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diff --git a/29491-h/29491-h.htm b/29491-h/29491-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d2a05bc --- /dev/null +++ b/29491-h/29491-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2378 @@ + +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, December 9, 1914, by Various</title> + <style type="text/css"> + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + p {text-align: justify;} + + blockquote {text-align: justify;} + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .center {text-align: center;} + td {padding-left: 1em;} + hr {text-align: center; width: 50%;} + html>body hr {margin-right: 25%; margin-left: 25%; width: 50%;} + hr.full {width: 100%;} + html>body hr.full {margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 0%; width: 100%;} + hr.medium {width: 76%;} + html>body hr.medium {margin-right: 12%; margin-left: 12%; width: 76%;} + hr.short {text-align: center; width: 20%;} + html>body hr.short {margin-right: 40%; margin-left: 40%; width: 20%;} + div.centered {text-align: center;} /* work around for IE centering with CSS problem part 1 */ + div.centered table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;} + /* work around for IE centering with CSS problem part 2 */ + + .bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + .bbox {border: outset 4px; } + .centerbox { width: 35%; + margin: 0 auto; + text-align: center; + padding: 1em; + } + + .note, .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + span.pagenum + {position: absolute; left: 1%; right: 91%; font-size: 8pt; text-indent: 0;} + + .poem + {margin-left:30%; margin-right:10%; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem p {margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem p.i2 {margin-left: 1em;} + .poem p.i4 {margin-left: 2em;} + .poem p.i6 {margin-left: 3em;} + .poem p.i8 {margin-left: 4em;} + .poem p.i10 {margin-left: 5em;} + + .poem1 + {margin-left:15%; margin-right:10%; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;} + .poem1 .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem1 p {margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem1 p.i2 {margin-left: 1em;} + .poem1 p.i4 {margin-left: 2em;} + .poem1 p.i6 {margin-left: 3em;} + .poem1 p.i8 {margin-left: 4em;} + .poem1 p.i10 {margin-left: 5em;} + + .figure, .figcenter, .figright, .figleft + {padding: 1em; margin: 0; text-align: center; font-size: 0.8em;} + .figure img, .figcenter img, .figright img, .figleft img + {border: none;} + .figure p, .figcenter p, .figright p, .figleft p + {margin: 0; text-indent: 1em;} + .figcenter {margin: auto;} + .figright {float: right; width: auto;} + .figleft {float: left; width: auto;} + + .inline {border: none; vertical-align: middle;} + .author {text-align: right;} + + .regards {text-align: right; + margin-right: 4em;} + pre {font-size: 75%; } + </style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, +December 9, 1914, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +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, December 9, 1914 + +Author: Various + +Release Date: July 22, 2009 [EBook #29491] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH *** + + + + +Produced by Neville Allen, Malcolm Farmer and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_469" id="Page_469">[Pg 469]</a></span> + +<h1>PUNCH,<br /> + +OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.</h1> + +<h2>Vol. 147</h2> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<h2>December 9, 1914.</h2> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<h2>CHARIVARIA.</h2> + +<p>We are told that "it is confidently believed by the advisers to the +Treasury that the new issue of £1 notes cannot be successfully +imitated." We think that it is a mistake to put our artists on their +mettle in this way.</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p>A black eagle, a contemporary tells us, was seen one day last week at +Westgate-on-Sea. A Prussian bird, no doubt, in mourning for lost Calais.</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p>The German Government has declared timber contraband of war owing to its +alleged scarcity in Germany. Surely, as <span class="smcap">Douglas Jerrold</span> suggested on +another occasion, the German authorities could find plenty of wood in +their own country if they only put their heads together?</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p>The news that "Bantam" battalions are now being formed all over England +is said to have greatly interested General <span class="smcap">Kluck</span>.</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p>The report that the <span class="smcap">Prime Minister</span> spent last week-end in the country is +said to have caused intense annoyance to the <span class="smcap">Kaiser</span>, who considered that +it showed a lack of respect for His War.</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p>A map of the United Kingdom published in the Berlin <i>Lokalanzeiger</i> +depicts the Mersey as being located in the West of Ireland. Frankly, we +are surprised at the Germans showing any Mersey anywhere.</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p>Mr. <span class="smcap">John Ward</span> has been accused of perpetrating a mixed metaphor when he +warned the Government, the other day, that "they would wake up and find +the horse had bolted with the money." Is it not, however, a fact that +when a horse bolts he sometimes takes a bit between the teeth?</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p>The financial expert of <i>The Observer</i>, in referring to the War Loan, +said:—"From all over the country the small investor rallied in his +thousands." But he had just said that "the applicants were enormous." +Possibly the truth is somewhere between the two—say about 11½ stone.</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p>A football pavilion in Bromley Road, Catford, was entirely destroyed by +fire last week. We are trying to bear the blow bravely.</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p>There would seem to be no limit to the influence of the Censor. Here is +the latest example of his activities:—</p> + +<center>"<span class="smcap">MEXICO<br /> +General Blanco Evacuates<br /> +The Capital</span>."</center> +<p>We must confess that we fail to see what British interest is served by +withholding the General's name.</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p>The German <span class="smcap">Imperial Chancellor</span> has now repeated, in the presence of a +full-dress meeting of the Reichstag, the old falsehood about Great +Britain being responsible for the War. This, we believe, is what is +known as Lying in State.</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p>And the statement that Germany need have no fears of a food famine may +be described, we take it, as a Cereal Story.</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p><span class="smcap">Sven Hedin</span> has received the honorary degree of Doctor from Breslau +University—as a reward, presumably, for doctoring the truth.</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<center>"<span class="smcap">German Preparations In Belgium.</span><br /><br /> + +6-<span class="smcap">Mile Guns in Position.</span>"—<i>Star.</i></center> + +<p>It sounds like a 30,000 foot cinema film.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>IN A GOOD CAUSE.</h2> + +<p>The least that we others can do is to see that those who have joined the +colours don't have too dull a time in camp during the long evenings. +Messrs. <span class="smcap">John Broadwood and Sons</span> are organizing concerts which will serve +the further good purpose of helping many professional musicians whose +incomes have been reduced by the war. It is hoped to give 200 of these +entertainments during the winter. Each is estimated to cost about £10. +The Directors of Messrs. <span class="smcap">Broadwood</span> have privately subscribed £500 +towards the carrying out of this scheme, and they would be glad to +receive generous help from the public. Subscriptions should be addressed +to them at Conduit Street, Bond Street, W.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>OUR WAR ENQUIRY BUREAU.</h2> + +<center><i>Answers to Correspondents.</i></center> + +<p><i>Mother of the Gracchi.</i>—If your son is under age, below the standard +height, is obliged to wear coloured glasses, suffers much from +face-ache, and frequently has carbuncles, we fear his chances of +obtaining a commission in the Household Cavalry are nil.</p> + +<p><i>Anxious to help.</i>—The pistols used by your grandfather during the +Peninsular War would not, we are afraid, be of any use to your nephew in +the present campaign.</p> + +<p><i>All-British Matron.</i>—We regret that we do not quite understand from +your letter whether it is your new Vicar that you suspect of pro-German +proclivities, or the pew-opener. We advise you to communicate with the +nearest Rural Dean or Archdeacon.</p> + +<p><i>Troubled Parent.</i>—We fear that your boy will be obliged to dispense +with his hot-water bottle now that he has joined the Army, and it would +be no use your writing to his commanding officer about the matter.</p> + +<p><i>Aunt Alice.</i>—Lord <span class="smcap">Kitchener</span> hardly ever accepts invitations to +tea-parties, but it was nice of you to think of asking him.</p> + +<hr /> + +<blockquote><p>"Dans l'Est, nous avons dû refuser une suspension d'armes, +probablement destinée à l'inhumation des blessés."</p></blockquote> + +<p>To judge from this extract from <i>Le Nord Maritime</i> the French still lack +a true appreciation of German culture.</p> + +<hr /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 55%"> +<a href="images/469.png"> +<img src="images/469.png" width="100%" alt="Owing to the outcry" /></a> +<p><span class="smcap">Owing to the outcry against high-placed aliens a wealthy +German tries to look as little high-placed as possible</span>.</p> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_470" id="Page_470">[Pg 470]</a></span> + +<h2>TRUTHFUL WILLIE.</h2> + +<p>[<i>Suggested by an American's interview with the <span class="smcap">Crown Prince</span> and also by +<span class="smcap">Wordsworth's</span> "We are Seven".</i>]</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">A simple earnest-minded youth,</p> +<p class="i2">Who wore in both his eyes</p> +<p class="i0">A calm pellucid lake of Truth—</p> +<p class="i2">What should he know of lies?</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">I met a gentle German Prince,</p> +<p class="i2">His name was Truthful <span class="smcap">Will</span>,</p> +<p class="i0">An honest type—and, ever since,</p> +<p class="i2">His candour haunts me still.</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">"About this War—come tell me, Sir,</p> +<p class="i2">If you would be so kind,</p> +<p class="i0">Just any notions which occur</p> +<p class="i2">To your exalted mind."</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">"Frankly, I cannot bear," said he,</p> +<p class="i2">"The very thought of strife;</p> +<p class="i0">It seems so sad; it seems to me</p> +<p class="i2">A wicked waste of life.</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">"Thank Father's God that I can say</p> +<p class="i2">My constant aim was Peace;</p> +<p class="i0">I simply lived to see the Day</p> +<p class="i2">(<i>Den Tag</i>) when wars would cease.</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">"But, just as I was well in train</p> +<p class="i2">To realise my dream,</p> +<p class="i0">Came England, all for lust of gain,</p> +<p class="i2">And spoilt my beauteous scheme.</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">"But tell me how the rumours run;</p> +<p class="i2">Be frank and tell the worst</p> +<p class="i0">Touching myself; you speak to one</p> +<p class="i2">With whom the Truth comes first."</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">"Prince," I replied, "the vulgar view</p> +<p class="i2">Pictured you on your toes</p> +<p class="i0">Eager for gore; they say that you</p> +<p class="i2">Were ever bellicose.</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">"'Twas you, the critics say, who led</p> +<p class="i2">The loud War Party's cry</p> +<p class="i0">For blood and iron." "Oh!" he said,</p> +<p class="i2">"Oh what a dreadful lie!</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">"'War Party'? Well, I'm Father's pet,</p> +<p class="i2">And, if such things had been,</p> +<p class="i0">He must have let me know, and yet</p> +<p class="i2">I can't think what you mean."</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">"But your <span class="smcap">Bernhardi</span>," I replied,</p> +<p class="i2">"He preached the Great War Game."</p> +<p class="i0">"'<span class="smcap">Bernhardi</span>'! who was he?" he cried,</p> +<p class="i2">"I never heard his name!</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">"Dear Father must be told of him;</p> +<p class="i2">Father, who loathes all war,</p> +<p class="i0">Is looking rather grey and grim,</p> +<p class="i2">But that should make him roar!"</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">So, with a smile that knew no art,</p> +<p class="i2">He left me well content</p> +<p class="i0">Thus to have communed, heart to heart,</p> +<p class="i2">With one so innocent.</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">And still I marvelled, having scanned</p> +<p class="i2">Those eyes so full of Truth,</p> +<p class="i0">"Oh <i>why</i> do men misunderstand</p> +<p class="i2">This bright and blameless youth?"</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="author">O. S.</p> +</div></div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>NEWS FROM THE BACK OF THE FRONT.</h2> + +<p class="regards"><i>Northern France.</i></p> + +<p>As you will see from our address, here we are among the War +Correspondents. But there is a mistake somewhere; either there are not +enough Germans to go round, or else they—Headquarters, you know—simply +hate the idea of throwing the flower of the British Army into the full +glare of the shrapnel. Anyhow, we haven't actually been engaged yet, +though our Private Smithson has collected three bits of shrapnel and a +German rifle; and we have all heard artillery fire (off). Which makes us +think that these rumours of war aren't just a scare got up to help +recruiting.</p> + +<p>Some doubt exists among us as to our precise function out here. Here we +are (as I may have mentioned) a magnificent battalion of young giants, +complete with rifles—every man has at least one and Private Smithson +has two—webbing equipment, cummerbunds, mufflers, cameras, sleeping +caps (average, six per man) and even boots; and yet they can't decide +exactly what to do with us. Mind you, we are absolute devils for a +fight; we have already been reserve troops to five different divisions +and thought nothing of it. We are not quite sure whether we get five +medals for this or one medal with five bars. Not that we really care; +such considerations do not affect us. As Edward—the mascot of the +section—observed to me the other day, "I don't care two beans about +medals; I want to go home."</p> + +<p>But you ask what do we actually do? Let no man believe that we are out +here on a holiday. On the contrary we give ourselves over entirely to +warlike pursuits. Some days we slope arms by numbers; and other days we +clean dixies and indent for new boots. Night by night we guard our +approaches and prod the tyres of oncoming motors with fixed bayonets. +Every morning the man who held up General <span class="smcap">French</span> tells us about it with +bated breath over our bated breakfasts. It is one of the finest +traditions of the corps that General <span class="smcap">French</span> is held up by us every +night. We have our own sentries' word for it. This is especially +interesting in view of the persistent reports that he is in a totally +different part of France. As he gives a different name every night and +varies considerably in appearance we feel that there must be something +behind it all.</p> + +<p>Thompson, who is no end of a fire-eater and wants to be invalided home +with a bullet in his left shoulder—he is engaged—has invented a scheme +for getting to the front by sheer initiative. Our officers have quite a +pedantic veneration for orders, field-marshals and other obsolete pink +apron-strings. We are thus thrown back on our sergeants, a fine body of +men whose one weakness is an enthusiasm for chocolate. Acting on this +knowledge certain tactful and public-spirited privates in our midst will +present the sergeants with two sticks of chocolate per sergeant on the +understanding that they thereafter form the battalion into fours and +march them circumstantially to the trenches. There are, by all accounts, +such supplies of these that a few here and there are bound to be empty. +Having occupied these we will all expose our left shoulders, and, having +gleaned a whole shrubbery of laurels, return to Divisional H.-Q. The +sergeants, such as survive, will then be court-martialled and shot at +dawn, while the rest of the regiment will be honourably exiled to +England in glorious disgrace. All that remains is for Thompson to +approach the sergeants with chocolate.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>We notice a stray poster which advertises the thrilling romance, <i>I Hid +my Love</i>. Is the idea that he should elude conscription? or simply +Zeppelins?</p> + +<hr /> + +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_471" id="Page_471">[Pg 471]</a></span> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 55%"> +<a href="images/471.png"> +<img src="images/471.png" width="100%" alt="THE INNOCENT" /></a> +<h4>THE INNOCENT.</h4> +<p><span class="smcap">Crown Prince.</span> "THIS OUGHT TO MAKE FATHER LAUGH!"</p><br /> +<p>[In an alleged interview the <span class="smcap">Crown Prince</span> is reported to have said, "As +to being a war agitator, I am truly sorry that people don't know me +better. There is no 'War Party' in Germany now—nor has there ever +been."]</p> +</div> + +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_472" id="Page_472">[Pg 472]</a></span> + +<hr /> + +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_473" id="Page_473">[Pg 473]</a></span> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 80%"> +<a href="images/473.png"> +<img src="images/473.png" width="100%" alt="and please God make me a good girl" title="" /></a><br /><br /> +<p>"<span class="smcap">—— and please God make me a good girl Amen. How would +it be, mother, to give the Germans cigarettes filled with gunpowder</span>?"</p> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>A RASH ASSUMPTION.</h2> + +<p>On the morning of November 27th I awoke to find my chest covered with a +pretty pink pattern. It blended so well with the colour of my +pyjama-jacket that for some minutes I was lost in admiration of the +pleasing effect. Then it occurred to me that coming diseases cast their +rashes before them, and I sprang from the bed in an agony of +apprehension. I rushed to the mirror and opened my mouth to look at my +tongue. There it was. I took some of it out. It looked quite healthy, so +I put it back again. Then I gazed long and earnestly down my throat. It +was quite hollow as usual. Next I got the clinical thermometer and +sucked it for quite a long time. When I removed it I saw my temperature +was about 86. Then I found I was reading it upside down and that I was +only normal. I felt disappointed. After that I tried my pulse. It took +me some time to locate it, but it hadn't run down; it was still going +quite regularly—<i>andante ma non troppo</i>, two beats in the bar. I +whistled "Tipperary" to it, and it kept perfect time.</p> + +<p>But still the rash remained. It would neither get out nor get under. I +felt perfectly well, and yet I knew I must be ill. I could not +understand the complete absence of other symptoms.</p> + +<p>At last a bright idea struck me. It was just possible that I might +refuse food. I knew that would be a symptom. At any rate I would go down +to breakfast and see. I dressed rapidly; I simply tore my clothes on to +me. I shaved hastily; I literally tore the whiskers out of me. Then I +tore down-stairs.</p> + +<p>On the table was an egg. I removed the lid and looked inside. It was +full of evil odours. I refused it. Then I knew for certain I was ill. I +tore back to my bedroom and tore off my clothes. I unshaved. I tumbled +into bed and tried hard to shiver. I tried so hard that I perspired. As +I was really ill I knew that I had to get hot and cold alternately ever +so many times. I did my best to live up to all the symptoms I had ever +heard of. I tried to get delirious and talk nonsense, but I failed +ignominiously. How I cursed my public school education!</p> + +<p>In my extremity I even endeavoured to imagine that I saw things which +were not there....</p> + +<p>And then I saw something which really was there. It was my pin-cushion. +It looked unusually crowded even for a pin-cushion, and I got out of bed +to investigate the matter closer. I counted forty-five—yes, +forty-five—little flags, and then memory came back to me. The previous +day I had bought forty-five miniature Belgian flags at one time and +another during the day. Each charming but inexperienced vendor had +insisted on pinning my purchase wherever there happened to be an +unoccupied space on my manly (thanks to my tailor) bosom. I remembered +being conscious of a prickly sensation on each occasion, but I +attributed it to rapturous thrills running about the region of my heart.</p> + +<p>To make sure that my explanation was correct I went once again to the +mirror and hastily counted my rash. There were forty-five of it!</p> + +<hr /> + +<h4>"HUGE GERMAN SURRENDERS."</h4> + +<p class="author"><i>"Evening Standard" Poster.</i></p> + +<p>Probably he had eaten too many sausages.</p> + +<hr /> + +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_474" id="Page_474">[Pg 474]</a></span> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 60%"> +<a href="images/474.png"> +<img src="images/474.png" width="100%" alt="Flag-bearer" /></a><br /><br /> +<p>Flag-bearer. "<span class="smcap">Feel Cold, An' Want Yer Shirt, Do Yer? +Garn! Where's Yer Patriotism</span>?"</p> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>LOVE'S LABOUR NOT LOST.</h2> + +<p>I wish you knew my sister-in-law; she is probably one of the sweetest +girls that ever breathed. Yet we are none of us perfect, and Grace has a +drawback. She cannot forget that I am a poet. A fortnight ago she wrote +to me:—</p> + +<p>"Dear Edwin,—I am in such a fix. You remember Mary Smith? She has +persuaded a young doctor friend of hers to start an album for original +poems. He is such a nice fellow, though perhaps not very fond of poetry, +if left to himself. But he has bought the album and has asked her to +write on the first page. So she has come to me about it; and I am +writing to ask if you would be a great brick and help us, because we get +mixed up so with the feet, and I know it is nothing to you to write +poetry. Could you possibly let me have it by return?</p> + +<p class="regards">Yours affectionately,</p> +<p class="author">Grace.</p> + +<blockquote><p>P.S.—<i>Entre nous</i>, she is rather keen on him, I think."</p></blockquote> + +<p>Somehow, when Grace's note reached me at the Local Government Board (she +has a habit of addressing her communications to me there, in faintly +perfumed envelopes much appreciated by the messengers), I was not in a +poetical mood. For the past three weeks my branch had been engaged on +the subject of Drains in the Eastern Counties, and that very morning I +was completing an exhaustive minute dealing with the probable effects of +an improved system of sanitation on the public health of the Borough of +Ipswich. Still, I felt that something must be done. So I consulted +Jones. Jones is, like myself, a poet; he is also the official whom +Ministers of the Crown are accustomed, when hard pressed, to consult on +the subject of Infantile Mortality amongst Suburban Undertakers; why, I +cannot say, though many think it is on the strength of his having been a +Philpott's Theological Prizeman at Oxford. I scribbled him a line in +pencil: "Come over into number thirteen and help us; and bring your +cigarettes." He came, and before leaving the office at 4.30 I was +enabled to comply with my sister-in-law's request. I wrote as follows:—</p> + +<p>"Dear Grace,—I do not remember Mary Smith. On the other hand, since in +poetry, as in boxing and batting, the proper management of the feet is +everything, and requires more practice than either you or your friend +have apparently been able to devote to it, I have much pleasure in +coming to the rescue. In dealing with members of the medical profession +it is never wise to beat about the bush; superfluous subtlety merely +irritates them. I have therefore endeavoured to make the poem just the +artless outpouring of the innocent passion of such a girl as I imagine +your friend Mary Smith to be. Here it is.</p><br /> + +<center><span class="smcap">To George</span>.</center> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i4">How I love you, how I love you,</p> +<p class="i4">Oh, you therapeutic dove, you!</p> +<p class="i0">How I long to snuggle coyly on your chest;</p> +<p class="i4">And reposing there to woo you,</p> +<p class="i4">Till, with soft responsive coo, you</p> +<p class="i0">Bid me share your warm but hygienic nest!</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i4">Though I might have oft been married,</p> +<p class="i4">I have tarried, I have tarried,</p> +<p class="i0">Hoping still that I should catch you on the hop;</p> +<p class="i4">For to pining, lonely Mary</p> +<p class="i4">To be George's own canary</p> +<p class="i0">Would be sweeter than the sweetest ginger pop.</p><br /> +</div></div> + +<p>"'George'—in the title and body of the poem—can of course be altered, +if necessary; but something, I know not what, tells me that that is his +name, and that it is probably followed by Harris. I may be mistaken, but +George Harris, as I feel I know him, is a simple, muscular young man, +addicted to tennis and his bicycle, fairly good at diagnosing whooping +cough or a broken leg. He likes his pipe and reads the <i>Referee</i> on +Sunday mornings. Mary, however, will change all that. She will furnish +in fumed oak, art flower-pots, and the poems of <span class="smcap">Ella Wheeler Wilcox</span>, and +so will lead him gradually to higher and better things. I wish her all +success.</p> + +<p class="regards">Yours,</p> +<p class="author">Edwin.</p> + +<p>P.S.—It is true that doves seldom marry canaries, nor do the latter +drink ginger beer to any considerable extent. But George will not notice +these discrepancies. He is not hypercritical."</p> + +<p>Two days later I heard from Grace again.</p> + +<p>Dear Edwin,—Thank you so much for the verses, though perhaps they are a +little—well, a little outspoken, aren't they? Unfortunately, Mary's +friend is not named George or Harris. He is not even English, but a very +nice dark brown man from Asia, a Hindu, I think, and only <i>trying</i> to be +a doctor at present. As soon as he is one he is going back again. I +ought to have told you this before, as I feel it might have helped you. +But thanks very much all the same.</p> + +<p class="regards">Yours affectionately,</p> +<p class="author">Grace."</p> + +<p>When I showed this to Jones he expressed his chagrin with a freedom and +resource surprising even in a Civil Servant; but, having put our hands +to the plough, we felt we could hardly leave Mary Smith in the cart. So +we set to again, and I posted the following poem to Grace:—</p><br /> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Farewell</span>.</h4> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i4">Though, O budding Inter-M.B.,</p> +<p class="i4">You may now perchance pro tem. be</p> +<p class="i0">Not indifferent to a simple English maid,</p> +<p class="i4">Soon the daughters dark and dingy</p> +<p class="i4">Of the land of Ranjitsinhji,</p> +<p class="i0">Will be throwing her completely in the shade.</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i4">And shall Mary thus be stranded,</p> +<p class="i4">When she had you almost landed</p> +<p class="i0">(Yes, the metaphors are mixed, but never mind)?</p> +<p class="i4">Oh, imagine her emotion</p> +<p class="i4">When the cruel Indian Ocean</p> +<p class="i0">Separates you from the girl you left behind.</p> +</div></div> + +<p>It was nearly a week before I heard from Grace. Then she wrote:—</p> + +<p>"Dear Edwin,—It was really <i>too</i> sweet of you to send the second set. +We have discovered, however, that Mary's friend is a Parsee, and +therefore a worshipper of the sun, and she thinks the last line in the +first verse would offend his family's religious scruples. She fears, +too, that he might not endorse the epithet 'dingy' as applied by you to +his female compatriots. So we have decided not to write in his album. I +think however that the first poem (with modifications) would do for the +album of a friend of my own, whose name, as it happens, <i>is</i> George. So +I have asked the vicar to tone it down for me. He is a Durham man. Do +you mind?</p> + +<p class="regards">Yours affectionately,</p> +<p class="author">Grace."</p> + +<p>I read her letter, and breathed a deep sigh. Then seizing a telegraph +form, I wired: "Have no objection to Durham vicars. Am ordering +salt-cellars. Do not write again. Edwin."</p> + +<hr /> + +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_475" id="Page_475">[Pg 475]</a></span> + +<h2>ANOTHER WAR SCARE.</h2> + +<p>Peter goes to a dame's school in Armadale Gardens, round the corner.</p> + +<p>On Tuesdays and Fridays he comes home at twelve, changes into his +football things, and goes off to play soccer till one.</p> + +<p>Yesterday, Friday, he came in as usual and, after changing, he put his +head round the door of my study and shouted excitedly,</p> + +<p>"Daddy!"</p> + +<p>"Well, old chap," I said, "out with it. I'm busy."</p> + +<p>"Have you heard? Italy joins Austria. Official."</p> + +<p>"Heavens above!" I said. "Official, did you say?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said. "Can't stop now."</p> + +<p>"Hi! Peter," I shouted, "do get me a paper; it won't take you——" But +the banging of the front door cut my appeal short.</p> + +<p>I couldn't get a paper myself. I had a cold, and had been ordered to +stay indoors, and I had an article to finish by three o'clock.</p> + +<p>"Italy with Austria and Germany," I groaned. "It's monstrous."</p> + +<p>I got up, kicked the waste-paper basket over and walked up and down the +room. I knew Peter wouldn't tell a lie. Even for fun he wouldn't say +anything like that if it weren't true.</p> + +<p>I called Honor. She was in the drawing-room arranging the flowers. She +came hurriedly with a bunch of them in her hand. I don't know one flower +from one another, but they were big floppy red things.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter?" she said.</p> + +<p>"Matter? Italy's declared for the enemy," I said. "It's official."</p> + +<p>"Is that all?" she said. "I thought at least you couldn't find some of +your writing things."</p> + +<p>"What!" I said, "you can stand there with those ridiculous red blobs in +one hand and—and nothing in the other and talk like that."</p> + +<p>"They're not blobs," said Honor, "they're peonies. And if that's all +that's the matter I'm busy. I must get my flowers done before lunch."</p> + +<p>"Bah!" I said, turning to my table again. "Hang lunch; I can't eat any. +Italy, our staunch friend for years, throws in her lot with Austria, her +hereditary foe, and you talk of lunch."</p> + +<p>"It's macaroni cheese," said Honor calmly, "and you know you love it."</p> + +<p>"Shade of <span class="smcap">Garibaldi</span>! Macaroni! You dare," I said "to mix that miserable +Italian trash with good honest English cheese on such a day, when Italy +is mobilising her millions of soldiers and sailors against us and our +Allies. It's rank sacrilege."</p> + +<p>"Don't get excited," said Honor; "besides the cheese is American +Cheddar."</p> + +<p>"You trifle with me," I said. "If you send any of the wretched stuff in +here I shall trample on it."</p> + +<p>"Aren't you coming in to lunch, then?" she said.</p> + +<p>"No, I'm not," I said. "I can't eat anything, and I doubt if I can write +a word after this."</p> + +<p>"What earthly difference would having lunch make?" said Honor.</p> + +<p>"None to you," I said. "You can gorge yourself on macaroni cheese while +the Empire totters."</p> + +<p>I kicked the fallen waste-paper basket across the room. I don't suppose +I added more than fifty or sixty words to my article in the next +hour-and-three-quarters.</p> + +<p>Then I heard Peter whistling in the hall. He had finished lunch and was +just off to school again.</p> + +<p>I called him. "Look here, old man," I said, "you might get me a paper at +the station before going to school. I want to see about Italy joining +Austria. It's awful."</p> + +<p>"You don't need a paper," said Peter; "look on the map and you'll see +that Italy joins Austria," and he fled. It was well for him that he +fled.</p> + +<p>"Any more of that macaroni cheese left?" I said, rushing into the dining +room. "I've just swallowed the oldest joke in the world and I want to +take away the taste of it."</p> + +<hr /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 60%"> +<a href="images/475.png"> +<img src="images/475.png" width="100%" alt="Village Worthy" /></a><br /><br /> +<p><i>Village Worthy (discussing possibilities of invasion).</i> +"<span class="smcap">Wull, there can't be no battle in these parts, Jarge, for there bain't +no field suitable, as you may say; an' Squire 'e won't lend 'em the use +of 'is park.</span>"</p> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<blockquote><p>"During 1912 we imported 2,290,206,240 foreign eggs. It is estimated +that over 60% of these are no longer available."—<i>Advt.</i></p></blockquote> + +<p>Heaven preserve us from the other 40%.</p> + +<hr /> + +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_476" id="Page_476">[Pg 476]</a></span> + +<h2>THE LAST LINE.</h2> + +<center>V.</center> + +<p>At last! We are "recognised" by the War Office! Our months of toil are +not to go unrewarded. Two hours every evening at the end of an ordinary +civilian day's work, all Saturday afternoon and the whole of Sunday, we +have given these up cheerfully, supported by the hope of ultimate +recognition. And now it is come!</p> + +<p>The terms of the War Office are generous. They are these. Provided that +we buy our own rifles and equipment and continue to pay our own training +expenses; provided that we use no military terms and make no attempt to +wear any clothing which may look to the Germans at all like a soldier's +uniform; provided that the War Office is at perfect liberty to employ +upon those of us within the age limits a conscription for whole-time +service which it has no intention of employing upon the more patriotic +man who spends his week-ends playing golf; these provisions complied +with, we—<i>are allowed to go on living!</i></p> + +<p>That startles you? I thought it would. You looked down upon us. +Recognition, you told yourself, would only mean that we were immediately +to be employed as waterproof sheeting for the new huts or concrete +foundations for the new guns. Aha! Now you wish you had joined us. We +are allowed to go on living!</p> + +<p>But I was forgetting. The War Office is being even more generous than +that. In return for our not bothering them any more, it will allow us to +wear (and pay for) a small red armlet with "G.R." on it; the red colour, +I suppose, informing the Germans that we have just been vaccinated, and +the "G.R." ("got rash") warning them that the left arm is irritable.</p> + +<p>James is annoyed about it. This is silly of him. As I point out, our +soldiers have already earned a reputation abroad for gaiety and high +spirits, and it is all to the good that the War Office should show that +it has a sense of humour equally keen. When the invasion comes, and +music-halls, cinemas and football matches are closed down, the amusement +of the country (as the War Office has foreseen) will depend entirely +upon <i>us</i>. Let us, then, obey rigidly the seven commandments of +"recognition" and see how funny we can be.</p> + +<p>For instance:—</p> + +<center><span class="smcap">At Headquarters.</span></center> + +<p>[<i>The Brigadier and the Adjutant—I beg pardon (don't shoot)—Father and +Father's Help are discovered in conversation.</i>]</p> + +<p><i>Father (explaining orders).</i> The Battalion will advance to-morrow +towards Harwich, where the enemy——</p> + +<p><i>Father's Help.</i> Excuse me, Sir, but isn't that <i>rather</i> too military? +How would this do?—"The brethren will walk out towards Harwich +to-morrow, where the Band of Hope from another parish has already +assembled."</p> + +<center><span class="smcap">In the Field.</span></center> + +<p><i>Churchwarden Jones.</i> Advance in half-pew rushes from the right!</p> + +<p><i>Sidesman Tomkins.</i> No. 1 half-pew, advance.... At the congregation in +front at a thousand yards.</p> + +<p><i>Parishioner Brown (to his neighbour).</i> I say, how many bullets have you +brought with you?</p> + +<p><i>Parishioner Smith.</i> Fifteen. Fact is, I'm jolly hard up just now. +Emily's been ill again, and one thing and another.... I did have twenty, +but the baby swallowed two.... You might lend me some, old man. I +promise to pay you back at the end of the month.</p> + +<p><i>Parishioner Brown.</i> I'll lend you a couple, but that's really all I can +spare.... Look at Boko swanking away like a bally millionaire. That's +his tenth shot this afternoon. Fairly chucking his money about.</p> + +<p><i>Parishioner Robinson.</i> I'll give you a hundred cartridges in exchange +for your bayonet if you like. Sickening the Germans coming just now; +it's my birthday next week and I'd been practically promised one by Aunt +Sarah.</p> + +<center><span class="smcap">In Another Part of the Field.</span></center> + +<p><i>Elder Perks, C.B. (that is to say, "completely bald").</i> What the blank +blanket do those blanks think they're doing?</p> + +<p><i>Lay-Helper Snooks.</i> I beg your pardon, Sir, for reminding you, but +<i>military</i> terms are not allowed to be used.</p> + +<p><i>Elder Perks.</i> Quite right, Snooks; I forgot myself. Kindly request the +organist to sound the Assemble. Those naughty lads are running in the +wrong direction.</p> + +<center><span class="smcap">At the German Headquarters.</span></center> + +<p><i>German Officer (to prisoner).</i> You are a civilian and you are caught +bearing arms. Have you anything to offer in your defence?</p> + +<p><i>Prisoner.</i> Civilian be blowed! I'm recognised by the War Office. Look +at my—— Oh lor, it's come off again!</p> + +<p><i>German Officer.</i> Well?</p> + +<p><i>Prisoner.</i> I know appearances are against me, but——</p> + +<p><i>German Officer.</i> What is your rank?</p> + +<p><i>Prisoner.</i> Er—Chairman of the Committee.</p> + +<p><i>German Officer.</i> I thought so. (<i>To Sergeant</i>) Take him away and shoot +him. (<i>To Prisoner</i>) Any last message you wish to leave will be +delivered.</p> + +<p><i>Prisoner (drawing himself up nobly).</i> Tell my wife not to mourn me. +Tell her that I die happy (<i>his voice breaks for a moment</i>) knowing that +my death (<i>with deep emotion</i>) is—technically—(<i>a happy smile +illuminates his face</i>) an illegal one.</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p>And so I tell James not to worry. If the worst befalls him—and all the +time when I was writing "prisoner" above I seemed to see James in that +position—if the worst befalls him, his partner will at least be able to +bring an action against somebody. For we are not "civilians." We +are—well, I don't quite know <i>what</i> we are.</p> + +<p class="author">A. A. M.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>OUR MIGHTY PENMEN.</h2> + +<center>(<i>In acknowledgment of the services of some of the gifted +representatives of "The Daily Mail" and "The Daily Chronicle."</i>)</center> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0"><i>Correspondents, though banned at the Front,</i></p> +<p class="i0"><i>Are so manfully doing their "stunt"</i></p> +<p class="i2"><i>In searching for news</i></p> +<p class="i2"><i>That the Limerick Muse</i></p> +<p class="i0"><i>Thus honours their skill in the hunt.</i></p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">The despatches of Mr. <span class="smcap">Elias</span></p> +<p class="i0">Are so laudably free from all bias</p> +<p class="i2">That their moderate strain</p> +<p class="i2">Has given much pain</p> +<p class="i0">To the shade of the late <span class="smcap">Ananias</span>.</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0"><span class="smcap">K. of K.</span>, who by birth is a Kerry man,</p> +<p class="i0">Much approves of the work of <span class="smcap">Z. Ferriman</span>,</p> +<p class="i2">For it holds the just mean</p> +<p class="i2">That's betwixt and between</p> +<p class="i0">The extremes of Cassandra and Merryman.</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">For news that is fresh from the spot</p> +<p class="i0">Commend me to great <span class="smcap">Alan Bott</span>;</p> +<p class="i2">The stuff that he wires</p> +<p class="i2">Stokes our patriot fires</p> +<p class="i0">Without being ever too hot.</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">The despatches of good Mr. <span class="smcap">Perris</span></p> +<p class="i0">Have the flavour of syrupy "sherris;"</p> +<p class="i2">They enrapture the mind</p> +<p class="i2">Of the sane and refined—</p> +<p class="i0">Especially <span class="smcap">Ellaline Terriss</span>.</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">In Rotterdam city <span class="smcap">James Dunn</span></p> +<p class="i0">Keeps his vigilant eye on the Hun,</p> +<p class="i2">And fires off despatches</p> +<p class="i2">In generous batches,</p> +<p class="i0">Like a humanized 15-inch gun.</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">It is futile to cavil or carp</p> +<p class="i0">At Sir <span class="smcap">Alfred</span>, whose surname is <span class="smcap">Sharpe</span>;</p> +<p class="i2">For he soothes us or stings</p> +<p class="i2">As the nightingale sings,</p> +<p class="i0">Or as angels perform on the harp.</p> +</div></div> + +<hr /> + +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_477" id="Page_477">[Pg 477]</a></span> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 60%"> +<a href="images/477.png"> +<img src="images/477.png" width="100%" alt="THE MASTER WORD." /></a> +<h4>THE MASTER WORD.</h4> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_478" id="Page_478">[Pg 478]</a></span> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 80%"> +<a href="images/478.png"> +<img src="images/478.png" width="100%" alt="THE ZEPPELIN MENACE" /></a> +<h4>THE ZEPPELIN MENACE.</h4> +<p><span class="smcap">A smart London cellar in war-time. Pictured by a Berlin artist</span>.</p> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>THE FOUR SEA LORDS.</h2> + +<center>(<i>For the information of an ever-thirsty public.</i>)</center> + +<center><span class="smcap">First Sea Lord</span>.</center> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">This is the man whose work is War;</p> +<p class="i0">He plans it out in a room on shore—</p> +<p class="i0">He and his Staff (all brainy chaps)</p> +<p class="i0">With miniature flags and monster maps,</p> +<p class="i0">And a crew whose tackle is Hydro-graphic,</p> +<p class="i0">With charts for steering our ocean traffic.</p> +<p class="i0">But the task that most engrosses him</p> +<p class="i0">Is to keep his Fleet in fighting trim;</p> +<p class="i0">To see that his airmen learn the knack</p> +<p class="i0">Of plomping bombs on a Zeppelin's back;</p> +<p class="i0">To make his sailors good at gunnery,</p> +<p class="i0">And so to sink each floating hunnery.</p> +</div></div> + +<center><span class="smcap">Second Sea Lord</span>.</center> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">Here is the man who mans the Fleet</p> +<p class="i0">With jolly young tars that can't be beat;</p> +<p class="i0">He has them trained and taught the rules;</p> +<p class="i0">He looks to their hospitals, barracks, schools;</p> +<p class="i0">He notes what rumorous Osborne's doing,</p> +<p class="i0">And if it has mumps or measles brewing.</p> +<p class="i0">He fills each officer's vacant billet</p> +<p class="i0">(Provided the First Lord doesn't fill it);</p> +<p class="i0">And he casts a fatherly eye, betweens,</p> +<p class="i0">On that fine old corps, the Royal Marines.</p> +<p class="i0">This is the job that once was <span class="smcap">Jellicoe's</span>,</p> +<p class="i0">But now he has one a bit more bellicose.</p> +</div></div> + +<center><span class="smcap">Third Sea Lord</span>.</center> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">Ships are the care of the Third Sea Lord,</p> +<p class="i0">And all Material kept on board.</p> +<p class="i0">'Tis he must see that the big guns boom</p> +<p class="i0">And the wheels go round in the engine-room;</p> +<p class="i0">'Tis he must find, for cloudy forays,</p> +<p class="i0">Aeroplanes and Astra Torres;</p> +<p class="i0">And, long ere anything's sent to sea,</p> +<p class="i0">Tot up a bill for you and me.</p> +</div></div> + +<center><span class="smcap">Fourth Sea Lord</span>.</center> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">The Fourth Sea Lord has a deal to plan,</p> +<p class="i0">For he's, chief of all, the Transport man.</p> +<p class="i0">He finds the Fleet in coal and victuals</p> +<p class="i0">(Supplying the beer—if not the skittles);</p> +<p class="i0">He sees to the bad'uns that get imprisoned,</p> +<p class="i0">And settles what uniform's worn (or isn't)....</p> +<p class="i0">Even the stubbornest own the sway</p> +<p class="i0">Of the Lord of Food and the Lord of Pay!</p> +</div></div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>SEARCHLIGHTS ON THE MERSEY.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">A long lean bar of silver spans</p> +<p class="i2">The ebon-rippled water-way,</p> +<p class="i2">And like a lost moon's errant ray</p> +<p class="i0">Strikes on the passing caravans—</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">Ghost-ships that from the desert seas</p> +<p class="i2">Loom silent through the steady beams,</p> +<p class="i2">Pale phantoms of elusive dreams</p> +<p class="i0">Cargoed with ancient memories.</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">Through the long night across the cool</p> +<p class="i2">Black waters to their shrouded berth,</p> +<p class="i2">Bearing the treasures of the earth,</p> +<p class="i0">Glide the fair ships to Liverpool.</p> +</div></div> + +<hr /> + +<p>"Londoner" in <i>The Evening News</i>:—</p> + +<blockquote><p>"Long live King Leopold, a faithful prince if ever there was one, as +loyal to his brave Belgians as they, gallant souls that they are, +are loyal to him. Does he, I wonder, ever take a look at his family +pedigree?"</p></blockquote> + +<p>Because, if so, he would discover that his name was really Albert.</p> + +<hr /> + +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_479" id="Page_479">[Pg 479]</a></span> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 60%"> +<a href="images/479.png"> +<img src="images/479.png" width="100%" alt="THE KING AT THE FRONT" /></a> +<h4>THE KING AT THE FRONT.</h4> +<p>"<span class="smcap">Tommy</span>", (<i>having learned the language</i>). "VIVE LE ROI!"</p> +</div> + +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_480" id="Page_480">[Pg 480]</a></span> + +<hr /> + +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_481" id="Page_481">[Pg 481]</a></span> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 80%"> +<a href="images/481.png"> +<img src="images/481.png" width="100%" alt="Mummy, I do hope" /></a><br /><br /> +<p><i>Michael (gloomily)</i>. "<span class="smcap">Mummy, I do hope I shan't die +soon</span>."</p> +<p><i>Mummy</i>. "<span class="smcap">Darling! So do I—but why</span>?"</p> +<p><i>Michael</i>. "<span class="smcap">It would be <i>too</i> awful to die a civilian</span>."</p> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>THE ENTENTE IN BEING.</h2> + +<p>We were sitting in a little restaurant in the gay city—which is not a +gay city any more, but a city of dejection, a city that knows there is a +war going on and not so long since could hear the guns. There are, +however, corners where, for the moment, contentment or, at any rate, +visitations of mirth are possible, and this little restaurant is one of +them. Well, we were sitting there waiting for coffee, the room (for it +was late) now empty save for the table behind me, where two elderly +French bourgeois and a middle-aged woman were seated, when suddenly the +occupant of the chair which backed into mine and had been backing into +it so often during the evening that I had punctuated my eating with +comments on other people's clumsy bulkiness; suddenly, as I say, this +occupant, turning completely round, forced his face against mine and, +cigarette in hand, asked me for a light. I could see nothing but face—a +waste of plump ruddy face set deep between vast shoulders, a face +garnished with grey beard and moustache, and sparkling moist eyes behind +highly magnifying spectacles. Very few teeth and no hair. But the +countenance as a whole radiated benignance and enthusiasm; and one +thing, at any rate, was clear, and that was that none of my resentment +as to the restlessness of the chair had been telepathed.</p> + +<p>Would I do him the honour of giving him a light? he asked, the face so +close to mine that we were practically touching. I reached out for a +match. Oh, no, he said, not at all; he desired the privilege of taking +the light from my cigarette, because I was an Englishman and it was an +honour to meet me, and—and——"<i>Vive l'Angleterre!</i>" This was all very +strange and disturbing to me; but we live in stirring times, and nothing +ever will be the same again. So I gave him the light quite calmly and +with great presence of mind said, "<i>Vive la France!</i>" Then he grasped my +hand and thanked me for the presence of the English army in his country, +the credit for which I endeavoured fruitlessly to disclaim, and we all +stood up and bowed to each other severally and collectively, and resumed +our own lives again.</p> + +<p>But the incident had been so unexpected that I, at any rate, could not +be quite normal just yet, for I could not understand why, out of four of +us, all English, and one a member of the other sex, so magnetic to +Frenchmen, I should have been selected either as the most typical or the +most likely to be cordial—I who only a week or so ago was told +reflectively by a student of men, gazing steadfastly upon me, that my +destiny must be to be more amused by other people than to amuse them. +Especially, too, as earlier in the evening there had been two of our men +—real men—in khaki in the room. Yet there it was: I, a dreary +civilian, had been carefully selected as the truest representative of +Angleterre and all its bravery and chivalry, even to the risk of +dislocation of the perilously short neck of the speaker.</p> + +<p>It was therefore my turn to behave, and I whispered to the waiter to +fill<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_482" id="Page_482">[Pg 482]</a></span> three more glasses with his excellent <i>Fine de la maison</i> (not the +least remarkable in Paris) and place them on the next table, with our +compliments. This he did, and the explosion of courtesy and +felicitations that followed was terrific. It flung us all to our feet, +bowing and smiling. We clinked glasses, each of us clinking six others; +we said "<i>Vive la France!</i>" and "<i>Vive l'Angleterre</i>." We tried to +assume expressions consonant with the finest types of our respective +nations. I felt everything that was noblest in the English character +rushing to my cheeks; everything that was most gallant and spirited in +the French temperament suffused the face of my friend until I saw +nothing for him but instant apoplexy. Meanwhile he grasped my hand in +his, which was very puffy and warm, and again thanked me for all that +<i>ces braves Anglais</i> had done to save Paris and <i>la belle France</i>.</p> + +<p>Down we all sat again, and I whispered to our party that perhaps this +was enough and we had better creep away. But there was more in store. +Before the bill could be made out—never a very swift matter at this +house—I caught sight of a portent and knew the worst. I saw a waiter +entering the room with a tray on which was a bottle of champagne and +seven glasses. My heart sank, for if there is one thing I cannot do, it +is to drink the sweet champagne so dear to the bourgeois palate. And +after the old <i>fine</i>, not before it! To the French mind these +irregularities are nothing; but to me, to us....</p> + +<p>There however it was, and, in a moment, the genial enthusiast was again +on his feet. Would we not join them, he asked, in drinking to the good +health and success of the Allies in a glass of champagne? Of course we +would. We were all on our feet again, all clinking glasses again, all +crying "<i>Vive la France!</i>" "<i>Vive l'Angleterre!</i>" to which we added, "<i>À +bas les Allemands!</i>" all shaking hands and looking our best, exactly as +before. But this time there was no following national segregation, but +we sat down in three animated groups and talked as though a ban against +social intercourse in operation for years had suddenly been lifted. The +room buzzed. We were introduced one by one to Madame, who not only was +my friend's wife, but, he told us proudly, helped in his business, +whatever that might be; and Madame, on closer inspection, turned out to +be one of the capable but somewhat hard French women of her class, with +a suggestion somewhere about the mouth that she had doubts as to whether +the champagne had been quite a necessary expense—whether things had not +gone well enough without it, and my contribution of <i>fine</i> the fitting +conclusion. Still she made a brave show at cordiality. Then we were +introduced to the other gentleman, who was Madame's cousin and had a son +at the Front, and, on hearing this, we shook hands with him again, and +so gradually we disentangled and at last got into our coats and made our +adieux.</p> + +<p>When I had shaken his feather-bed hand for the last time my new friend +gave me his card. It lies before me now as I write and I do not mean to +part with it:—</p> + +<div class="centerbox bbox"><br /> +BAPTISTE GRIMAUD,<br /><br /> +<span class="smcap">Délégué Cantonal</span>,<br /> +<span class="smcap">9a Place Gambetta</span>.<br /> +<i>Pompes Funèbres.</i><br /><br /></div> + +<p>Well, if ever I come to die in Paris I know who shall bury me. I would +not let any one else do it for the world. Warm hearts are not so common +as all that!</p> + +<hr /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 60%"> +<a href="images/482.png"> +<img src="images/482.png" width="100%" alt="FAITH" /></a> +<h4>FAITH.</h4> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>A FOOTNOTE TO HERODOTUS.</h2> + +<p>It has been discovered by a Berlin research student that "Germany" is a +mere corruption of "Cyrmania," and that the <span class="smcap">Kaiser</span> is descended from +<span class="smcap">Cyrus</span>, King of Persia.</p> + +<p>We are inclined to agree as to the "mania" part, and we think the +"corruption" must be that of the modern representatives of the ancient +Orientals, whose education consisted in riding, shooting—and telling +the truth.</p> + +<p>The <i>Almanach de Bouverie Street</i>, however, informs us that the +ever-frowning <span class="smcap">War Lord</span> derives from the monarch of the rocky brow, who +counted his men by nations at break of day, and when the sun set where +were they? If the Hohenxerxes family are still on the look-out for +places in the sun, they will find their ancestral homes for the most +part unoccupied in the sufficiently arid regions around Ecbatana and +Persepolis, now crying aloud for Kultur and Kraut.</p> + +<p>We are still waiting to hear that <span class="smcap">von Hafiz</span> and <span class="smcap">Omar zu Khayyam</span>, as well +as <span class="smcap">Shakspeare</span>, have been proved to be Germans, and that the Herr <span class="smcap">Wolff</span> +of the Berlin Lie Bureau traces back to the foster-mother of +<span class="smcap">Romulus</span>—and Romance.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h4>Ultimatum.</h4> + +<p><i>Mr. Punch</i> begs to remind the 1,793 correspondents who have lately sent +him delightful plays upon the word "wet" [<span class="smcap">De Wet</span> the man and "de wet" +the rain (ha-ha)] that the same idea had already occurred to 15,825 +correspondents during the Boer War. Time is a great healer, but twelve +years is not long enough.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>Mr. <span class="smcap">C. G. Grey</span> writes in <i>The Daily Express</i> on the Freidrichshafen +air-raid:—</p> + +<blockquote><p>"The raid itself was one of those simple affairs which might have +been done by any aviator possessing skill and pluck, only +fortunately for these three officers nobody else did it."</p></blockquote> + +<p>And the disparaging comment was one of those simple affairs which might +have been done by any journalist possessing —— and ——, only +fortunately nobody else did it.</p> + +<hr /> + +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_483" id="Page_483">[Pg 483]</a></span> + +<h2>THE FREEDOM OF THE PRESS.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">Waking at six, I lie and wait</p> +<p class="i0">Until the papers come at eight.</p> +<p class="i0">I skim them with an anxious eye</p> +<p class="i0">Ere duly to my bath I hie,</p> +<p class="i0">Postponing till I'm fully dressed</p> +<p class="i0">My study of the daily pest.</p> +<p class="i0">Then, seated at my frugal board,</p> +<p class="i0">My rasher served, my tea outpoured,</p> +<p class="i0">I disentangle news official</p> +<p class="i0">From reams of comment unjudicial,</p> +<p class="i0">Until at half-past nine I rise</p> +<p class="i0">Bemused by all this "wild surmise,"</p> +<p class="i0">And for my daily treadmill bound</p> +<p class="i0">Fare eastward on the underground.</p> +<p class="i0">But, whether in the train or when</p> +<p class="i0">I reach my dim official den,</p> +<p class="i0">Placards designed to thrill and scare</p> +<p class="i0">Affront my vision everywhere,</p> +<p class="i0">And double windows can't keep out</p> +<p class="i0">The newsboy's penetrating shout.</p> +<p class="i0">For when the morning papers fail</p> +<p class="i0">The evening press takes up the tale,</p> +<p class="i0">And, fired by furious competition,</p> +<p class="i0">Edition following on edition,</p> +<p class="i0">The headline demons strain and strive</p> +<p class="i0">Without a check from ten till five,</p> +<p class="i0">Extracting from stale news some phrase</p> +<p class="i0">To shock, to startle or amaze,</p> +<p class="i0">Or found a daring innuendo—</p> +<p class="i0">All swelling in one long crescendo,</p> +<p class="i0">Till, shortly after five o'clock,</p> +<p class="i0">When business people homeward flock,</p> +<p class="i0">From all superfluous verbiage freed</p> +<p class="i0">Comes <span class="smcap">Joffre's</span> calm laconic screed,</p> +<p class="i0">And all the bellowings of the town</p> +<p class="i0">Quelled by the voice of Truth die down,</p> +<p class="i0">Enabling you and me to win</p> +<p class="i0">Twelve hours' release from Rumour's din.</p> +</div></div> + +<hr /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 60%"> +<a href="images/483.png"> +<img src="images/483.png" width="100%" alt="Run avay, you leedle poys" /></a><br /><br /> +<p>"<span class="smcap">Run avay, you leedle poys; don't gome here shpying +about!</span>"</p> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>A CHRISTMAS PRESENT FOR THE QUEEN.</h2> + +<p>A few days ago, when sitting in Committee on ways and means in the +matter of Christmas presents, Joan and I made out that the extra taxes +which we should be called upon to disgorge this year would amount to £3 +16<i>s.</i> 1<i>d.</i></p> + +<p>"That's curious!" Joan remarked, comparing our calculation with some +figures on another slip of paper before her. "Isn't three pounds sixteen +and a penny half of seven pounds twelve and twopence?"</p> + +<p>"It is," I admitted. "But why?"</p> + +<p>"Because last year," said Joan, "our Christmas presents cost us exactly +seven pounds twelve and twopence. In other words it means that we can +only afford—owing to the extra taxes—to spend half that sum on +presents this year."</p> + +<p>I nodded.</p> + +<p>"Well," continued Joan, "I have a splendid idea. Our folk, I know, won't +expect proper presents this year. How would it be if we——"</p> + +<p>"I know what you mean," I chimed in. "Give them half-presents! Half a +lace scarf to your mother, one fur glove only to your father, +afternoon-tea saucers to Aunt Emma, a Keats Calendar for 182½ days to +Uncle Peter, kilt-lengths instead of dress-lengths to Cook and Phœbe, +and so on, all with promissory notes for the balance attached."</p> + +<p>"I don't mean anything of the sort," said Joan. "We shall give no +half-presents. We shall give one whole present where it will be needed +far more than by our relations. It will have a face-value of three +pounds sixteen and a penny, but virtually it will represent a sum of +seven pounds twelve and twopence."</p> + +<p>I coughed a sceptic's cough.</p> + +<p>"You don't believe me," said Joan. "Now, will you be content to give me, +here and now, a cheque for three pounds sixteen and a penny, and credit +your conscience with double that sum? Will you be willing to leave its +disposal to me if I guarantee that that shall be the full extent of your +liability?"</p> + +<p>"Absolutely!" I replied with enthusiasm. "Can't you arrange to settle +the rates, the electric-light bill and the coal bill on the same terms?"</p> + +<p>"No," said Joan gravely, "my principle only applies to presents. Here's +your cheque-book and here's my fountain-pen."</p> + +<p>"What is your principle?" I asked as I meekly complied with her demand.</p> + +<p>"What did Mr. <span class="smcap">Asquith</span> say in 1912?" was all the answer Joan vouchsafed, +so I decided to follow that eminent statesman's advice and wait and see.</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p>When I came down to breakfast two days later Joan passed me <i>The Times</i>. +"Read that," she said, indicating a paragraph in the "Personal" column +marked in pencil.</p> + +<p>"The Chancellor of the Exchequer," I read out, "acknowledges the +receipt<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_484" id="Page_484">[Pg 484]</a></span> of two pounds and three shillings conscience-money from——"</p> + +<p>"Oh! I've marked the wrong paragraph," exclaimed Joan. "It's the one +underneath." Then I saw—</p> + +<p>"The Hon. Treasurer of the <span class="smcap">Queen's</span> 'Work for Women' Fund, 33, Portland +Place, W., gratefully acknowledges the receipt of Treasury notes and +postal orders to the value of £3 16<i>s.</i> 1<i>d.</i> forwarded by an anonymous +donor."</p> + +<p>When I looked up Joan was smiling significantly.</p> + +<p>"Very nice," I commented, "but I see they've only acknowledged the +original amount I gave you. I thought you were going to double it."</p> + +<p>"And so I have," said Joan. "He (or she) gives twice who gives quickly."</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>THE TERRORS OF WAR.</h2> + +<center>[<i>Being privileged extracts from two of next season's War +Romances.</i>]</center><br /> + +<center>From <i>Pot-bank and Potsdam</i>:—</center> + +<p>Edwin Clayhanger strolled dully down the Square. A squat dirty boy +shrieked: "Sentinel. Result of Bursley Match. War News—Official." Edwin +snatched a pink paper and under an anti-Zeppelin gas-lamp read that +Knipe had defeated Bursley Rovers by four goals to none. He crumpled the +paper in his hand and threw it disgustedly into the gutter, outside +Bates the cheesemonger's. Sam Bates emerged, picked up the paper and +confided to his assistant that "Young Edwin's brain is going, like old +Mr. Clayhanger's."</p> + +<p>Chill mists enveloped the pot-banks. The glare of the Hanbridge furnaces +was subdued to a faint glimmer. The shout of a laughing crowd outside +the Blood Tub drew Edwin closer. He perceived in the midst of the throng +an elephant covered with Union Jacks. On its back stood Denry Machin, +the famous Card of the Five Towns, thrice Mayor of Bursley.</p> + +<p>"Boys," cried the Card, "you can see the circus elephant free. You can +listen to me free. Hanbridge is going to raise a Pot-bank Company for +Kitchener's Army. They want us to raise one to match it. We're going one +better. Bursley will raise a Pot-bank Regiment. I just want a thousand +men to be going along with. Don't all speak at once."</p> + +<p>The crowd shrieked with laughter at Bursley's only humorist.</p> + +<p>Edwin Clayhanger thought deeply. For three years he had been waiting to +marry Hilda Lessways. Now the thought of 528 pages of married life with +her overwhelmed him. Up went his hand.</p> + +<p>"We're doing fine," cried the Card. "Nine hundred and ninety-nine more +and off we march to Potsdam in the morning."</p> + +<center>From <i>The Military Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes</i>:—</center> + +<p>I shrank down into a corner of the reserve trench. The fifteen inches of +half-frozen mud caused my old wound from an Afghan bullet to ache +viciously. I longed for some wounded to arrive—anything to end this +chilly inactivity. A tall officer in staff uniform jumped into the +trench beside me.</p> + +<p>"You are wishing yourself back in Baker Street," he remarked.</p> + +<p>"How did you know?" I exclaimed. "Why, Holmes, what are <i>you</i> doing +here?"</p> + +<p>"Business, my dear Watson, business. Moriarty is becoming troublesome +again."</p> + +<p>"But he was drowned."</p> + +<p>"Far too clever to be drowned in that pool. Merely stranded on the edge +like myself. But I had made England too hot for him. You can guess his +name."</p> + +<p>"Not the K——!"</p> + +<p>"Watson, Watson, Moriarty was my mental equal. Now he calls himself von +Kluck."</p> + +<p>I was overwhelmed.</p> + +<p>Just then a little group of the staff arrived. I recognised amongst them +the figures of General J—— and Field-Marshal F——, and saluted.</p> + +<p>"The spy in staff uniform is the third on your left, Sir," said Holmes +casually.</p> + +<p>The Field-Marshal beckoned a firing party.</p> + +<p>As the shots rang out I whispered, "How did you know he wasn't English?"</p> + +<p>"Watson, Watson, did you not see that he had no handkerchief in his +sleeve?"</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p>"It is all-important, Captain Holmes," said the British Commander, "that +we should ascertain what army is opposing our right wing. Our airmen are +useless in this fog. I detail you for this duty."</p> + +<p>Holmes saluted. "Come, Watson," he said, and led me through the fog +towards the enemy's lines. We had not walked a mile when we reached a +fine chateau.</p> + +<p>"You are cold, Watson," said Holmes. "Light a fire in the front room +whilst I scout for Uhlans."</p> + +<p>In a moment he returned to me after having looked round the house. It +was, I think, the first time the Chateau had known the scent of shag +tobacco. A glow of heat rushed through me. I felt another man.</p> + +<p>"Better than the trenches," said Holmes, penetrating to my inmost +thought. We sat for an hour and then I said, "Holmes, your mission."</p> + +<p>"Ah, I forgot. Come on."</p> + +<p>He led me into the thickening fog, and in a few minutes I was surprised +to find myself in the British lines. The General emerged as we +approached. Holmes saluted. "The <span class="smcap">Crown Prince's</span> army is on the enemy's +left, Sir. It is now in rapid retreat."</p> + +<p>The General shook him warmly by the hand.</p> + +<p>"But, Holmes," I said, as we went away, "we have done nothing. The lives +of thousands of our men may depend on this."</p> + +<p>"My dear Watson," said Holmes, tapping the dottel of his pipe into his +hand. "I used my eyes. In the house we visited the silver had almost all +vanished. Inference—<span class="smcap">Crown Prince</span>. But two solid silver spoons had been +left on the table. Inference—<span class="smcap">Crown Prince</span> in a hurry. Really, I am +ashamed to explain a deduction which an intelligent child could have +made."</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>KARL.</h2> + +<p>Karl has emerged from the obscurity in which for years he has been +wrapped and has become a topic of conversation, a link with the past, a +popular alien enemy and a common nuisance.</p> + +<p>Once upon a time, when we were first told about Karl, those of us who +didn't say that it was an extraordinary coincidence observed that the +world is a small place after all; but now, when the narrator reaches +that part of the story where he tells us that we "can imagine his +surprise when"—I usually interrupt him to say that he must forgive me, +but really I can<i>not</i>.</p> + +<p>Karl was a German waiter at all the restaurants where my friends and my +friends' friends were in the habit of dining. In time of peace not one +of our mutual friends ever mentioned Karl to me, nobody ever wrote +excitedly to tell me that they had seen him getting into a bus in the +Strand; but now——</p> + +<p>My sister-in-law's brother has the distinction of being the first among +us to meet Karl since the outbreak of war. He was at Waterloo Station +one morning when some German prisoners were being brought through +from——, and as he passed them someone, speaking with a familiar voice +and a strong German accent, addressed him by name. You can imagine his +surprise when——</p> + +<p>Karl, my sister-in-law said her brother told her, had spoken of being +pleased to be among us once more, but this was apparently only another<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_485" id="Page_485">[Pg 485]</a></span> +German lie, for when next I heard of him he was back in the trenches +again. A friend of my brother's fiancée, who was superintending the +removal of some German wounded to Paris, was surprised to find himself +addressed by name by a young German whose face seemed vaguely familiar. +You can imagine his astonishment when, etc. Karl, my brother said the +friend of his fiancée told her, was only too glad to have fallen into +English hands.</p> + +<p>It was in a hospital ship in the North Sea that my cousin met him. The +situation remained unchanged. He addressed my cousin by name and said he +was longing to be back in England again.</p> + +<p>Two days afterwards I heard that a friend of mine had seen him in +Holland, where the unlucky fellow was interned, having deserted with the +intention of returning to us.</p> + +<p>I made it my business to let my friends know—those friends of mine who +had not already heard from someone who had met him—that he was securely +interned in Holland, and we should know no more of him until the war was +over, and after that I had for some time the pleasure of forgetting his +existence. Unfortunately, however, I had overlooked Stephen.</p> + +<p>Stephen and I were talking of the war (and incidentally having dinner +together) when he told me that a man he knew had told him of a strange +coincidence of which his nephew had told him. A friend of his who was at +the Front had been in the habit of dining at a certain restaurant where +a German waiter——</p> + +<p>"Karl," I said.</p> + +<p>"You've heard about it?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Only yesterday," I said, "I met a friend who knew someone who was +present at the inquest."</p> + +<p>"The inquest!"</p> + +<p>"Yes," I said. "He shot himself through the heart with one of the seven +hundred and twenty-five rifles which were found in her dress-basket."</p> + +<p>I didn't allow him to interrupt me.</p> + +<p>"He had only recently become engaged to her, I believe. She had been a +trusted nurse and governess in many English families for many years, +etc., etc. Some day I will tell you all about her. It's a long, long +story and rather depressing. But about Karl. His mind had undoubtedly +become unhinged and, after escaping from Holland, he found his way to +the house where she was employed, learnt that she had been arrested (you +see, the red stitches on her handkerchief, which everyone had supposed +were laundry marks, turned out to be plans of Hampton Court Maze and the +most direct route to Swan and Selfinsons), and, seizing the rifle, he +rushed from the house (it was the night the Russians passed through +Aberdeen and Upper Norwood) and——"</p> + +<p>Stephen apologised to me.</p> + +<p>"Karl shall be no more," he said. "Karl the ubiquitous is dead."</p> + +<p>"Evening papers please copy," I added.</p> + +<hr /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 80%"> +<a href="images/485.png"> +<img src="images/485.png" width="100%" alt="CARRYING ON" /></a> +<h4>CARRYING ON.</h4> +<p><i>Old Sportsman.</i> "<span class="smcap">Well, Tom, back into harness again?</span>"</p> +<p><i>Tom (retired Huntsman).</i> "<span class="smcap">Yes, Sir; only second whip now. Didn't think +to see <i>you</i> huntin' again, Sir.</span>"</p> +<p><i>Old Sportsman.</i> "<span class="smcap">Just trying to keep things going till the lads come +back again.</span>"</p> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_486" id="Page_486">[Pg 486]</a></span> + +<h2>THE SEARCH FOR PADDINGTON.</h2> + +<p>I do not say that the expedition I propose to describe was accompanied +by any very great risk. The streets, of course, were dark and the taxis +and motor-buses were quite up to the usual average in number and well +above it in speed. Still, when your mind is full of stories of shrapnel +and Black Marias, you feel able to affront motor vehicles, even in +darkened streets, with a feeling of comparative security. It is not so +much danger as mystery that makes this story remarkable.</p> + +<p>There were two of us, and we found ourselves taking tea in the N.W. +district, that is to say in one of those parts (there are millions of +them) which lie about the Abbey Road. One of us had knitted belts for +soldiers; another knew a hero who had received the D.S.O., and all of us +had been brought into close connection with Belgian refugees whose +cheerful courage under terrible suffering formed the burden of our talk. +Not to know a Belgian in these days is a mark of social outlawry, and +you cannot know them without admiring them. The fire was warm, the room +was comfortable, and the minutes ticked themselves away in the usual +place on the mantelpiece.</p> + +<p>"How long," said one of us, "will it take us to walk from here to +Paddington?"</p> + +<p>"To walk?" said our hostess in a tone of mild surprise.</p> + +<p>"Yes," I said, "to walk. We are the ones for adventure. We are country +folk, and we don't get a chance of a walk in St. John's Wood every day."</p> + +<p>"I don't want to hurry you," said our hostess, "but if you <i>really</i> want +to walk you must start at once."</p> + +<p>We did. We went out, turned to the right, and plunged head-first towards +the brooding darkness of Maida Vale.</p> + +<p>"Are you sure," said my companion, "that you know the way?"</p> + +<p>"No," I said, "I am not sure. Is one sure of anything in this life? But +Paddington is a big place. We can't miss it. Think of its immense glass +roof and take courage. We are bound to get there sooner or later."</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, "but we want to get there for the 5.50."</p> + +<p>"True," I said. "We must limit our wanderings. I will ask this +gentleman. He is standing at a corner. He has leisure and must know the +way to Paddington."</p> + +<p>I approached the gentleman and addressed him. "Sir," I said, "can you +tell me the best way to get to Paddington?"</p> + +<p>He looked at me suspiciously. "The station?" he said.</p> + +<p>"Yes," I said, "Paddington station."</p> + +<p>"Are you going to <i>walk</i>?"</p> + +<p>I said we were.</p> + +<p>"Ah," he said, "that makes a difference. If you wanted a bus now I might +help you; but I'm lame, you see—only got one real leg. Run over by a +van a matter of ten years ago, and I don't do much hard walking myself. +Still you can't go far wrong if you take the first on the left."</p> + +<p>We tore ourselves away, took the first on the left and walked on, ever +on, through a wilderness of silent and unfamiliar houses. At last we +came upon a baker's cart. "Ask him," said my fellow-traveller, pointing +to the baker's man. I asked him.</p> + +<p>"Are we right," I said, "for Paddington?"</p> + +<p>"Oh yes," he said, "you're right enough. You'll get there in time, but +you'll have to walk round the world first. My advice is to go in the +opposite direction and take the second on the right, close to the dairy; +you can't miss it."</p> + +<p>Again we fled into the blackness. Paddington had shrunk to the size of a +needle and we were in a huge bottle of hay, an oriental bottle full of +weird surprises in the shape of sultans, genie, princesses, mosques, +one-eyed porters, but never a hint of a railway station. How, indeed, +could there be a railway station in Bagdad five hundred years ago?</p> + +<p>"Ask again," said the other one.</p> + +<p>I addressed a gentleman who was hurrying over a bridge. "Can you," I +said, "direct me to Paddington station?"</p> + +<p>He murmured something unintelligible and pointed to his ears.</p> + +<p>I repeated my question loudly and again he murmured. At last I made out +his words: "Stone deaf, stone deaf."</p> + +<p>"Great heavens," I said, "all the infirmities of the world are come out +against us. The man with one leg—the stone-deaf man. What next, what +next?"</p> + +<p>The second wayfarer seized my arm. "Look," she said, pointing to the +sky. There, before our eyes, merging into the foggy infinity of the +heavens, was the glass roof of our dreams. We ran like hares. We +collided with everybody. Both of us had our feet trodden on by soldiers. +We shouted at porters and they shouted back at us, and at last we flung +ourselves into a train.</p> + +<p>"You don't often come by this train," said a friendly fellow-passenger.</p> + +<p>"No," I said, "I generally come by the 6.50."</p> + +<p>"This <i>is</i> the 6.50," he said.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>THE FORLORN HOPE.</h2> + +<center>(<i>Sympathetically addressed to the Hamburg Colonial Institute, which +"has undertaken the task of showing that Germany has conducted her +operations in the spirit of the most enlightened humanity."</i>)</center> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">In this war of the civilised nations</p> +<p class="i2">That extends from the East to the West,</p> +<p class="i0">Have arisen full many occasions</p> +<p class="i2">For a man to put forth of his best;</p> +<p class="i0">When the battle was raging its roughest,</p> +<p class="i2">Men have spared themselves never a jot,</p> +<p class="i0">But, gentlemen, yours is the toughest</p> +<p class="i4">Affair of the lot.</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">Your countrymen's road through the trenches</p> +<p class="i2">Has not proved too easy a course,</p> +<p class="i0">For they seem to be hindered by <span class="smcap">French's</span></p> +<p class="i2">No longer contemptible force,</p> +<p class="i0">But their work with the gun and the sabre,</p> +<p class="i2">Their frenzied attempts to break through,</p> +<p class="i0">Are child's play compared with the labour</p> +<p class="i4">Allotted to you.</p> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<p class="i0">One fears that your gallant intentions</p> +<p class="i2">Will meet with a general scorn,</p> +<p class="i0">For I doubt if all history mentions</p> +<p class="i2">A hope so extremely forlorn;</p> +<p class="i0">But, should you succeed in acquitting</p> +<p class="i2">The Huns and their bellicose boss,</p> +<p class="i0">All the world will unite in admitting</p> +<p class="i4">You merit your Cross.</p> +</div></div> + +<hr /> + +<h4>War Stringency.</h4> + +<p>From the catalogue of a G. W. R. salvage sale:—</p> + +<blockquote><p>"696. 2 bags tares and 1 grass seed."</p></blockquote> + +<p>We have bought the grass seed and are planting it in our garden. If +anybody hears of another for sale we shall be glad to know.</p> + +<hr /><br /> + +<center>"<span class="smcap">Zouaves carry Wood at Point of Bayonet.</span>"</center> + +<p class="author"><i>Daily Paper.</i></p> + +<p>We always keep a cork tip on ours in case of accidents.</p> + +<hr /> + +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_487" id="Page_487">[Pg 487]</a></span> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 80%"> +<a href="images/487.png"> +<img src="images/487.png" width="100%" alt="See 'im? Well" /></a><br /><br /> +<p>"<span class="smcap">See 'im? Well, when 'e sez ''Oo goes there?' if you're a +Englishman you 'as to say 'Friend!' and if you're a German you 'as to +say 'Foe!'</span>"</p> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<h2>OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.</h2> + +<center>(<i>By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.</i>)</center> + +<p>One aspect of the present problem (as this sounds a little too like a +leading article, I should explain that I mean the Christmas present +problem) has this year been very satisfactorily settled. Everybody buys +some books at this time; and when you know that for two shillings and +sixpence you can now purchase the best and most characteristic work of +two-score famous writers and artists, and, moreover, that the said +half-crown will go to one of the most sensible and practical of all the +Funds, naturally <i>Princess Mary's Gift Book</i> (<span class="smcap">Hodder and Stoughton</span>) is +going to figure large in this year's list of things-not-to-forget. +Honestly and without hyperbole, I question if a better collection has +ever been brought together. From the first page (on which you will find +a charming portrait by Mr. <span class="smcap">J. J. Shannon</span> of the gracious young lady to +whose timely inspiration the volume is due) to the last, everyone seems +to have given his or her best. Not only this, but the precise kind of +best that we most like to have from them. To take a few examples at +random, here is a song of <i>Big Steamers</i> by Mr. <span class="smcap">Rudyard Kipling</span>, with +the jolliest ship-pictures by Mr. <span class="smcap">Norman Wilkinson</span>; a Zulu tale by Sir +<span class="smcap">Rider Haggard</span>; a <i>Pimpernel</i> story by the Baroness <span class="smcap">Orczy</span>; and a comic +upside-down dream of a little London child by Mr. <span class="smcap">Pett Ridge</span>. This last +has drawings by Mr. <span class="smcap">Lewis Baumer</span> that are fully worthy of it; indeed it +cannot but be a proud sensation for the peculiarly gallant heart of Mr. +<i>Punch</i> to find that he is represented by so many of his knights of the +pencil in this worthy cause. It is satisfactory to learn that the +originals of the drawings in the book will shortly be on sale at the +Leicester Galleries in aid of the <span class="smcap">Queen's</span> Work for Women Fund. Upon the +assured success of a delightful book the reviewer begs to offer to its +only begetter his most respectful congratulations.</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p>The <i>Life of Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield</i>, published by +<span class="smcap">Murray</span>, is the third volume of the work, the two earlier ones having +been edited by the late Mr. <span class="smcap">Moneypenny</span>. Mr. <span class="smcap">George Buckle</span> now "takes up +the wondrous tale," and maintains at a high level its historic interest +and literary charm. He finds <span class="smcap">Disraeli</span>, after the fantastic flights of +early manhood, in an assured position. He was within measurable distance +of assuming the Leadership of a Party which, long dallying with the +harsh appellation Protectionist, now decided to be known as +Conservative, a compromise hotly resented by good Tories. A flash of the +old vanity flickers over a letter written from the Carlton Club to his +wife: "The Ministry have resigned. All <i>Coningsby</i> and Young England the +general exclamation here." Alone he did it, partly by writing a novel, +incidentally by forming a Party of which Lord <span class="smcap">John Manners</span> was a +representative member. On the opening of the Session, January 19th, +1847, <span class="smcap">Disraeli</span> took his seat on the Front Opposition Bench in +embarrassing contiguity to <span class="smcap">Peel</span>, acutely suffering, it may be supposed, +from the combined influence of <i>Coningsby</i> and Young England. One of +those Parliamentary descriptive writers held in light esteem in their +day, but to whom historians turn for light and colour, notes a +significant change in <span class="smcap">Disraeli</span>'s attire. "The motley coloured garments +he wore at the close of the previous Session were exchanged for a suit +of black unapproachably perfect." Also "he appeared to have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_488" id="Page_488">[Pg 488]</a></span> doffed the +vanity of the coxcomb with the plumage of the peacock." Evidently he +felt that his carefully-designed sartorial extravagances had played +their appointed part in attracting notice. In manner of speech as in +fashion of clothing he assumed ways more compatible with the position of +a responsible statesman.</p> + +<p>At last, after long struggle, he stood on safe ground. But the fight was +not over yet. The personal antipathy and distrust with which he was +regarded in Tory circles were unabated. He had proved an invaluable +auxiliary in the battle against Free Trade; but having defeated <span class="smcap">Peel</span> the +Protectionists did not want any more of <span class="smcap">Disraeli</span>. His old friend, Sir +<span class="smcap">George Bentinck</span>, whose patronage had been invaluable as investing him +with an air of respectability, stood by him to the last. Resigning the +post of Leader of the Protectionists, he nominated <span class="smcap">Disraeli</span> as his +successor. The Tory rank and file would have none of him. Lord <span class="smcap">Stanley</span>, +acknowledged leader of the Party in the House of Lords and the country, +hesitated and chaffered, in the end reluctantly giving in. Something of +the same thing happened when, six years later, <span class="smcap">Stanley</span>, now succeeded to +the earldom of Derby, formed an Administration and proposed to make +<span class="smcap">Dizzy</span> Chancellor of the Exchequer and Leader of the House of Commons. +Among the most strenuous objectors to the proposal was <span class="smcap">Queen Victoria</span>. +But <span class="smcap">Disraeli</span> was invincible because he was indispensable. How +courageously and with what matchless skill he fought against +overwhelming odds, and won the day, is a fascinating story that in the +skilled hands of Mr. <span class="smcap">Buckle</span> loses no point of interest.</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p>Captain <span class="smcap">Harry Graham</span> is one of the authors whose work I never argue +about. If, as has happened occasionally, I meet those who do not find +him amusing, I conceal my own personal opinion that, with the possible +exception of Mr. <span class="smcap">Stephen Leacock</span>, he is the most rollickingly funny +person at present writing the King's English; but now, being in a +position to air my private views without fear of contradiction, I make +the statement boldly, and put, in as Exhibit A of my evidence, <i>The +Complete Sportsman</i> (<span class="smcap">Arnold</span>). Like other earlier volumes from the same +source it is compiled from the occasional papers of <i>Reginald Drake +Biffin</i>, and the sportsman who tries to get on without it is positively +courting disaster. The first thing he knows, he will be talking to +well-informed people about a flock of sparrows or a covey of weasels, +and their quiet smiles will show him that he has been guilty of a +ludicrous blunder. If he had read his <i>Biffin</i> he would have known that +the correct terms are a "susurration of sparrows" and a "pop of +weasels." These are small matters, perhaps, but your sportsman cannot be +too accurate. <i>Mr. Biffin</i> treats of practically every branch of sport, +from elephant-snaring to Sunday bridge, in the easy chatty style which +made <i>The Perfect Gentleman</i> the inseparable companion of all who desire +to comport themselves correctly in Society. Nor is the usual complement +of anecdotes lacking. The practical value of these cannot be +over-estimated. A careful perusal of the tragic story of the late <i>Lord +Bloxham</i>, to take but one instance, will certainly save the lives of +many deep-sea fishermen who have fallen into the foolish habit of +angling for sharks with a line fastened to one of their waistcoat +buttons to save the trouble of holding it.</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p>Mr. <span class="smcap">William Caine</span> has a very nice and persistent sense of humour, and +his last book, <i>But She Meant Well</i> (<span class="smcap">Lane</span>), shows him in his most +natural and therefore best vein. His lady of the good intentions was one +<i>Hannah Neighbour</i>, an incorrigible infant whose eminently virtuous +resolves produced the most vicious results without the adventitious aid +of any extraordinary circumstances. There is generally about people who +mean well something pathetic and something else which is worse, and +these characteristics are apt to become so exaggerated in fiction as to +be almost offensive. Mr. <span class="smcap">Caine's</span> young person is not of that sort; she +is no prig, and her fault is not weakness but irrepressible activity. To +whatever extent she annoyed me, I was always possessed with the morbid +desire to see some even worse result attending her efforts; and all the +while I had to give her credit for infecting the other characters of the +story with a remarkable vitality. I congratulate the author upon his +presentation of the problem, how can you deal with such a misguided +child so that you may at the same time check dangerous proclivities and +yet do justice to her excellent motives? Still more was I pleased with +his frank, if abominable, admission that in order properly to inculcate +discipline it is necessary for the most part to ignore motives and let +justice be blowed.</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p>The reappearance of <i>Dorothea</i> as a volume in the new collected edition +(<span class="smcap">Constable</span>) of the works of Mr. <span class="smcap">Maarten Maartens</span> has at this moment a +strange aptness. For you may remember that <i>Dorothea</i>, herself of +Dutch-English extraction, married into a Prussian family. Nay, more, +into the family of a Prussian general. A very obvious interest attaches +to the impression made by these people upon the mind of the author. Of +the old General we find him writing that "his lofty soul had accepted +the theory of the unity on earth of the good, the true and the +beautiful." Who, I ask you, would have supposed it? But throughout the +book these <i>Von Rodens</i> stand as the perfect family, gently chivalrous, +cultured and altogether charming. Then one remembers in explanation that +<i>Dorothea</i> was written some time ago, and that this was the +old-fashioned <i>Kultur</i>. There you have the German tragedy in a nutshell. +Of <i>Dorothea</i> herself I will say little. Probably you already know her, +and may agree with me in considering her an unattractive prig, whose +place in the list of Mr. <span class="smcap">Maartens'</span> heroines is decidedly at the wrong +end. But those amazing pathetic Prussians! and the conflicting emotions +they stir in your heart as you read!</p> + +<hr /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 50%"> +<a href="images/488.png"> +<img src="images/488.png" width="100%" alt="I'm just about fed-up" /></a><br /><br /> +<p><i>He.</i> "<span class="smcap">I'm just about fed-up with all this talk about +recruitin'. Who's goin' to carry on the work of the country if all the +people of brains go to the front?</span>"</p> +</div> + +<hr /> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. +147, December 9, 1914, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH *** + +***** This file should be named 29491-h.htm or 29491-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/4/9/29491/ + +Produced by Neville Allen, Malcolm Farmer and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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