "France," your Professors and your
Generals told you, "is degenerate; her population is smaller
than ours; she has lost her skill in fighting and her courage;
she has no culture, never having heard of <span class="sc">Treitschke</span> and
having neglected the inspired writings of <span class="sc">Nietzsche</span>; she
will be an easy prey, for no one will lift a hand to help her.
England is lapped in ease behind her ocean and will never
fight again; Russia is distant and slow, and we can despise
her; Belgium will never dare to deny us anything we care
to ask. Let us make haste, then, and crush France to the
earth for ever." So you planned, and your legions set out
to trample us down, with the result that is now before the
eyes of the world.</p>
<p>Only a few words more. There is at Sampigny, in
Lorraine, a modest country-house, which was, in fact, my
home. Your troops passed through the place, and for no
military reason that I can discover they reduced this house
to ruins. I know that that is a small price to pay for the
honour of being allowed to represent the French nation in
this hour of peril and glory, and I pay it willingly. When
so many are laying down their lives with joy why should I
complain because a few walls have been shattered? But I
am reminded and I wish to remind you of another story.
One hundred and eight years ago, in October, the Great
<span class="sc">Napoleon</span>, having scattered your predecessor's armies to the
four winds of heaven, proceeded to Potsdam, where he
visited the tomb of the great <span class="sc">Frederick</span>. They showed him
the dead King's sword, his belt and his cordon of the Black
Eagle. These Napoleon took, with the intention of sending
them to Paris, to be presented to the <i>Invalides</i>, amongst
whom there still lingered a few who had been defeated by
<span class="sc">Frederick</span> at Rosbach. Certainly the relics took no shame
from such a seizure and such a guardianship. But the
palace at Potsdam was not destroyed and stands to this
day. I do not wish to liken myself to <span class="sc">Frederick</span>, nor do I
compare you with <span class="sc">Napoleon</span>, but I tell you the story, which
is true, for what it is worth. I wonder if you will appreciate
it?</p>
<p>Agree, Sire, the expression of my distinguished consideration.</p>
<p class="author"><span class="sc">Raymond Poincaré.</span></p>
<hr />
<h2>THE IRON CROSS.</h2>
<center>(For German looters.)</center>
<div class="poem1"><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">[<i>In tempi barbari e più feroci</i></p>
<p class="i0"><i>S' appiccavan' i ladri in sulle croci;</i></p>
<p class="i0"><i>In tempi men barbari e più leggiadri</i></p>
<p class="i0"><i>S' appiccano le croci in petto ai ladri.</i>—<span class="sc">Giust</span>.]</p>
</div></div>
<div class="poem1"><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">In former ferocious and barbarous times,</p>
<p class="i0">The thief was hung up on the cross for his crimes,</p>
<p class="i0">But Culture to savages offers relief—</p>
<p class="i0">The cross is now hung on the breast of the thief.</p>
</div></div>
<hr class="short" />
<blockquote><p>"Amended and more stringent regulations concerning the lights
of London have been issued by Sir E. R. Henry, the Commissioner
of Police. A number of them are in the same terms as those which
were published in <i>The Globe</i> nearly a month ago, but others make
important changes. For example, the third order, as originally
drafted, ran: 'The intensity of the inside lighting of shop fronts
must be reduced from 6 p.m. or earlier if the Commissioner of Police
on any occasion so directs,' but it is now as follows:—</p></blockquote>
<p>The intensity of the inside lighting of shop fronts must be
reduced <i>from 6 p.m. or earlier if the Commissioner of Police on any
occasion so directs</i>."—<i>Globe.</i></p>
<p>The italics ought to make it a lot darker.</p>
<hr />
<p>Gifts of money for the purchase of blankets are being
made in Germany not less than here, and we understand
that a large sum has been sent out to South Africa
addressed: "De Wet Blanket Fund."</p>
<hr />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_391" id="Page_391">[Pg 391]</a></span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 50%">
<a href="images/391.png">
<img src="images/391.png" width="100%" alt="HIS MASTER'S VOICE." /></a>
<h4>HIS MASTER'S VOICE.</h4>
<p><span class="sc">The Kaiser</span> (<i>to Turkey, reassuringly</i>). "LEAVE EVERYTHING TO ME. ALL YOU'VE GOT TO
DO IS TO EXPLODE."</p>
<p><span class="sc">Turkey.</span> "YES, I QUITE SEE THAT. BUT WHERE SHALL <i>I</i> BE WHEN IT'S ALL OVER?"</p>
</div>
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_392" id="Page_392">[Pg 392]</a></span>
<hr />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_393" id="Page_393">[Pg 393]</a></span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 80%">
<a href="images/393.png"><br /><br />
<img src="images/393.png" width="100%" alt="Talkative Passenger." /></a>
<p><i>Talkative Passenger.</i> "<span class="sc">I see that the young Earl of Harboro' has just done a very plucky act at the front.</span>"</p>
<p><i>Rabid Socialist</i> (<i>indignantly</i>). "<span class="sc">Well, so he ought.</span>"</p>
</div>
<hr />
<h2>THE MISUSED TALENT.</h2>
<center>(<i>A mild apostrophe to the young man next door.</i>)</center>
<div class="poem1"><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">Augustus! ever prone at eve to gurgle a</p>
<p class="i2">Melodious distych from the music-halls,</p>
<p class="i0">Piping in summer from beneath a pergola,</p>
<p class="i2">Piping to-day behind these party-walls,</p>
<p class="i0">Three months ago and more, when Mars had thrust us</p>
<p class="i2">In doubt and dread alarm and cannons' mist,</p>
<p class="i0">I found one solace, for I mused, "Augustus</p>
<p class="i6">Will probably enlist.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">"I know not what his dreams of glory may be,</p>
<p class="i2">I know not if his heart is full of grit,</p>
<p class="i0">But I do know that he disturbs the baby,</p>
<p class="i2">And, judging by his lungs, he must be fit;</p>
<p class="i0">His is the frame, or else I've never seen one,</p>
<p class="i2">His are the fitting years to fight and roam,</p>
<p class="i0">He has no ties (except that pink and green one)</p>
<p class="i6">To tether him to home.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">"When he returns he'll possibly be sager;</p>
<p class="i2">If not (for glory of his long campaign)</p>
<p class="i0">We shall be thrilled to hear the sergeant-major</p>
<p class="i2">Singing the good old songs he loved again;</p>
<p class="i0">Bellona, too, has something of the witch in her;</p>
<p class="i2">It may be he will learn more tact and grace</p>
<p class="i0">When that mild tenor has been turned by <span class="sc">Kitchener</span></p>
<p class="i6">Into a throaty bass."</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">Thus jestingly I dreamed. And now, Caruso,</p>
<p class="i2">You have not budged one inch upon the road;</p>
<p class="i0">While half the lads have got their khaki trousseau,</p>
<p class="i2">You still retain that voice and nut-like mode;</p>
<p class="i0">Peace holds you with the tightness of a grapnel,</p>
<p class="i2">And, still adhering to her ample hem,</p>
<p class="i0">You enfilade us with your tuney shrapnel</p>
<p class="i6">From 9 to 12 <span class="sc">P.M.</span></p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">So here's my ultimatum. Though it loosens</p>
<p class="i2">The kindly bonds that neighbours ought to keep,</p>
<p class="i0">I'll take a summons out to curb the nuisance</p>
<p class="i2">Unless you stop it. Can I laugh or weep</p>
<p class="i0">For those who fling their challenge at the blighting gale,</p>
<p class="i2">Who smile to hear the cannon's murderous croon,</p>
<p class="i0">When you go on like a confounded nightingale</p>
<p class="i6">Under a fat-faced moon?</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">The streets are darkened now that once were ringing</p>
<p class="i2">Through all the lamp-lit hours with festal fuss,</p>
<p class="i0">And songs are changed, and so's the time for singing,</p>
<p class="i2">But I'd be greatly pleased to hear you, Gus,</p>
<p class="i0">Out in the road there, watched by Anns and Maries,</p>
<p class="i2">Op'ning your throttle to the mid-day light;</p>
<p class="i0">Fate gave it you to prove that Tipperary's</p>
<p class="i6">A long way off. <i>Left—Right!</i></p>
</div></div>
<p class="author"><span class="sc">Evoe.</span></p>
<hr />
<p>We commend <i>The Pioneer</i> to the notice of our evening
contemporaries. Its "Extraordinary War Special"—price,
one anna—consists of the following:—</p>
<blockquote><p>"No Reuter received since 8.30 a.m."</p></blockquote>
<p>A more enterprising paper, such as <i>The</i> —— or <i>The</i> ——
[<i>censored</i>] would have provided some new headlines from
yesterday's news.</p>
<hr />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_394" id="Page_394">[Pg 394]</a></span>
<h2>TOMMY BROWN, PATRIOT.</h2>
<center>II.</center>
<p>Tommy Brown has already been in
disgrace, although it is only a fortnight
since he wrote the famous patriotic
essay which determined Mr. Smith,
his Form-master, to go to the Front.
You see, Miss Price, who is deputising
for Mr. Smith, does not like lizards,
and has an especial aversion to white
rats, whereas Tommy is very fond of
these and other dumb animals.</p>
<p>So Tommy was reported to the
Headmaster. At first the Headmaster
thought that the application of "somewhat
severe measures, my boy," would
meet the case; but whoever
heard of caning a curly-headed
boy with blue eyes and an ink-stain
on both lips? The interview
took place in the Headmaster's
study. To the question,
"What do you mean, Sir,
by bringing lizards and white
rats to school?" Tommy said,
"Yes, Sir," and then, after
thinking for fully three seconds,
he said he had a ferret at
home, and did the Headmaster
know how to hold a ferret so
that it couldn't bite you?</p>
<p>It seems that ferrets, if they
once get hold of your thumb,
never let go—<i>not never</i>—and
that you have to force their
jaws open with a penholder;
also ferrets exhibit a marked
preference for thumbs. All this
information Tommy conveyed
without drawing a breath. The
Headmaster said, "Quite so, my
boy, quite so. But don't you
know it is extremely reprehensible
conduct to bring animals
to school in your pocket?"
Well, you see, that is how
Tommy's mother talks to him,
so he knew what to do, and, looking
up into the Headmaster's face with
that wistful look of his, he imparted
the deep secret that he had a tortoise.</p>
<p>Tortoises, the Headmaster learnt,
had a way of getting lost among the
cabbages, but, if you wanted to prevent
them from straying, all you had to do
was to turn them over on their backs
and put a piece of brown paper over them
for their feet to play with. Also they
were stuck fast in their shells, because
Tommy had tried. A boy had told
Tommy that tortoises laid eggs, but
although Tommy had showed his tortoise
a hen's egg and then put the
tortoise in a nice new nest the tortoise
had taken no step in the matter.</p>
<p>However, Tommy promised never to
bring any more animals to school and
to express his sorrow to Miss Price.
And he was richer by sixpence when
the interview closed.</p>
<p>At parting, Tommy offered to lend
the Headmaster his tortoise for a week,
and told him that, if he stood for a
whole hour on its back, it wouldn't
hurt it, because Tommy had trained it;
also it never crawled out of your
pocket.</p>
<p>Tommy apologised to Miss Price
for bringing the white rats to school—they
weren't white rats really, not
to look at; they were rather piebald
through constant association with ink.
Also he brought an apple and showed
her how, by holding it a certain way
whilst eating it, she would miss the
bad part. In further sign of amity he
showed her his knife, and especially
that instrument in it which was used
for removing stones from horses' hoofs.
Not that Tommy had removed many
stones from horses' hoofs, not very
many, but if you had a tooth that was
loose it was very helpful. Miss Price
gave him a new threepenny bit, and
Tommy tried hard to please her in
arithmetic by reducing inches to
pounds, shillings and pence.</p>
<p>With nine-pence in his pocket Tommy
felt uneasy. It was a question between
a lop-eared rabbit and a mouth-organ.
A lop-eared rabbit, that is to say a
proper one, cost two shillings; for nine-pence
it was probable that you could
only get a rabbit which would lop with
one ear.</p>
<p>Besides, a lop-eared rabbit meant a
hutch, and he had already used the
cover of his mother's sewing-machine
for the piebald rats.</p>
<p>On the other hand, you could get a
mouth-organ with a bell on it for nine-pence;
he knew.</p>
<p>It was a splendid instrument!</p>
<p>Tommy took it to bed with him and
put it under his pillow, and when his
mother came to see that he was all right
at night his hand was clutched round
it as he slept content.</p>
<p>The next day Tommy gave an organ
recital in the playground before a
large and enthusiastic audience. For
a marble he would let you blow it
while he held it. For two marbles you
could hold it yourself.</p>
<p>One boy paid the two marbles,
and noticed the words
"Made in Germany" in small
letters on the under side. The
silence that followed the announcement
of this discovery
was broken only by the sound
of Jones minor biting an apple.
All eyes were on Tommy Brown.
For the fraction of a second he
hesitated, and in that fraction
Brook tertius giggled.</p>
<p>Tommy seized the mouth-organ
with a determination that
was almost ferocious; he threw
it on the ground, stamped on
it with his heel again and
again, and finally took and
pitched it into a neighbouring
garden. He then fell upon
Brook tertius and punched him
until he howled.</p>
<p>Before Tommy Brown could
go to sleep that night his
mother had to sit by his bed-side
and hold his hand; he
never released her hand until
he was fast asleep. How like
his father (the V.C.) he looked!
She wondered what made him
toss so in his sleep and what had
become of his mouth-organ with the
bell on it.</p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 50%">
<a href="images/394.png">
<img src="images/394.png" width="100%" alt="HOW TO BRING UP A HUN." /></a>
<h4>HOW TO BRING UP A HUN.</h4>
<center><span class="sc">The Teutonic substitute for Milk</span>.</center>
</div>
<hr />
<h4>"<span class="sc">French President at the Font</span>."</h4>
<p class="author"><i>Leicester Daily Mercury.</i></p>
<p>Where he received his baptism of fire?</p>
<hr class="short" />
<blockquote><p>"German infantry on the morning of the
5th ventured an assault and were repulsed by
blithering fire."—<i>Pioneer.</i></p></blockquote>
<p>Some of their Professors should be able
to do good work in the blithering line.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<blockquote><p>"Reuter's agency learns that according to
an official telegram received in London Turkish
vessels have entered the open port of
Odessa and bombarded Russian ships.</p>
<p>6 to 1 agst Cheerful, 7 to 1 agst Flippant."</p></blockquote>
<p class="author"><i>South Wales Echo.</i></p>
<p>Not at all; we remain both.</p>
<hr />
<p style="clear: both;"> </p>
<div class="centered">
<table summary="cartoon">
<tr><td>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 90%">
<a href="images/395a.png">
<img src="images/395a.png" width="100%" alt="A perfect fit" /></a></div></td>
<td><div class="figcenter" style="width: 90%">
<a href="images/395b.png">
<img src="images/395b.png" width="100%" alt="After a week's drill" /></a></div></td></tr>
<tr><td><center><i>Scene I.</i> <span class="sc">A perfect fit</span>.</center></td>
<td><center><i>Scene II.</i> <span class="sc">After a week's drill</span>.</center></td></tr>
</table>
<h4>WHAT OUR TAILOR HAS TO PUT UP WITH.</h4></div>
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_395" id="Page_395">[Pg 395]</a></span>
<hr />
<h2>BEGBIE REBUKED.</h2>
<p>Fleet Street was thrilled to the
depths of its deepest inkpot last week
when it read in <i>The Daily Chronicle</i>
of the historic meeting between Mr.
<span class="sc">Harold Begbie</span> and Mr. <span class="sc">W. J. Bryan</span>
in New York. The sensation was
caused not so much by the announcement
that Mr. <span class="sc">Bryan</span> "has the long
mouth of the orator, the lips swelling
and protruding as he speaks, thinning
and compressing when he is silent," or
that "the full and heavy neck, which
seems to be part of the face, is corded
with muscles," although either of those
statements is startling enough. Nor
was it Mr. <span class="sc">Begbie's</span> struggle to decide
whether he should devote his attention
to the great statesman or to the railway
station in which they met, the
statesman being selected only just in
time. No, what nearly stopped the
clock of St. Bride's church was this
paragraph in Mr. <span class="sc">Begbie's</span> record of
the event: "At this point I asked quite
innocently, and with a real desire for
information, an obvious but indiscreet
question, which Mr. <span class="sc">Bryan</span> rebuked me
for asking, reminding me that he was
a member of the Government."</p>
<p>What a subject for an Academy
painting in oils! Or, if <span class="sc">Milton</span> had been
living at this hour, how he would have
immortalised the touching scene!</p>
<p>A desire to present to our readers
some fuller details of this world-staggering
event prompted us to cable
to a few correspondents in New York.
One cables back: "The scene was
dramatic in the extreme. The journalist,
his big blue eyes brimming with
innocence, gently breathed his question,
when the great statesman shook his
shaggy mane and roared out his rebuke
like a lion in pain. The journalist's
apologetic gesture was one of the most
delicate things I have ever seen."</p>
<p>Another tells us:—"When Mr.
<span class="sc">Begbie</span> put his question so great a stillness
reigned throughout the crowded
railway station that you could have
heard a goods-train shunt." Mr. <span class="sc">Bryan</span>
looked long and earnestly at the journalist,
then, placing his hand affectionately
on his shoulder, he said to him
in a throbbing voice, "Oh, <span class="sc">Harold</span>,
how can you?"</p>
<hr />
<h4>"The Incorrigibles."</h4>
<blockquote><p>"The enemy made attacks, but each effort
was repulsed with great laughter."</p></blockquote>
<p class="author"><i>—Star.</i></p>
<hr />
<blockquote><p>"One recalls in this connection the statement
made by Alexander the Great, that
Napoleon's invasion of Russia was defeated
not by the Cossacks, but by Generals January
and February."—<i>Stock Exchange Gazette.</i></p></blockquote>
<p>This reminds us of <span class="sc">Cæsar's</span> comment
on the sack of Louvain:—"<i>Magnificens
est, sed non bellum.</i>"</p>
<hr />
<h2>WIRELESS.</h2>
<div class="poem1"><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">There sits a little demon</p>
<p class="i2">Above the Admiralty,</p>
<p class="i0">To take the news of seamen</p>
<p class="i2">Seafaring on the sea;</p>
<p class="i0">So all the folk aboard-ships</p>
<p class="i2">Five hundred miles away</p>
<p class="i0">Can pitch it to their Lordships</p>
<p class="i2">At any time of day.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">The cruisers prowl observant;</p>
<p class="i2">Their crackling whispers go;</p>
<p class="i0">The demon says, "Your servant,"</p>
<p class="i2">And lets their Lordships know;</p>
<p class="i0">A fog's come down off Flanders?</p>
<p class="i2">A something showed off Wick?</p>
<p class="i0">The captains and commanders</p>
<p class="i2">Can speak their Lordships quick.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">The demon sits a-waking;</p>
<p class="i2">Look up above Whitehall—</p>
<p class="i0">E'en now, mayhap, he's taking</p>
<p class="i2">The Greatest Word of all;</p>
<p class="i0">From smiling folk aboard-ships</p>
<p class="i2">He ticks it off the reel:—</p>
<p class="i0">"An' may it please your Lordships,</p>
<p class="i2">A Fleet's put out o' Kiel!"</p>
</div></div>
<hr />
<blockquote><p>"Much indecision prevails as to what the
value of sultanas will be in the near future."</p></blockquote>
<p class="author"><i>Daily Telegraph.</i></p>
<p>What the Germans want to know is
the price of Sultans.</p>
<hr />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_396" id="Page_396">[Pg 396]</a></span>
<h2>BLANCHE'S LETTERS.</h2>
<center><span class="sc">War Gossip</span>.</center>
<p class="author"><i>Park Lane.</i></p>
<p class="salute">Dearest Daphne,—</p>
<p>The situation here is unchanged, though we have
made some progress in knitting. Forgive
me, <i>m'amie</i>, but one does get so
much into the <i>despatch</i> habit! The
other day I'd a letter from Babs, in
which she told me she'd "nothing
fresh to report on her right wing"
before she pulled herself together.</p>
<p>Norty's at the front as a flying-man.
He's finding out all sorts of things,
dropping bombs on Zeppelins and
covering himself with glory. I had a
few lines from him last week. He
dated from "A place in Europe" (they
have to be <i>enormously</i> cautious!), and
said he was having the time of his life.
He was immensely pleased with the
last letter I managed to get through to
him, and was particularly struck, he
says, with my advice to him: "Find out
all you can, and above all don't get
caught;" he considers it simply <i>invaluable</i>
advice and says all airmen ought
to have it written up in letters of gold
somewhere or other.</p>
<p>Stella Clackmannan's had a fortnight's
training as a nurse and is off.
I ran in to see the dear thing the night
before she left. She'd been posing to
a photographer in her Red Cross uniform
for <i>hours</i> and <i>hours</i> and was almost
in a state of <i>collapse</i>; but the
heroic darling said she was ready to do
even <i>more than that</i> for her country.
In one photo she's sitting by a cot
with her hands folded, looking sad but
<i>very</i> sweet. In another she's standing
up, singing, "It's a long way to Tipperary;"
and in a third she's bandaging
someone (she had one of the foot-men
in for this photo), and, <i>à mon avis</i>,
it's the least successful of all. She
appears to be <i>choking</i> the poor man!
However, they're immensely charming,
and will all be seen in the "Aristocratic
Angels of Mercy" page of next week's
<i>People of Position</i>.</p>
<p>Dear Professor Dimsdale has only just
got back to England from his eclipse
expedition. I'm not sure now whether
it was an eclipse or an occultation, but
anyhow the only place where it could
be properly seen was a mountain in
the Austrian Tyrol. It was due in the
middle of August, and the last week in
July the Professor set off with his big
telescope and his lenses and his assistants
and his note-books and everything
that was his. He lived a week
or two on the mountain, to get used
to the atmosphere and prepare all his
things, so he didn't know what was
going on in the world below. And then,
just as the eclipse or whatever it was
<i>began</i>, and the Professor was looking
up at the sky for all he was worth,
a lot of fearful creatures came rushing
up the mountain and said there was
a war and that he was an alien enemy
and that he was making signals and
that his big telescope was a new sort of
howitzer; and they pushed him down
the mountain, and broke his telescope
and all his lenses, and tore up his note-books,
and shook their fists at him and
used such language that he said for the
first time in his life he was sorry he
was such a good linguist!</p>
<p>They finished by shutting him up in
a fortress, and there he's been ever
since. He hardly knows how it was
he got away, but he believes the whole
garrison was marched off to meet the
Russians, and that they're all prisoners
now—which is his only drop of comfort.
I've tried to console him for having
missed what he went to see. I said,
"Perhaps the eclipse or whatever it
was will happen again soon—or one
like it." He groaned out, "My dear
lady, that particular conjunction of the
heavenly bodies will not occur again
for 2,645 years, 9 months, 3 weeks and
2 days." So there it is, my dearest!</p>
<p>Would it cheer you up to hear a
small romance of war and knitting?
Here it is, then. Some time ago
Monica Jermyn brought round some
terrific mitts she'd knitted to go in one
of my parcels for the troops. She's
easily the worst knitter who ever held
needles! "My <i>dear</i> child," I said, "what
simply ghastly mitts! They're full of
mistakes." "What's it matter?"
Monica answered. "Mistakes will keep
them quite as warm as the right
stitches. Besides, they're all right. I
knit ever so much better now than
when I used to make socks for the Deep
Sea Fisherman last year." "That's
not saying much," I said. "I remember
those socks for the Deep Sea Fishermen,
and I doubt whether even the
<i>deepest</i> sea fishermen would know how
to put them on! What's this?" "It's
a message to go with the mitts,"
replied Monica. This was the message:—"The
girl who made these mitts
hopes they will be a comfort to some
dear brave hands fighting for her and
her sisters in England." "Oh, my
<i>dear</i>!" I remonstrated. "It's very
<i>young</i> and <i>romantic</i> of you, but don't
you think it's <i>just</i> a little——" "No,
I don't!" she cried. "And if it is, I
don't care. Please, please let it go!"
So it went.</p>
<p>Soon after that the Jermyns went
down to their place in Sussex, and
later I heard they'd some convalescent
war heroes as guests. Monica wrote
me: "All six of them are dear brave
darlings, of course, but <i>one</i> of them is
<i>darlinger</i> than the others. Tell it not
in Gath, dear Blanche, but I think
I've met my fate!" Later she wrote:
"He's getting on splendidly. He
turns out to be a cousin of the Flummerys.
He performed <i>prodigies</i> of
valour, but won't say a <i>word</i> about it.
When he leaves us my heart will quite,
<i>quite</i> break—and I sometimes hope <i>his</i>
will too!"</p>
<p>Yesterday came the following:—"Claude
and I belong to each other.
And what, oh <i>what</i> do you think
helped to lead up to the dear, delicious
finale? But wait. My hero is
almost quite well now, and this morning,
when we took what would have
been our <i>last</i> little walk in the grounds,
it happened! He walks <i>beautifully</i>
now, though he still needs an arm at
about the level of <i>mine</i> to lean on. It
was a chilly morning and, as I was
looking down and trying to think of
something to say, I gave a sudden
shriek, for on his dear heroic wrists
I recognised—<i>My Mitts</i>! And when
he heard I'd made them he was just
as <i>confondu</i> as I was. 'They were in
a bale of comfies sent to my company,'
he said, 'and I had the ladling out of
them to the men. But when I came
to these mitts, with the sweet little
message pinned to them, I simply
couldn't part with them! And to think
<i>you</i> made them—and wrote the little
message! It makes one believe in all
those psychic what-d'-you-call-'ems.'</p>
<p>"I felt a crisis was coming and so I
said hurriedly, 'Oh, I only wish they
were worthier of—of—brave hands and
wrists. I'm a wretched knitter—they're
full of mistakes—I kept forgetting to
keep to the pattern—it ought to have
been, "<i>knit</i> two together and <i>make</i> one"—but
of course you don't understand
knitting.' 'I understand it right
enough if <i>that's</i> all there is to it,' he
said. "Knit two together and make
one." Monica—no, you mustn't run
away—— ' And that's all you're going
to be told, Blanche, except that the
powers that be have given their consent
and I'm too happy for words!"</p>
<p><i>Et voilà mon petit roman de guerre
et de tricotage.</i></p>
<p>My poor Josiah is still at the uttermost
edge of beyond. He began to
come home, and the boat was chased
and ran to an island for shelter, and
then the island was taken by one of
our enemies and he was a prisoner.
Then it was retaken by one of the
Allies and he was free again. Since
then more things have happened and
he's been a prisoner again, and free
again. And now he's lost count, and
says he doesn't know <i>what</i> he is or
<i>who's</i> got the island!</p>
<p class="regards">Ever thine,</p>
<p class="author">Blanche.</p>
<hr />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_397" id="Page_397">[Pg 397]</a></span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 80%">
<a href="images/397.png">
<img src="images/397.png" width="100%" alt="Many recruits gone from this village?" /></a>
<p><i>Cyclist.</i> "<span class="sc">Many recruits gone from this village</span>?"</p>
<p><i>Shopkeeper.</i> "<span class="sc">No, Sir</span>."</p>
<p><i>Cyclist.</i> "<span class="sc">Oh, why's that</span>?"</p>
<p><i>Shopkeeper.</i> "<span class="sc">Well, Sir, after going carefully into the matter, we, in this neighbourhood, decided to remain
absolutely neutral</span>."</p>
</div>
<hr />
<h2>FATHER WILHELM.</h2>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">"You are bold, Father <span class="sc">Wilhelm</span>," the young man said;</p>
<p class="i2">"Your moustache, too, is fiercer than mine;</p>
<p class="i0">But I'm tempted to ask by the size of your head,</p>
<p class="i2">Do you really suppose you're divine?"</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">"In my youth," said his father, "you probably know</p>
<p class="i2">That I held the most orthodox views;</p>
<p class="i0">But since I have hypnotized <span class="sc">Harnack</span> and <span class="sc">Co.</span></p>
<p class="i2">I simply believe what I choose."</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">"You are bold," said the youth, "as I've mentioned before,</p>
<p class="i2">Yet you frequently talk through your hat;</p>
<p class="i0">For you told us the English were worthless in war;</p>
<p class="i2">Pray what was the reason of that?"</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">"In my earlier days," said his sire, "through and through</p>
<p class="i2">I studied that decadent race,</p>
<p class="i0">And in failing to prove that my forecast was true</p>
<p class="i2">They have covered themselves with disgrace."</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">"You are bold," said the youth, "and the Nietzschean creed</p>
<p class="i2">Cries, 'Down with the humble and meek;'</p>
<p class="i0">Yet the sack of Louvain made your bosom to bleed;</p>
<p class="i2">Why were you so painfully weak?"</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">"In my youth," said his father, "I studied the Arts</p>
<p class="i2">With a zeal that no force could restrain;</p>
<p class="i0">And the love of mankind which that study imparts</p>
<p class="i2">Has made me unduly humane."</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">"You <i>were</i> bold," said the youth, "but it seems to be clear</p>
<p class="i2">That you're losing your grit and your fire;</p>
<p class="i0">And, if I may whisper the hint in your ear,</p>
<p class="i2">Don't you think that you ought to retire?"</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">"I've answered three questions," the <span class="sc">Kaiser</span> replied,</p>
<p class="i2">"That might baffle the wit of a <span class="sc">Zancig</span>;</p>
<p class="i0">I'm tired of your talk and I'm sick of your 'side':</p>
<p class="i2">Be off, or I'll send you to Danzig."</p>
</div></div>
<hr />
<h4>The Way of the Turk.</h4>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">The position of Turkey is muddled and murky,</p>
<p class="i2">But the course she's resolved to pursue</p>
<p class="i0">Is true to her mind, which we constantly find</p>
<p class="i2"><i>À l'Enver(s) et contre tous.</i></p>
</div></div>
<hr class="short" />
<blockquote><p>"The Hun and the Tartar stand together—<i>par mobile patrum</i>."</p></blockquote>
<p class="author"><i>Newcastle Daily Journal.</i></p>
<p>We cannot speak with equal confidence of the head of the
Tartars, but the <span class="sc">Kaiser</span> certainly makes a very mobile
parent.</p>
<hr />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_398" id="Page_398">[Pg 398]</a></span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 80%">
<a href="images/398.png">
<img src="images/398.png" width="100%" alt="Cavalry Instructor" /></a>
<p><i>Cavalry Instructor</i> (<i>to nervous Recruit</i>). "<span class="sc">Now then; none o' them Cossack stunts 'ere</span>."</p>
</div>
<hr />
<h2>THE WATCH DOGS.</h2>
<center>VII.</center>
<p class="salute">Dear Charles,—</p>
<p>We haven't gone yet. Upon my word, we don't know
what to do about it. We start off for
the Continent and then we halt and
ask ourselves, "Won't they be wanting
us to go to Egypt and have a word
with the enemy there?" So we come
back and change our underclothes and
start out again; but we haven't got far
before a persistent subaltern starts a
scare about invasions. At that we
halt again and have a pow-wow. Thick
underclothes for the Continent; thin
underclothes for Egypt, but what underclothes
for home defence? And that,
old man, is the real difficulty about
war: what clothes are you to make it
in? Our official programme is, however,
clearly defined now. It is this:
We sail on or about—— to——, and
thence to——, pausing for a cup of
tea at——. We then change direction
left and turn down by the butcher's
shop and up past the post-office. Here
we form fours, form two deep, slope
arms, order arms, present arms, trail
arms, ground arms, take up arms, pile
arms, unpile arms, move to the right
in fours, by the left, left wheel. The
essence of these manœuvres is that
they make it impossible for even the
most acute enemy to guess which is
our real direction. He gathers that it
is one of two things: it is either right
or, failing that, left. But which?
Ah, that is the secret! Sometimes I
am in some doubt myself after having
given the order.</p>
<p>Our musical <i>repertoire</i> is extensive,
and, I venture to think, very aptly
and poetically expresses the feelings
of soldiers in the several aspects of
military life. Their deep-seated respect
for ceremonial is expressed thus, to the
<i>Faust</i> airs:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">"All soldiers live on bread and jam;</p>
<p class="i0">All soldiers eat it instead o' ham.</p>
<p class="i0">And every morning we hear the Colonel say,</p>
<p class="i0">'Form fours! Eyes right! Jam for dinner to-day!'"</p>
</div></div>
<p>His heart's sorrow upon leaving his
fatherland is rendered exactly thus:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">"The ship is now in motion;</p>
<p class="i0">We're going to cross the Ocean.</p>
<p class="i6">Good bye-er!</p>
<p class="i6">Fare-well-er!</p>
<p class="i0">Farewell for ever-mo-er!"</p>
</div></div>
<p>And lastly his deep concern for his
country's and his own and everybody's
welfare is thus put:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">"I don't care if the ship goes down,</p>
<p class="i2">It doesn't belong to me."</p>
</div></div>
<p>We had a Divisional Field Day yesterday.
Recollecting a previous experience,
the G.O.C. sent for his three
Brigadiers, when the division was
assembled for action, and, it seems,
said to them, "There must be less
noise." The Brigadiers, returning to the
field, called out each his four battalion-commanders
and said to them, distinctly,
"There must be less noise."
The twelve battalion-commanders called
out each his eight company-commanders,
who called out each his four
section-commanders, and in every instance
was repeated, quite audibly, the
same utterance, "There must be less
noise." Three hundred and eighty-four
section-commanders were engaged in
impressing this order, with all the emphasis
it deserved, upon the men, when
the General rode on to the field. His
anger was extreme. "<span class="sc">There must be
less noise</span>!" said he.</p>
<p class="regards">Yours ever,</p>
<p class="author"><span class="sc">Henry</span>.</p>
<hr />
<blockquote><p>"The Press also avoids very carefully all
discussion of the status of the Goeben and
the Breslau. Practically the only reference
to the subject is a remark in the <i>Frankfurter
Zeitung</i> that Turkey has alone to decide what
ships are to fly under her flag."—<i>Times.</i></p></blockquote>
<p>If Turkey decides that the <i>Goeben</i> is to
fly, we hope she will warn the man who
works the searchlights at Charing Cross.</p>
<hr />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_399" id="Page_399">[Pg 399]</a></span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 50%">
<a href="images/399.png">
<img src="images/399.png" width="100%" alt="A GLORIOUS EXAMPLE." /></a>
<h4>A GLORIOUS EXAMPLE.</h4>
<p><span class="sc">Able-bodied Civilian</span> (<i>to Territorial</i>). "THAT OUGHT TO GIVE YOU A GOOD LEAD, MATE."</p>
<p><span class="sc">Territorial</span>. "YES—AND I MEAN TO TAKE IT! WHAT ABOUT <i>YOU</i>?"</p>
</div>
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_400" id="Page_400">[Pg 400]</a></span>
<hr />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_401" id="Page_401">[Pg 401]</a></span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 80%">
<a href="images/401.png">
<img src="images/401.png" width="100%" alt="A Prussian Court-painter earning an Iron Cross" /></a><br /><br />
<p><span class="sc">A Prussian Court-painter earning an Iron Cross by painting pictures in praise of the Fatherland for neutral consumption</span>.</p>
</div>
<hr />
<h2>"CHARLIE" BERESFORD.</h2>
<center>By <span class="sc">Toby</span>, M.P.</center>
<p>"Lord Charles has broken his
chest-bone—a piece of which was cut
out in his boyhood leaving a cavity—his
pelvis, right leg, right hand, foot,
five ribs, one collar-bone three times,
the other once, his nose three times."
Thus Mr. <span class="sc">Cope Cornford</span> in one of
the notes with which he illuminates the
<i>Memoirs of Admiral Lord Charles Beresford</i>,
published by Messrs. <span class="sc">Methuen</span>
in two volumes, illustrated with a score
of plates, the portrait of Lady <span class="sc">Charles</span>
adding the charm of rare beauty to the
collection.</p>
<p>For many years I have been honoured
by the friendship of Lord
<span class="sc">Charles</span>, and have had frequent opportunity
of witnessing his multiform
supremacy. Till I read this amazing
catalogue of calamities, I never dreamt
that among other claims to distinction
he might have been billed as The
Fractured Man, principal attraction in
a travelling show, eclipsing the One-Legged
Camel, the Tinted Zebra, and the
Weird-Eyed Wanton from the Crusty
North, who can sing in five languages
"It's a Long, Long Way to Tipperary."
Ignoring the monotony of experience
suffered by the ribs, and noting the obtrusiveness
of one collar-bone, we may,
with slight variation from a formula
in use by the <span class="sc">Speaker</span> in the House
of Commons, declare "The Nose has
it." Happily no one regarding Lord
<span class="sc">Charles's</span> cheery countenance would
guess that its most prominent feature
had been "broken three times."</p>
<p>Here is a man whose life should be
written. Fortunately the task has been
undertaken by Lord <span class="sc">Charles</span> himself,
and the world is richer by a book which,
instructive in many ways, valuable as
throwing side-lights on the slow advance
of the Navy to the proud position
which it holds to-day on the North
Sea, bubbles over with humour.</p>
<p>Record opens in the year 1859, when
Lord <span class="sc">Charles</span> entered the Navy, closing
just half-a-century later, when he hauled
down his flag and permanently came
ashore. Within the space of fifty years
there is crammed a life of adventure
richly varied in range. A man of
exuberant individuality, which has
occasional tendency to obscure supreme
capacity, of fearless courage, gifted
with a combination of wit and humour,
Lord <span class="sc">Charles</span> is the handy-man to
whom in emergency everyone looked
not only for counsel but for help. It is
a paradox, but a probability, that had
he been duller-witted, a more ponderous
person, he would have carried more
weight alike in the councils of the Admiralty
at Whitehall and of the nation
at Westminster.</p>
<p>As these memoirs testify, behind a
smiling countenance he hides an unbending
resolution to serve the public
interest, whether aboard ship or in his
place in Parliament. Perhaps the most
familiar incident in his professional
career is his exploit during the bombardment
of Alexandria, when the signal<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_402" id="Page_402">[Pg 402]</a></span>
flashed from the flag-ship, "Well done,
<i>Condor</i>." A more substantial service
was his command of what he describes
as "the penny steamer" <i>Safieh</i>, whose
manœuvring on the Nile amid desperate
circumstances averted from Sir <span class="sc">Charles
Wilson's</span> desert column, hastening to
the rescue of <span class="sc">Gordon</span>, the fate which
earlier had befallen <span class="sc">Stewart</span>.</p>
<p>Another splendid piece of work was
accomplished when, after the bombardment
of Alexandria he was appointed
Provost-Marshal and Chief of Police,
and had committed to his charge the
task of restoring order. His conspicuous
success on this occasion bore fruit
many years later when he was offered
the post of Chief Commissioner of Police
in the Metropolis. His story of the
Egyptian and Soudan Wars, carried
through several chapters, is a valuable
contribution to history.
It suggests that, all other
avenues to fame closed
against him, Lord <span class="sc">Charles</span>
would have made an enduring
name as a war
correspondent.</p>
<p>It is a circumstance incredible,
save in view of
the authority upon which
it is stated, that, as part
of the reward for his
splendid service in the
Soudan, Lord <span class="sc">Charles</span>
narrowly escaped compulsory
retirement from
the Service before he had
completed the time required
to qualify for Flag
Rank. The Queen's Regulations
ordained that before
a captain could win
this prized position he
must have completed a period of from
five to six years of active service. In
1892, Lord <span class="sc">Charles</span>, the flag almost
in reach of his hand, applied for permission
to count-in the 315 days he was
strenuously and brilliantly at work in
the Soudan. The Board of Admiralty,
invulnerable in their environment of
red tape, refused the request, repeating
the <i>non possumus</i> when on two
subsequent occasions the request was
preferred.</p>
<p>It must be admitted that the Board
had no reason to regard Lord <span class="sc">Charles</span>
with favour or even with equanimity.
When returned to Parliament, the man
who had superintended the mending of
the boiler on the penny steamboat on the
Nile, devoted himself to the bigger task
of mending the Navy, at that time in
an equally pitiful condition. During
his brief and solitary term of office as
Junior Lord of the Admiralty, Lord
<span class="sc">Charles</span>, who thought he was put
there to do some work, drew up a
memorandum on the necessity of creating
at the Admiralty a Naval Intelligence
Department. The memorandum
was laid before the Board, and the
Junior Lord was told he was meddling
with high matters that did not come
within the scope of his business. A
few weeks later a Naval Intelligence
Department (of a sort) was created.
<i>Sic vos non vobis.</i></p>
<p>'Twas ever thus. Lord <span class="sc">Charles</span>,
whether in office, on active service, or
from his familiar place above the Gangway
in the House of Commons, bringing
to bear upon Naval affairs the gift
of keen intuition and the endowment
of long practical experience, has, with
one exception, done more than any
man living to deliver the Navy from
mistakes inevitable in the case of the
over-lordship of a civilian who is subject
to currents of political and party feeling.
By way of reward he has received more
kicks than ha'pence.</p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 80%">
<a href="images/402.png">
<img src="images/402.png" width="100%" alt="GERMANISED TURKEY." /></a>
<h4>GERMANISED TURKEY.</h4>
<p>"<span class="sc">Dere you are, mein friendt; der same old flag mit a <i>leedle</i>
difference</span>."</p>
</div>
<hr />
<h2>ANOTHER RUINED TRADE.</h2>
<p>I had secured an empty compartment.
Something in my blood makes me rush
for an empty compartment. I suppose
it is because I am a Briton, yet it was
another Briton who intruded upon my
privacy.</p>
<p>At the first glance I saw that he
would talk to me about the—well, what
do you expect? I can always tell when
men want to talk about it. Would
that I had the same subtle instinct
when they wish to borrow money!
I was ready for him. If he said, "Have
you heard?" I was going to answer,
"About the <span class="sc">Secretary of State for
War</span> ordering Lord <span class="sc">Fisher</span> to be imprisoned
in the Tower as a spy? Why,
my brother-in-law told me all about it
last week."</p>
<p>Instead he put his hand on my knee
and asked, "Are you a German?"</p>
<p>"Unless I am descended from <span class="sc">Hengist</span>
or <span class="sc">Horsa</span>," I replied, "there isn't
an atom of culture in me."</p>
<p>"Then I can confide in you. A
disturbance is advancing in this direction
from Eastern Europe."</p>
<p>"You mean that the <span class="sc">Crown Prince</span>
is retreating towards us from Poland?"</p>
<p>"No," he snapped. "And another
disturbance is coming from the vicinity
of Iceland."</p>
<p>"Good heavens! This is too much.
At my time of life how am I to learn
how to pronounce Pzreykjavik."</p>
<p>"Let me tell you what I prophesy
for the next few days. Saturday will
be bright."</p>
<p>"Splendid! A cheerful week-end will
do us all good."</p>
<p>"Sunday will be gloomy,
and on Monday will come
the downfall."</p>
<p>"<span class="sc">William's</span> or ours?"</p>
<p>"Accompanied by strong
south-westerly winds,
rising to a gale, and a rapid
fall of the barometer. So
now you know. My mind
is easy. I have told someone.
I have been cruelly
censored—only allowed to
predict just wet or fine
from day to day. I felt
that I must tell someone.
The Censor and Count
<span class="sc">Zeppelin</span> between them
were killing me."</p>
<p>I pitied the agony of the
professional weather forecaster.
I promised to respect
his confidence. I
left the carriage proud of
the fact that I was one of the two
men in England who knew what
Saturday's weather would be. That is
why I left my umbrella at home while
apparently every other man took his
out. It is also the reason why my new
topper was ruined. And now I wonder
whether the prophet was mistaken, or
whether at the last moment he detected
signs of culture in me and lied.</p>
<hr />
<h4>From an Indian paper:—</h4>
<blockquote><p>"The Germans are continuing the questionable
tactics of sowing floating mines in
neutral waters to the danger of neutral shipping,
as well as of British and French war
vessels. They are apparently tying them in
Paris, so as to make it more difficult to avoid
them."</p></blockquote>
<p>As a result, the <i>Iron Duke</i> has had to
give up entirely its morning run down
the Rue de Rivoli. At the same time
we are glad to hear that these floating
mines are tied. It stops them from
floating quite so much.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_403" id="Page_403">[Pg 403]</a></span></p>
<h2>IN THE WINGS.</h2>
<p>(<span class="sc">Note</span>: <i>If this essay in the well-informed
manner achieves any success,
the credit is largely due to the timely
interruptions of the Censor.</i>)</p>
<p>Few people, I think, realise the
tremendous significance of waterproof
overalls in a war like the present. I
was talking to one of our most prominent
Midland manufacturers at Sheringham
the other day and he remarked
confidentially [passage deleted by the
Censor] at fifteen per cent. reduction
to our soldiers for spot cash.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Which reminds me of a stifling
Malta afternoon, when I first saw the
good ship <i>Sheringham</i> steam slowly up
through the haze of Sliema Creek. It
was in the early days of the Navy's
grey-paint era. The change was a
drastic one, as all service-men admitted.
And why grey? I make no secret of
the fact that I have always advocated
ultramarine for the Mediterranean station;
but the Grey Water School, you
know—well, there, I must not be
indiscreet.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Life on a cruiser may be the tally
for some, but give me the nimble t.b.d.!
There you have none of "the great
monotony of sea" which drove W.M.T.
to his five meals a day. Nothing but
the charming <i>fraternité</i> of the ward-room,
the delightful inconsequences of
the chart-house kitten, and the throb
of the oil-fed turbine! Unless I am
greatly mistaken [passage deleted by the
Censor—which shows that I wasn't].</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>I was dining the other evening at
the Buckingham Palace with a friend
who is well known in Foreign Office
circles. The conversation turned, naturally
enough, on the dangers in our
midst from foreign waiters. The English
waiter who was attending us happened
at the moment to dislodge with
his elbow a wine-list which, in falling,
decanted a quantity of Sauterne into
the lap of my <i>vis-à-vis</i>, who remarked
[passage deleted by the Censor].</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>I learn from reliable sources that one
wing of our "contemptible little army"
is resting upon ——. Dear old ——!
How often have I wandered down
your sleepy little High Street to the
<i>épicerie</i> of our lively old <i>Thérèse</i>! But
that was in the old days, before the
black arts of Kaiserism transformed the
peace of yesterday into the Armageddon
of to-day. Next week I shall deal
more intimately with life behind the
scenes in German frontier towns; but
you must wait with what patience you
can for these further confidences.</p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 60%">
<a href="images/403.png">
<img src="images/403.png" width="100%" alt="No, Sir, they wouldn't take our Fred" /></a><br /><br />
<p>"<span class="sc">No, Sir, they wouldn't take our Fred, 'cos they said he'd a-got
bellicose veins</span>."</p>
</div>
<hr />
<h2>GREY GIBBONS.</h2>
<div class="poem1"><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">With fingers too canny to bungle,</p>
<p class="i2">With footsteps too cunning to swerve,</p>
<p class="i0">They swing through the heights of the jungle,</p>
<p class="i2">These stalwarts of infinite nerve;</p>
<p class="i0">Blithe sailors who heed not the breezes</p>
<p class="i2">Which play round their riggings and spars,</p>
<p class="i0">Lithe gymnasts who live on trapezes</p>
<p class="i4">And parallel bars.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">In ballrooms of plantain and mango</p>
<p class="i2">They scamper, they slither and slide</p>
<p class="i0">In the throes of a tropical tango,</p>
<p class="i2">In the grip of a Gibbony glide;</p>
<p class="i0">'Tis thus in these desolate spaces,</p>
<p class="i2">Away from humanity's ken,</p>
<p class="i0">They mimic the civilised races</p>
<p class="i4">And strive to be men.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">As the grey little acrobats patter</p>
<p class="i2">O'er creepers of myriad shapes,</p>
<p class="i0">They mouth not the meaningless chatter</p>
<p class="i2">Of dull and demoralised apes;</p>
<p class="i0">But, proud of their portion as creatures</p>
<p class="i2">Who know not the stigma of tails,</p>
<p class="i0">They screw up their weather-worn features</p>
<p class="i4">And practise their scales.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">And oft in this primitive Eden</p>
<p class="i2">When I study some antic that hints</p>
<p class="i0">At the physical fitness of Sweden,</p>
<p class="i2">The speed of American sprints,</p>
<p class="i0">I dream of the wreaths and the ribbons</p>
<p class="i2">Their prowess would certainly win,</p>
<p class="i0">If there weren't any war, and my gibbons</p>
<p class="i4">Could go to Berlin.</p>
</div></div>
<p class="author">J. M. S.</p>
<hr />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_404" id="Page_404">[Pg 404]</a></span>
<h2>MY FAVOURITE PAPER.</h2>
<center><span class="sc">By a Voracious Reader</span>.</center>
<p>All day long I read the papers that
keep this little island noisy and tell us
how we ought to be governed. I can't
help it. I want to know the latest, and
reading the papers seems (more or less)
the way to get at it. The best way of
all, of course, is to meet a man at a club
or a resident in a locality favoured by
retired colonels; but, in default of those
advantages, one must buy the papers.
And then of course it follows that one
reads far too many papers and gets one's
head far too full of war news. Still,
what would you have? The war is
so eminently first and everything else
nowhere that this is inevitable.</p>
<p>Outside suggestion has its share, too.
Morning papers are a matter of course.
One reads one's regular morning papers
and no others. But after that the
trouble begins with the evening paper
placards, each with its lure. How can
one resist them? The progress of the
Allies! The repulsing of the enemy!
The ten miles gained! The Russian
advance! A German cruiser sunk!
Each newsman has a different bait, and
as the day goes on they become more
attractive, so that one goes to bed at
night filled with optimism. Well,
these all have to be bought.</p>
<p>Speaking as a reader of too many of
them I must admit to a grievance or
two; and the chief is the difficulty that
we have in finding the fulfilment of all
the promises which are set out in the
headings to the principal war news.
For example, I find among these
headings on the day on which I write
a reference to a German admission of
failure and dismay. But can I find the
thing itself? I cannot. It may be there,
but again and again has my eye
travelled up and down the columns
seeking the nutritious morsel and not
yet has it alighted thereon, and that is
but one case out of many. Sometimes
after a long hunt I do track these joyful
tit-bits down, and then discover that
they are separated from the heading by
several columns. Some day a newspaper
editor will arise who can achieve
a really useful index to his contents.
<i>The Times</i> used to have something of
the sort, but under the stress of battle
that has gone.</p>
<p>Another grievance—but I shall say
no more on that subject. Grievances
are for peace time, when a general
huffiness and stuffiness about the way
that everyone else conducts business is
natural and indeed expected. In wartime
no one should be harassed by
criticism. So I pass on to the paper
which I like best of all those now being
published. I like it because it contains
the news I most want to read, and
every day, or rather every night, it gets
better and will continue to get better
until the Brandenberg gate opens to let
the Allies in. This paper is not a
morning paper and not an evening
paper. It is published at night, in the
smallest of the small hours, and I am its
sole subscriber, for it is the paper of my
dreams. Whether or not I am its editor
I could not say. That question leads
to the greater one which would need a
volume for its decision: Do we compose
our own dreams, or are they provided
by Ole Luk Oie or some other dream-spinner?
Anyway, no one can read the
paper of my dreams but I, and it is,
after all, the best reading. It contains
the oddest things. Last night it had
a fine article about a football match in
the North of England. Twenty-two
terrific fellows, whose united salaries
came to a respectable fortune and
whose united transfer fees, should their
Clubs ever let them go, would be
sufficient to build a <i>Dreadnought</i>, had
been charging up and down the ground
in a series of magnificent rushes, while
ten thousand North of England lads
roared themselves hoarse to see such
glory. Suddenly a newspaper boy,
reckless of his life, dashed on to the
ground with a placard stating that
a whole regiment of British soldiers
had been trapped by a German ruse
and annihilated. In an instant the
game was broken up and every player
and every spectator who was of age
ran like hares to the nearest recruiting
office and enrolled themselves as
soldiers. They had seen in a flash
that the only chance for England to
get rid of this German menace was for
every eligible man to do his share.</p>
<p>In another part of the paper I read
of a young and powerful man in an
English village who, on being asked if
he did not think that England was in
danger, replied "Yes." He was then
asked if he did not think that it was
necessary to fight for her, and he
replied "Yes" again. He was then
asked who in his opinion were the
most suitable volunteers to come to
her aid, and he replied, "Other people."
So far the story is not appreciably
different from a story that you might
read anywhere. But the version in
my paper stated that he was seized by
all the company present and not only
ducked in the nearest horse-pond but
held under the water for quite a long
time, and then held under the water
again.</p>
<p>And another article—a most exciting
one—described the success of a British
aviator who flew over Essen and
dropped five bombs on <span class="sc">Krupp's</span> gun
factory and did irreparable damage.
I forget his name, but, although he was
pursued, he got clear away and returned
to the Allies' lines. There was a fellow
for you!</p>
<p>So you see that I get some good
reading out of my favourite paper.
And more is to come!</p>
<hr />
<h2>THE PRICE OF WAR.</h2>
<div class="poem1"><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">Now woe is me! My treasure, my delight,</p>
<p class="i2">My guerdon after many toilsome days,</p>
<p class="i0">Shall gladden me no more. It was a sight</p>
<p class="i2">To bid men gape in wonderment, and praise</p>
<p class="i0">My patient courage that endured despite</p>
<p class="i2">The gibes of friends and Delia's pitying ways.</p>
<p class="i4">Ah, cruel fate that forced my hand to snip</p>
<p class="i4">Such costly growth as graced my upper lip!</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">Moustache most cherished! Not as other men</p>
<p class="i2">That let their lush growth riot as it will,</p>
<p class="i0">With just a formal waxing now and then,</p>
<p class="i2">Did I maintain it. Nay, with loving skill</p>
<p class="i0">And all the precious oils within the ken</p>
<p class="i2">Of cunning alchemists I strove until</p>
<p class="i4">Its soaring points aspired to pierce the skies,</p>
<p class="i4">And I was martial in my Delia's eyes.</p>
</div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i0">Great store of gold I lavished. Yea, I went</p>
<p class="i2">To one that works in metals and I bought</p>
<p class="i0">A kind of dreadful iron instrument</p>
<p class="i2">With leathern straps, most wonderfully wrought,</p>
<p class="i0">And wore that horror nightly, well content</p>
<p class="i2">To bear such anguish for the prize I sought.</p>
<p class="i4">And all this patient toil was thrown away—</p>
<p class="i4">They stoned me for the <span class="sc">Kaiser</span> yesterday!</p>
</div></div>
<hr />
<p>At a time when every penny that
can be spared is needed for the help
of our soldiers in the field and of our
wounded, or to relieve the distress of the
Belgian refugees or our own sufferers
from the War, a public appeal is being
made to the citizens of Newcastle-on-Tyne
for subscriptions to a fund for
presenting a testimonial to their Lord
Mayor, on the ground that he has done
his duty. We beg to offer our respectful
sympathy to the <span class="sc">Lord Mayor</span> of
Newcastle-on-Tyne.</p>
<hr />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_405" id="Page_405">[Pg 405]</a></span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 80%">
<a href="images/405.png">
<img src="images/405.png" width="100%" alt="Colonel of Swashbucklers." /></a><br /><br />
<p><i>Colonel of Swashbucklers.</i> "<span class="sc">Nah then, Swank! The wimmin can look arter theirselves. You 'op it and jine yer regiment</span>."</p>
</div>
<hr />
<h2>A TOBACCO PLANT.</h2>
<p>I had done the second hole (from the
vegetable-marrow frame to the mulberry-tree)
in two, and was about to
proceed to the third hole by the potting-shed
when I thought I would go in and
convey the glad news to Joan. I found
her seated at the table in the breakfast-room
with what appeared to be a heap
of tea spread out upon a newspaper in
front of her. Little slips of torn tissue-paper
littered the floor, and on a chair
by her side were several empty cardboard
boxes. The sight was so novel
that I forgot the object of my errand.</p>
<p>"What's all that tea for, and what
are you doing with it?" I asked.</p>
<p>"It isn't tea; it's tobacco," Joan
replied, "and I'm making cigarettes
for the soldiers at the front."</p>
<p>"Where on earth did you get that
tobacco from, if it <i>is</i> tobacco?" I
went on.</p>
<p>"Let me see now," mused Joan,
pausing to lick a cigarette-paper—"was
it from the greengrocer's or the
butcher's? Ah! I remember. It was
from the tobacconist's."</p>
<p>Joan gets like that sometimes, but I
do not encourage her.</p>
<p>"But what made you choose this
Hottentot stuff?" I enquired.</p>
<p>"The soldiers like it strong," Joan
replied, "and this looked about the
strongest he'd got."</p>
<p>"What does it call itself?"</p>
<p>"It was anonymous when I bought
it, but you'll no doubt see its name on
the bill when it comes in."</p>
<p>"Thanks very much," I said. "That's
what I should call forcible fleecing.
Not that I mind in a good cause——"</p>
<p>"Isn't it ingenious?" interrupted
Joan. "You just put the tobacco in
between the rollers, and twiddle this
button round until—until you've
twiddled it round enough; then you
slip in a cigarette-paper—like that—moisten
the edge of it—twiddle the
button round once more—open the lid—and
shake out the finished article—<i>comme
ça!</i>"</p>
<p>An imperfect cylindrical object fell
on to the floor. I stooped to pick it up
and the inside fell out. I collected the
<i>débris</i> in the palm of my hand.</p>
<p>"How many of these have you
made?" I asked.</p>
<p>"Only three thoroughly reliable ones,
including <i>that</i> one," she replied. "I've
rolled ever so many more, but the
tobacco <i>will</i> fall out."</p>
<p>"Here, let me give you a hand," I
suggested. "I'll roll and you lick."</p>
<p>"No," said Joan kindly but firmly.
"You don't quite grasp the situation.
I want to do something. I can't make
shirts or knit comforters. I've tried
and failed. My shirts look like pillow-cases,
and anything more comfortless
than my comforters I couldn't imagine.
I wouldn't ask a beggar to wear an
article I had made, much less an Absent-Minded
Beggar."</p>
<p>"What about that tie you knitted for
me last Christmas?" I said.</p>
<p>"Yes," said Joan; "what about it?
That's what I want to know. You
haven't worn it once."</p>
<p>It was true, I hadn't. The tie in
question was an attempt to hybridise
the respective colour-schemes of a
tartan plaid and a Neapolitan ice.</p>
<p>"That," I explained, "is because
I've never had a suit which would set
it off as it deserves to be set off.
However, if I can't help I won't hinder
you. I only came in to say that I had
done the second hole in two. I thought
you would like to know I had beaten
bogey." And I retired, taking with me
the little heap of tobacco and the hollow
tube of paper.</p>
<p>When I reached the seclusion of the
mulberry-tree I found that the paper
had become ungummed, so I placed
the tobacco in it and succeeded after
a while in rolling it up. The result,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_406" id="Page_406">[Pg 406]</a></span>
though somewhat attenuated, was recognisably
a cigarette. I lit it, and
when I had finished coughing I came
to the conclusion that if only I could
induce Joan to present her gift to the
German troops instead of to our
Tommies it would precipitate our ultimate
triumph. I had to eat several
mulberries before I felt capable of proceeding
to the third hole. When I got
there (in two) I found it occupied by a
squadron of wasps while reinforcements
were rapidly coming up from a hole
beneath the shed. Being hopelessly
outnumbered I contented myself with
a strategical movement necessitating
several stiff rearguard actions.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Joan, growing a little more proficient,
had in a couple of days made 500
cigarettes. I had undertaken to despatch
them, and one morning she came
to me with a neatly-tied-up parcel.</p>
<p>"Here they are," she said; "but you
must ask at the Post Office how they
should be addressed. I've stuck on a
label."</p>
<p>I went out, taking the parcel with
me, and walked straight to the tobacconist's.</p>
<p>"Please pack up 1,000 Hareems," I
said, "and post them to the British
Expeditionary Force. Mark the label
'Cigarettes for the use of the troops.'
And look here, I owe you for a pound
of tobacco my wife bought the other
day. I'll square up for that at the
same time. By-the-by, what tobacco
was it?"</p>
<p>"Well, Sir," the man replied, "I
hardly like to admit it in these times,
but it was a tobacco grown in German
East Africa. It really isn't fit to
smoke, and is only good for destroying
wasps' nests or fumigating greenhouses,
which I thought your lady wanted it
for, seeing as how she picked it out for
herself. Some ladies nowadays know
as much about tobacco as what we do."</p>
<p>I left the shop hurriedly. The
problem of the disposal of Joan's well-meaning
gift was now solved. I returned
home and furtively stole up the
side path into the garden. Under
cover of the summer-house I undid the
parcel and proceeded rapidly to strip
the paper from those of the cigarettes
that had not already become hollow
mockeries. When I had collected all
the tobacco I went in search of the
gardener, and encountered him returning
from one of his numerous meals.</p>
<p>"Wilkins," I said, "there is a wasps'
nest on the third green, and here is
some special wasp-eradicator. Will
you conduct the fumigation?"</p>
<p>As Joan and I were walking round
the garden that evening before dinner
Joan said—</p>
<p>"I don't want to blush to find it
fame, but—do you know—I prefer doing
good by stealth."</p>
<p>A faint but unmistakable odour was
borne on the air from the direction of
the third green.</p>
<p>"So do I," I said.</p>
<hr />
<h2>OUR NATIONAL GUESTS.</h2>
<p>My wife attributes our success (so
far) in the entertainment of Belgian
Refugees solely to the fact that we
have not, and never have had, a vestige
of a committee. We all work along in
the jolliest possible way, and we have
no meetings, or agenda, or minutes,
or co-opting of additional members, or
remitting to executives or anything of
that kind. We just bring along anything
that we think will be useful.
Some of us bring clothes and others
butter or umbrellas, or French books,
or razor-strops or cigarettes. Hepburn,
the dairy farmer, keeps sending
cart-loads of cabbages; old Miss
Mackintosh at the Brae Foot sends
threepence a week. And when we are
short of anything we just stick up a
notice to that effect in the village shop.
I issued a call for jam yesterday and
ever since it has rained pots and pots.
We have three large families of Belgians
and we have already got to the stage
where the men are at work and the
children at school—though no one really
has the least idea what they do there.</p>
<p>But although I admit that it is
magnificent to be without a committee—we
escaped from that by the simple
plan of getting the Belgians first and
trusting to the goodwill of the Parish
to take care of them afterwards—there
are other important factors in our
success. There is our extraordinary
foresight—of course it was a pure fluke
really—in obtaining among them a
real Belgian policeman. You can have
no idea what a fine sense of security
that gives us in case anything goes
wrong. We have already enjoyed his
assistance in a variety of ways, and we
have something still in reserve in the
very unlikely event of his being professionally
called in—his uniform.
When we put him into his uniform
the effect will be tremendous.</p>
<p>Then again we have the advantage
of being Scotch. I simply don't know
how English country people are going
to get on at all. Here we find that by
talking with great emphasis in the very
broadest Scotch—by simply calling
soap <i>sape</i> and a church a <i>kirk</i> you
can quite frequently bring it off and
make yourself understood. I had a
most exhilarating hour of mutual
lucidity with the one that makes
furniture in the carpenter's shop. It
seemed to me that he called a saw a
<i>zog</i>, which was surely quite good
enough; and when he referred to a
hammer as a <i>hamer</i> it might surely be
said to be equivalent to calling a spade
a spade.</p>
<p>Still the language difficulty remains,
and the worst of it is that it gives an
altogether unfair advantage—where all
are so anxious to help—to the few
select people in our neighbourhood who
happen to be able, fortuitously, to talk
French. They are—(1) Dr. Anderson,
whose French is very good; (2) my
wife, who is amazingly fluent in a
crisis, though her constructions simply
don't bear thinking of; (3) the school-master,
who is weak; (4) the joiner,
who is bad; (5) myself, who am awful.
Several of our Refugees talk French.</p>
<p>Of course we all have pocket-dictionaries,
but even they don't always help
us out. I found my wife once engaged
in a desperate hand-to-hand encounter
with the one who does the cooking
about some household necessity that
was sadly lacking. She was completely
baffled. It was pure stalemate,
a deadlock. I pulled out my dictionary
and suggested to the cook (by
illuminative signs) that she should
look it up and point to the English
word. There was some rejoicing at
this, and she at once called upon
the collective wisdom of her whole
family. At last they got it with much
nodding of heads and exhibited the
book, buttressed with an eager finger
at the place. And we looked and read
"A young gold-finch;" so you will see
that that didn't help us much. It was
only by the almost miraculous emergence
of the word <i>Fat</i> in the course of
their own private conversation shortly
afterwards that light came to us.</p>
<p>That they are quite at a loss to
understand the meaning of honey in
the comb did not greatly surprise us—though
it was rather queer—but the
Parish is deeply distressed at their
total ignorance of oatmeal. They are
quite at sea there, and so far have only
employed it for baiting a bird-trap: and
that touches us closely, for the very
foundation of our being in these parts
is oatmeal. Even their beautiful devotion
to vegetables of all sorts cannot,
we feel, compensate for their attitude
of negation towards this very staple
of existence. There is a strong party
among us bent on their conversion.
We hope with all our hearts that they
will be comfortable and contented
among us till the day comes when they
can return to their own country; and
we feel that their exile will not have
been entirely wasted if they have learned
to appreciate the purpose fulfilled by
porridge in the Divine Order of things.</p>
<hr />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_407" id="Page_407">[Pg 407]</a></span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 80%">
<a href="images/407.png">
<img src="images/407.png" width="100%" alt="WORD PERFECT" /></a>
<h4>WORD PERFECT.</h4>
<p><i>Sentry</i> (<i>on duty for first time</i>). "<span class="sc">'Alt! Who goes there? Advance to within five paces, and give the countersign 'Waterloo.'</span>"</p>
</div>
<hr />
<h2>OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.</h2>
<center>(<i>By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.</i>)</center>
<p>In the good old days when that royal pipsqueak, our
<span class="sc">First James</span>, came to the throne, if you were a physician
of a little more than common skill and furnished with
theological opinions of a modernist complexion, or a lonely
woman with (or without) some cunning in the matter of
herbs, who cherished a peculiar (or normal) pussy-cat, you
were quite likely to be burnt out of hand. And, in her
competent way, <span class="sc">Mary Johnston</span>, in <i>The Witch</i> (<span class="sc">Constable</span>),
deals with this dark blot on the escutcheon of Christianity.
Through what suffering and what joys <i>Dr. Aderhold</i>, the
kindly free-thinking mystic, and <i>Joan Heron</i>, the simple
village maid, found their ultimate and, for the times, merciful
release by halter in place of fire, readers who have nerves to
spare for horror will read with eagerness. It is indeed a
dreadful story. Miss <span class="sc">Johnston</span> is not one of your novelists
who lets herself off the contemporary document, and on
her reputation you may take it she is not far out. The
grim tale serves to show to what lengths the force of suggestion
will, in times of excitement, carry folk otherwise sober
and truthful. Manifestly preposterous evidence, freely
given, was freely admitted by trained legal minds—evidence
on which innocent lives were sacrificed at the average rate
of over a thousand a month in England and Scotland in the
two centuries of the chief witch-baiting period. But, after
all, have we not, most of us, near relations who saw a
quarter-of-a-million of astrakanned Russians steal through
England in the dead of an August night? And have we
not—— But I grow tedious. <i>The Witch</i> is an eminently
readable story of adventure of the coincidental kind.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>What I like best in the stories of Mr. <span class="sc">W. W. Jacobs</span>,
apart from their mere hilarity, is their triumphant vindication
of the right to jest. They spread themselves before
me like a pageant representing the graceful submission of
the easy dupe. They tempt me to filch away chairs from
beneath stout and elderly gentlemen who are about to sit
down. Take the case of <i>Sergeant-Major Farrer</i> in <i>Night
Watches</i> (<span class="sc">Hodder and Stoughton</span>). He was afraid of
nothing on earth, or off it, but ghosts, and he despised the
weedy young man who was in love with his daughter. So
the weedy young man dared him to come to a haunted
cottage at midnight, and, dressed up as a spectre, terrified
the soldier into something more than a strategic retreat,
with the result that he surrendered his daughter. In real
life of course it is different. I know a colour-sergeant, and
somehow I rather think that if I—but never mind. In
Mr. <span class="sc">Jacobs</span>' beautiful world, as it is with <i>Mr. Farrer</i> so is
it with <i>Peter Russet</i>, with <i>Ginger Dick</i> and with <i>Sam
Small</i>. They know when the laugh is against them, and,
waiving the appeal to force or to law, they grumble but
retire. There is one exercise in the gruesome in <i>Night
Watches</i>, but it hardly shows Mr. <span class="sc">Jacobs</span> at his best in
this particular vein. There are also several charming
illustrations by Mr. <span class="sc">Stanley Davis</span>, executed with a buff
tint, which help to sustain the gossamer illusion.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_408" id="Page_408">[Pg 408]</a></span>
<p>If I were a woman I should always be a little irritated
with any story which shows two women in love with the
same man. Miss <span class="sc">May Sinclair</span> in her new novel does not
mind how much she annoys her own sex. She shows us
no fewer than three women engaged in this competition,
and they are sisters. True, there was not much choice for
them in their lonely moorland village, which contained a
young doctor and no other eligible man. Of this fellow
<i>Rowcliffe</i> we are told that "his eyes were liable in repose to
become charged with a curious and engaging pathos," an
attraction which had broken many hearts before the story
opened, and gave to their owner a great sense of confidence
in himself. This set me against him at the start, but the
three sisters, as I said, were not in a position to be fastidious.
<i>Mary's</i> love for him was of the social-domestic kind;
<i>Gwenda's</i> was spiritual; <i>Alice's</i> frankly physical. Though
alleged to be "as good as gold," <i>Alice</i>, the youngest of <i>The
Three Sisters</i> (<span class="sc">Hutchinson</span>), was one of those hysterical
women who threaten to
die or go mad unless
they get married—a very
unpleasant fact for a
young doctor to have to
discuss with her sister,
and for us to read about.
Indeed, if I were to tell
in all its incredible
crudity the story of the
relations of this gently-bred
girl with the
drunken farmer who, to
her knowledge, had previously
betrayed her own
servant-girl, I think even
Miss <span class="sc">Sinclair</span> would be
revolted. Her exposure
of certain secret things
which common decency
agrees to leave in silence
is a treachery to her sex,
not excusable on grounds
of physiological interest;
and I, for one, who was
loud in my praise of the
fine qualities of her great
romance, <i>The Divine Fire</i>, confess to a sense of almost
personal sorrow that such high gifts as hers, which still
show no trace of decline in craftsmanship, should have
suffered so much taint. I sincerely hope that the noble
work she is now doing with the Red Cross at the front—where
the best wishes of her many friends follow her—may
make more clear the claim that is laid upon her to devote
her exceptional powers as a writer to the higher issues of
life and death; or, at the least, to something cleaner and
sweeter than the morbid atmosphere of her present theme.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>It has been my private conviction that the most
depressing and shuddersome of all natural prospects is the
wide expanse of mud and slime to be found at low water
in the estuary of a tidal river. Such scenes have always
been singularly abhorrent to me. Mr. "<span class="sc">Adrian Ross</span>"
appears to share this feeling, for out of one of them he
has made the novel and very effective setting for his
bogie-tale, <i>The Hole of the Pit</i> (<span class="sc">Arnold</span>). It is a story
of the Civil Wars, though these have less to do with the
action than the uncivil and very gruesome war waged
between the Lord of Deeping Castle and the Unseen Thing
that lived in the Pit. The Pit itself is real joy. It
was covered always by the tide, but could be distinguished
by a darker shadow on the surface of the sluggish stream,
a shadow streaked at times by wavering bands of greyish
slime, strangely agitated.... There were smells, too,
dank, sodden, drowned smells that came in upon the sea
mist. Moreover, Deeping Castle I can only describe as an
eligible residence for the immortal <i>Fat Boy</i>. It was built
right upon the water, within convenient distance, as the
auctioneers say, of the Pit; and between the two of them
your flesh is made to creep more than you would believe
possible. As for the great scene where the Thing finally
gets out of the Pit, and comes slobbering and sucking
round the castle walls—I cannot hope to convey to you
the horror of it. Perhaps you may feel with me that
Mr. Ross has been at times a little too confident that
the undoubted thrill of his bogie would save it from
being unintentionally funny. I confess I did laugh once
in the wrong place. But everywhere else I shivered
with the fearful joy that only the best in this kind can
produce.</p>
<hr />
<p>I remember that I
have before this admired
the mixture of cheerful
cynicism and dry humour
that is the speciality of
Mr. <span class="sc">Max Rittenberg</span>.
He has shown it again
in <i>Every Man His Price</i>
(<span class="sc">Methuen</span>), but hardly,
I think, to quite the
same effect as formerly.
My feeling about the
book was that it started
with a first-class idea for
a plot of comedy and
intrigue, but that the
author, instead of being
contented with this,
wanted to give us a
novel of character-development
on the grand
scale, and somewhat
spoilt his work in the
attempt. The earlier
chapters could hardly
have been better. There was a real snap in the struggle
between the English hero, <i>Hilary Warde</i>, who had nearly
perfected a system of wireless telephony, and the Berlin
magnates who wished to bluff him out of the results. As
I say, I liked these early scenes and some others subsequently
that dealt with rather sensational finance (it always
cheers me up when the hero makes half-a-million pounds
in a single chapter!) better than those that had to do with
<i>Warde's</i> domestic entanglements and the deterioration of
his character. And the climax seemed inadequate to the
point of bathos. But there is much in the tale to enjoy;
and you might read it if only for a vivid word-picture of
what Berlin used to be like before the beginning of the
great <i>débâcle</i>. This has now an interest almost historical.</p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 80%">
<a href="images/408.png">
<img src="images/408.png" width="100%" alt="There's awful accounts in this 'ere paper" title="" /></a>
<br /><br />
<p><i>Hedger.</i> "<span class="sc">There's awful accounts in this 'ere paper of they
Germans—seems there's some people as don't 'old <i>Nothing</i> sacred</span>."</p>
<p>Huntsman. "<span class="sc">Ah! you may say so! and it ain't only Germans.
Only last night I found as fine a dog-fox as ever I see <i>with a
bullet-wound through 'is 'eart!</i></span>"</p>
</div>
<hr />
<h4>"TURKISH AMBASSADOR LEAVES BORDEAUX.</h4>
<blockquote><p>The Turkish Ambassador left Paris yesterday on a visit to Biarritz.
He announced before leaving that he would return. This was the
first visit paid by the Turkish Ambassador for over a fortnight. He
did not see Sir Edward Grey, but had a long conference with Sir
Arthur Nicolson, Permanent Under-Secretary."</p></blockquote>
<p class="author"><i>Edinburgh Evening News.</i></p>
<p>The only possible answer to this extraordinary conduct was
a declaration of war.</p>
<hr />
<pre>
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